#wayward wrestle writing

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Naughty Boy

Here's the first one of the two fics I mentioned last night. First time writing for Ricky Starks and I have no idea why it's taken me this long.

Pairing: Ricky Starks x OFC

Word count: 1,439

Content advisory: graphic sexual content

It feels like there should be a trail of oil dripping from him as he walks, he’s so slick, so slippery, so… infuriating. And sure, he’s gorgeous, but my god does he know it. His arrogance should be enough to turn you off but it isn’t, especially because he’s been focusing all that ocean of charisma on you for weeks. It feels longer but it really isn’t. You know it feels longer because you’ve been relishing every second of it and because it’s been agony trying to hold yourself back from just jumping on him. 

The last few days, though, it’s been a new kind of agony, as you’ve realized he’s not quite as focused on you as you wanted to believe. You overheard Allie talking about how he kept texting her, and then Penelope’s response that he was also hitting on Kris. 

“The stuff he’s saying is filthy,” Allie whispered. “Can’t lie though, it’s kind of hot.”

How had you ever led yourself to believe that you were the only one in the picture? You’re not even the only one in the picture at work, obviously. There’s two more that you know about and who knows how many you haven’t. For all you know, he’s sexting and trading pictures with every woman in AEW. You wonder if he’s sending the same pictures to all of you just to be efficient. 

Now that you’re aware of what’s really happening, of course, you realize that you’ve had some pretty major blinders on. Lexi walks past him and the way his eyes trail after her pert ass isn’t anything close to subtle. And yeah, when Kris appears, he sort of elbows her to get her attention and he smiles. Yeah, it definitely feels like she might have gotten to do more than phone stuff.  

When he notices you, he winks and excuses himself from the other members of Team Taz. He gives you that alligator smile as he approaches and sits down next to you, close enough to you that you feel a little excited but far enough away that it wouldn’t be terribly suspicious to anyone who saw you. For instance, it wouldn’t be suspicious to the other women he’s working right now. 

“Hey gorgeous,” he hums, “you’re here early.”

“Hey Ricky,” you stammer, trying not to swoon at the whiff of his cologne. What is that? Sort of sandalwood and metal and sex appeal. “I wanted to make sure we had all the cameras blocked right.”

The other women he’s been hitting on, the ones you know about, are all wrestlers, like him. They all have beautiful, lean bodies that they work on religiously, just like he does. They all understand what it’s like to work as a professional wrestler, so they’ve had the same experiences that he’s had. You’re a production assistant for the tv shows he works on. What the hell do you know about dating a wrestler? Well, evidently you didn’t know that dating a wrestler meant sharing him with any number of other women. Not that he really said you were dating. He just kept telling you that he couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful you were, about how he wanted to know what you were like outside work. 

Later, after he’d gotten you comfortable talking with him, he started saying that he wanted to know about the sounds you’d make in bed, about how you liked to be touched, about your fantasies. You’re kind of amazed that he consistently remembers all yours, considering how many answers he probably has to keep filed away. Maybe he takes notes, so that he can have his sex talk ready for whatever woman he’s talking to. 

“You look sad about something,” he purrs. “Can I help?”

“No, I’m ok,” you tell him, aware that you sound and feel pretty far from ok. “I’m just… I don’t know… down on myself or something.”

“Why on earth would you be down on yourself? You’ve got everything going for you.”

“I guess I don’t feel like I have much.”

He makes what you can only assume is supposed to be a concerned face but he’s not very good at projecting real feelings. You give him a half-hearted smile. 

“I think I’m just a bit lonely or something.”

“Lonely? Well I can certainly help with that. Come with me for a minute.”

You kind of want to hold back but he gives you this sly smile that you feel in your bones and before you know it, you’re on your feet following him down the hall and eventually into his dressing room. He winks at you again as he closes and locks the door behind you. 

“Now how can I make you feel better?”

“You don’t have to do anything to make me feel better, Ricky. I’ll be fine on my own.”

He steps very close to you, leaning his head close to your neck. 

“Well, I want to do something to make you feel better.”

You can’t resist giving him a little smile and when he sees it, he gently pushes you up against the wall. 

“You know how much I’ve wanted to get you alone. All that talk only gets so far. You know I think about your body, that I can’t stop looking at you every time I see you.”

You bite your lip and are a little shocked when he bites it too, pulling it free and flicking his tongue just inside your mouth. 

“So maybe it’s time we do more than talk,” he hisses. 

“I don’t know. Do you think we should?”

“Oh, I definitely think we should.”

He kisses you aggressively, digging his fingers into your hips and nipping at your lips and tongue before working his way down your neck and over your collarbone. 

“Now let’s see if I can remember how to do this the way you like.”

You’re not sure what “this” means until you feel him drag your panties down and crouch in front of you. 

“Seriously? Here?”

“Why not?”

He presses his lips against your sex and draws his tongue lightly and ever so slowly over your folds. 

“You like to start slow, right?”

You nod, loving the feeling of him working over your pussy with his mouth, soft and insistent. Damn, he must have been taking notes to be doing this exactly the way you said you liked it. As nervous as you are about being heard, about being with him, about all of it, your body responds and you catch yourself moaning as you get more and more worked up. 

“That what you want?” he grins, lifting his head enough that you can see the gloss of your juices on his lips. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Does this make you feel a little better?”

You nod your head vigorously and he goes back at it, licking you and penetrating you with his tongue, flicking at your clit until you know you’re never going to be able to hold back. It’s hard to stifle the sounds you want to make but you just about manage to, pressing your lips together hard and grabbing hold of his hair as best you can as you thrust into him. 

It’s the most beautiful, satisfying release when you come that you can hardly process it. The bastard is awfully good at this and he knows. 

He stands, holding on to your hips to keep you steady and holds his perfect body against yours. You can feel the ripples of muscle underneath his thin shirt and you can’t resist the urge to run your hands up his arms. He presses himself close enough that you can feel the outline of his rigid cock against your thigh, and you can just imagine how good it would feel inside you. 

He smiles when he feels you grind yourself against him a little. 

“So you liked that?”

“Mm-hmm,” you sigh. You let your hand drift lower, running your fingers over the bulge in his pants, relishing how he’s so hard that you can feel the head, already excited enough that there’s a slight damp spot. “You know what else I like?”

He smiles, his eyes drifting to your hand as you rub him. “What else do you like?”

“A guy who doesn’t just keep me on a list with a dozen other women he’s fucking.”

You bump your arm into him hard enough that he springs back and march yourself to the door. As you unlock and open it, you glance over your shoulder so that you can get a good look at his shocked, confused, angry face. 

It feels great.

#wrestling fanfiction #aew fanfiction #aew imagine #wayward wrestle writing

[keep-the-wolves-close]

Steady Heart

Chapter 26: The Hard Way

* Pairing: Slow-burn Kayce Dutton x OFC Stella Daniels

* Rating: M

* Warnings: language, angst, violence, Malcolm Beck 🤢

* Word count: 4,542ish

I would love to give credits to @dameronscopilot and @deanscroissant for being sounding boards for me during this whole process, giving outsider insight, being cheerleaders, and allowing me to screech at them about things that have happened during the writing process. I seriously couldn't have gotten this far without y'all

Author's note: Oooo I'm starting to get excited y'all! This is where things really start to amp up. Let's goooooooo! I hope everyone is enjoying so far! I hope you love this chapter as well!

Still not sure how I feel about the conversation he and Monica have, I feel like it’s lacking, but I’ve sat on it for a while and haven’t been able to figure out. So hopefully y’all don’t mind that part lol.

Stella followed Rip close behind. To the average outsider, Stella may have seemed like an odd choice, but out of everyone that was down there around him, John thought her approach might be a little more gentle in keeping the peace.

There were two men knocking on the door as Rip and Stella stopped their horses. Both of them sliding off their saddles, Rip came out of the gate ready to rock. Stella snarled at his quick assault.

“Can I help you?” Rip interrogated as he walked up toward the men aggressively. Stella struggled to catch up to him.

“We’re looking for John Dutton…,” the man with the light colored cowboy hat explained.

“Yeah, who's looking for John Dutton? We don't know you.” Rip accused hotly.

Stella was trailing behind him. Her legs couldn’t keep up with his long angry stride. As Rip got past the door to the stranger’s car, a man jumped out. She stopped abruptly so she didn’t smash into the door or the guy. She thought they might be some type of security. They weren’t interested in her at all.

The guy yelled at Rip and tried to grab for him. “Hey, step back. Hey!” Rip wasn’t too fond of that, and things started to go wayward before Stella could even open her mouth. He dropped the guy to the ground with a body slam.

Stella cursed a long string of expletives in her head as he continued to beat the guy. “Rip! Don’t!” The other man ran over to try and pull Rip off of his partner. Stella scrambled to grab Rip first. She wasn’t quite fast enough and the other guy got to him before she did.

She grabbed the second guy and yanked him backwards by his suit collar. “Get off him!” She caught him off guard and he lost his footing and stumbled back. He swung forward and around to face her with new momentum. The punch he landed on Stella's left cheek was solid. Her glasses flew off to the side, rendering her very nearsighted. She reeled back and shook her head trying to shake away the stars she was seeing. Everything was blurry, from the missing glasses, but also her watering eyes.

The man who just punched her raced forward and grabbed her arm. Rip witnessed the punch and propelled himself at the second man. He landed a hard punch of his own to the man trying to grab Stella.

Her eyes widened at the sight of the gun in the other man’s hand. “Behind you!” She yelled to Rip and ducked out of the way.

