#keepin this real vague

[burntheedges]

Passing Notes: Tease

Joel Miller x f!reader | 18+ | 1.6k words | Passing Notes masterlist

summary: Joel just can’t deal with you in cutoff shorts.

a/n: happy @swiftiscruff gift exchange, Jamie! @mermaidgirl30 I hope you like this. I was thinking about the meet cute you wrote with the carousel and then ended up here. This is set in Jackson but it’s vague. You can imagine any age gap you’d like lol but this is, in fact, the one you guessed was Joel last week on WIP Wednesday. 😂

tags/warnings: kissing, grinding, semi-public sex, groping, fingering, dirty talk, pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby, good girl), underwear used as gag (consensual), p-in-v sex (no condom, this is the apocalypse, but no creampie), established relationship, f!reader wears shorts and sits on a table and is otherwise not described

...

“Shhh, darlin,” he murmured in your ear as he slid his hands behind your thighs. He used his grip to hoist you up and onto the wooden table in front of him, scattering various cleaning supplies backwards as he did so. “Don’t wanna get caught, do you?”

You shook your head and clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle the moan you almost let out when he hitched your hips forward, directly into contact with his own. You could feel the hard length of him in his jeans and you bit your lip. Your free hand came up to grasp his shoulder for support.

“I know I already told you, but you look real pretty tonight, sweetheart.” His voice was low and deep and raspy and it sent a shiver down your spine. He scraped his teeth down your neck and bit your collarbone lightly. “‘Course you always look pretty. But there’s somethin’ about these shorts–” 

He cut himself off and sucked lightly to worry a mark into your collarbone, right next to the one he’d left just this morning. You squeaked, the sound slightly muffled behind your hand.

He lifted his head up to look at you. His expression was wry, eyebrows raised, eyes twinkling darkly. “Thought we were keepin’ quiet, hmm?” He slid his hands back and over your ass until his palms covered both cheeks. His fingertips toyed with the frayed edge of the shorts, which had ridden up and exposed part of your ass. You could feel it, now bare against the table. 

You closed your eyes at the sensation. You nodded, and whispered, “sorry, Joel.” The shorts were having even more of an effect on him (and you) than you’d hoped, when you’d found them on patrol last month. You’d immediately gotten lost in a daydream of him slipping his fingers inside them. A daydream that was about to come true.

“‘S’alright, darlin’,” he mumbled against your lips, kissing you firmly. “You know I love the pretty little noises you make.”

You sighed into the kiss as he deepened it. His tongue brushed against yours and you squirmed, tilting your hips forwards into his again. He pulled back and chuckled. 

“Oh, she wants it bad, doesn’t she?” He slipped a hand around your hip to the front and cupped your pussy firmly. “Shit, baby, you’re already wet.” He kept his hand there but slipped his index finger sideways to toy with the inside hem of the shorts, right along your upper thigh. 

Your breath hitched. “Always, Joel,” you breathed. 

He shook his head, smiling. “Seems like you enjoyed teasin’ me, hmm? If it got you this wet.” He tapped his fingers against the seam of the shorts over your pussy with a mock serious look on his face, and you grinned. He leaned forwards to press his forehead to yours, and whispered, “well, you know I like it when you’re naughty, baby.”

You felt his fingers slip up your thigh, inside the hem of your shorts and start moving inward. Your grin widened and you knew you probably looked a little smug. When his fingers reached just far enough, he stilled.

“Joel?” you questioned, tone guileless, eyes wide. Nothing to see here, no sir.

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Darlin’, have you been walkin’ around town all day with no underwear on inside these tiny little shorts?”

You grinned and slipped your hand down into your back pocket, slowly revealing your underwear that you’d removed about fifteen minutes ago in the bathroom of the Tipsy Bison. You’d gone back out to the bar with your panties burning a hole in your pocket and teased Joel mercilessly with the shorts until he couldn’t help but tug you inside this supply closet.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He raised one eyebrow and snatched your underwear out of your hand. “Well, thank you kindly, darlin’. I was just wondering how I was going to keep you from screamin’ my name when I fuck you.” He balled up your underwear and tucked it in your mouth, raising his eyebrows at you to check in. You nodded quickly and he smiled, reaching for the button of your shorts.

He hummed, satisfied. “That’s my good girl.”

As he eased your zipper down, your breath hitched and you looked down to watch. He spread the front of your shorts wide before running the tips of his fingers down your slit.

“Shit, darlin’, you really worked yourself up, didn’t you?” He smirked at you as he teased you with his fingers. You whimpered, but it was muffled. “Aw, listen to you, baby. You need it, don’t you?”

You nodded, sucking in a deep breath through your nose. Joel finally pulled your shorts down your legs. 

“I really do like these shorts, sweetheart.” He stepped back between your legs and you thrust your hips against the bulge you could feel in his jeans. “Sure am glad you found ‘em.” 

You smiled as much as you could around the gag and he grinned back. You felt his fingers teasing at your entrance again and shivered.

“Let me see how wet you are for me, baby.” Two fingers slid in like silk and you moaned. “That’s what I thought. Still nice and open for me, aren’t you?” You nodded. “Maybe I can just slip right in there. ‘S mine, after all.” 

He twisted his fingers inside of you and you moaned again, nodding. You realized your chest was heaving as his words washed over you, making the air around you feel thick with desire.

“Yeah?” he asked, watching you. “It is mine, isn’t it?” You nodded again. He grinned, slow and wicked. “‘Course it is.”

Joel slipped his fingers from you and you let out a muffled whine. He sent you a look as he quickly undid his jeans and pushed them down. His cock sprung forward, hard and already leaking. You tried to swallow around the gag and coughed a little.

As he moved his hips back in contact with yours, Joel reached up and tugged it out of your mouth. “Wanna kiss you, baby,” he murmured against your lips before doing just that. You felt the head of his cock press against your entrance at the same moment he opened his mouth to yours and you moaned again.

His cock slipped forwards easily and in just seconds you went from empty to full, as close to Joel as you could get. You both froze, momentarily overwhelmed at the sensation.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he murmured, voice low. “You always feel so fuckin’ good.”

He started to move his hips and you tried not to cry out. “Yes, Joel,” you whispered. He grabbed your hips in both hands and tugged you even closer.

“Shit, baby, just like that.” He ran his teeth down your neck as his hips began to move faster. You urged him on by tangling your hands in his hair. “You know how many times I wanted to drag you away today and fuck you? Because of those tiny little shorts?” He wrapped an arm around your waist and hitched your hips at just the right angle so that his next thrust felt amazing. “Almost dragged you ‘round the back of the barn. Wanted to bend you over a saddle in the tack room, press you up against the wall of the dining hall.” He growled the words into your neck. “Would’a ripped those shorts off you anywhere you like, baby.”

You could feel your orgasm rushing towards you with every thrust of Joel’s hips, and you knew he could feel it, too. He slipped his fingers between you and began to make tight circles around your clit. You clapped your own hand back over your mouth when it made you cry out. 

“Shhh, baby,” he murmured against your neck. “Let me have it.” He picked up the pace with his hips and his fingers and you felt the table start to rock underneath you. “C’mon, sweetheart, give it to me.”

You felt it, then, the tidal wave coming to wash over you and you moaned his name into your hand as you came. You heard ringing in your ears as he worked you through it, not easing up until you relaxed against him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling out slowly. “You are so gorgeous when you come, darlin’.” He reached down but you swatted his hand away, making him laugh. You wrapped your hand around his cock and started to work him with the same rhythm he’d just used to blow your mind.

“C’mon, Joel,” you pressed kisses to his face as you worked his cock. He groaned. “Come for me, baby.”

His hips stuttered forward as he came, all over your exposed pussy. He moaned your name as he did and you smiled.

You were both breathing heavy as you leaned into each other, coming down from your highs. He dropped his forehead against your shoulder and sighed.

“Shit.” He chuckled lowly. “Tommy’s gonna yell at me again.”

You shrugged, jostling his head, and he laughed again. “Tommy needs to get out more. Maybe he and Maria should try a little supply room sex, sometime.”

Joel picked his head up and grinned at you. He cupped your face in his hand and you pressed your cheek into it. 

“Don’t know how I’m supposed to resist, anyway. Not when you’re wearin’ those little shorts.”

You snorted. “Joel, you said the same thing about every other outfit I was wearing when you tugged me in here.”

He smirked. “And I meant it. Every time.” He slid his hand down and started to run his fingers through his cum, teasing around the edges of your pussy. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Joel dropped to his knees in front of you with a grin and you reached for your underwear, rolling it back up into a gag. You were going to need it.

#PPCUGiftExchange2024 #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fic #x reader #bte frienship exchange

[thegreatcanadianjackalope]

Hi!! Little prompt for Izzy/fang/frenchie— could we maybe get some Izzy comfort? It could be safeword comfort, things going too quickly and Izzy flipping out, anxious that he safeworded, or it can be comfort for anything! Just lots of Fang and Frenchie working together v well and in sync to take care of their scrungly little man <3

Summary: Frenchie and Fang notice Izzy isn't sleeping well. They want to do something about that.

Fluffy Hut/comfort with some mild discussion of trauma (canon typical)

Note: I love this! I'm going to save the safeword comfort for another story because this is the story that jumped out at me when I read your beautiful prompt.

This is unedited right now. I might come back and clean it up later but for the moment my focus is on getting the writing flowing.

Music inspo for this fic is Rosy Golan's It's Been a Long Day

Fang found Frenchie organizing goods in the hold. He knew it was still weird for Bonnets crew to see Frenchie and Jim doing so much work, but Fang was honestly pleased to see that neither of them were backsliding into laziness. If anything, their hard work was rubbing off on the others.

“Hey, man. How’re things going?” Fang asked.

Frenchie startled but settled into a smile when he realized it was only fang. “Good, yeah. Things are good. Just, you know, keepin’ busy.”

“And everything’s good with the mind box?” Fang asked, gesturing vaguely at his head.

“Yeah, good. It’s good. Everything is you know…” Frenchie trailed off as he looked into the distance.

“Good?”

“Yes. Yeah. Exactly.” Frenchie said, brightening back up.

Fang decided to leave that alone for now. “Listen, have you seen Izzy recently?”

“Saw him this morning, why?”

“Did you notice that he looked a little… unwell?” Fang asked.

Frenchie scoffed. “What do you mean? He looks loads better than he did before. He’s got his new leg on, he’s clean, and he doesn’t even have any visible bruises.”

“That is true,” Fang hedged. “It’s only, I don’t think he’s sleeping much. To me, it looks like he hasn’t slept in a few days.  

Frenchie looked considering. “Hmm, now that you mention it. I did see him practicing his sword fighting really early this morning, and Wee John said he was working real late last night.”

“I guess I’m just worried about him. The rest of us don’t sleep good at all, and we agreed he’s the most fucked up of all of us, so it must be worse for him.” Fang said, not bothering to hide the concern in his voice.

“Yeah, but its not so bad now that the crew is back because if one of us wakes up from a nightmare another crew person is always right there.” A moment of realization seemed to dawn on Frenchie. “Except Izzy doesn’t sleep in the crew pile. He sleeps alone. In the room where Blackbeard took his first toe. Oh shit, babes. Can’t say I blame him.”

Fang felt a blush creep up his neck at the nickname. He absolutely did not let himself giggle. Frenchie calls everyone that. He wasn’t flirting with fang. Besides, Fang was supposed to be solving the Izzy problem. “I wish we could just convince him to join us in the pile, but I don’t think he’d ever go for that.”

“I mean, he has loosened up a lot lately, but that might be a step to far. What if we brought the pile to him?” Frenchie asked.

“I don’t think that’s better. If anything, he’d be mad there was no one watching the deck.”

“No, I meant you and me. We could go to his room tonight and force him to sleep and tell him we’ll watch out for him,” Frenchie suggested.

Fang considered this. Actually, it made sense. Izzy wouldn’t really trust the rest of Bonnet’s crew, Archie and Jim had a particular energy about them. One that wasn’t conducive to a full night’s rest.

Fang agreed and they made plans to meet at Izzy’s room later.

….

Izzy sat heavily on his bed. He knew he needed to take off his hoof and check his leg, but he couldn’t make himself move. He was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emot—nope. Just mentally and physically. He was having trouble sleeping. That was all. He couldn’t sleep because they were heading into a new season and the sun cycles were changing. It was all to be expected. He’d adjust. He would.

Izzy was startled from his thoughts when he heard a knock at his door. Before he could respond, the door opened, and Fang and Frenchie spilled into the room.

“Oh, yes, please do come in. Thank you for knocking. It was very considerate of you,” Izzy said sarcastically. Though he knew that his words lacked their usual edge.

“Hi boss,” Fang said, brightly, “We were hoping to spend the night in here with you.” Frenchie was nodding in agreement.

Exhausted, Izzy asked, “Why? There are plenty of places on the ship if you’re too cold to sleep on deck.”

Frenchie said, “Yeah, but the thing is that Fang here has been having nightmares, and he said he hasn’t been feeling safe enough to sleep lately.”

Frenchie jabbed Fang with his elbow and Fang said, “Oh yeah! Everything that happened just keeps coming back to me. And I thought ‘hey what place is safer on this ship, than with Izzy Hands?’”

The crack of a cannon, a flash of lighting, the glint of light on a saw, and the smell of gunpowder flashed through Izzy’s mind in quick succession. His stomach rolled and he clenched his jaw.

“I’m a cripple now boys. You’re better off with just about anyone else on this ship. Hell, you’d be better off on your own. I’m a liability now.” Izzy didn’t like how truthful the words were, but he was just too tired to cover it up.

Fang frowned, “Boss, you literally saved our lives. You understand that, right? We would be dead without you. Lying at the bottom of sea.”

Izzy scoffed but didn’t argue he didn’t have the energy. He also really didn’t have the energy to watch over them tonight. It was on his tongue to say no when the image of a scene he walked into popped into his head. Fang crying into his cake and Frenchie staring blankly, emptily into the distance. And then, bizarrely, the feeling of Fang’s arms around him and Frenchie’s palm, warm in his.