He whirled around and challenged the man with the gun. “Come on, mοthеrfսckеr, shoot me.” He stalked toward the man, begging him into action.

The second man that tried to grab her went for her arm again as she tried to wrestle him off. His grip was successful and he twisted it around her back and brought his other arm one up to her throat effectively caging her in from behind. He pulled out his own gun and aimed it at Stella.

She lost her cool at this point. “Rip!” He could hear the high octave of her voice and whipped his head in her direction.

Rip grabbed the first man and he yelled pitifully when Rip grasped his gun and tried to put him in the same position that his buddy had Stella in.

John yelled from his saddle as he bumped the man Rip was wrestling. “Put it down!” He raced by and sideswiped both Stella and her captor. She tried to brace for the impact, but it still hurt when she landed. She laid there, hoping her stillness would have everyone leave her alone. She also tried to regain brain power. This had been a way more dramatic event than she had been prepared for. John quickly hopped off his horse and made his way to her.

He whispered as he bent down to help her. “Stella?” He gave her a gentle nudge. She groaned in annoyance. “Stella, c’mon. Let me see those brown eyes.” She squinted open her eyes at him because she knew he wasn’t going to go away until she got up.

She sighed heavily. “Fine.” She reached out and grabbed the hand he offered to her. When she stood, she used his hand to catch her balance. Her head felt like it was swimming.

John looked at her closely. “You okay?”

She answered through her teeth. “Yeah I’m fine.” She looked around and asked out loud, mostly to herself, “Where the hell are my glasses?” She brushed his hand away. She searched around while squinting. John heard gravel crunching behind him and stood to face the uninvited guests.

“Mister Dutton, seems all the stories I've heard are true.”

Jamie busted out the door. “Wait. Wait... Whoa, whoa, whoa, everybody calm down. Dad. This is…” Stella glared at his late and failed attempt at getting everyone to relax. She found her glasses and made a place for herself next to Lloyd. She leaned against Abigail, who Lloyd had a hold of, and she checked her glasses over. She looked for cracks or scratches, or if they were snapped anywhere.

“I'm Malcolm Beck. This here is my brother, Teal.” John looked unimpressed. “Look, I apologize for everything that's happened here. Misunderstandings aside, we need to speak. Seems there's a problem that we share.”

“My problems are squarely my own.”

“Not this one. May we sit?”

“We can talk under that tree.”

Malcolm agreed. “Uh-huh.” Teal patted him on the arm. They began to make their way to the tree John pointed out.

John questioned Jamie. “What in the Sam-Hell was that about?”

“I'm sorry. They called fifteen minutes ago, I didn't know they meant now.” He explained quickly.

Stella placed her glasses back on her head and roared, “maybe if you would have picked up the fucking phone you would know!”

“I was in the middle of something!”

“I don’t fucking care, Jamie! If you would’ve picked up the phone, this whole situation could’ve been fucking avoided and we could have had a normal conversation instead of a brawl on the front fuckin’ lawn!” She rolled her eyes and whispered to herself. “Useless.”

John cut them both off from squabbling any further. “Alright, stop it! Both of you. I'm taking this meeting alone.” He pivoted on his heel and walked toward the two guests. Rip followed, naturally. Jamie tried to follow along too. John stopped walking and glared at Jamie with a stern look. “I said alone, Jamie.”

Stella watched the men stand and talk. She could feel Lloyd’s eyes on her. “I’m fine Lloyd. Thanks for grabbing Abigail. I’m going back to the bunkhouse.” She hopped up onto Abigail who snorted at the movement, but also at her rider’s irritation, and took off.

She brought Abigail to a halt outside of the barn. Everyone glanced at her, trying to gauge what was going on. Sliding off, she left the mare tied to the pole. The bay roan gently nudged her arm with her muzzle. She was trying to get Stella to wrap her arm around her neck, which Stella obliged her. She leaned on her heavily. Closing her eyes, she breathed out hard. It just officially hit her how much her face and head hurt.

She lifted her head and opened and closed her jaw. Trying to not only stretch it, but to also make sure the hinge still worked and nothing was broken. Feeling something warm run down her cheek, Stella reached up and swiped at whatever it was. As she pulled her hand away, blood covered her fingers.

Stella was jerked out of her stupor when she heard Jake yell. “What the hell happened to you?!” The cacophony that followed was overwhelming. Everyone scrambled in her direction, fighting to get to her first. Stella would have been amused at the cartoonish way they stumbled over each other any other day. Ryan pushed everyone out of the way. He marched over to her, ready to wring the neck of whoever had hit her.

Abigail quickly pulled loose of the slip knot and swung her back end around to block Stella off from everyone, her brother included. Stella dropped her arm from Abigail’s neck and ducked under the tie post. Ryan tried, and failed, to get the angry mare to move. The horse dangerously aimed her backside to Ryan and positioned her back hoof in his direction.

Stella moved with her mare, gently rubbing her chest to keep her from absolutely destroying her brother. “It’s okay girl. Shh.” She whispered softly to her. Stella peeked at Ryan from over top of Abigail’s shoulders. He stood there defeated and huffing angrily. The hard look he gave her would have had her six feet deep if it were possible. The unspoken questions of who did it and where they were now hung heavily in the air.

She spoke softly to her brother, not wanting to fight. There had been enough of that this morning. “I’ll be fine Ryan. It was very much me being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Can you watch her?” She gave Abigail a few neck scratches. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.” Not leaving him any choice, or giving him any time to respond, she walked off to the bunkhouse.

She wanted everyone to think she went there. Instead, when she got to the house, she wrapped back around and headed for the foreman’s lodge. She was sure Kayce had something left over to clean up with.

Walking inside, she leaned back against the door as it closed behind her. It was peacefully quiet. That was exactly what she was going for. She hoped she could finish before Kayce wandered in. The bunkhouse would have gotten loud and obnoxious. She wouldn’t have been able to deal with that. The remnants of her cleaning Kayce’s wounds from the fight with Rip were still on the small breakfast table. Not everything she wanted to use was there. She tapped the door and she pushed toward the bathroom, the only bathroom, inside Kayce’s room.

Before opening the medicine cabinet, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were watery still, her cheek red and angry from the hit. The guy had a ring on, she was pretty sure that was what split her cheek. She looked tired. A few locks of hair ran astray from the flurry of activity. Shaking her head with a sigh, she opened the cabinet and dug around until she found alcohol and a couple gauze pads to use as wipes.

Stella was so engrossed in what she was doing she didn’t hear someone come into the lodge. A throat cleared behind her and she nearly jumped out of her skin and through the ceiling. Her first instinct was to spin around and throw the bottle of alcohol at the offending intruder. Kayce swatted his hand out and hit the bottle away from his face.

The words tumbled from her mouth as the bottle smacked into everything on the way down to the floor. “For the love of God and all that is holy! You should know not to sneak up on me, you jackass!”

Kayce smirked. “Funny you callin’ me a jackass, in my place, that I sleep in, when you shouldn’t be in here at all.”

Stella rolled her eyes at him. “I didn’t want to go to the bunkhouse to take care of my face. Too many people. Too loud. Too many questions. Sue me.” She held her breath for a second and blew it out as she thought about it. “Actually wait, don’t. I don’t have the kind of money for that.”

He stepped forward into the small bathroom and into her personal bubble chuckling at her. Stella leaned her backside against the counter wanting to be anywhere else.

“What happened?”

Stella explained shortly. “Some guy came to talk with your dad. Jamie didn’t pick up his phone, so no one knew that they were coming. Rip and I went up to the house, Rip was a little aggressive and the guy’s security didn’t like that. They started to gang up on Rip, and I successfully got in the way. With my face.”

Kayce came to stand over her. He took off his hat and set it on the counter and checked out her face. He gently removed her glasses and placed them on the brim of his hat. He poked and prodded different parts of her cheek to make sure nothing was broken. Stella winced every so often. The area was still very tender. He was being gentle, but it still hurt.

She watched his laser focus on her face. She had to figure out how to get away from him. Being this close to him again wasn’t doing her heart any favors. His lips pursed in annoyance, most likely at her for getting in the way of trouble.

He was quiet. Probably trying to think of a way to scold her without her realizing he was doing so. Or he was trying not to lose his cool at her. Even though he was annoyed with her, she would sit there and stare at him all day if she could if they could have gone back to normal.

“I know you’re probably super pissed, and I know you and Rip are kinda on the outs again, but I couldn’t let him get jumped.” Stella looked everywhere but at him now. “I would have done the same if it were you.”

Kayce sighed and his hands dropped from her face. “I know Stella, but damn it. You’ve gotta be more careful. You’re lucky nothing’s broken.”

“You know I’ll never be that way. Especially about the people I care for.”

“Yeah I do know that. That’s the scary part. I don’t need you windin’ up dead. I wouldn’t be able to stand that.”

She shyly stared at the floor. In the heat of the moment, she often forgot how much other people cared about her. When she looked back up, Kayce was very close. Their noses almost touching close. Her breath got caught in her throat with a tiny, nearly inaudible gasp. Memories of them sleeping together the other day flashed across her mind. He made direct eye contact with her. She swallowed nervously. “Don’t.”

His voice was heavy, laced with something Stella couldn’t put her finger on. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” Kayce tossed his head to the door, for her to go out before him.

Stella’s voice was soft. “I would love to, cowboy, but uh, you’ve gotta move first.” She pointed out.

Kayce backed up, giving Stella the space to go forward. He swatted at her back. “Smart ass.” She skipped a few steps into the bedroom to get away from the swat. He followed her and continued. “Go sit out at the table. I’ll get your face cleaned up.” He picked up the alcohol bottle and breathed out hard, regaining some semblance of composure.