“Okay, you can stay here. I’ll make sure you’re safe,” Izzy said. He couldn’t tell them that this room had long since been safe, but he thought he could probably make it safe for Fang just for tonight.

“Great!” Fang exclaimed and then immediately went over to Izzy’s dresser. “Frenchie help me with this.” The two began dragging the dresser across the floor.

“What the fuck?” Izzy asked incredulously.

Frenchie explained, “We’re blocking the door with the dresser, so no one can get in. This way, you don’t have to stay up all night.”

“I thought the whole point was that you needed me so you could feel safe,” Izzy said, suddenly feeling useless despite not wanting that responsibility only minutes before.

“This is just the first defence, boss. This way if Blac—Someone tries to come in, we’ll hear them and you’ll be ready to protect us,” Fang said.

“And if there’s a fire?”

Frenchie laughs, “A fire? We’re on the ocean. We’re literally surrounded by water.”

Izzy sighs deeply. “There are so many things wrong with that I don’t know where to start.” The thing was though. In Izzy’s 35 years at sea, he’d only really had to deal with one major fire. Fire wasn’t what kept him up at night. In fact, just seeing the door blocked by that heavy hunk of wood was settling something in him he didn’t care to examine. “Fine. If it makes you feel safer.”

Izzy began the arduous process of removing his peg leg. Before he could even get the straps undone, Fang was by his side.

“Let me help you with that, Izzy.”

Izzy growled, “I’m a cripple not an invalid.”

“He knows that,” Frenchie said. “Helping you will make him feel better, innit? Don’t you want Fang to feel better?”

Izzy huffed but didn’t move to stop Fang as he eased the false leg off and placed it to the side. Fang loosened the tie on Izzy’s pant leg and pulled the leg up his thigh. Izzy wished he had some semblance of embarrassment about this, but the four of them had seen Izzy in every stage of loosing his leg so it wasn’t like he could say it would be a shock for Fang.

Frenchie brought over Izzy’s water basin and said, “Here you go, babes.”

Abruptly, Izzy took in the scene before him. Fang, kneeling on the ground, about to wash Izzy’s stump, while Frenchie watched. Heat creeped up his neck and he felt a bit woozy. This was too intimate. He was too vulnerable. He needed to put a stop to this. He was about to do just that when Fang began gently dragging the cloth across the raw skin.

Izzy’s eyes fluttered shut. When he did this for himself, he was impatient and rough. It had always hurt. Now, with Fang being careful, it didn’t feel good exactly, but it was nothing like the pain he was used to.

“It’s looking better. Does the new leg fit better? You don’t have as many cuts and wounds.” Frenchie asked.

Izzy tamped down on the flare of emotion that burst in him at the mention of that fucking leg. He didn’t think he could speak without his voice cracking, so he just nodded in reply.

Fang smiled up at him and said, “That’s great, Izzy. Glad to hear.”

“You know,” Frenchie said frowning, “Your thigh muscles are looking really tense. Maybe I should just…” As he trailed off, he reached over to grasp at Izzy’s thigh.

Izzy made it through approximately thirty seconds of Frenchie massaging his thigh before he felt a lance of heat in his groin. He jerked back and choked out, “That’s enough. Thank you. I think it’s time to sleep now.”

Frenchie gave him an odd look but didn’t argue. Izzy was honestly shocked that he had felt anything even approaching arousal. He wasn’t sure it was going to possible for him after the Kraken.

Frenchie took the spot next to the wall and Izzy waited for Fang to get in. When he didn’t, Izzy looked at him quizzically.

“If it’s okay with you, boss, I’d rather take the outside. I find it more comfortable, and I get hot easily,” Fang said.

Izzy wanted to argue. Wasn’t the whole point of being here to make fang feel safer? Shouldn’t Izzy be closest to the door so he could spring into action if necessary? Izzy wanted to argue. He really did. But he was so tired. He just didn’t have it in him. His body, without full permission from him, crawled in next to Frenchie.

The bed wasn’t that comfortable for one person, never mind three, but somehow, they made it work. Izzy didn’t protest when Fang’s arms slid around him. There wasn’t really another way to make it work. Frenchie’s head rested against his shoulder and Izzy found he couldn’t really complain about that either.

Izzy was warm, his body was pressed against on both sides, there was no way someone could barge through that door, and he could finally feel himself drifting off to sleep.

Just before he slipped off, he heard Fang’s gentle voice. “You know, Frenchie, that mind box won’t hold forever.”

Izzy felt Frenchie shift against him, could feel the protest coming. In a raspy, sleep filled voice, Izzy said, “He’s right. Just look at me. I thought I had everything locked up tight. Eventually, something has to give.”

Frenchie laid a hand against Izzy’s chest in acknowledgement.

In that same quiet voice, Fang said, “I’m here for you if you need to talk, Frenchie.” Then Fang gave Izzy a squeeze that felt a lot like ‘you too, Izzy’.

No more words were said that night. Instead, Izzy fell into a blissfully uninterrupted sleep.

#Fang/Frenchie/Izzy #A new ship name has been suggessted #Kitty bites #let's see if it catches on! #ouizzy #Frenchie/fang #Fang/Izzy #izzy hands

[fatgumsurpremacy-remastered]

Handling it Riddler x fem reader smut

(Keepin the riddler pretty vague for this. Keeps hat and orange hair though)

Tw: male masterbation, pining after a friend, controlled orgasm??? You’ll see. A bit of a surprise, worries of delusions

@letstalkaboutfandomsbaby I remembered you’d liked this.

“The first time you make me you’re young. The next time you make me is in a public place. You lose me over time but you will stay with me and others forever. What am I?”

He remembered those eyes scanning over his face. Beautiful eyes looking for clues to the riddle.

He’d made it especially for you: at least he thought. He figured he could be a bit unimaginative at times. So he sighed as he sat at his dark table. Tapping his white pen against the blue graphed sheets pinned to his desk. He couldn’t get you out of his head. He’d gone off the radar and out of everyone’s hair for months now. Almost a year, so why couldn’t he shake you?

He could shake the first friend he’d made. The attorney that sought him out like he was the guys own daughter. Evaded the mad scientist who thought she could track him through plant traces.

Why could he abandon all of them but not you!

What made you so special: why did you stay in his head when he could kill off the memories of the rest?!

It was the way you acted. The way you smiled and listened harder than all else. Called him funny when he tried to be, and called him a genius for his accomplishments. Unlike others he knew you were real, you gave him undivided attention.

No one had ever done that before.

You were a grounding force to a man filled with helium and he craved that pull when he felt he was getting too close to popping. But you weren’t here were you? No no. You were safe and looked after in your pretty little apartment. True Edward went to check on you once in a while. Always in a clever disguise. Inconspicuous, unknown. You were safe from how he acted.

And still he wasn’t safe… from you.

Your influence kept him stable, from dying sure: he imagined your help as he got his cheap ass pizza bagels from the oven. He imagined you telling him to take a shower. And get some rest. And- and.

He knew he shouldn’t have but he imagined your help as he masturbated.

“Oh Eddie I dunno~” you claimed in a sing-song voice. “Is it a memory?” Ed shook his head and you tilted your head in confusion. “Then what is it.”

Ed tilted his head back as he leaned in his chair. He closed his eyes, not bothering to do his work right now. Pens discarded he worked on himself. Slowly he massaged a hand over his pants. Working on the bulge that grew there. He groaned desperately. Trying to clear the fog from that brilliant mind.

It was your hand wrapped around his own when you went to the ice cream shop. “They call this a super man but they’ve only got blue and yellow! Superman’s got plenty of Red on him.” Edward ranted to you as he shook his finger at the cone he got. “And it just tastes like vanilla. You'd think with technology these days that you could make an uncanny taste to the actual Superman.” You laughed and leaned in close. “Can I have a taste?” You said it so sweetly. Eddie thought you’d take a spoonful of it and go but he got a lick in the same time you decided.

His tongue stayed there as you licked a line up. He was dumbfounded, his tongue stuck out like a dog from an old cartoon character. You just laughed. “You’re right! Plain old vanilla. It’s funny how you explained it Ed- oh goodness. Eddie, your face!” You giggled as you saw his expression. “Do you wanna bite of mine?” He lowered his cone. “S-sure.” You scooped yours up. “It’s supposed to be orange cheesecake, tell me what you think!” Before Ed could take the spoon from you you fed him.

He smiled as he swiped his thumb over his tip. The color reminded him of vanilla. He wished he didn’t have to imagine that you were there licking it up. He grasped the base firmly and pulled up. The feeling sent shivers down his spine. He hissed through his teeth and he could feel something at his side though he wasn’t sure whether or not it was real. What he was sure of is that it felt like you. So he rolled with it.

“What you doin’ sweetie?” It was your voice whispering in his ear. “You thinkin’ of me?” He nodded, pumping himself a bit faster now, long strokes be damned.

Your voice chuckled at him, “Really, What are you thinking of doing to me Ed? You can tell me, you can always tell your best friend.” He gulped, trying to gain his wits again as he spoke. “I'm just admiring your personality. So kind you’re driving me-“ his hips stuttered like he was about to give in but he stalled them, “I don’t like the word but you’re driving me insane.” Your voice cooed back as he gripped the edge of his seat with his other hand. “Insane hmm? Tell me what you wanna do to me. You wanna put your cock on my tongue maybe? Stick it down my throat till I can’t see through my tears-“

Ed felt sweat trail down his neck and catch on the orange hair at the base. He felt fingers walk across his shoulder blades and switch position to hover over his neck. “- And cum. Down my pretty little pipes.” Ed howled in pleasure, feeling the warm butterflies of an impending orgasm well in his belly.

“Yes! Yes please. Please I can’t fathom life without you, it's ridiculous. I wanna pleasure you. I want to make you feel like a goddess I- just fuck I need to cum. Please?” His eyes swam with tears of his own and he heard the slick sounds his own cock was giving. “Okay baby. Cum.”

With that he could barely hold back, just a few more pumps and ropes shot out of his cock. Spreading across his new pants and all. It would’ve sent him into a pissy mood if his world wasn’t just rocked with his delusions.

His mind clouded and he searched for his clock for the time. 8:55pm. Close to the time he usually was already in bed. He groaned and made an attempt to move but found it was an action between a Herculean task and an impossibility. His eyes were fuzzy and seemed like they’d never been used before. He couldn’t even see the blur of colors that kneeled before him. He whined a bit when something touched his junk. His head flopped down in a lukewarm attempt at care.

“Shh Shh. It’s okay, I’ll clean this up for you Eddie.” He felt something hot press against him and he knew it wasn’t his imagination. Fuck his impressive sleep schedule, fuck his seclusion. If he’d known this was going to happen he would’ve drank some coffee.

“Just go to bed Eddie, I've got this.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair and relaxing. After all, how could anyone say no to you?

#riddler x reader #riddler x reader smut #Edward nygma x reader #Edward nygma x reader smut

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day 24 - Prompt: Paris @pandalilymicrofics

February Daily Series - 946 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

A sharp twinge of anxiety promptly interrupted the fantasy, as it usually did. Lily couldn’t escape the nagging voice of logic that reminded her of how foolish this was. Love at first sight wasn’t real. It only happened in fairy tales or novels set in devastatingly romantic locations like Paris, not in south Wales and certainly not to Lily Jane Evans.

Reality was far too cruel to allow her to find happiness that easily. She knew better than to trust the emotions that swirled in her chest. It would only hurt that much more when Pandora went home and she was left behind.

It’s nice to dream, but eventually you have to wake up.

“Temperature! Yes, Marls!” A hip-hop song incited a cheer from James somewhere behind her. She turned toward him, using the distraction to untangle herself from Pandora.

Regulus gaped at his boyfriend as he dropped low and rocked his hips with the sharp latin beat. In a rather impressive show of muscle control, James rolled his body through the chorus, shoulders shimmying wildly. He reached for Regulus’s waist and pulled him in close as he loudly crooned,

“Well, the way the time cold I wanna be keepin' you warm. I got the right temperature to shelter you from the storm. Oh Lord, I got the right tactics to turn you on, and I wanna be the Papi, you can be my baby, oh-oh!”

Pandora burst out laughing as she sidled up next to Lily and slung an arm around her waist. “Do you actually call him Papi, Reg?”

Regulus flipped her off with both hands over his head, but his neck and ears were bright red as James continued to grind against him. James glanced up and winked at her over his clearly overwhelmed boyfriend’s shoulder, which sent Pandora into a hysterical giggle.

Lily rolled her eyes at the three of them, but couldn’t suppress a smile. This was not an easy song to dance to, so she was impressed to see a number of others giving it a go. Then, to her surprise, Pandora bumped her hip lightly to the beat.

“Can you dance to this?” she asked curiously.

Pandora’s vague amusement twisted into a mischievous smirk. “Mm-hmm. Are you sure you’re up for it, Lily?”

“Not entirely, but I can fake it?”

James whooped with loud encouragement behind them. Lily couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but Pandora’s eyes narrowed as she leaned toward Lily and pointed at him warningly.

“Mind your own, Potter!”

“Put up or shut up, Rosier!” he shouted, cackling at Regulus’s annoyed huff.

Lily glanced over her shoulder at the couple. Regulus hid his face in James’s neck and clung to him as he attempted to follow his boyfriend’s wild gyrations. It was almost comical, but incredibly sexy too. That’s when she noticed Sirius embarrassing the living shite out of Remus with much the same antics. He shot her a wide-eyed look of panic over Sirius’s head.

“Pay attention,” Pandora said. She cupped Lily’s jaw and gently turned her face forward. “Try to keep up, chérie.”

Before she could prepare herself, Pandora twirled around and firmly set Lily’s hands on her waist. Her bum pressed into Lily’s thighs as she rocked her hips with the beat. Luckily, Lily’s body caught on quickly, even if her mind spiralled.