She seated herself at the table in the same spot Kayce was in a few days ago. He laid her glasses on the table as he positioned himself above her. Quickly, he started to clean her face.

She chuckled and asked. “Two peas in a pod, aren’t we?”

“Whattaya mean?”

“I mean, not long ago the roles were reversed here.” She motioned the reversal with her hands between them.

“Oh, that. Yeah, we have to figure out a different dynamic that doesn’t involve both of us getting hurt.”

Stella smiled sullenly as best she could while he cleaned her face. “So how are things with you and Monica? Have you two spoken since,” Stella inquired timidly. She couldn’t bring herself to mention the other night.

“I’m actually supposed to run over there tonight. She called me earlier, said she was lonely.” He took a moment to grab some gauze to use as a rag. “I am too. I miss her.”

Her chest tightened. She felt foolish. Biting her bottom lip, she took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. In classic Stella fashion, she got caught up in her own head of what she thought may have been happening, instead of seeing what was actually happening. She had been a distraction. Simple as that.

She pulled back from Kayce’s hands carefully. “You go on ahead. You try your best to fix things. I can take care of this.” She motioned to her face. She cleared her throat trying to dislodge the lump there. “I’ll make sure everything is put away when I leave.” Faking a smile up at him, she motioned to the door.

“Stella, I can help you finish.” Kayce tried to object.

“No, no, no. You go. You should fight for the things you want. Standing here with me, cleaning up my recklessness, isn’t doing you any favors. Go.”

Kayce’s eyebrows scrunched up at her tone. There was something off. She was almost begging him to leave. He backed up a few steps and truly looked at her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Her shoulders were slumped, defeated. She seemed crestfallen in a way that Kayce wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her before.

She looked at the floor quite intently. “Yes. I’ll be fine. I’ll clean up and head out.”

“At least go find your brother so someone can keep an eye on you. Please? For my peace of mind?” Kayce wanted some kind of reaction before he left.

“Yeah, I will. I hope things go well. You’ll have to update me later, yeah?” She looked up at him and gave him a smile tinged with sadness. He grinned back at her and she felt a pang run through her. Watching as he left, she finally let out the breath she was holding in.

Her eyes started to sting. She chuckled to herself humorlessly. ‘For his own peace of mind.’ She felt the bitter bile rise up in her throat. ‘Now, now. Don’t be hateful at him. You’ve got nobody to blame, but yourself girl.’ Shaking her head, she stood and went back to the bathroom.

With a glance in the mirror, she took three strip bandaids and placed them gingerly over the cut across her round cheek. She quickly shoved the alcohol and gauze back into the cabinet, along with the bandaids. With one more look in the mirror, she started to make a beeline for the door.

When she got back to the outside of the bunkhouse, Ryan paced back and forth. He shouted out to her as she got closer. “Stella! Where the hell did you go?”

“I went to the lodge. Too many people here. I’m fine.” She explained and motioned to her face. “All cleaned up and ready to go home.”

“No.” Ryan shook his head. “Nuh uh. Nope. You’re not driving.”

“What the fuck, Ryan? I didn’t get run over. I got punched. I’ll be fine.” Her hands slapped her thighs in frustration.

“No. You could have a concussion, and I don’t need you passing out behind the wheel.” He wasn’t having her leave his sight.

Stella ignored his worry. “Is Abigail still tacked up?”

“Jimmy is getting ready to break her down.” Ryan explained. Stella headed away from him to go get her mare from the newest hand. Ryan tried to put his foot down. “Stella Lee, absolutely not. Jimmy is breaking her down, and he’s gonna keep doing it. You’re not going anywhere.”

Turning around, she pinned her brother with a glare. “Says who?” Her eyebrows raised and her arms out to the side, as she challenged him to defy her to take her horse out. “I don’t need a damn babysitter, Ryan Stephen.” She marched toward the barn and shouted. “Jimmy! Don’t break Abigail down!”

She crossed the threshold and her brother followed directly behind. Jimmy heard the tone his name was hollered in and his head shot up from behind Stella’s mare. The ferocious look on her face made Jimmy start to scurry backward away from Abigail.

“I’m sorry Stella! I was told to get her ready for turn out.”

“It’s fine Jimmy, but I’m taking her out.”

Ryan interjected loudly. “No the hell you’re not!” He tried to reach for the bridle. The bay roan mare shot her head up when she heard Ryan’s raised voice, effectively yanking the reins away from Ryan’s grasp. She squared her body up to her heavy almost 17 hands height and crossed Ryan with a look that made his motion stall. He second guessed himself and his safety. He knew that Abigail could be extremely protective over Stella, especially when things got aggressive, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. However, in a situation like this, it really hindered his ability to get Stella to agree with him.

Stella gripped the split reins in her hand tightly. She gave Abigail a few pats on the shoulder making direct eye contact with her brother. “Ryan, I would be very careful with the action you choose next. I will not stop her.” He knew the threat was valid. Stella had been pushed to her breaking point. Even though Stella loved him dearly, she would let that mare trample him in a heartbeat. Especially when she felt backed into a corner.

He stepped back and raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, fine. But don’t come crying to me when you get in a tight spot. I tried to stop you.”

Stella gritted her teeth. “Fine.” She stepped up into her saddle and prodded Abigail into action.

The pair galloped out of the barn and headed to the river. Stella felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. She knew if she got to the river and sat down she would be fine. The tree thickets and high grass flew by them. Stella had the idea of the river, but she just let Abigail run. She hoped that the roan would take her there, but wherever they ended up Stella didn’t care.

They came up to the top of one of the many hills the property had. Abigail came to a gentle stop. She caught her breath and snorted. Stella looked out over the field. The sun was just starting to set. She had a while yet before it would get truly dark. She had a lantern attached to her saddle anyhow.

Leaning deep in her seat, she let out a huff. Today really got the best of her. Things at the house got out of hand really quick, and then things with Kayce. Well, the disappointment she had because of what she thought had been happening versus what truly was going on with Kayce. She had gotten too big for her britches and life chose to take her down a few pegs.

“Damn girl.” She whispered to Abigail. “I should have just stuck to training horses and running cattle with you.” A sad chuckle escaped her. “Who would have thought I would have ended up the super hopelessly hopeless romantic who would then become the homewrecker?” She scoffed as tears fell down her cheeks. “Fuck.”

The thoughts she was letting go were interrupted by the sound of hooves. Stella dropped her head forward and groaned. She rolled her eyes as she brought her head back up. “I don’t know which of you it is, but could it truly not fucking wait?” She propped her glasses on top of her head and wiped angrily at her eyes.

The silence that followed made Stella second guess whether or not she had actually heard someone or not. She turned her head and found that it was Rip who sat just off to her left, silent and resolute while he observed her. She was thankful that it wasn’t her brother because she didn't think she could handle more harshness.

“Your brother sent me to find you.”

“Of course he did. As you can see, I’m fine. So you can go ahead and report back to him. I’ll be just dandy by myself.” She rolled her eyes and placed her glasses back on her nose.

“Nah, you know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Stella questioned. Rip refused to answer. He could tell something was wrong. Not just from this morning. Stella was off, and he didn’t like it.

“Rip, come on.” She grumbled. Almost on the verge of a tears again.

“What’s wrong? I’ve seen you take a punch before and I know this ain’t how you react to that.”

Stella’s mouth hung open. She should have expected Rip to be able to read her mood. She looked back to the sunset, hoping it would give her some type of answer.

Rip questioned her again. “So what happened?”

She sighed loudly and looked down to pet Abigail. “I just went and broke my own heart, is all.”

“What do you mean?”

Feeling her not injured cheek heat up, she fixed her glasses. “I got blinded by what I wanted, and misread a lot. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

“What did you want?”

“It doesn’t matter, Rip. What I wanted can’t want me. So it’s a moot point to keep talking about it.” Her shoulders dropped, feeling the defeat and embarrassment all over again. “Why can’t I just be alone?”

“Because I’m gonna sit here with you until you’re ready to go back to the house. Get out whatever you need to. Or don’t. That’s up to you.” He shrugged. “But I’m here either way.”

Stella stared at him in reflection. “I just needed time away. After I get Abs settled for the night, I’m gonna head home.” Rip breathed in preparation to interrupt, but Stella held her hand out at him to hold him off for a second. “I’m not sleeping in the bunkhouse because I don’t want to deal with Ryan. I don’t wanna stay in the lodge either. So the only other option would be the barn or the hay loft. And I’m not doing either of those.”

“Why don’t you wanna stay at the lodge? I don’t think Kayce’ll be home tonight.”

Stella let out a hurt laugh at the mention of Kayce. “I don’t feel like being around anyone.”

“Even Kayce if he did come back?” Rip questioned delicately.

Stella’s shoulders dropped as she looked back to the horizon. She heaved a sigh and whispered. “Even Kayce.”

“Damn it.” Rip moved his horse closer. He wasn’t sure what had transpired between the two after the events of this morning, but he wasn’t sure he liked the outcome. “At least let me take you home, so you’re not the one driving. Mr. Dutton said to give you tomorrow off anyway. I can bring your car to you later on.”

Stella tapped on the horn of her saddle and thought it over. “Alright, Wheelie. You drive a hard bargain, but it’s the best bargain anyone has given me tonight. Get me the hell outta here please.” She grinned, causing her dimples to cut small craters into her cheeks. She hissed as she drew her smile back some. Rip looked at her to make sure she was okay. “I’m fine. Just smiled too big.”

Rip turned his horse to go back the way they came. “C’mon now, Stella-belle.” He directed Stella to follow.

Kayce wiped his hands on his jeans. Ever since he got out of his truck, they were sweating. This meetup with Monica was make or break. He just had a feeling in his gut.

Quickly and quietly he made his way to her apartment door. He hit the door a few times and heard Monica’s soft footsteps pad to the door. As she opened the door, he gulped.

Monica gave him a sad, soft smile and waved him in. “Have a seat.”

He searched around the hallway and the living room. “Where’s Tate?”

His wife sat down opposite of him with a sigh. “He’s with my dad. I didn’t think he should be here.”

Kayce couldn’t blame her. They had never really yelled around their son, except the last time he was here, and he would rather keep it that way. “So how’s this gonna go, Monica?”

She observed him from her seat. She had thought long and hard about the plunge she was about to take. Yes, Kayce was a part of her, and always would be because of their son, but he had proven time and time again that his John’s draw on him was too strong. She couldn’t allow her son to be roped into that, or watch his father’s bad decisions catch up with him. “Kayce, I,” she stopped. “I’ve tried to move on from you. I’m kind of seeing him.” Waves of nausea rolled through him at her admission. Now both of his tethers were gone. “I’m sorry, but I had to try. The power your father has over you is too much. You’re never going to escape him. I can’t let Tate get wrapped up in that. Or let him watch it destroy you.”

“I’m making moves to not be as involved!”

“Are you really? He’s given you a job you still carry, you’re his horse trainer and foreman now. You’ve also neglected to mention Stella at all, which makes me think you tried to move on too.”

Kayce ground his teeth at the mention of Stella. “Like I said the other day, this isn’t about her. It’s about us. Our family.”

“But it should be. You’ve always had a soft spot for her, Kayce. I could see it the first time you introduced me to her and through all the events that followed.” Monica rested back and crossed her arms. “She’s soft on you too. She was always respectful, so that’s why I never bothered saying anything. And she’s a part of your father’s world. She’s gotten more ingrained as time has gone by.”

“So what are you saying? Are you giving me an ultimatum?”

“No, Kayce, I’m not. I’m saying that I think we’ve both tried, but it isn’t fixing anything. This,” she motioned between them, “isn’t fixable. I need to keep our son safe.”

Kayce stood, pacing. “You can’t take him from me, Monica!”

“I’m not going to. We will always be in each other’s life because of him. You can still see him, and keep him whenever we decide, but I can’t let him be forced to watch your bad decisions and toxic family catch up to you.”

Kayce looked down at the floor with his hands on his hips. He wasn’t sure if it was devastation or relief. Maybe both. He knew in his heart that both of them had moved on. The tide had turned and his world had flipped upside down. “How do we do this Monica?”

“Well, we’ll take it day by day, week by week. If I need help for something for Tate, I’ll ask and vice versa. We’ll co-parent and whoever we choose to be with will have to understand that.”

“Yeah.” His answer was lame, but he couldn’t drum up the words. He’d failed. He’d fucked up. He’d lost. “I’m gonna go, but we’ll talk more about this in the daylight, yeah?”

“Sure.” She watched as he walked to the door. “Kayce?” He halted. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah me too.”

Rip leaned his shoulder against the doorway into Stella’s kitchen. He decided to stay for a little while to make sure she got settled in and that she was okay to go to bed soon. He watched her as she flitted around. She was more concerned with making sure he was comfortable.

“So what were you talking about earlier with the “you broke your own heart” thing? Does it have to do with Kayce?” Rip asked gently. He knew that she’d been in love with Kayce forever. He just never said anything because she never did.

“Do you want anything to drink?” She asked, ignoring his question. Stella didn’t know if she would be able to keep it together if she engaged in that conversation.

Rip huffed and ignored her deflection. “C’mon, you know you can tell me.”

She braced herself on the counter and sniffed. “We slept together, Rip. And he went back to his wife because she said she was lonely and he apparently missed her.” Her voice wavered. “I can’t blame him for trying to make things work, but I can’t help but feel dirty and used.” She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “There. You happy?”

Rip’s face sobered. “Oh honey,” he walked toward her with his arms outstretched, “c’mere.” He clutched Stella tight. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” He placed his hand on her head and hushed her. He felt his own heart break as her sobs shook him.

“Stella, you go take care of you. Get a shower and we’ll go from there. I’ll be fine down here.”

Stella exhaled. “Okay.”

Rip reached out and grabbed her shoulders and directed her toward the stairs. “If I hear a thud I’ll come running.” He watched her toddle up the stairs. He went into her living room with a sigh. Once she was showered and he was sure she would be safe to sleep, he would go home, but until then he would listen to her soft footsteps mill about upstairs. He busied himself with straightening up the living room. He heard the water turn on and moved around the room placing pillows back and folding the throw blanket on the couch.

He heard footsteps coming up on the porch. He frowned. Whoever the steps belonged to twisted the doorknob and let themselves in. Rip walked up to the archway and leaned against it, hoping to have the element of surprise. His eyebrows rose up underneath his hat when he saw Kayce. “The nuts you have to come here after what you did amazes me, Kayce.”

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“You know exactly what the fuck I’m talkin’ about you asshole.” Rip stormed over getting up in Kayce’s face. They didn’t hear Stella come to the top of the stairs. “You have the nerve to sleep with her and then tell her you missed your wife and you’re going to go play make up?!”

“I had to try for my son!”

“That’s not the issue Kayce. You jumped into bed with Stella when you knew full well you had a wife and son waiting for you to get your head out of your ass! You shouldn’t have made a move on Stella at all! You wanted to protect her, you should have done that. You should have done what I told you to do and left her alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stella waited around the railing where they couldn’t see her. She pulled her lips together and placed her hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet. Tears sprang up in her eyes.

Rip shoved Kayce backward. “Yeah, well you took advantage of Stella, and now I’m left to pick up the pieces.” He growled. “Just like I warned her. And the fucked up thing is, she understood why you had to do it. But it broke her in the process.”

“Well, going to Monica didn’t work! It wouldn’t have worked even though I went to her multiple times! Monica moved on. We both did.”

Rip yelled. “Save it, Kayce! I’ve only seen that girl cry a handful of times and you’ve been at the top of half of them. You can't just lead her on and then ruin her and come back because you know she’ll forgive you.” He hated Stella’s blindness to the man in front of him.

Kayce lost his cool. “You know what?! You were right! Is that what you wanna hear? She always ends up hurt because of me.”

“She deserves more than you. Take that up with her a different day. She doesn’t need your shit tonight. You can leave.”

Kayce looked up the stairs and then down at the floor. He turned and left. Defeated. His dad was right. He didn’t know how to fight for anything.

Rip stewed as he watched Kayce leave. He realized the water wasn’t running any longer. “Stella, you can come out now. He’s gone.”

Her steps were timid coming down the stairs. She stood at the bottom and Rip thought she looked so small. It broke his heart. “C’mere, Stella-belle.” He wrapped her in a hug again.

“Can you not say I told you so please?” Came her muffled request.

“Nah, I’ll save it for tomorrow.” She let out a sad laugh at his attempt.

#yellowstone #kayce dutton #yellowstonetv #luke grimes #ian bohen #kayce dutton fan fiction #yellowstone fanfic #ryan #yellowstone fanfiction #kayce dutton fanfic

[niobiumao3]

for the no excuses writing meme: last!

"It's fine," Crosshair shouted from the tailgun.

"I would not describe being pinned to the wall by a missile caught in an interdiction field 'fine', but the situation is in control." Tech spun the ship hard port, drawing a curse from Wrecker, who appeared briefly through the bulkhead wrestling with the wayward ordinance case. "Mostly," Tech added as an afterthought.

#tbb fanfic #fanfic #tbb tech #tbb crosshair #yes this is The Incident #that's not going near my rack #the bad batch #star wars

[cemeterylight]

thanks @cranberrymoons for the tag!

last song: last song I listened to was Genkai Shojo by Gang Parade (unless you count Carry on My Wayward Son coming on during the wrestling before lol)

currently watching: I saw Barbie in the cinema last week and loved it. Tv wise I’ve finished all of Good Omens season 2 (I would like to have a word with Neil Gaiman) and am currently watching AEW dynamite as I write this

currently reading: reading is a weird one because my attention span is utter shit so I mostly reread short books/comics I love. In the last week I’ve reread Snotgirl vol 1, Discovering Scarfolk and Horrorstör. Also I’ve finally caught up on two steddie fics I’ve been loving! Bandaids for the Heart and The Harrington Home for Strays and Stars both are quite different but both have Steve being the loveliest, kindest soul that warms my cold, dead heart

latest obsession: I am shifting into Baldurs Gate 3 mode (downloading right this second) but recently I’ve been into seeing what badges I can find in charity shops. I love collecting badges and pins anyway and I found one in a box in a local shop that said ‘I fucking hate Tesco’. I thought that was funny so I’m searching to see if I can find one that’s even funnier

Thank you for letting me talk about my funny little interests! I don’t really know who to tag but I love hearing about what people are into because I feed off the joy of others so if you do one please tag me so I can read it 💕

#cem speaks #tag game #tagging this as #fic #since I recommend two fics and you should read them if they’re up your alley

[notveryimpressed]

Butterflies

Prompt from @lefttomyownvices

"We might have a slight problem," Sidekick said, clutching their side as they watched Villain advance on them. Hero whirled around. "Are you hurt?" Sidekick shook their head, looking a little nauseous. "No," they mumbled. "Just a bad case of butterflies." Villain sauntered closer. Hero groaned. "Please tell me it's not for them," they said. Sidekick's expression said it all.