You’ve danced like this with Mary plenty of times. This is fine. Completely fine.

Lily hugged Pandora’s figure and leaned into her hips. She closed her eyes when they dropped lower and lower, bodies rocking together with the song as it overlapped with another that was slightly slower, but had a similar vibe.

“A ella le gusta la gasolina. Dame más gasolina!” James called out excitedly. “Whoo! Get it, Lily!”

She ignored him, fully focused on the shift in tempo and the tropical scent that filled her nose every time she rested her cheek against Pandora’s hair. It was hard to place, at first, and her mind refused to leave it at “tropical.”

Apricot? Pineapple? No, somewhere in between. Mango? Maybe it’s mango.

Suddenly, Pandora gripped Lily’s thighs and she nearly choked. Lily’s heartbeat tripled as her eyes flew open in shock. Unfazed, Pandora’s silver rings flash with reflected light while she stroked up and down Lily’s legs with each dip of their bodies. A shiver raced up Lily’s spine as heat flooded her face and chest.

It’s not fine! Not. Fine.

Lily’s mind warred with her body for a full thirty seconds. Then, her own hands made the decision for her. She squeezed Pandora’s waist before shifting lower to grip her hips. Pandora leaned her head back against Lily’s shoulder and pressed a kiss just below her ear, then smiled against Lily’s skin.

“Be open to new possibilities” is what the psychic said. Easier said than done.

She also said, “Intuition is far more trustworthy than your mind.”

Lily allowed the tarot reading to replay in her mind. Madame Trelawney encouraged her to take risks and to follow her fondest desires, rather than dismiss them. While she wasn’t in the habit of taking advice from self-proclaimed psychics, Lily admitted to herself that she really wanted the woman to be right. She wanted Pandora and moving to London to be real, not just a “fondest desire,” or a dream for the future.

With very little resistance, the final walls fell with a resounding thud. A resigned sigh rushed out as she leaned into Pandora’s slow, methodical exploration of her neck. This couldn’t be love at first sight, but it was definitely infatuation. Infatuation was a good place to start, she supposed.

Perhaps it’s finally my turn to be happy?

Next Part>>>

#pandolily #pandalily #pandalily microfics #pandora lovegood x lily evans #lily x pandora #pandora lovegood #pandora rosier #lily evans #james potter #regulus black #remus lupin #sirius black

[mlobsters]

supernatural s7e3 the girl next door (w. andrew dabb, daniel loflin; directed by jensen ackles)

psst apparently leviathans are xfiles black oil (purity???? says the internet, who knew)

(watching the pre-ep recap) knowing someone that has schizophrenia and dealt with psychosis, well, it's certainly been eye opening to understand the symptoms and how much it lines up with tropes in horror. sam brushed aside seeing someone, getting medication last episode. of course dealing with supernaturally caused psychosis, no saying it would help. but blegh. often have thoughts

this has the vibe of something goofy. and i'm suspicious with jackles directing ngl.

bobby in a natty suit. but keepin it real with the little blue check shirt

DEAN They gave me morphine. A lot. Hey, look, a monster broke my leg.

again surprised this detail doesn't make it into more fic

not loving how as soon as sam's out the door to get food, dean and bobby are arguing about him and dean is again being an asshole because (i assume, generously) he's freaked out and scared again, and also has zero understanding of mental illness

BOBBY Look, seems to me that Sam's head ain't no different than your leg. People heal on a curve. DEAN Not diff– Bobby, I get this thing off in five days, I'm golden. Sam's not a curve. He's a frickin' time bomb. BOBBY It ain't like he's keeping secrets. What you see is what you get. What's so nuts about calling an upswing? DEAN Because that's not how it works, Bobby, ever! All right? Especially not with Sam. The other shoe is gonna drop. It's just a matter of when. BOBBY Okay. How 'bout we worry about today's problems? And today, we need intel. I'm going. You sit there and stew. I'll check in. Look... you sitting here wringing your hands ain't gonna do nothing. Maybe he'll surprise you.

thank you, bobby.

saw baby sam's actor colin ford in the credits so i knew he was poppin in (and jewel staite apparently). what age are they gonna say he is this time. don't make me break out the cdc growth charts again 😂

also funny when teen wolf creatures overlap, though these kitsune sound way less rad than kira

really curious what sam's thought process here is (and little sam is 15, and actor is also just 15. but looks like a baby lol)

the jars of brains in the fridge,, crying

that guess jeans logo highlighted to the heavens 😂 (but like not because they also have a brown label at top and guess jeans didn't???) they were the rich kids jeans of my youth (i am a couple years older than sam/padalecki)

so, jewel staite! yes we all know her from firefly however, she was in the xfiles (as a baby) and the killing, my faves

the xfiles s3e8 oubliette - jewel staite as amy jacobs

the killing s3e5 scared and running - jewel staite as caroline swift

another love connection monster moral dilemma for sam. these kitsune seem to have completely nothing to do with kitsune of japanese folklore

of course dean says he trusts sam. of course he doesn't and goes back and kills her anyway. and then acts shocked when the kid shows up. and i guess has a clear conscience leaving the kid alive with no guardian except the vaguely agreed to "someone" to go to

how many times in 3 episodes of this new season have i said dean is being an asshole. you know i'm always rooting for you, dean, but you're making it hard at the moment

#supernatural #spnhiky #spnwatch #spn 7x03 #jewel staite #hiky #the killing #the xfiles #teen wolf #very tangentially #andrew dabb #daniel loflin #amy pond

[angelatmidnight1]

Barked Up The Wrong Tree

A/N: This is part two to Let Sleeping Dogs Lie . I hope you like it.

No one disturbs Ole Fusey from his nap, and he’s out to teach Octane and Rampart a lesson. But, the pranksters’ alliance falls through; instead, both Walter and Ramya tickle Octavio.  

“Oho, man. That was awesome!”

Octane cheered, rounding just one more corner to make sure that he was far away from Fuse. Rampart brought up the rear, still laughing, and plopped down to the floor to catch her breath. 

“You’re tellin’ me. And here I thought Salvonians were known for kickin’ asses and takin’ names. Never thought that a lil’ tickling would have him bawlin for his mum.”

Octavio chuckled. “Think that’ll go down as the funnest prank I’ve pulled yet!” He continued, sprinting into Ramya’s workshop, which was their next destination. Since he didn’t have any games scheduled for a few days, Ramya offered to spruce up his legs a bit. Octane had so many cool mod ideas that he’d love to see on his legs; rockets, grenade launchers, maybe rockets and grenade launchers. 

It was even better that Ajay, who’d been scheduled for games the entire week, would be too busy to complain about what he added to his legs. He cared for his best friend deeply, but if he were being honest, she could be a real killjoy when she wanted to be. So, it felt really good that he could add some more pizazz to his babies without having to deal with her nagging. He was already yanking his left leg off when he noticed Rampart stopped in the doorway. Her brow was arched, and she had one hand on her hip.

“The best prank you pulled? I vaguely remember lendin’ you a hand…” She scoffed, heading to her workbench to gather the tools she needed. On her way over there, she snatched Octavio’s leg out of his hand. “I mean, let’s be real here, you would’ve mucked up the prank from here to Sunday if I didn’t help ya out.”

Octavio gave her an incredulous look before laughing. “Amiga, all you did was hold the feather! That’s not exactly what I’d call hard work.” He responded, preparing to pull his right leg off next. He was still riding high off of the adrenaline from pranking Fuse, so he had no issues in saying what he said next. “I guess I can see why it’d be a big deal to you, though. I know there ain’t much you do without Sheila.”

He heard Ramya drop something, most likely a wrench. His grin widened as she stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“What’d you say?”

The speedster snickered. “You heard me! I’m surprised you had the time to help out at all, since I know how much su bebé (your baby) keeps you busy.” He continued confidently. He knew he was headed into dangerous territory, but so what? What was she gonna do about it? If she grabbed Sheila to teach him a lesson, it’d prove his point. “Don’t get me wrong! Sheila is awesome. But pranks are where I shine, amiga. So you better not forget that.”

Ramya growled and marched from around her workbench, taking his leg along with her. “If that ain’t the biggest crock of shit I’ve heard--only thing you’re good at is running!” She argued. She got within a couple feet from him, ready to throttle him, but then she had a better idea. “...Which ya can’t do much of now, can ya?”

“...What?”

Octane gave her a bewildered look. But, before he could ask what she was talking about, she started to back away from him. And, he noticed, she moved his limb from one hand to the other. 

“Listen, mate. I don’t know what cliff ya dived off recently, but your leg here is banged up good. So, I’m just gonna hang onto it for, ya know…safe keepin’.”

Now Octavio wasn’t laughing. He quickly put his right leg back on and got up, albeit awkwardly. “Chill, Ramya. I need that!” He said, making a move to take the leg back. Rampart got out of the way, causing him to fall back down with a crash. She burst out laughing.

“Yikes, you’re quite the klutz, huh? Relax, I ain’t gonna keep it forever. Maybe just a few weeks?” Ramya grinned widely at the look on his face.

“Hell no! Give me my leg back!”

Now, Rampart wasn’t actually going to take his leg. She just wanted to keep it long enough until he offered her an apology, or until she laughed herself silly from watching him hobble around like a pirate. Ramya laughed hard enough to snort while he attempted to take his leg back. And each time, just before he could get a grip on it, Ramya would pull back and watch him tumble. Octane got tired of it and the next time he lunged, he went for her instead, which she wasn’t expecting. The modder didn’t move out of the way in time, so when his fingers jabbed into her ribs, she let out a loud scream. She dropped the leg, holding her arm against her side.

“Alright, alright, take your bloody leg back.” Ramya grumbled, rubbing where he’d poked. “I was just messin’ around.”

Octane put his leg back on and stared at her. He didn’t poke her that hard, so why’d she scream? The gears in his head turned as he poked her again, this time in her side, and she slapped his hands away. 

“I said I was joking, ya idiot.”

Octavio grinned. “I heard you. I was just thinkin’ how Elliott had mentioned how ticklish you were, but I didn’t believe him.” He explained. He hurried towards the modder to close the distance. “Thought he was just talkin’ loco. But it looks like he was right, huh?”

Rampart glowered and smacked his hands away again when he went to poke some more. “I couldn’t give a toss about what that plonker said! But you better quit pokin’ me, unless your mate can get you some new hands too…”

Octane paused, looking at both of his hands. He could have metal legs and hands? Why didn’t he think of that! He’d definitely have to blow his hands off next. But, for now, he was standing in front of a ticklish Legend who tried to steal his leg. A punishment was in order!

The speedster didn’t have the patience for a buildup, so he made yet another jab at her ribs. Rampart threw a hand up to stop him, just like he expected, which allowed him to grab her wrist. He held it away from her and, before she could block him with her other hand, he pinched at her lowermost rib. Ramya screamed, her face getting redder by the second, and she swatted at his hand multiple times. 

“Stohop! You prihick!” She gritted her teeth, trying not to laugh. She pushed her shoulder into his chest, wanting to push him over, but he wasn’t having it. He let go of her wrist so he could wrap both of his arms around her torso and scritch all over the length of her rib cage. The modder violently jolted and broke out into loud laughter. 

“YOHOUHUHU FFF--HAHAHAHAHA!” Ramya pounded on his hands, thrashing about in his hold. “LEHEHET GOHOHOHO!”

Octavio refused and, laughing, he pulled her down onto the ground with him. “Haha, I knew it!” He cheered. She’d swatted at his hands one too many times, so he gathered up her wrists in one hand, holding them above her head. “Elliott was right; you are crazy ticklish!”

Instead of staying on her sweet spot, he jumped to her side and kneaded along it. Then, he poked at her stomach, making her squeal, before his hand finally dug into her armpit. Ramya was cackling the entire time but, when he focused on her armpit, she giggled uncontrollably. It wasn’t as bad a spot as her ribs, but it was definitely sensitive. 

“I’m gohohohohnna kihihill yohohohohu!” She yelled, pulling against the speedster’s grip. “Juhust wahahait! I’ll kihihihck yohohour ahahahass wihihhth your own bloody lehehegs!”

Octane snickered and jabbed his nails into the center of her armpit, making her laugh harder. “Oh no, anything but that! Por favor!” He mocked, grinning. He took his thumbs and scratched at the hollows in circular motions. “And whatever you do, don’t sic Sheila on me! I know just how much you lean on her.”

Rampart yelled in protest as the speedster descended back into her ribs, tickling at the spaces between them. She thrashed against the ground, hollering with laughter. All of the commotion caught the attention of Fuse, who’d awoken from his nap a while ago, and was out to dole out some good ol’ Salvonian justice. He stepped into the workshop at a leisurely pace, smirking. Octavio was too invested in tickling Ramya to notice, but Ramya did. She fought against his grip, trying to warn him, but she fell into hysterics when he tickled even faster. 

“SAHAHAHAHAHA! HE---HE’S---OCTAHAHAHAHAHAVIO!”

Octavio snickered and dug his thumbs into the base of her ribs, making her laughter go silent. “Not so funny anymore, is it chica? That’s what you get for—”

He abruptly stopped talking, feeling a cold hand grip his arm. He was then lifted as if he were weightless. He yelped and struggled in the hold, moving to push at the arm, and that’s when he realized who it was. His eyes snapped up to Walter’s, and the Salvonian’s smirk only broadened. 

“G’day, mate. I was wonderin’ where you pups ran off to.” He said, easily scooping the speedster’s other arm within the same hand. “I hate to interrupt you kids’ fun, but I reckon we’ve got some unfinished business, ay?”

Octane immediately shook his head. He struggled to wrench his arm free out of Walter’s literal iron hold, but the explosives expert lifted him higher, so that he was dangling just above the ground. “Wait! Hold ohohohn!” He interjected, yelping when Fuse prodded at his sides. The severity of what was about to happen crashed into him, making him want to high tail it…but all his legs did was kick around in the air. 