"We might be in a right pickle, I reckon," Sidekick drawled, gripping their side with a hint of distress as they observed Villain strutting towards them.

Hero swiftly spun around, his eyes filled with concern. "Are ye injured, pard? Doth the scoundrel hath thee in his clutches?"

Sidekick shook their head, a touch of queasiness evident in their face. "Nay, good sir," they muttered, their voice quivering like a leaf in autumn. "Tis but a terrible swarm of butterflies plaguing my innards."

Villain's malevolent steps grew closer, eliciting a groan from Hero's lips. "Pray tell me, dear companion, that thy ailment hath naught to do with this nefarious rascal approachin'," Hero implored, his face etched with desperation.

The expression on Sidekick's countenance conveyed the unfortunate truth before a word was uttered. With a heavy sigh, they confessed, "Verily, dear Hero, the butterflies within me doth flutter for none other than this villainous miscreant."

Hero's features contorted in exasperation, his hands clenching into fists. "Alas! We find ourselves in a dire situation indeed," he lamented, his voice tinged with a touch of melodrama. "A battle of steel and might, overshadowed by the skirmish within thy very soul."

Sidekick nodded solemnly, their face a picture of inner turmoil. "Aye, 'tis a tumultuous conflict, my companion, one that leaves me torn betwixt dread and fascination."

Villain closed the distance, a wicked grin stretching across his face. Hero, wearied but resolute, prepared to defend against the impending onslaught. Yet, he couldn't help but interject with a tinge of annoyance, "In the annals of heroic tales, I hath never encountered such an inconvenience as butterflies deciding to meddle in matters of valor."

Sidekick offered a weak smile, a glimmer of sheepishness in their eyes. "'Tis a curious affliction, indeed," they murmured, their voice carrying a hint of apology. "But fear not, dear Hero, for amidst the flutters and fluttering, I shall stand strong by thy side."

Hero's frustration melted into a sigh, his gaze unwavering upon the approaching Villain. "Very well, Sidekick. Let us vanquish this scoundrel, even if we must contend with your peculiar ailment. Together, we shall conquer both the foe without and the butterflies within."

With newfound determination, the duo braced themselves, ready to face the looming battle. The clash of blades and the tumultuous dance of heroism were about to commence, while Sidekick wrestled with the ever-enigmatic whims of their wayward butterflies. In this tale of valor and peculiarity, they were prepared to weather the storm, for in the realm of heroes and villains, anything was possible—butterflies and all.

Please follow me or reblog my writing. it really motivates me to write

#hero x villain #villain x hero #villain #writing snippet #writeblr #hero and villain #hero x villain community #hero #supervillain #hero/villain

[uncanny8ellen]

Some songs show me images. Inspirations. I rant instead of writing fics. Cuz who has time for that? I barely got time to eat. But I always got time to say how Hunter got it bad for the Mechanical Lord. Maybe too spicy for empty stomach lol.

I like the phrase 'mental breakout'. I came up with that from a song. Hysteria - Muse

That song fits Hunter so well when he lets himself go. Here's this chill, calm, self-effacing fella who likes to perch on the highest branches and stare off into horizon for hours on end.

Then a certain metal hobo pushes one too many wrong(correct) buttons and he goes 'So you can talk the talk. Let's see if you can handle the walk.'

Really, he didn't even blink an eye when Karl broke his arm to bits, took all the temper tantrums with the adeptness of a seasoned parent, caught and dragged his unconscious ass to the bed since the dumbass erased the concept of sleep from his dictionary, kept off any wayward villagers or lycans off of the said man's territory, all the while collecting Intel for the stinky man and doing his part of the job around the village.

So he's a little stressed.

His humanity was purely a product of nurturing. His nature only ever speaking in ravenous hunger or absolute apathy doesn't help.

Karl getting in his face with those glimmering eyes too often alight with blazing golden fire doesn't help.

Those full lips curling around cigar into well-loved but such insufferable smirk doesn't help.

As Lumber once wisely said, "My brother might have a patience of a saint, but don't go thinking that he is one."

They fuck for days and no work in factory gets done. "I thought you were gonna break me.", "Where's that confidence, my Lord?"

There is absolutely no more place left on his skin to mark. Neck, shoulders, back, chest, thighs, just name it. There's a cut on his cheek that's still bleeding. Some tears on lips from bites that can't quite be called kissing. Karl bit too hard one time and honest to God he felt his canines hitting a bone. Just when he tries to pull back in actual concern what does the maniac say? "Now that's a bite."

He gives as good as he gets too. After they're done chomping down like they want to cannibalize each other rather than fuck, they lap up the blood, all the while the brutal pounding never slowing.

When Hunter got too frantic Heisenberg tried tying him down with chains, like many times before, then soon finds out that Hunter let himself be chained down, because this time he just tugs and breaks the thing off, just like that, and immediately lunges at him.

Anyone would wonder if they're having sex or fighting to death. Or both.

With the mechanic's metal bending ability you'd think holding down a man will be like a breeze but no. Hurricane Katrina doesn't hold a fucking candle. The huntsman just dodges everything. Surely he can't dodge the entire factory wall that's been ripped apart in rage? Apparently not. The guy grabs the railing, barrel rolls around the platform, and fling himself back on like nothing happened.

Karl isn't even mad anymore. Hunter runs like crazy, eyes bloodshot and never once breaking away from his. Karl can never let him out of his sight until it eventually happens, and he's on the ground again because, once again, the little fuck appeared out of thin air and tackled him. Aaand they're right back to where they left off. Wrestling around, not caring who's dick is in who.

They keep going at it. At anywhere but where they should be doing it, really. When they somehow reaches bed Karl is the one who calls time out. "Just what the fuck are you?" he asks, gulping down a cup of water. That unsettling look still hasn't washed off from those all-consuming gaze, and the reply he gets is, "You're asking me now?"

10 mins and they're back on humping. No words. Time blurs. None of them remembers nor cares if they've even eaten during those 3 days. On fourth, Heisenberg wakes up from post coital coma and cannot move. They are bedridden for a whole day. Hunter manages to sit up and every single bones in his body crack. He semi-crawls to the kitchen to get emergency ration, just some left over bacon they are, and feeds half conscious Karl in bed.

When they have feelings in their limbs, that's when they finally start functioning again. The mad engineer has learned to test the water ever since, toning it down a bit with his teasing and all, in case Hunter's on the verge of that madness again.

If anything, he's more interested in the marksman now. 'Beware of a silent man and still water.' And here he thought that silence was simple timidity.

Who knew such gentle demeanor could come from a little monster like that?

#resident evil village #resident evil 8 #karl heisenberg #lord karl heisenberg #the hunter #iron steed #oc Hunter #my writing #i need death or coffee #Hunter: *lost it* #Mr. Heisenberg: Hot damn #inspired by music #song i listened to: #Hysteria - Muse #Little Monster - Royal Blood

[rebeccareviews]

A Body in the Attic by Elizabeth Spann Craig

Elizabeth Spann Craig’s A Body in the Attic is a well-written and solidly engaging cosy mystery starring everyone’s favourite octogenarian sleuth. The funny and unique characters are memorably entertaining and the mystery plot is interesting. This is the sixteenth book in the series but it works as a standalone.

It’s another day in Bradley and there’s another murder mystery to solve! Octogenarian sleuth Myrtle and her sidekick Miles stumble upon the body of Miles’ friend Darren Powell. Quiet and mild-mannered Darren loved playing chess and exploring his attic. Who could possibly want to kill such an unimposing man? But, the more Myrtle and Miles dig into Darren, the more interesting he seems. Darren had recently come into money and the lengthy suspect list includes his wayward nephew, a smarmy lawyer, and a love rival. Can Myrtle crack the case before there’s another victim?

This is such a quick, light, and funny read with wonderfully mature writing! The mystery plot is excellently-paced with many memorable and viable suspects. There are several red herrings and a few nice twists. I like that I didn’t figure out the murderer until the big reveal but their motives do make sense and fit the plot well.

I love how familiarly consistent and entertaining these books are! This instalment is filled with the usual hilarious scenes of Myrtle’s sleuthing, butting heads with her Police Chief son Red, her cooking misadventures, trying to wrestle the book club members into having intelligent discussions, and bossing around poor long-suffering sidekick Miles. Although the same general scenarios remain a staple in these books, Craig ensures that they are never stale but, instead, they are always funny and unique and actually contribute to moving the plot along.

I particularly love that Craig imbues the ordinary activities of senior small town life with such fun and humour. The memorable and unique characters are fantastic as always! Savvy and formidable Myrtle is clever, nosey, and oh so funny! She’s one of the best and most consistently written characters in cosy mysteries. Myrtle’s shenanigans are laugh-out-ridiculous but realistic and are just the right touch of quirky without being outlandish.

🔦🔦🔦🔦 ½ out of 5 flashlights!

#Elizabeth Spann Craig #a body in the attic #myrtle clover mystery series #cozy #cozy mystery #cozy mystery series #book #books #book review #book reviews #adult fiction #mystery #women's fiction

[finishinglinepress]

FLP POETRY BOOK OF THE DAY: All The Rage In The Afterlife This Season by Marcus Cafagña

PREORDER NOW: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/all-the-rage-in-the-afterlife-this-season-by-marcus-cafagna/

It has been twenty years since Marcus Cafagña’s second book, and now with the publication of this third volume we are in for a treat. All the Rage in the Afterlife This Season is a refreshing collection of clearly written, alternately funny, and sad poems. Divided into three sections, these dramatic meditations send us down the tracks, beneath the overpasses, and across the state lines of the dark night of the American soul with uncompromising jolts of emotion. These serious poems that bear compassionate witness to what we might otherwise believe is too painful to observe take wayward turns toward a more reflective or jocular tone.