“Nohoho! Dude, come ohohohon!” Octane tried to make his case, but Walter wasn’t hearing it. “It wahahas a johohohke! Whyhy cahahan’t yohuhu tahahake a JOHOHOKE—”

Fuse scratched at the speedster’s tummy, making him scream and arch his back. He chuckled. “I can take a joke just fine! What I can’t take is havin’ you lot botherin’ me while I’m gettin’ me beauty rest!” He retorted, pinching each of his hips before he returned to his stomach. Octavio cried out and sucked in his stomach to try and escape the tickling. 

“IT WAHAHAHSN’T JUHUHUHST MEHEHEHEHE!” He yelled, bucking his hips when Walter poked at his belly button. Walter smirked, wiggling his finger inside the spot some more, and he glanced at the recovering modder. 

“I know, I didn’t forget about your partner in crime. She’ll get what’s comin’ to her.” He answered. He continued scratching in and around his belly button, drawing out more panicked laughter from Octavio.

Rampart, however, had other plans. Once she caught her breath, she got off the floor and marched right up to the men. “Or, you can let me at this plonker right now.” She cut in, gripping Octavio’s sides and digging her thumbs into them. “For thinkin’ he can get one over on me.”

Octavio’s eyes snapped wide open and he yelled before laughing even louder. “NONONOHOHO! DOHOHON’T TOHOHOUCH MEHEHE, RAHAHAMYA!” He demanded. He twisted his torso around in Fuse’s hold, trying to shake her hands off, but she easily kept up with him. Fusey snickered; considering what he’d witnessed before he entered the scene, he wasn’t surprised that Rampart had a bone to pick with him. But, it was still amusing to watch their alliance crumple apart.

So, much to Octane’s shock, Walter didn’t stop her. He moved his hand up higher, poking between his ribs, while Ramya found every ticklish nerve along his sides. 

“Wahahahalter! Dohohohohn’t lehehehet hehehr dohohoho thihihihs!” He pleaded. He tested the man’s grip, a foolish thing to do with his metal arm, and was only answered with a smirk. 

“Nah, I feel she’s justified, mate.” Fuse chuckled, swiping all of his nails down his ribcage before he pinched at each one. “Sure ain’t off the hook, but I don’t blame her for wanting a lil revenge of her own.”

“WHAHAHAT?!”

Octavio couldn’t believe what he was hearing; for starters, he didn’t act alone! But most importantly, Fuse didn’t even see what Ramya did before he got there. He opened his mouth to protest, but he let out a screaming laugh instead when the modder scribbled her fingers along his tummy. 

“Besides,” Ramya grinned, spidering her nails into the sides of his stomach, where he seemed to be especially ticklish. “The whole thing was your show anyway, right?”

“NAHAHAHA! THAHAHAT’S SUHUHUHCH BULLSH--AH!”

All of a sudden, Fuse dragged him to the floor, with Rampart following immediately after. He did this for two reasons; one, to make it easier for Ramya to join in on the fun. And two, to make sure she didn’t get accidentally kicked. Octavio’s legs had been moving a mile a minute, maybe faster, and Walter knew for a fact that one blow from those could cause a serious injury. With Walter keeping Octavio’s arms pinned and Ramya taking a seat on his waist, the speedster was royally screwed. The explosives expert went back to pinching at each of his ribs, while Ramya honed in on the area just above his belly button.

“SAHAHAHAHA! SHEHE--SHEHEHE STAHAHARTED IHIHIHT!” Octane whined. He was referring to what happened before he’d tickled Ramya, but was laughing too hard to elaborate. And, he wasn’t even being tickled on his worst spot. Not yet, anyways. Ramya grinned a smug grin and wriggled a finger back into his belly button. 

“Pfft, don’t get shy now, mate! You were mouthin’ off about how great this prank of yours was.” She chided. She made sure to get in deep, twisting her finger around like a screwdriver, and the speedster howled with laughter. She glanced at Fuse, still grinning. “You shoulda heard him. He said, and I quote ‘that’ll go down as the best prank I’ve pulled! Hell, maybe the best one in the Outlands!’” 

“I DIHIHIHD NOHOHOHOT!”

Now she was twisting his words! Octavio’s legs drummed against the floor as he flopped against the floor. He felt Fuse getting closer to his armpits, and he felt a deep seated panic in the pit of his stomach.

“WAITWAITWAIT! POR FAHAHAVOR, WAHAHAIT!” He pleaded, his entire body tensing up. Fuse, and surprisingly Rampart, both obliged. He breathed heavily, still giggling, especially when Walter flexed his fingers just underneath where his armpits started. “Plehehease dohohn’t tickle my armpihihits. Ramya’s twisting what I said, but I prohohomise I wohohon’t dohoho it AGAHAHAIN---”

Rampart didn’t let him finish; she ducked and blew a raspberry right in the center of his stomach. Octavio shrieked, making both Ramya and Walter laugh, and Walter dug underneath his left arm anyway. 

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” Fuse smirked, spidering his nails from one side of his armpit to the other. “Especially comin’ from you. You’re the very essence of trouble.” 

“Sure is.” Rampart chimed in, blowing another raspberry over his belly button. Octavio’s cackles filled up the entire workshop. He writhed in Walter’s hold, and bucked his hips as Ramya kept on blowing on his stomach. But despite his struggling, he couldn’t move away from the tickles, and it really tickled. 

“NOHOHAHAHAHA! STAHAHAHAHAHAP!” He screeched, laughing even harder as Fuse dug deeper into his hollows. Now, he was focusing on the center of his armpits, while Ramya dug her thumbs into his hips and waist. “POHOHOHOR FAHAHAHAVOR! I WOHOHOHOHN’T DOHOHOHOHO IHIHIHT!”

“Nah, I’ll have to think it over. Your track record says otherwise.” Walter insisted. He jumped to the speedster’s right armpit, earning another squeal, and used two fingers to scritch along the length of the spot. Octavio threw his head back; his right armpit was more sensitive than his left one, and he strained to pull his arms down. 

“NONONOHOHOHOHO! I SWEHEHEHEHEAR!” He pleaded, struggling with a renewed sense of energy. Fuse arched a brow; this time, he wasn’t even tickling that hard, and it seemed like Octavio wanted to pull his arm out of its socket, if it meant it went down. 

“Oh, c’mon, I’m barely touchin’ ya!” Fuse scoffed, poking his uppermost rib before he returned to the armpit. Ramya looked up from what she was doing; she thought the plonker’s stomach was his worst spot, but it looked like she was missing out on the real action!

“Yeah, he’s really laughin' up a storm, ain’t he?” 

That’s all Octane heard before he felt Ramya scoot up his waist, and bury her fingers into his left armpit. This next scream left him hoarse, and after that, all he could do was laugh and laugh. One hand on his armpits was bad; two were arguably unbearable. 

“PLEHEHEHEHEASE! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!” Octavio’s pleading finally gave way to hysterics as he kicked his legs against the ground. Walter opted for light, quick scratching along his right armpit. But Ramya was jabbing and poking all over the left one, so he couldn’t get used to either sensation. The tickling went on for a good five minutes; after that, Walter decided to ease up on the kid. His laughter had gotten silent, and he didn’t wanna kill him. 

“Alright, let’s give him a breather, ay?” Fuse stopped tickling him and gently nudged Ramya’s hand away. Rampart pouted; she was having a blast, but air was kind of important, and it looked like Octane needed a bunch of it. 

“Fine. Can’t have people dyin’ in here anyways. It’s bad for business.” She responded, snickering. She lightly ran her nails down Octavio’s tummy a few times before climbing off of his legs. Octavio snickered and panted, his chest rising and falling with each breath he took. 

“Bohohohth of yohuhu suck…” He complained, moving to pull his arms down…only to realize that Fuse hadn’t let go. Fuse grinned and looked down at the still-pinned speedster.

“Oh, ya think so? That’s alright, cause I never said I was lettin’ you go just yet.” 

It didn’t take very long for Octane to regenerate stamina, but all of that air he worked to bring in left him in one loud gasp. 

“No, doOOOHN’T--”

Walter poked his side, making him yelp, and he chuckled. “Hey, I was crystal clear! I said a breather. What, you thought you’d get off that easy?” 

Rampart blinked, not expecting the turn of events, but she was more than happy to continue. She plopped back down onto his legs, pressing her fingertips into his ribs, and wiggled away. 

“Nohohoho guhuhuhys! I’m sohohohohorry!”

Octavio’s apology fell on deaf ears; ole Fusey was bright eyed and bushy tailed, so he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

#ticklish!octane #ticklish!octaviosilva #ticklish!octavio #ticklish!silva #fuse apex legends #rampart #rampart apex legends #fuse #walter fitzroy #ramya parekh #apex legends #apex legends tickle fic #octane apex legends #octavio silva #octane

[incorrectlooneytunesquotes]

[Daffy pitches a story to Porky]

Announcer (Robert C. Bruce): When it comes to fighting crime, there's only one man keepin' the street safe, while keepin' it real.

[Daffy, dressed in a trenchcoat and fedora, pitches a guy through a glass door. He steps through the broken door, looks down at the unconscious guy and strokes the brim of his hat]

Daffy: In-deed.

Announcer: Daffy PI, coming this fall.

[Cut to a shot of Porky, looking patronizing]

Porky: I l-l-l-l-l-love it...

[Shot of Daffy looking pleased]

Porky: ...I'm j-just not sure the s-s-s-studio will...uh...

[Shot of Daffy looking vaguely threatening, leaning toward Porky]

Porky: W-w-w-w-w-whoops, there's my f-f-phone... [he puts his phone to his ear] ...g-g-g-g-g-go for P-P-P-Porky... [he scurries off]

#daffy duck #porky pig #source: stargate sg1

[witchofthescions]

They were just in time to rescue the abducted villagers, who stood fearfully on a platform as they waited to be whisked away to work for the rest of their lives.

"Listen to me, all of you!" Yugiri called out. "We have dealt with the imperials for now, but you must flee this place, quickly!"

One of the farmers looked terrified. "D-Dealt with them? Oh… oh no… you didn’t kill them, did you?"

A farm wife piped up, "Are you mad!? There’s no escaping the Empire! Running will only make it worse!"

"To stay is to die. You know this to be true," Yugiri replied. "Even if you lack the will to fight, surely you have the will to live! Or has that, too, been beaten out of you? Is this what has become of Doma!?"

The young man Ernastral and her Warriors of Light had met earlier, young Isse, chimed in. "You are Lord Hien’s retainer? Trained to fight without fear and obey without question?"

Yugiri turned to him.

"Well, we’re not! We’re lost and afraid! We hate this─all of this─but we can’t do a damn thing to change it! And trying will only make it worse." He hung his head. "It’s a pathetic existence…but it’s all we’ve got. And when people like you come here pretending it can be different—"

"I ain't a soldier, neither," Ernastral said.

The gathered villagers looked at her with varying degrees of incredulity.

"I'm a farm girl born and raised. My folks run a farm back in the Farreach, just like their folks, and their folks before 'em."

The gathered villagers looked at her with varying degrees of incredulity. Isse lifted his head and stared at her, uncomprehendingly.

"Wh... What do you mean you're not a soldier? You know how to fight!"

Erna shook her head. "I'm a farm girl born and raised. My folks run a farm back in the Farreach, just like their folks, and their folks before 'em."

Ernastral looked over the crowd, meeting as many of their gazes as she could.

"I ain't no soldier. I'm just a farm girl who lucked into some magic powers, and decided to go out and do somethin' with 'em. If I hadn't, then..." Erna paused and scratched her head. "Well... I'd probably still have headed out into the world to find my fortune but that's 'cause I'm the third child and that's just tradition."

There were a few nods and murmurs from the crowd. While their traditions usually skewed towards the oldest son specifically being the one to inherit things, the notion was the same. If you aren't the firstborn, you have to make your own way somehow.

"Point is I ain't beholden to a lord, and I don't have no fancy soldier trainin'. Hells, it's a miracle I even know how to read. But I still grew up on a farm, and I know what that life's like. I know how damned hard it is to make a livin' when you're at the mercy of the elements, never mind when you've got a damn empire keepin' you down. Some years, the crops fail for reasons outta your control. Some new blight swept in, too much rain, not enough rain, volcano erupted—"

A few of the farmers did a double take, as did Gohnoh'a. "Volcano?!"

"Yeah, the Farreach is full of 'em." Erna shrugged nonchalantly. "Makes for real fertile soil, but sometimes those volcanoes erupt. And they bury all your hard work in a layer of ash that you can't grow nothin' in for years. Might lose your home, too, and probably some of your loved ones who weren't quick enough to get away."

Some of the assembled farmers looked away. Isse was one of them.

"But when hardship comes knockin' and you realize this year's crops are ruined, you don't just throw in the towel. You can't. You gather what you can, and you start again. Because what the hell else are you gonna do? Starve?"

None of them were willing to meet Ernastral's gaze. But that didn't deter her as she looked out over the crowd.

"Gather what y'all can, start again, and live. Y'all hear me?"

The noise that went through the crowd was less a lively cheer, and more a series of vague murmurs.

"...That is the least inspired crowd I've ever heard," Lenar muttered.

Ernastral sighed. "...I wasn't expectin' much cheerin', honestly."

Yugiri seemed more brokenhearted about the lack of resounding cheers than Ernastral.

"...You have made your plight clear, and I shall impose my will no more."

#The Unending Journey (Drabbles) #Born in Blood (Stormblood)

[ulfwolf]

Chumbawamba -- Musing 293

We’re all right as long as   our gettings-back-up equal our fallings-down

This, of course, assumes that you’re upstanding to start with. But given that, if you match every fall with a rising again, you’re still good, and most likely (or quite definitely) tenacious.

I can think of only one excuse to stay horizontally put as it were; that is when Death comes a-hollerin’. Don’t antagonize him. Stay down, it’ll soon be over.

That said, we admire those who refuse to stay down, no matter what, though that can (as all things can) be taken to ridiculous extremes, as in when you’re supposed to stay down (as I said, when Death finally comes a-calling). A hilarious example of this is Peter Sellers’ stick-to-itiveness in the opening sequence of “The Party”. If you haven’t seen it, check the YouTube link below, it’s well worth watching.

Sellers link: https://youtu.be/kGi2AlMhraQ

But Sellers’ antics aside, I have always thought highly of those that, no matter the odds, no matter how steep the incline or height of the mountain side before you still keep going, if for no other reason than that they had decided to do it—being true to oneself always held to be sacrosanct.

Heroes.

I started smoking cigarettes at sixteen. I had just turned twenty the first time I decided to quit the things.

Of course, by now I had a nicotine dependency and even though I had yet to hear that nicotine was as hard, if not harder, to quit than heroin, I got to experience this insidious nicotine grip firsthand (not that I’ve ever tried heroin, so I cannot personally compare).

I had promised not only myself but a friend that I could and would stop smoking cold turkey. Nothing to it. Watch me. At the time I smoked about a pack a day.

After two days I just could not take it anymore. I felt like a benumbed wooden post, nothing was quite real and all I could think about, all I could dream of was cigarettes. Over the next day I had a lengthy discussion with myself and the craver way outdebated the ceaser. Day four saw me lighting up again, to tremendous relief and to a very disappointed friend who really had thought my word was enough—he had believed me, no longer though. He actually never quite forgave me.

But lesson learned. Cigarettes are not easily quittable. Not even vaguely. Accordingly, I knew better than to attempt another cold-turkey stunt like that.

At twenty-three I tried again. Having forgotten the pains of the futile cold-turkey approach I went down the same road again. For three days. Same thing, wooden, numbed, craving, craving, craving. Still had not heard that heroin possibly was easier to quit, but still experienced the impossibility of shedding nicotine. I simply could not do it. Not for anything.

Yes, I had promised myself again, and sincerely this time. Really, really, this time for sure.

Not.

Over the next few years, and I’m into my thirties now, I made feeble gestures in the quitting direction now and then, each time surrendering within days, sometimes within hours, and each time having to convince myself that I was not useless, that trying to quit in the first place was just plain ol’ stupid, and so on, to make me feel better about having been bested, again, and again, and again by tobacco.

In 1984, we bought a house, a house that, even though only ten years old, needed some internal repairs and repaint. We were to take possession the coming Monday. I had taken a week off work to do the repair and paint job myself and here comes intuition charging to catch my attention. If, said intuition, if I were to quit smoking now during a week where I would be busy day and night with physical work, perhaps this was the perfect time to do it, to actually, yes, actually do it. New house and all. Good road marker. It had my attention. I listened and agreed. I would do it this time. Perfect.

I clearly remember the Sunday night before. I was smoking Winstons then and had for years. I was sitting in the living room of our rented house looking out the den window, keeping an eye on my watch. It was now eleven thirty at night. I had decided to quit smoking at midnight, sharp.

I lit another Winston.

And a little later, about ten till midnight, another—the last—which I smoked slowly, thoroughly, all the way down to the filter and up to a minute before midnight, at which time I took my final drag and stumped the butt out in the blue glass ashtray.

Went to bed.

The following morning, around ten o’clock, I am knee-deep in painting a bedroom wall when the need to smoke not only snuck up on me but staged a full-scale assault. I almost reeled off the ladder. I was in trouble.

Intuition to the rescue again: I asked my wife for a sandwich and a beer which I sat down and consumed on the spot, trying to out-crowd the tobacco craving by satisfying another. Then another beer and then back to the painting.

Chew, rinse, repeat—many times.

Bottom line: by the end of that week I had drunk a lot of beer and eaten a lot of food, but I had not smoked another cigarette.

Over the next month, I still used beer (in the evenings) to chase tobacco away, and at the end of that first month, I was still, yes, tobacco-free.

Two months. Still tobacco-free.

Three months. Ditto.

HOW-ever, I dreamed about smoking. Almost nightly. Dreaming that I had given in and actually lit up, crushing myself in the dream, cursing myself in the dream for giving up, and then: waking up, jubilant: Wow: Just a dream, it was just a dream, I was still tobacco-free.

Over the next year, I dreamed that same dream often. Giving in, lighting up, cursing myself, and then, gloriously waking up to a hero’s welcome.

That was going on forty years ago. I still have not smoked tobacco, and these days I never (well, perhaps once a year) dream about smoking. I can, finally, say that I beat tobacco. And yes, by this time I have heard that nicotine is as hard to quit as heroin.

This from American Heart Association News:

The science behind why it's so difficult to quit smoking is crystal clear: Nicotine is addictive—reportedly as addictive as cocaine or heroin. Yet any adult can stroll into a drug store and buy a pack of cigarettes, no questions asked.

“From a scientific standpoint, nicotine is just as hard, or harder, to quit than heroin, but people don't recognize that," said Dr. Neil Benowitz, a nicotine researcher at the University of California, San Francisco.

Well, I second that and rest my case.

And my gettings-back-up did indeed match my fallings-down.

Now, to apply the same math to ignoring the clamoring of witless tastebuds.

::

P.S. If you like what you’ve read here and would like to contribute to the creative motion, as it were, you can do so via PayPal: here.

[ofrosso]

date: june 11th location: capulet territory status: @evcravens

December. They had last stepped foot on Cosimo Capulet’s property in December (or rather, been dragged, to it) when the air still bit at heaving lungs and the cold caressed rattling bones. It felt right to Marcelo that they would return now, as summer shook the snow from its yawning head, on both legs, swiftly, and without a weakness reflected on their steely surface. Still, as if to prove it, the captain takes the steps two at a time — no one was around to hear the slap of their sole hitting the pavement, after all. Only the ghosts of Verona, and those that ventured into its shadows in search of them, might catch a glimpse of Marcelo, now. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour, and lights had only just began to flicker to life across the city. 

The door closes quietly begin them, and they make quick work of snapping the lock back into place. It had taken all but one concentrated moment for them to shimmy it open to begin with, before briskly slipping up to the dark of the building’s rooftops. It had been quiet on the streets from above, a stray drunk stumbling across cement every so often, but they’d be a fool to think it would stay that way for long. With everything carefully propped back into place, Marcelo turns away from their vantage point, and with hands shoved in each pocket, begins their walk back to the adige.  

This part of the city is only familiar on fire, rattled by deafening gunshots. Marcelo knows it on paper, squiggly lines to mark roads and blue blobs signaling bodies of water, but intimately they had only traveled its streets the night of The Purge, or while watching the Cathedral smolder on its holy ground. Marcelo had been born on Montague territory, and their bones would be buried beneath its soil — still, it was surely only a matter of time before this side of the Castelvechhio, too, beat in the pulse of their veins, held by the throat in Roman’s royal fist. 

Acutely, Marcelo begins to realize that they’re not alone. An echo, here, a hovering gaze, hot on the slope of their shoulders, there. There might be a strangeness to its streets, but the captain is vividly familiar with the beasts that walk them. 

In one swift turn, Marcelo has fingers lingering on the handle of their pistol, teeth bared at the face that dares pierce their sharpened gaze into the flesh of a Rosso.

“Figlio di puttana.” 

#i: everett #d: june 11th #l: capulet territory #tw gun mention #tw death mention #tw choking #keepin this real vague #and real long #pls feel free to shorten it bb

[ragingpancake]

Menace 2 Society

Set during any time period when Rodney and the gang are on Earth. Possible The Return era. John's away and Rodney finds out a life of crime really isn't for him even though he's really good at it. ~1600 words. Crack.

Author's Note: a repost from my old livejournal, written for @popkin16 allllllll the way back in 2011.

The alcohol stopped burning several shots ago. Now, it slides down as easily as a glass of water (hold the lemon) so he downs the cheap whiskey and motions for another. He thinks the bartender is smirking as he slides the glass across the counter, so Rodney salutes him sloppily with two fingers. "To," he hiccups and burps. Half the liquid sloshes out of the tiny glass as he raises it in thanks. "T'you. For keepin' the good stuff comin'," he says. Or at least that's what he tries to say but it's possible he's speaking Ancient. He swallows and drops the glass back to the smooth bar top and leans over, pressing his face against the cool wood. It feels good and he wants to close his eyes and just sleep. It's not like anyone would miss him anyway.

He sighs and rubs his cheek against it and then he sighs some more. This has turned out to be a spectacularly shitty day. "Ca'I get one more?" Rodney asks. He wiggles a single finger in the bartender's direction, but he will not be swayed. "Sorry buddy. I think you've had enough." It sounds familiar and Rodney remembers even though he came here to forget. "Says who?" He asks, drawing himself up to full height. It's most likely ineffective because he can feel himself swaying on his bar stool. He'll be lucky if he doesn't topple right over into the floor like Humpty Dumpty and that's enough to set him off in a fit of manly giggles. He mumbles the nursery rhyme under his breath--at least, he means to--as he stumbles to his feet and wrestles his wallet out of his back pocket. His fingers, normally so deft and skilled, feel fat and totally useless as he opens the flap and wrestles a wad of money out. It isn't easy but eventually he's successful. He tosses a couple tens down on the counter. "S'been real, m'man!" He calls to the bartender and sweeps his jacket gracefully off the back of the stool. Well, he thinks he sweeps it gracefully off the back of the stool except he's not graceful even under the best of circumstances and drunk out of his mind doesn't really count. He almost falls, but he compensates and manages to keep himself upright. He's the fucking man. "Smooth, McKay," he congratulates himself and saunters--stumbles--towards the exit. Rodney has one hand on the doorknob when the sound of raised voices catches his attention. He whirls around, but when he stops, the room keeps going and it takes a minute until it stops spinning until for him to see the cause of the argument. A guy who reminds him vaguely of Ronon save for the awesome hair, growling a woman who's smaller than Keller. Normally, he would back out quickly before the giant spots him because this is more John's forte than his, but fortified by several shots of cheap whiskey, Rodney puffs up his chest and opens his mouth before his brain catches up. "Hey!" The woman shrinks back, seemingly trying to disappear under the table as the guy turns, narrowing his eyes at Rodney. "The fuck is your problem?" The guy slurs. Rodney hasn't thought this far ahead but he tries for a defiant slouch and glares. "You're m'problem! Maybe you should jus'... jus' shut up and yell at someone your own size." Had John, Ronon, Teyla or even Zelenka been around, they would have reminded Rodney to take his own advice because how many times had he yelled at poor old Miko over the years? The guy laughs and rounds the table, but Rodney doesn't falter. If anything, he stands--tries to--a little straighter and rounds his broad shoulders. There's a very teeny tiny part of his brain, the part that's going to be pissed at him for potentially damaging valuable brain cells when he's not so drunk, that screams at him to run, but he just holds his ground. "You wanna say that to my face?" The guy asks, so close that Rodney can smell what he had for dinner. It's almost enough to make him throw up. "I said you should jus' shut up." The guy reaches out and shoves  Rodney. The extra force is enough to knock him off his balance and he tumbles backwards into the coat rack. He's vaguely aware of the bartender yelling over to them, but he's annoyed now in a way that has nothing to do with idiot lab technicians. It's a struggle to get to his feet but he manages and this time when the guy swings, Rodney has enough foresight to duck. He'll thank Ronon later for teaching him to dodge the obvious blows and he'll thank Teyla for teaching him how to strike. His fist connects with the guy's nose and Rodney can feel the satisfying crunch under his fingers. "I did it!" He says, mildly surprised at actually landing a hit. The excitement doesn't last long though because he's only served to piss the guy off even more and this time when he swings, he doesn't miss. Rodney takes a couple of punches, but they're nothing compared to the beating he would have received before Atlantis, before Ronon

and Teyla, before John. They've taught him to use his bulk, his broad shoulders and big hands, to his advantage and while he doesn't escape completely unscathed, he's pleased to see that the other guy is no better off. Of course, he has exactly three point five seconds to celebrate before his arms are shoved behind his back roughly and held in place by the cool metal of handcuffs. A bar fight and an arrest all in one night? John would be so proud. And it's with that thought that Rodney doubles over and empties the contents of his stomach on the floor. --- There's nothing remotely exciting about being arrested, Rodney thinks mournfully as he shifts in the cracked plastic chair. He doesn't even get to go to real jail. Instead, he's being held in the processing room at the local police department, staring dumbly at the back of the officer's head. He's slouched down in a computer chair, playing Solitaire. Rodney wonders what it means about local law enforcement when they can't even win at that. He wisely keeps this thought to himself. "Don' I get a phone call?" He asks. His head is starting to ache and while he's sure he's already thrown up everything he's eaten in the last year and a half, he still feels like he's going to be sick. He really just wants Carter or hell, even Daniel Jackson to come get him so he can go home and sleep for a month. Or at least until John comes back. "Nope," the officer drawls and that's the end of that. Well okay then. He slumps miserably in his seat, handcuffs clinking the metal rail he's attached to. He really just wants to go home. Not home home but Atlantis home where everything was good and John wasn't being stupid and gallivanting off to another planet in the Milky Way with his brand new team. Without Rodney. Apparently, alcohol was counterproductive because while it was supposed to make him forget, it's all he can think about. He's pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a quiet click and when the door opens up, Rodney can hardly believe his eyes. "Hey buddy," John greets, smiling lazily like Rodney isn't handcuffed for a reason that doesn't involve kinky sex. "What are you doin' here?" "Bailing you out," John says easily. "And really? A bar fight? What were you thinking?" "I was amazing," Rodney says, smiling despite himself. He goes to stand and then remembers he can't exactly go anywhere, so he flops down into the chair and sighs loudly. "John?" "Yeah buddy?" "Can we go home now?" John just grins. --- By the time they make it to Rodney's apartment, Rodney's ready to seriously pass out. He's exhausted and his face is hurting from where that Neanderthal's fist connected with it, but mostly, he's just so happy John is back that he wants nothing more than to get upstairs, get naked and sleep for a month. This time with John. It's a chore to get out of the car and up the stairs, but when John finally shoves the apartment door open, Rodney stumbles in gratefully. "You left me," he accuses halfheartedly as he pulls his shirt over his head with clumsy hands, throwing it onto the back of the couch. "Big jerk. S'your fault, y'know." "It's my fault you got arrested?" "Yes," Rodney sighs. John doesn't argue; he grabs the shirt from the couch and then steers Rodney into the bedroom and Rodney is positive that he's stifling a laugh when he face plants onto the bed. "Turned me into a hardened crim'nal. S'all your fault," he mutters, muffled by the mattress. "A hardened criminal, huh?" "You make me crazy." "I feel the same way about you," John says fondly. The bed dips under John's weight and a second later, Rodney finds himself cuddled up against John's side. He presses his face against John's neck and breathes in his scent. "Don't go 'way anymore, 'kay?" "I'm not going anywhere," John promises. "Especially after this. Who knew a few hours apart would send you spiraling downward into a life of crime?" Rodney just nods solemnly and snuffles quietly against John's neck. "'M such a menace to society," Rodney mutters. John laughs his horrible donkey-laugh and

Rodney feels fond lips against the top of his head. "You're a menace alright. Get some sleep, McKay. I have a feeling you're gonna have one hell of a hangover in the morning." Rodney's already fast asleep.