Marcus Cafagña is the author of three books of poetry, The Broken World, a National Poetry Series selection, Roman Fever, and All the Rage in the Afterlife This Season. His poems have also appeared in The American Poetry Review, Arts & Letters, Harvard Review, Quarterly West, Rattle, The Southern Review, and The Threepenny Review, among other journals and anthologies. Born in Michigan, he left Pennsylvania for the Ozarks, where he teaches poetry writing at Missouri State University.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR All The Rage In The Afterlife This Season by Marcus Cafagña

In this moving and wide-ranging book of poems, Marcus Cafagña works his way through grief–the personal devastation of a beloved’s suicide, and also the grief experienced by others, by those with ”lives lived in tiny kitchens,” and by “the stoop of a life not mine,” as the speaker says, referring to the farmworkers he picked lettuce with one summer. This is a book written by someone who knows the cost and the gifts of caring, because care he does–for aging parents, for a befriended veteran, a troubled boy, a drunk bartender–all lives he renders with respect and empathy and vivid language. Cafagña wrestles with the finality and the lingering after effects of painful acts. But this is, above all, a book of love, love for what is gone and what remains, and the cherishing of others that gives meaning to our troubled world.

–Betsy Sholl

Few poets are so intimate with traumatic experience, and of those even fewer can explore the darkest of themes with such empathy and fearlessness. And of that select company, even fewer attain the greatness that comes from profound emotion, genuine clarity, and moral insight. The greatest poems here portray the poet’s former wife with excruciating, heartbreaking beauty, for she was a human being as alluring and glamorous as she was troubled. Tenderness and generosity are balanced with an understanding of transgressions and their aftermaths. One is reminded of Tennessee Williams, for here too we find a writer who goes to the profoundest of depths and emerges with greater appreciation for what remains. Other poems cover many themes, including family members, veterans, workers in low-wage jobs et al. Readers of Marcus Cafagña’s The Broken World, a National Poetry Series selection, and Roman Fever will appreciate All the Rage in the Afterlife This Season.

—Jeffrey Ethan Lee

All the Rage in the Afterlife This Season resonates with Marcus Cafagña’s masterful sense of compression and compassion that have always been hallmarks of his work. Clear, direct, and honest, these poems resonate with a slow burn that penetrates deeper and deeper with each reading. There is no questioning the authority or motivation for these haunting, powerful poems—they had to be written, and they have to be read.

–Jim Daniels

Please share/please repost [PROMO]#flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry #read #poetrybook #poems

#poetry #preorder #flp authors #flp #poets on tumblr #american poets #finishing line press #small press #book cover #books #publishers #poets #poem #smallpress #poems

[talesofstyles]

Good Morning Indeed

absolutely no plot whatsoever, just a bit of husband and dad harry in the midst of the family’s morning chaos 😂

Harry

“Go get the condom on.”

“I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“Your pull out game is weak.”

“Oi, them’s fightin’ words.”

“There’s a reason we’ve got six kids.” Says the missus with a roll of those pretty—but sometimes deadly (please don’t tell her I said this)—eyes. “‘Sides, I’ve just changed the sheets yesterday. You are not coming on the sodding sheets.”

“Fine,” I sigh and reach down to the bedside table. Why is the drawer filled with sodding Duplo and those tiny, pricey Sylvanian Family bunnies? I’m guessing kid number two, three and four have something to do with that. A few more seconds of rummaging before I finally found my treasure in the very back of the drawer. I lay on my back as I sheath myself up, and seeing as I’m already here… might as well, right? I smirk at her as I say, “hop on then.”

“Fat chance that,” she mutters. “Do I have to take off my top?”

“Nah,” I shake my head, it’s cold, and I’m a considerate husband. “A flash will do. Just give me a visual.”

She rolls up my shirt that she wears to sleep, a really old white rolling stones t-shirt that has two holes and a loose thread hanging on for dear life from the hem. She looks homeless. Gorgeous homeless though. 

“Nice,” I flash her a boyish grin, like a teenage boy seeing his first pair of tits. “You’ve got great racks.”

“You’re just saying that…”

I know what she sees when she looks at herself in the mirror and I wish she could look at herself through my eyes. 

“Hey, don’t you dare. My babies grew in that body, that’s everything.”

Her tender smile hits me right in the gut. “I love you.”

“Love me enough to ride me?” I say with a playful flick to one nipple.

“Nice try.”

“I love you,” I mutter near her mouth and give her a searing kiss. I run my tongue over her bottom lip, then I kiss her down her neck, her cleavage and her breasts. I slowly circle one nipple, and she giggles, knowing it’s a well-rehearsed move that is guaranteed to do what’s needed. See, her tits are kind of like start buttons. No matter the situation, a little attention to those bad boys switches things around real quick. Her head slams back against the pillow. And she moans, holding my head in place.

We’ve got ignition lads. 

I nestle my body on top of hers, and there’s a bit of wayward angling and poking until I find my way inside of her. And then it’s on. Two bodies writhing on the bed. My hips rotate in long, slow circles.

“Bollocks!”

“What? The condom isn’t broken, is it?”

“No, it’s bin day. I forgot to take out the recycling bin.”

“S’fine, we’ve got time before the school run.”

The bin’s sorted, back to the shag…

I slide my hands under her, bringing us closer. Rocking us faster. My forehead hovers close to hers and I open my eyes so I can watch. What can I say? I’m greedy like that. I want to soak up every gasp, every flicker of pleasure across her face. Pleasure I’m giving her.

Her breathing changes. It turns panting and desperate, and I know she’s close. I move harder, grinding against her, inside her, with every forward push. Warms sparks tickle my spine and heat spreads down until every nerve in my body is shaking. I slam inside her, burying deep as her hips jerk upward. She spasms hard around me, gripping me tight. 

I rock back my hips and pull almost all the way out, but then I freeze. Because a dreaded sound echoes across the room, grabbing our full attention. It’s coming from the baby monitor. It’s a rustling, the sound of cotton rubbing cotton. Like snipers in the jungle, we don’t move a muscle. We don’t say a word. We wait, until the rustling stops. And all is quiet again. 

Too bad it’s not for long. Because two thrusts in, a light comes on in the landing. Followed by small footsteps heading down the stairs. Shit.

“Harry, just come already. They’ll all be up soon.”

“I’m close… don’t rush it, you’re scaring it away.” 

She grinds her hips. Also another well-rehearsed move that she knows will get me off. But I freeze again, because there’s a second set of footsteps and the sound of a toilet flushing. Oh, and the babies next door are starting to whimper. 

Great.

“I’M HUNGRY!” That’s James, darling little cockblocker number four who likes to be fed on time. He’s three.

“WE’LL BE OUT IN A SECOND!” My wife shouts over my shoulder. “Harry for the love of god-”

I pick up the rhythm. Small beads of sweat form on my brow. She grinds her hips again, and I try to focus. “Just like that, fuck, keep doing that.”

“Sshh, keep your voice down.”

“IS THERE ANY BREAD THAT ISN’T 50/50?” That’s Eleanor, child number two. She’s seven, and she’s one of those children who seem to possess a discernible palate that knows when we’ve changed brands of baked beans or attempt to bring sugar-free fruit squash through the doors.

“IT’S THE SAME,” I reply.

“NO, IT’S NOT. DO WE HAVE OTHER FOOD?”

“THERE ARE SHREDDIES.”

“DON’T LIKE ‘EM.”

“PORRIDGE.”

“I’M NOT A BEAR!”

Honestly, seven-year-olds gunning for a fight this early in the morning can go do one.

The babies are starting to gather volume next door so I try to focus again. It only takes a few more thrusts before ecstasy wrecks my body, making me shudder. I press my lips against her neck as I come back down to earth. But I don’t move yet. I know we should get going because things are already chaotic outside our door, but I just don’t have the will yet. I’m considering going back to sleep for a minute or two. She won’t mind, will she? Well, I’m wrong. Because she proceeds to perform the move that seems to amuse every sodding woman on earth. And causes every man to squeal like a bloody pig. Without warning, she uses her powerful muscle to squeeze my extremely sensitive cock. 

Girls, grab a piece of paper and write this down. I’m speaking on behalf of every man to walk on earth here; we hate that. We don’t think it’s funny.

I jerk back, pull out, and roll off her. I try to look annoyed as she giggles, and obviously I fail, because that freshly fucked, flushed-face makes it impossible not to grin back.

“CAN I HAVE JAFFA CAKE?” That’s Victoria, child number three. She’s five, and she’s yelling as she thunders up the stairs. 

“JAFFA CAKE ISN’T BREAKFAST,” my wife shouts back as she sits up and hands me a nappy sack. “Harry…”

I wrap up the condom with it and toss it to the bin. “You’ve just taken me life force, woman, give me a moment.”

“CUSTARD CREAM?”

“NO.” We shout in unison. 

“HOBNOB THEN?”

“STAY AWAY FROM THE BISCUIT TIN!”

“You want to wrestle a biscuit-hunting kid out of a cupboard and 50/50 bread drama or fussy babies with full nappies?”

“Babies.” I hear a small child get whacked by a sibling downstairs and I feel like I may have got the better deal here.