#sga fic #fandom: sga #mcshep #ship: mcshep #john sheppard #rodney mckay #crack fic #this one always cracked me up

[hargrove-mayfields]

Day two of the Horror on Cherry Lane Challenge! Today’s prompt is Rib Cage.

warnings for mentions of disordered eating.

It’s been a problem since he was young. Momma’s little projection of insecurity and status.

Steve doesn’t eat. Not when he can help it. And he’s good at hiding it too.

He wears concealer to cover the bags under his eyes. He goes and gets highlights in his hair to hide how dull and greasy it is. He brushes his teeth at least six times a day to hide the damage from the purging. And he buys his pants a size too big to pretend he’s not getting thinner.

But as good as he is at pretending, Billy’s even better at reading people.

Since November and getting put in his place by his step sister, Billy’s been an observer. The role of instigator went to Tommy while Billy sits atop his throne and just, takes it in. A dynamic not so different to what Steve once had with Tommy.

But it means he notices everything that goes down in his kingdom, and especially everything concerning Steve Harrington.

Steve doesn’t even notice at first that Billy has noticed him, not from the little remarks and the stares that last a little too long. It’s obvious, but he doesn’t get it. Doesn’t see what it is that draws his attention to him.

Not until Billy steps down from his royal court to confront him in the locker rooms.

Steve’s been avoiding the showers after practice for a long time. It’s bad enough being surrounded by that many other boys, all more fit than him in one way or another, but as if that isn’t enough, he has to show himself too. The second he takes his shirt off, everyone’ll know what he’s up to.

He’s proud of his body. He’s proud of having earned his beauty. But he’s humiliated by the questions. Be it the faux concern or the mockery he’s more than used to, he just wants nothing to do with it.

So he lingers, on the court talking to coach, pretending to be searching for something in his bag. Anything to keep him from having to face the nagging.

But Billy notices, because of course he does. And he sits on the bench between the lockers all smug like. Waiting for Steve to run out of excuses so he can corner him.

It works, after Steve digs through his locker for some imaginary object for the dozenth time, he sighs and turns to Billy, “You gonna keep starin’ at me, Hargrove? What’re you even still doing here?”

“Coach asked me to stay’n lock up. What’s your problem, man?” Billy hums casually, like he doesn’t even care how much he’s bothering Steve. It’s something he’s probably used to by now anyways.

If only he knew what that indifferent assailed routine did to Steve. He buries that for now though, to argue, “You seem to be the one with a problem.”

Billy snarks right back, “Ain’t wrong about that. But I was watchin’ you at practice. What’s wrong with your ribs?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re crossin’ your arms over your chest. You’re breathin’ all shallow like. You won’t even take your shirt off and get in the damn shower. Someone kick your ass Harrington?”

“No, no. That’s.. not it.”

“Uh-huh. Say the word n’I’ll put a stop to it. S’it Hagan? I told him to get off your case, man” Billy tries to convince him into admitting something, not knowing exactly what it is, but Steve shuts him down again, trying not to think too much about the concern in the other boys tone and expression.

“Seriously, dude. It’s just.. it’s me.”

“Right. ‘Cause you knocked your own self around like that. Lemme see it, Harrington.” Billy motions vaguely to Steve’s ribs, where the imaginary injury is, making his chest seize, flinching back from the touch that doesn’t land.

“No. No fucking way.”

“C’mere.” Before Steve can tell him no again, Billy steps forward and touches his ribs. His face looks sort of defeated when he doesn’t make Steve flinch or wince, clearly wrong, as Steve already knew, about the presence of a bruise.

His fingers gently linger though, tracing over each bone as they protrude through pale skin. It sends a shiver through Steve’s spine, and a spike of anger into his heart. Before Billy even opens his mouth, he knows he’s seen through him.

Knows Billy noticed that, just a month shy of the year anniversary of the fight, his body has changed far too drastically for it to be natural, or otherwise normal. His face softens in a way that’s so distinctly not-Billy, it makes Steve want to never see him that way again, “Steve..”

“Fuck off.”

But it’s too late, “Why’re you doin’ it?”

“Leave me alone, Hargrove. For real.”

“Don’t be stubborn, man. Lemme help you.”

“You don’t even know me, douchebag. I’m fine so just stop it.” Steve insists, panic rising in his chest, making his breath come out short and his throat real tight.

Billy doesn’t relent though.

“Yeah? Well I do know you’re starving yourself.” Billy counters, his tone surprisingly animated. It’s almost make Steve feel special if Billy wasn’t being an ass, “Used to think the school lunches were just below you. Thought your ass was too expensive for cold pizza like the rest of us ate. But I get it now. S’why you don’t drink either isn’t it?”

“Okay, you’ve been stalking me?”

“Just been keepin’ an eye on my competition. N’I don’t much like it when my competition starts gettin’ too depressed to even put up a damn fight.” It’s obvious Billy’s using that as a cover for something deeper that Steve doesn’t get, wishing Billy would just come out and say it already.

“Well I’m not much of a threat. Never was.” He prompts, but what Billy responds with instead instead is, “Exactly, and whose fault is that?”

Steve raises his eyebrows, surprised by the venom behind Billy's words. He’s even more surprised when Billy tears into him again, “M’serious. You’re wasting yourself away. It’s no damn wonder you can’t keep up anymore.”

That stings. “I thought you were getting better, but you’re clearly still an asshole.”

“And I thought you were alright to begin with. But I guess we’re both wrong.”

“So what the hell do you want me to say? Thank you my savior for savin’ me from myself?”

“Would you let me?” It’s not the answer Steve is expecting, the way Billy’s been acting since he confronted him, and he makes sure he knows, asking, “What?”

“Would you let me help you? Save you from what you’re doing?” Billy tries again, and it’s even more blindsiding this time.

“Like you even could. You said it yourself, Hargrove. I’m kicking my own ass here. You can’t help me.”

“I bet I could. You need someone in your corner.” Steve opens his mouth to argue, but Billy cuts him off quickly, “That curlyheaded kid don’t count. You need someone to look out for you. I’d let you be King again if it stopped this from happening.”

“But why would you?”

“I got my reasons.”

“Then just fucking tell me. If it’s good, I might think about it.”

“Look, I like you Harrington. I ain’t gonna stand by and watch you do this to yourself. Why’d you think I was checkin’ up on you in the first place?”

“To rub it in my fucking face that I’m unstable or some shit. Try to get dirt on me so you can make my life even more miserable.”

“What do I gotta do to show ya I really care then?” Billy sighs, but Steve hardly has the mind to detect his frustration, because he’s suddenly hung up by this declaration, simple to Billy but astroninal to him, “Wait- care? You mean, you don’t just like me in the same way everyone likes King Steve?”

“No. I meant it in the other way, Steve. The way I’m not so good at saying with words. The way I’ve trying to show you since we made things right. But I guess I’m not really good at this crush shit either.” Billy’s so bashful, so genuine, Steve knows he’s being honest, but some part of him can’t process it still.

“Oh.” Steve shakes his head, can’t believe it long enough to even look Billy in the eyes and deny it, “No-No you don’t. You’re fucking with me.”

“I do and I’m not. And that’s exactly why I’m not gonna sit around and watch this- this slow death you’re putting yourself through.”

Suddenly, this whole conversation goes from frustrating and pissing him off, to embarrassing. Like Billy's perception of him somehow changed his own. It’s funny how he was willing to argue with an enemy, but the second that other motive came into play, Steve finds himself flustered and trying to cover his tracks with a declaration of, “It’s not even that bad.”

But Billy continues to be a sweet talker, and he begs, all gentle and considerate, “Then let me fix it before it is. Please, Steve?”

“Okay.. okay.” Steve nods, biting the corner of his nail as he thinks, regretting it and shoving his hands in his pocket instead. He starts, after a moment of trying to collect his thoughts, “Just- Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“I like you too. That’s the only reason I’m accepting this.”

“Fine by me. How ‘bout I follow you back to yours tonight? Keep an eye on you still. Keep my promise too.” Billy offers, tone somewhat hopeful.

In response, Steve smiles shakily, so nervous his heart pounds in his chest. His ribs feel weak against its rhythm, like his chest could cave in from the combination of nerves and admiration, at knowing someone actually cared for him. He’s never felt more fragile than he does for Billy.

“I would like that a lot, Billy.”

#CherryLaneChallenge #harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #billy x steve #ej writer #story by ej! #tw eating disorder #we’re gonna pretend this isn’t over an hour late for day two because ive been too busy to post this okay

[loviatars]

The Highwayman

pairing: astarion x female npc (reader, not the mc!) warnings: vague references to abuse and torture that will become less vague in future parts rating: teen for the above reasons, for now <3 word count: 1,388 notes: so i think this’ll be my first astarion mini-series, as this’ll definitely have another part (and hopefully soon)! i just wanted to toy around with what might happen to astarion should the mc sell him out to the monster hunter... part two. ao3.

You are scared to touch him. You think he will cry out in pain.

He might be warm, you continue to think. Like skin. Or cold from the night seeping between the bars of the cage. His doublet looks frayed and unloved. The man is hungry behind the eyes, but also afraid. But also angry.

“You,” he spits, “who are you? Where am I?”

With troubling speed, the man hurls himself against the side of the cage. The metal rattles and shakes under his pale hands but they do not budge. You watch, wide-eyed and horrified as he grits his teeth against an unseen pain.

You’re stunned to silence, slack-jawed with fear. With a grunt and a mournful sound, the man behind bars slumps down away from them. His palms are singed red, you notice. Whatever the cage is made of is poisoning him.

“Outside the Dying Gull,” you whisper. The man driving the covered wagon didn’t look too friendly, you’d rather he not know you’re speaking to his travelling companion. Or captive. “It’s an inn on the highway, about a week’s hard ride from Baldur’s Gate.”

The man sounds flat, pressing his injured palm to his forehead and being careful not to touch the bars with the back of his neck.

“Well,” he sighs, “I’ve heard far worse news in the past three days. That just leaves who you are.”

“Just the barmaid,” you admit. After a pause, you continue, “If you don’t mind, can I ask a question now?”

“Were I in your position, I may have a few,” the man says. He’s still slumped over, you’re beginning to worry. His hand now covers his eyes, like they hurt. However, his tone is oddly sarcastic for his apparent exhaustion. “By all means, ask.”

“What’s happened to you? Why’s that man got another man locked up in the back of his wagon?” once you’ve opened your mouth you can’t quite stop. The man huffs, either in amusement or annoyance.

“That is two questions, in fact. So now you’ll have to pick just the one,” he says.

“I answered two,” you reply. But you’re inclined to take pity. “Fine, the second one.”

“I am in the company of a very incompetant bounty hunter,” the pale man begins, “who has wrongfully determined my identity to be that of a criminal.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head to the side. Looking into the cage, you see two red eyes swimming in the centre of his pale face when his hand moves. “A criminal might just say that. Are you lyin’ to me?”

“Of course a real criminal would lie, but I am not one in the least,” he insists. He seems to gain a little energy defending his morality, either that or he’s a capable performer. The man sits up until he’s moved away from the bars at his back. “Whatever that Gur says, I am not who he thinks I am.”

You say nothing for a moment, peering through the dark at those deep-red eyes. You decide that he’s lying. But to his credit, he’s a man in a cage. And you find something other than pity welling up in your chest once more.

His anger seems mostly gone now that he knows it was misdirected. The creature looks tired and gaunt, hungry and in pain. Your heart lurches.

“One more question?” you ask. He heaves a sigh.

“Very well, what was it?” he starts, “Right, what in the world has happened to me, well--”

“No,” you stop him. “Not that one, I don’t really want to force you to make up more lies. I just want to know your name. Can you tell me that?”

He seems stricken for a second. And only then does it occur to you that he’s begun to peer back. It’s what sways you to find him innocent, you decide. He looks at you, stares at you and tries to decide if you’ll be the third person to hurt him in as many days.

“Astarion,” he says. “My name is Astarion.”

“Good to meet you, Astarion,” you say. He seems troubled by your good-natured smile, not the least bit comforted by it. But it’s better than a grimace or a look of fear, he seems to reconcile.

Especially when you put your hands on the cage. Then, it appears as if hope’s caught in his eye. The bars don’t burn you, you notice. And you frown. But only for a moment, only as you’re thinking. 

“This won’t be easy to open,” you say. You bring your knuckles down on the metal, eliciting a hollow sound. “Were the whole thing pure silver, it’d buckle under its own weight. But it’s platin’ somethin’ sturdier--”

“And how do you know that?” Astarion asks. You look down at him, your eyes are no longer sizing him up. 