Next door, the twins are not happy. They’re six months old now, and they’re both teething. Thing one glares at me as I walk into their nursery and thing two stares at me stroppily from the corner of her cot. Their cheeks are scarlet, and thing one proceeds to bark at me like a seal. I pick his warm, sleepy, cuddly body and cradle it close to mine as I lay him down on the changing table. I smell the dampness. It’s definitely wee. He’s soaked through, I think I didn’t tuck his willy in when I last changed him around three in the morning so it sprayed in some upward motion and drenched his clothes. See, this is why girls are better than boys. There’s no way they can pee upwards. 

After I put a fresh nappy and a change of clothes, I put him down on the rug so he can wiggle around while I grab his sister and sort her out. After six kids, I’m definitely a pro with baby duty and can practically change their clothes one-handed. The whole thing takes only a few minutes.

I cuddle the babies on each side as I walk downstairs and into the kitchen. They immediately reach out to their mum who’s cracking some eggs as soon as they spot her, knowing she’s the only one who can cure their hunger this morning. 

“Uniforms!” She says to the big kids as she takes one baby into her arms. “We’ll do breakfast after. Please, please, please…”

Desperate pleas lead them to saunter out and up the stairs. I follow my wife into the living room and hand her the other baby as she plops down on the couch. She rolls up her shirt and the babies latch instantly. Tandem nursing is harder now that they’re a little older and aware of their surroundings. They’re trying to scratch each other’s faces as they nurse. “Oi, what’s this? You each get a tit, stop fighting.”

They seem to somehow listen to me and have stopped trying to poke each other’s eyeballs. We’ll see how long that lasts. “Finish the eggs?”

I nod. “I’m on it.”

I brew some coffee, finish the scrambled eggs, and pop the slices after slices of bread in the toaster. Breakfast is done just in time as my wife walks back into the kitchen with two full and happy babies. She puts them in their high chairs and I scoop a bit of eggs on each of their trays for them to nibble on.

George appears back in the kitchen clad in his uniform with his also dressed brother trailing behind. We always lay his clothes the night before on his bed and he gets dressed all by himself in the morning. And he’s getting better at it, seeing he only missed a button on his shirt.

“Hi mate,” I say as I fix his button and he flashes a toothy grin at me. I plop him down on the chair, he’s graduated from the high chair now but still uses a booster seat.

“No toast!”

“What do you want then?”

“Chee-yos?”

I nod before I grab a handful of cheerios and set them on his plate next to his eggs. Then I take a few steps back across the table. “Hey, James, set it up.”

He flashes me another toothy grin before he opens his mouth wide and keeps it open. I hold a single Cheerio between my fingers while I bend my knees and bounce my hand as if I were dribbling a basketball. “Three seconds left on the clock, down by one. Styles got the ball. He fakes left, he drives in, he shoots…”

I toss the Cheerios in a high arc. It lands right into his mouth.

“He scores! The crowd goes wild!”

James holds both hands over his head. “Core!”

“Viv stole the biscuit tin, you know? She ate three jammie dodgers upstairs.” Eleanor says as she walks in with book bags and school shoes. 

George, seeing his sister walks in, proceeds to open his mouth wide and flashes her the half-chewed eggs on his tongue. It’s his current thing and it annoys his sisters to death. The young’uns think differently though as they double over in laughter. 

“Eeewww!” She shrieks. “You’re so gross!”

“VICTORIA, PUT THAT BISCUIT TIN DOWN AND GET YOUR BUTT IN THE KITCHEN! AND GO GET THEM HAIR TIE THINGIES…” 

“I didn’t have any biscuits!” She yells and runs down the stairs.

This kid is the quintessential daddy’s girl. She climbs up onto my lap right away, handing me the brush and a hair tie. 

“See, poppet, I would’ve believed you if you didn’t leave evidence all over your face,” I arch one of my eyebrows as I sweep a speck of raspberry jam on the corner of her mouth. 

“You always do a ponytail,” she huffs.

“Either that or I give you a bowl cut with kitchen scissors. I reckon that fruit bowl will do. Your choice.”

“Can I have some more eggs?” George asks with his mouth full of his last bite.

“God, that’s like your third serving,” Eleanor grumbles.

“Nag.”

At that insult, Eleanor flings a piece of toast like a ninja. Before George can retaliate, my wife gives them both the look.

“Viv, will you at least have some eggs?”

“No.”

“Fine,” my wife sighs. “I’m gonna get changed then.”

I glance at the clock and, well, shit, I should get dressed too. “Can you lot watch the babies and try not to kill each other for the next five minutes?”

“Five quid each?” Eleanor tries to negotiate. “Babysitting isn’t supposed to be free, you know? That sounds like child labour to me.” 

Bollocks. 

“Two quid each,” I give her my dad look that says the offer is final and indisputable.

“Deal.”

#harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #dad harry imagines #dad harry styles #dad!harry #husband!harry #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles ff #harry styles one shot #the styles gang

[alderaani]

Maybe a mixture of 65 and 58 with Wolffe or Rex please?

58 - Moving Around While Kissing, Stumbling Over Things, Pushing Each Other Back Against The Wall/Onto The Bed

65 - One Small Kiss, Pulling Away For An Instant, Then Devouring Each Other

A/N: from this prompt list! thanks so much for requesting something, i’ve been having a crisis of confidence over writing the past couple of weeks, but this got me back in some sort of groove. 

warnings: slight injury, canon-typical violence, very mildly suggestive. 

Wolffe x gn!reader:

He hasn’t spoken to you in hours. You eye the rigid line of his back across the hangar as he directs the men unloading munitions and salvaged equipment, the sharp, pointed motions of his hands and the angry jerks of his bucket as he snaps off orders spelling out his agitation.

“Maybe I should -,” you start, before Sinker interrupts, his hand on your shoulder forcing you back onto the crate you’re sat on, while one of the medics wraps your ankle. 

“Uh, no you shouldn’t,” he says. “Give him some time to cool off. You gave us a real fright out there, you know?”

You wince. It had been a split second decision down on the surface, an unexpected attack that had left you pushed at the edge of the camp and separated from the rest of the 104th with a new batch of shinies who hadn’t even earnt their paint yet. The detonators in your backpack seemed a better option than getting gunned down, but setting them had put you perilously close to the blast zone. You don’t remember much past the wave of heat and the sensation of flying; the next memory you have is waking up in the transport with your head in Sinker’s lap, his pinched face staring down at you.

“That’s what he’s mad about? But -,” you splutter, eyes darting between Sinker and Wolffe’s distant figure. “Would he have preferred I just wait to get shot?”

You go to stand again, but pushing against Sinker’s grip is like wrestling with an iron bar. The medic yanks on your trouser leg, too, grunting that you need to stay still. 

“Of course not. But, come on, you know he gets stupid about you. Think he’s more mad with himself that he let it happen.”

You frown. Now that doesn’t make any sense. “What? Sinker, what are you talking about? What you mean, he gets stupid about me?”

Sinker stares at you in silence for a couple of seconds, while the medic - Gruff, you think - shakes with laughter. 

“...Boost was right.” He shakes his head in bewilderment and a small amount of disgust. “I actually can’t believe it. You really are that oblivious. Maker, not a braincell between the pair of you.”

He eyes Gruff, who has finished with your ankle and has moved onto sluicing out the gash on your forearm to assess the damage.

“Can you believe this?” 

Gruff snorts. “I try not to believe anything around here, you leave me out of this, Sinker.” 

“What are you talking about?” You whine, glancing over at Wolffe again and jolting when instead of meeting the back of his helmet, you find his visor staring back. He stays like that for a second before stiffly turning away, his hands clenching into fists. You want to be angry, furious with him for pinning this on you, but instead you feel your eyes sting. Dropping your gaze, you sniff hard, blaming the way your throat constricts on the hard day rather than the furious set of Wolffe’s shoulder.

“Oh no, I’m not gonna be the one to let that tooka out of the bag,” Sinker laughs, then catches sight of your expression. “Hey, are you - osik. Look, he’ll come back round. He just doesn’t like getting scared.”

You’re about to snap something back, how you didn’t exactly enjoy almost getting blown up either, but if you speak you’re not sure if tears will come out instead. You’re saved by Gruff pushing to his feet.

“That arm needs stitches and if we get up to the medbay I can use a bone knitter on the ankle. Give me a hand, Sinker?”

You only look back once as they hoist you up between them, your stomach dropping like a stone when you find Wolffe is nowhere in sight.

-

Things seem only marginally better the other side of the fresher. It’s never the same without water, and you stayed under the sonics too long, trying to wash away the phantom feeling of grime, so now your skin feels tight and dry. All you want is to curl up in your bunk and sleep for the next several rotations, but rest won’t come. 

Every time you lie down all you can think about is Wolffe turning away from you, and then you spend the next twenty minutes oscillating hopelessly between rage and wanting to find him and apologise. 

The knock on your door is actually a relief - it pulls you away from sitting at your desk, rolling your comm in your hand and trying to convince yourself that typing out a message when you’re tired and emotional is a spectacularly bad idea.

At least, it’s a relief until you see who’s on the other side.

“Never, ever do that again.”

Wolffe looms over you, quietly furious, his bucket under one arm. You let go of the door controls and try to step backwards, but he follows, boxing you in between your desk and the wall. After a second of staring at him, jaw working soundlessly, rage floods through your bones to settle hot in your belly. 

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” You snap back. “You’re behaving like a child.”

Wolffe slams his helmet down on the desk, expression spasming. “Didn’t have - you could have died.”

“So could you!” You protest, crossing your arms over your chest. “We were being attacked, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Wolffe snarls, running an agitated hand through his hair. “And you decided to get yourself blown up.”

“To save the men!” You counter, pushing up close to him as anger outweighs intimidation. “You’d have rather I just let them get mown down by a pack of B1s?” 