They’ve decided he is neither predator nor prey, as he has with you.

“Da was a goldsmith, he worked with all sorts of precious metals,” you explain. “Means I can identify ‘em, but I’ve not the strength to rip the door straight from its hinges.”

“And I’ve been starved for days,” he confesses, “so I’m far too weak to be of any help.”

The look of empathy on your face is unprecedented. It seems to make Astarion uncomfortable, so you stop it. You turn instead to the door that’s locked tight. A cruel, rusted padlock bolts it shut.”

“Could nick the keys off ‘im,” you muse. You’re not watching the stranger’s face, but it’s more expressive now that it’s been since you tugged the curtain covering the cage aside.

“You would do that for me?” he asks. “You believe me, you would free me?”

“Please,” you huff, “you’re bein’ treated cruelly. And I’ve no reason to trust the man who’s keepin’ you hostage, either. I won’t aid him.”

“Good to know that there’re still a handful of decent souls to be found,” he says, “even if I’ve only noticed a dearth of them.”

“But I don’t believe you in the slightest,” you add. Astarion squeezes his eyes shut.

“I swear to you that I am innocent, what more--” he starts, you cut him off with an unexpected smile.

“I know you’re innocent, I’m choosin’ to believe that. But I also know you’re far from honest,” you say. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Then we have an understanding,” he says. He sounds relieved and you nod.

“I’ll need the key, but I can steal it. Once you’re out, I’ll take you to the barn behind the inn. There’s cattle there,” you tell him. But Astarion bristles with feigned disgust.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he snaps. 

You try your best not to roll your eyes. Lying, it seems, comes too naturally to him. With the plan laid out before you, you drop the padlock.

“I’m not stupid, Astarion. And you’re a poor liar,” is all you say. And it’s all that he does, too.

When you move to tug the curtain back over the cage, however, Astarion sits up. Panic is back in his eyes, you dislike the sight.

“No. Don’t, please,” he says. He holds his hands out, perilously close to the silver that burns him so badly. “I-- I haven’t seen outside in days. Leave it.”

“Of course, I wasn’t thinkin’,” you say. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, try to stay out of sight of any passers-by.”

You make a point to tug the curtain a little further back, giving Astarion a view of the Gull after dark. He watches you turn away.

The inn glows, light spilling out of its square windows. The Gur inside is still boasting, drinking himself into a stupor that he’ll have to sleep off eventually. But whether he’ll do it here is what worries you, what pushes you back inside and in search of the key that fits the padlock.

As you walk, you can hear the awful voice rising above the din. Part of you wonders if the vampire in the cage is lying to you about everything, for he is a liar at heart. Another knows that either way, what’s being done to him is evil. You pause before you open the door.

It’s time again to commit theft, which calls for a different arrangement of the face.

#astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate fic #baldurs gate fic #baldur's gate #bg3 #bg #bg3 fic #astarion baldurs gate #there is like 0% chance of this showing up in the tags bc i have -3 luck but #hey if it does and you can see this??? i hope you enjoy #first chapter's not hella romantic but ya know #anniewrites

[dangerouscommiesubversive]

3, 18-20, and/or 25 for the meta meme?

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

Oh, I've got tons of them, but currently I'm haunted by the idea of a High & Low/Yakuza crossover, mainly because I feel like there are some fun parallels between Majima and Murayama that Majima in particular would find compelling. Mostly it's just very vague thoughts, except for one very small dialogue snippet:

The kid wriggles against Saejima's grip on his jacket collar like an angry kitten, furious and simmering with violence but ultimately not that threatening. "Yeah, Granddad? You think you know something about me?"

Majima sputters for a moment. "Do I look like I'm that old--ok, yeah, fair, I'm that old, I could be your granddad. Yeah, pretty sure I know a thing or two about you."

"Wanna bet?"

A long pause, Majima looking the kid up and down, and then he says, "You used to feed stray dogs that lived near your mama's house and the first time you punched a guy you nearly broke your thumb. You've probably got a best bro who's a real big motherfucker, although I doubt he's as big as my real big motherfucker," with a nod to Saejima, who grunts. "You like to fight so much you dream about it, but you're gettin' better about keepin' a grip on yourself." Another pause as he weighs whether or not to say the next thing he's thinking of, and then figures hell, why not, nobody else is around to listen. "You like men and you're worried about sayin' anything to your buddies because they might get fuckin' weird about it, and you've got a crush on some real upstandin' type, strong chin and everything, maybe that blonde kid you were hollerin' at earlier. You probably tried on a girlfriend's lipstick once and thought you looked pretty good and you're maybe a little worried about what that means." Beat. "And you're a terrible fuckin' bowler."

The kid stares at him, getting redder and redder in the face, and then mutters, "Never been bowling."

"But I was right about the rest of it."

"How'd you know all that?"

Majima shrugs. "Used to be you, is all."

"Shit." The kid looks like he's not sure whether he wants to smile or get angry. "Hope I'm better-looking than you when I'm that old."

"You--I was gonna offer to stand your scrawny ass some lunch, but now I ain't so sure."

18. Do any of your stories have alternative versions? (plotlines that you abandoned, AUs of your own work, different characterisations?) Tell us about them.

Pretty much all of them, but very few that are written down or that I could in any way explain succinctly.

19. Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)

I might be too fond of long pauses and so on in dialogue, honestly. And overly involved metaphors.

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

Oh pretty much everything I've ever written has at least one thing in it that I'm just overly pleased about and want people to notice, but the one I was thinking about just last night is that in that one Reika/Magine prompt fic I wrote, I had Reika make a reference to Daishinji being a cousin of hers? Which is a headcanon I'm fond of but which nobody's ever really mentioned.

25. What part of writing is the most fun?

Dialogue! And sex scenes honestly, I like describing sensations and the sensations during sex are all so intense.

#anonamouse #writing meta meme

[tossawary]

(LMY anon) Ahh I just saw your character notes for LMY. Thank you, that's very helpful! You're right that it feels insulting to LQQ to make LMY too emotionally intelligent, esp considering we have canonical evidence that she's also a weirdo. Even if it's a non-transmigrator AU, I feel like the only way I can even begin to understand her character is through the lens of a fangirl. The concept of writing RPF for a teacher+an ex-classmate who actually tried to end the world is a new level for me

I don’t even understand or like RPF on the normal level, personally. I mean, RPF fans, you do you! I vaguely comprehend the concept of treating celebrities presented/public personalities as characters, but I’m not personally comfortable with it. So that was one of my biggest obstacles when writing Liu Mingyan, like... this woman is in-a-different-universe-to-me-brained. 

This was more or less my thought process, like, how I personally worked out better understanding Liu Mingyan’s situation: 

(TL;DR: It’s easier to think of Liu Mingyan as a bard.) 

So that was one of my biggest obstacles when writing Liu Mingyan, like... this woman is in-a-different-universe-to-me-brained.

But, at the same time, I don’t get the same squick with fiction surrounding historical figures. I mean, I do sometimes, but the distance of time makes it easier. I’m also fine (most of the time) with stories inspired by a true story. A lot of fiction is based on real events! Authors draw from real life! I don’t really watch Hollywood movies based on modern events and human interest stories which go viral, but they’re definitely a thing and they’re basically RPF. People like Real Person Fiction and Real Person Non-Fiction. 

And, like, okay, this world doesn’t have the same overwhelming variety of content that our modern world has. Unclear on whether or not there’s widespread literacy or printing presses, but it sounds like most stories are going to come from storytellers and singers and other performers. Many of these performances are going to draw on historical and recent events, especially because it’s unclear how news might be otherwise spread. Look at what a huge industry just plain gossip is in our modern world! People need to be entertained and singing for your supper is an okay gig. 

I need to stop thinking in terms of Modern RPF as I know it on AO3 and start thinking more in terms of bards.* Liu Mingyan is perhaps more like an artist meeting a journalist (or a publicist or a historian) than a modern fanfiction writer. Or like any playwright writing an embellished history for a ruler (except she did it on her own). Is a bard or storyteller hired to write something putting history in a specific light not essentially a historical paid publicist? 

Except Liu Mingyan is doing it for her own benefit. And I would still personally call it fanfiction even if in this case it’s a for-profit adaptation. 

*(I should probably better research Chinese historical forms of performance and spreading news, but SVSSS allows me to be lazy and hand-wavey about it. Thanks, Airplane.) 

So, for me, I’m picturing Liu Mingyan and her friends are just a step to the left of historical reenactment meeting gossip meeting music/poetry/songwriting practice that got really out of hand. Friends can be terrible enablers sometimes, right? Then, bam! Real Person Fiction that people found compelling and spread like wildfire. All of the people involves are celebrities / political figures whose movements matter to the common people, and they don’t have news sites or social media sites for Keepin’ Up with the Cultivators. 

I mean, it’s funny to think about it in terms of RPF and fanfiction as we know it, so I absolutely do. I think she’s a bit of a fangirl, yes! I relate to that! (But am I reducing her to “just a Modern BL fangirl” because she’s a woman writing romance and I’m looking at it from a modern fanfic author’s lens and not taking the situational context into account? She’s a BL fangirl with potentially significant societal impact. She’s not out of place in the world she lives in.) 

Adaptation is pervasive throughout society and goes beyond fanfiction and fanart as we know it in what we call “Fandom”. Journalism is arguably non-fiction adaptation! Historians adapt the world around them to record it for future generations. Music can be an adaptation of people’s life’s experiences! People put on plays about other people’s stories they’ve witnessed. There are places in the world (our world) were the line between fiction and non-fiction blurs. And truly being objective is impossible when people’s creations are filtered through the lens of their own perspective, whether they’re writing a news article or a novel. So, like, there are types of adaptational fiction that society is willing to slap a “official” label on and this is one of those cases. 

I mean, it’s still weird behavior in my eyes! It’s invasive! Liu Mingyan didn’t do this as journalist or a historian; she did this for her own entertainment and maybe for any potential money, and I would still totally call it fanfiction. Shen Yuan is reasonably mortified that someone has made something of his life! And misinformation can be extremely damaging to someone’s personal life and dangerous politically and I don’t know if she took that into account!  

But, yeah. Liu Mingyan = on a similar boat to Jaskier from The Witcher. (Who is, I say affectionately, also a weirdo and could be called a fanboy.) Except she’s also a bit more repressed like Liu Qingge. It’s easier for me personally to understand the RPF angle if I attempt to understand the potential for RPF as it exists in her world, not as it exists in mine. 

#tossawary svsss #ask tossawary #liu mingyan #svsss

[artificialqueens]

Forget Me Too (Taywhora) - Cashmere

A/N - A smutty yet angsty one shot dedicated to junosjukebox for encouraging me to play in the world of the DRUK. Love you, love your work. Can also be found on Ao3 under the pen-name crygiankie-trash

You want me to forget you Okay, forget me too You tell me you hate me Baby, yeah, I bet you do

“I fucking hate you” the words are mumbled against Tayce’s shoulder as she’s pressed against the wall, skirt hiked up around her waist as Tayce’s hand slips into her underwear not looking at all surprised when her fingers slide easily through the arousal that graces her fingertips before giving a low chuckle, one that has no business going straight to Aurora’s pussy, clenching pathetically around the single digit that Tayce has slipped inside her. “Is this all for little old me?” her tone is low, husky, lips pressed to the shell of her ear. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself Tayce” the words however don’t have the desired effect when they leave Aurora’s lips, her usually venomous tone, breathy and weak as her hips give an involuntary jerk as Tayce easily adds another finger, her thumb brushing against the sensitive bundle of nerves already heightened from her  earlier ministrations. “I fucking hate you” the statement leaves her lips again, shaky and uncertain but it’s not at all surprising when Tayce’s nose brushes hers, dark eyes that are positively feral boring into her own; “I bet you do baby, but you’re still going to come all over my hand like a good girl, aren’t you A’whora?”

I saw you walk in the room and I tried my best Not to panic while I’m lookin’ for the back door I smell the perfume and it’s obvious I’m gonna stay and put my key in the back more

Kryptonite. She might have been a self confessed ‘bad bitch’ but the minute Aurora flashed those sultry eyes at her, Tayce knew she was a goner. The small miniskirt that rides up toned thighs that have been draped over her shoulders and bracketed her head countless times, the breasts that she knows will harden to dusky peaks under the smallest touch, lips that press against hers and throw every sense of self preservation she has out the window. It’s all wrapped into a delectable package that she knows Aurora deliberately chose to taunt and tease, in the game of give and take that they fall into over and over again.

Her outfit covers everything that it needs to, unlike Bimini who honestly runs a very real risk of being arrested for public indecency, but Tayce can’t keep her eyes off her. A cup of Ginny’s latest vaguely lemon scented concoction is raised to her lips, and from her vantage point across the room, she can see the smear of red gloss it leaves behind on the white plastic of the cup in her hand, the same one that’s smeared too many of her good shirts, that she’s scrubbed off her skin and washed out of her pillowcases. She’s got give or take 45 seconds to get out of the door before Aurora pounces, though the brief moment of hesitation has cost her time, and before she can make it across the room. The statuesque blonde is in front of her, makeup immaculate and Tayce wants nothing more than to force her to her knees, and not only wipe that look off her face but destroy that lipstick and perfect facade, and have her begging to be touched. Ruined. “Going somewhere?” Aurora’s voice sing-songs out, a teasing lilt to her tone as a groomed brow is raised, one hand tipped with talon like nails brushes against the buttons of her shirt, flicking one open with practiced ease, dragging the tip of her nail against the skin she uncovers. Her perfume; strong and heady permeates the air around them and overtakes Tayce’s senses, her hands coming to grip at the blonde’s hips, relishing in the soft gasp as they’re pulled together, bodies pressing against each other; fitting seamlessly, lips chasing the daring neckline of the scrap of material that Aurora’s trying to pass off as a top, before rasping out “Your room or mine?”

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t pretend to forget you The reason I punch a hole in the wall back home For the amount they fucked? They could double that amount with fighting. A screaming match here, an argument at the local pub, Aurora being carried out of the club by a bouncer as she screamed obscenities at the girl who dared put her hands on Tayce, or the time Tayce punched a hole clean through the plasterboard because Aurora dragged someone through the door after yet another disagreement and gave Tayce the bird from the top of the stairs, her moans deliberately carrying through the halls. Fucking, fighting. Not talking for days on end before crashing back together in a flurry of clothing, snapped comments of ‘I hate you’, and harsh bruising kisses that left their lips swollen and red and their chest and thighs with marks that took days to fade.

And then a couple hours later we’re in Room 29 at The Chateau

A glass of champagne sits next to her on the bedside table, as Aurora perches on the end of the bed painting her toenails a soft shade of baby pink, her face devoid of makeup bar a swipe of hydrating lip balm,  her hair bundled into a messy top-knot, the tip of her tongue poking out from between her lips as she concentrates, pushing the sleeves of the fluffy white robe past her elbows before huffing a sigh and wiggling her toes in Tayce’s direction. “Taaaayce! Help me?” the whiny tone would be annoying if it was anyone other than Aurora, but since it is? Tayce finds it almost endearing and allows the blonde to rest a slender foot in her lap and takes over painting her toenails. “So needy A’whora” her tone is gentle, teasing before pressing a soft kiss to the blonde’s ankle. It’s just  them, unguarded and a little champagne drunk, from Veronica’s rehearsal dinner, and once again? She’s lured in by the platinum haired siren.

A series of soft kisses start at Aurora’s ankles, peppering up well defined calves, and along tanned thighs until she reaches the apex of her thighs, and she can see how much Aurora wants her, she can smell her, can see the way her pussy glistens wet, and warm and when she unties the robe and lets it fall to the bed? Aurora looks nothing short of ethereal in the glow from the lamp. “Tayce, Tayce, Tayce” the words flow from her lips like a wanton mantra when Tayce delves into her as if she’s a starved man gorging himself at a banquet bringing the girl above her to incoherency over and over again, the familiar taste of her against the flat of her tongue, arousal slick around her mouth and sticking to her chin as she diligently works to bring the blonde undone over and over again leaving her shaking like a leaf and reaching out, their hands entwining as they catch their breath, Aurora’s movements languid and lazy as she sits up and moves Tayce’s robe off her shoulder before murmuring quietly “…my turn’.

I left before you woke up I don’t feel right, seeing you sober

She looks angelic, all pale skin and cosmetically enhanced pouty lips, her hair spread across the pillow in tangled blonde waves, her lashes flutter against high cheekbones with a smear of highlighter still stubbornly stuck on the skin there, and Tayce feels guilty, and does what she does best. She runs before she has to feel what waking up to Aurora’s eyes feels like, before she can be convinced to curl around her and feel the press of lips against her neck. The quiet laughter and the sleepy demands to stop thinking and spoon her that little bit longer. The way she’d hold the sheet to her chest, the swell of her breasts visible underneath the thin cotton and ask her to stay. Because Tayce would, but then she’d have to acknowledge her feelings, and she’s not at the point of doing that, because Aurora deserves so much more than what she can offer her. So she does what she does best and runs pointendly ignoring the pitying look Tia gives her as she puts on her sneakers and shoves her airpods in her ears before heading out the door.

You want me to forget you Okay, forget me too You tell me you hate me Baby, yeah, I bet you do

Sometimes the tables turn and Aurora plays Tayce at her own game. They’re both needy, possessive in their own way. Though Aurora is always more vocal about it, her naturally nasal tone gives her a whiny edge. Whereas Tayce in her anger is for the most part silent, with icy eyes and a harsh set of her jaw, one particular look that Lawrence notices directed at a girl that comes around to take A’Whora on a date. Cherry, a dark eyed nurse with waist length black hair that swings around her shoulders and a distinctive laugh that rings through the thin walls of their sharehouse. She’s pretty, funny and caring to boot and doesn’t seem to mind Aurora’s filthy humor or occasionally acerbic commentary. She stays around for longer than the others and Aurora seems almost content for a time, avoiding Tayce’s eyes, being alone with her. Though in company? She seems almost coy, her tanned manicured fingers weaving between Cherry’s pale ones, her gaze flicking over to Tayce from time to time and full of either feeble excuses of why she can’t come into Tayce’s room to watch Derry Girls for the 8th time, knocking on the bathroom door before she comes in.

She overhears a conversation between them, a laugh coming from Aurora, and a “shhh babe, you don’t have to worry about that. Tayce and I are just friends, barely’ before giving a scornful laugh. “No seriously babes, forget it. Tayce and I weren’t ever anything. Lawrence just wants everyone to have some sort of sexual tension because she wouldn’t be able to get it for herself if it smacked her in the mouth’, before their voices trail off and the soft smacking sound of lips connecting takes it’s place, and Tayce silently fumes, carrying her sandwich back to her room, teeth gnashing at the soggy bread angrily. “I hate you, I hate you” an ongoing loop in her head, despite knowing she really doesn’t and that if the moment arose? She’d end up back in A’Whora’s bed before the night was through.

I’m keepin’ you waitin’ But I won’t wait on you You want me to forget you Okay, forget me too

Drunken words are sober thoughts; at least according to a very inebriated Lawrence Chaney, which is why Tayce is currently sitting in a gutter, shoes next to her with a half eaten kebab in her handbag before Lawrence rambles in eloquently about how great her ‘fun bags’ looked in her new bra, how cute Ellie looked in her pink dress; though what pink dress confused Tayce since 98% of Ellie’s wardrobe consisted of pink dresses giving Tayce not only a view of the mouthful of masticated kebab that Lawrence was yet to swallow but also an earful of Lawrence’s thoughts.

“She’s nee gonna wait for you hen. Not if you keep up this shite” Lawrence’s voice is slurred, but the conviction is strong. “She loves ya you know? But yee keep running. Now I’m a runner too see? I run from me problems, and I run me mouth” before she leans forward, silvery coloured hair covering her face as she violently retches into the gutter under them. “When are youse going to sort your shite huh? Literally making me sick” and Tayce refuses to reply, instead focusing on gathering up Lawrence’s hair and holding it back refusing to let the words sink in until she’s lying in bed with Aurora snoring gently next to her, an arm draped across her torso.

I’ve wasted so much time Waitin’ around for your phone calls every night Aurora knows she’s an idiot, from insisting that her blonde is natural and that she just happened to be born with dark roots and eyebrows, that she can’t do maths, and that it took her a grand total of five times to get her drivers licence. But she’s also an idiot emotionally. She sits at home, the rapid click of her overlocker becoming a soothing beat as she feeds garment, after garment through the machine, the little metallic tap of her needle hitting the silver thimbles that protects the pads of her index fingers and thumbs as she painstakingly threads through another tiny bead, the ancient grandfather clock against the opposite wall showing the time as 3.55am.

“I’ll be home by 11, Asttina and I are gonna have dinner and I’ll call you after!’ Tayce’s empty promises run through her head before she sets the nearly constructed dress aside sighing, another night gone to waste, another broken promise before heading into the cake scented kitchen where Ginny is zipping around like she’s just downed a handful of uppers before offering a still steaming slice of tea cake to her. “Fancy a slice Babs?” her gaze still full of concern, but wisely choosing to say nothing already too familiar with the situation unfolding.

‘Cause I taste blood when you bleed It’s eatin’ me alive We’d both be better off alone Still think I’d get you on the phone With one last breath in me I’d die before I’d let you leave

They come crashing together again, a tangle of limbs and heavy breathing, their hands making quick work of Tayce’s trousers and Aurora’s skirt, their underwear carelessly discarded and their shirts following in quick unison. It’s rough, needy and everything they ever were, and will continue to be. Tayce raises her hand and brings it down hard on Aurora’s ass, the handprint blooming scarlet on the the pale flesh, with the hissed order to prepare herself as Tayce pulls the harness over her hips and adjusts it, lubing up the silicone as she moves back towards the bed, and where Aurora waits for her, three fingers deep in her own cunt, arousal webbing between her fingers and her opening when Tayce guides them out before pressing in with the strap.

The resounding moan from this both can only be described as primal. Her hips snap, thrusting into the blonde as Aurora bucks back into her, giving as good as she gets, her words mashing together in a cacophony of swears, please and Tayce’s name, before coming with a scream as Tayce’s teeth sink into her shoulder in a bid to muffle her own orgasm, the coppery taste of blood heavy on her tongue and flipping their positions. She looks like a queen, her usual platinum hair glowing golden in the lamplight, swept back like a lion mane as her hips move confidently, her posture perfect, like the very strap she’s sitting on is a throne, long lashes fluttering as she rides to another orgasm before flopping on the bed next to Tayce, an acrylic nail tracing the ebony areola of Tayce’s nipple asking plaintively  “….Don’t leave tonight?’

You left before I woke up Why don’t I ever see you sober? You want me to forget you Okay, forget me too

She wakes up in her own bed, swathed in pale blue mulberry silk sheets with a stomach of churning liquor and a head as heavy as an elephant. A manicured hand reaches out blindly next to her feeling for the warmth of the body next to her only come back empty, the sheets retaining a hint of warmth and the faint scent of perfume. No note, no nothing. Her other hand reaches out, locating a glass of lukewarm water that tastes faintly of dust but that clears the cotton balls from her throat and gives her the strength to open her eyes. No note, no nothing. Just a faint indentation on the pillow and a strap on the floor still streaked with the remnants of her orgasm. Her eyes roll, a breath huffed out between filler filled lips before she settles back to sleep, waking up hours later when Tia sneaks into her room and sits on the end of the bed, all gangly limbs and kind eyes before asking concerned ‘You okay bitchtits?’ and Aurora gives a tight nod in return before shrugging ‘fuck ‘em right?’ though she can see in Tia’s eyes that she doesn’t believe her but Tia ever the faithful friend; squeezes at her knee over the covers echoing “Yeah. Forget her’

You tell me you hate me Baby, yeah, I bet you do I’m keepin’ you waitin’ But I won’t wait on you You want me to forget you? Okay, forget me too The sound of a hard slap rings across the lounge room and Tayce winces, holding her jaw knowing a bruise will bloom to fruition by tomorrow, and she can’t even fault Aurora knowing that she deserves that and probably so much more. That turning up to Bimini’s party with Pippa on her arm was a dumb idea, especially since the girl was wearing a dress that could only be described as low rent version of Aurora’s, her veneers gleaming harshly under the ambiance lighting connected to the google home assistant that perches on the bench pulsing out a spotify playlist that Lawrence had dubbed ‘every good LGBTQIA, LMNOP party anthem of the past decade’ and Aurora had kept her composure until they’d come face to face, the old magnetic pull still there as strong as ever, their gazes locked in a staring contest before Aurora had commented plainly ‘You left, again. And then ghosted me. Again. God I don’t know why I keep waiting for you to change” before Tayce had shrugged plainly in return, a smirk touching at the corner of her lips unsure how to react to the situation before panicking as Pippa approached. “Sounds like a you problem Girl” immediately regretting the words as they leave her mouth, as a pained expression flits across Aurora’s immaculately painted face and her hand rises making contact before she swivels on her heels and storms away, the click of the front door somehow rising above the music, a sudden iciness that has nothing to do with the blast of January air that permeated the room and chilling Tayce to her bones as the party rolls on around her.

Hey you Tell me why you do the things that make me hate you? It’s an emotional kaleidoscope when I face you Permanent calligraphy, I just tattooed your name on me forever Her hand stings, though so does the biting wind that cuts into the bare skin of her arms and she’s not sure what pain she’d rather feel. The cold, or the emotional turmoil of seeing Tayce again, or the fact she knows deep down that she’d go back over and over again and that the hazel eyed beauty has gotten so far under her skin that she’s essentially tattooed her name over Aurora’s heart, and that each time she leaves? She stomps on it before closing the door.

A weight sits down beside her, a robust purple clad arm wrapping around her and warming her up as she leans into the familiar figure, giving a smile at the thick Scottish accent asking something that sounds distinctively like ‘U ok hun?’ before shrugging and not at all surprised when Lawrence sheds her jacket and draps it over her before passing a flask of whisky over, content to sit there for a little longer before Lawrence stands up. “Now c’mon. I can’t go freezin’ me clit off. Ell’s will kill me. Lets get you inside aye. Ignore her. We’ll go get Bim’s vodka and get you buzzing off ya tits.You know you’re not gonna get an answer off her Hen’ and so Aurora goes back into the house, trying to avoid the eyes that keep meeting hers, not at all surprised when Tayce slips outside without saying goodbye.

She hates her, but god she wants her, and when she’s tucked back into bed. The silken sheets now a stone grey flannel for the winter caress her skin as her hand moves between her legs, lips moving soundlessly as she brings herself undone, mouthing the same word over and over again. “Tayce”

You want me to forget you? Okay, forget me too

They meet in a coffee shop, somewhere neutral that isn’t enveloped in memories of them, and when things were easier. Aurora’s lips are still glossy and red streaking the white mug in front of her. Tayce’s hair hangs to her waist, bleached a vibrant shade of blonde that makes her look more striking than ever, especially when paired with the scarlet trench-coat that streamlines her figure. Their conversation ebbs and flows between them. Work, weather, their friends, a cocktail bar that just opened up, holiday plans, Aurora’s grandparents before it turns to a more serious discussion. Them.

“Do you think you’ll ever be ready?” Aurora; ever the brave one finally asks, sending Tayce lapsing into silence giving a shake of her head once, twice. Her lips pressing together as she works to find an answer, an apology, an excuse even but draws a blank each time, and Aurora can’t hide the look of disappointment that marrs her features, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows in a display that she hasn’t gotten her botox recently. “Then forget me Tayce, whatever we had, or whatever we were? Forget me”

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #taywhora #a'whora #tayce #smut #lesbian au #cashmere #uk2