Wolffe scowls and pushes in too, so that you’re chest to chest and glaring directly into each other’s faces. 

“ Of course not, I - They’re trained soldiers. Trust them to do their job next time and work with them instead of being a distraction.”

A distraction? The absolute nerve of him. You make a small shrieking noise in the back of your throat and drop backwards to try and relieve the urge to smack that stupid frown right off his face. What’s almost worse is that the words actually hurt. His attention and approval always mean so much to you, more than you’re willing to admit even to yourself. For him to treat you like a wayward child...it stings. Badly. And you never go down easy when you’re backed into a corner. 

“A distraction to who?” You spit. “I don’t know why you’re being such an ass about this. The others have to make calls like that all the time and run the risk that it won’t work out, and you never go after them about it. What the hell makes me so different?”

Wolffe splutters. “Because - because -”

He breaks off and swears something in mando’a. For a second, you think he’s going to push you. His hand comes up, but instead of shoving it fists in your shirt and pulls. 

You stumble into him, his other hand catching your hip and pinning you against the plastoid, and you open your mouth to ask him what the hell he’s doing - 

His mouth slants over yours.

Your mind goes blank, screeching utterly to a halt. The world narrows down to the dry press of his lips, the heavy weight of his hands, and you cannot believe this is happening. Almost as quickly as it starts, though, Wolffe lets you go with a small gasp, so abruptly that it gives you whiplash.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes wide. His tongue darts out and touches the curve of his bottom lip. “I’m -”

In the half-second it takes for you to catch up, you realise several things: Wolffe just kissed you. He kissed you, and Sinker was right; you are both idiots. You would really like him to do it again, but instead the bastard is now trying to apologise for it. 

Without really considering it, you slide your hand round the back of his neck, sinking it into the hem of his blacks and tugging him back down. Your back hits the wall with an oomph as you press your lips urgently to his, pouring in every desperate month you’ve spent pining after him as your free hand scrabbles for purchase on his armour.

For a moment Wolffe is totally rigid, a taut line of shock, his lips stilled against your own. For a moment, you think you’ve completely fucked this up. But then he makes a noise, a little groan in the back of his throat, and his hand comes up against the wall next to your head, returning the kiss hungrily, desperately. His other arm snakes round your waist, and you could drown in him, you really could. His hand dips under the hem of your shirt and you gasp into his mouth at the warm touch. Wolffe huffs and licks in, the first slide of his tongue and the slick wet heat of his mouth electrifying something in your veins. You whine, high and needy, hitching upwards as far as you can. 

Without breaking contact Wolffe’s hands slide down over your ass, grasp under your legs and lift, wrapping them around his waist with only a small grunt at the effort. You pull his bottom lip into your mouth and graze lightly with your teeth, savouring the shudder that runs through his body before pressing back in, sealing your lips together as he moves, carrying you with him.

He stumbles backwards, hands steady under your thighs, until his knees hit the back of your bunk. Then he goes down, catching you so that you land with your legs either side of his body. It dislodges your mouths and he stares up at you, his eyes wide, his lips kiss-bruised, a flush high in his cheeks. 

“Shit,” he says again, but his voice is soft and dazed. You laugh softly as he clears his throat, hand coming up to thumb over your cheekbone. “I, uh, guess we’ve got some things to talk about.”

“Yeah, but later.” you say, leaning in and stealing another kiss. “Much later.”

taglist // @nelba @bad-batch-of-fics @majorshiraharu @leias-left-hair-bun @simping-for-fives @battletales @bluejay6800 @snippytano @missinashkin @iscream4clones // list here

#commander wolffe x reader #commander wolffe x you #wolffe x reader #commander wolffe #wolffe #star wars #the clone wars #the clone wars fanfiction #alderwrites #god just being able to finish something is a RELIEF

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

The Sensitivity of Horses, Part 2

A sequel to this story, which you'll probably want to read although I don't think it's strictly speaking necessary to make sense of this one. Eagle-eyed readers will note that this is not the other story I posted an excerpt from earlier. That one is still coming. I was just in a Hangman mood.

Pairing: Hangman Adam Page x OFC

Word count: 1,338

Content advisory: sexual content (non-explicit)

You try to stay out of sight, mostly. It’s not entirely possible, of course, there are plenty of people who know who you are, although, you can’t help but notice, a lot who don’t. The place is growing. He’s part of something exciting, exactly like he deserves. No one is rude to you. You’d thought that maybe they would be but the worst you get is that some of them look at you funny, like you’re an old part being inserted into a new car. You don’t fit. You’ll screw everything up. 

In private, they won’t be so cagey. They’ll laugh and whisper among themselves. What the hell is she even doing here? Didn’t he leave her? I knew she’d come back begging. Fair enough. You deserve their scorn. You deserve his. 

Your first glimpse of Adam hits you in the gut. You knew it would but it’s still enough that you have to steady yourself against the wall. He’s still so beautiful that you can’t believe he was ever yours, let alone that you screwed things up. Oh how you screwed things up. He was feeling broken and you took a hammer to him but here he is now looking like a golden god with that title and his friends. So much better off without you. It’s incredibly selfish what you’re doing, showing up here. 

It’s a while before he’s on his own, a while that you have to hide in the shadows because there’s no way you’re going to approach him when people who care about him are there. They’d throw you out on your head before you said more than a word to him, which is probably a good instinct. But eventually he’s left alone and in the open, grabbing himself a bottle of water from catering and that’s when you approach. 

“Was starting to think you were just going to spy on me from a distance all night,” he sighs without looking up at you. 

On top of everything, it hurts to know that you’ve been so clumsy and obvious. 

“I thought about it,” you answer truthfully. “I wasn’t sure if it was a great idea for us to talk. Or for me to be around you at all.”

He shrugs. “It probably isn’t.”

That’s when he looks up and, once again, you feel your knees turn to water. Those big, vulnerable eyes, blue like a field of cornflowers, flash at you and all you want is to wrap him up under your wings and protect him, except that what you need to protect him from is you. 

“I guess you’re here now,” he grumbles. “Might as well talk.”

He brushes past you and heads down the hall without another word and you trail after him. It would be better for both of you if you left. You shouldn’t walk with him into his dressing room. But you do. 

He keeps his back to you when you enter and your eyes drift longingly over the curve of his perfect ass, which is when he glances back. He gives you a hard look before he drops onto the little sofa. He hasn’t had a match tonight. He hasn’t even had to get into his gear. But he still gives the impression of being exhausted.  

“What’s up?”

“I… I brought the papers,” you stammer, reaching into your purse and taking out the hateful bundle. 

“You couldn’t have just had your lawyer send them over?”

“I could have, yeah.”

He rolls his eyes and takes a long swig from the water bottle. His tongue swipes his lips quickly when he puts it down and you feel an immediate stirring in your core. He notices that too. 

“Figured you’d be at home taking care of ol’ Kenny,” he smirks. 

That shot lands. You deserve it. 

“Do you seriously not know?”

He gives a mirthless half-laugh. 

“I heard things didn’t work out with you two.”

“He dumped me about a month after you did.”

“Wow. Didn’t realize it was that quick. He really was just using you.”

Again, this is no more than you deserve. 

“Yup. That’s exactly it. I couldn’t deal with what you were going through, so I had an affair with a guy who seemed like he might actually be interested in me, you found out, and as soon as Kenny realized he might actually have to be in a real relationship, he kicked me to the curb.”

Adam glances down but you still notice how his face twitches in anger. Is it at you? At Kenny? Is it possible that there’s still a part of him that hates to hear that you’ve been hurt? 

You open your mouth to speak but he leans forward and snatches the divorce papers out of your hand before you can. He glances through them and, predictably, lets out an exasperated sound before tossing them on the table next to him. 

“They don’t work if you don’t sign them,” he snorts. 

“I know.” You can hear the wave of tears rising in your voice and focus on not giving in. You don’t want him to think that you’re trying to manipulate him by crying. “I just thought…”

He glares right at you, every emotion flowing through him in full view. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I have a pen.”

You fumble through your bag until you find it and reach over to grab the papers, but he grabs hold of your arm before you can reach them. He holds you like that for a second before pressing his face against the inside of your arm, pulling you ever so slowly closer. The contrast of his soft lips and the coarse hairs of his beard sends every one of your nerves into overdrive. You feel yourself start to tip forward but he rescues you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you onto his lap. 

You can’t look at him, not yet, so you run your fingers lightly over his face and bury yourself in his neck. He squeezes your hips and lets his hands move just under the hem of your shirt. The feeling of his fingertips on your sensitive stomach sets you off and you kiss him, aggressively, with everything that you’ve been holding on to for the months you’ve been apart. The most terrifying thing is that he responds with just as much passion, even though he shouldn’t. 

The familiar, thrilling feeling of his hardening prick through his jeans has you grinding yourself against him, and he responds by pushing his hands further up, over your bra, teasing your nipples until you think they’re going to cut right through the fabric. 

“That what you came here for? You wanted a goodbye ride?”

“No,” you sob, giving into the need to cry, “I don’t want a goodbye anything.”

He leans back and wipes your face with his thumb. 

“So what do you want?”

You let your hand drop and run over the outline of his belt buckle for a few minutes before answering. 

“I want my husband to believe me when I say that I’m more than sorry, and that I would never do anything like what I did. Never again.”

He stares into you for a long moment before pulling you in to kiss you again. The taste of him is so comforting and at the same time so arousing that you just fall into it, losing yourself until he pulls back a little. 

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he whispers, caressing your neck and collar bone. 

He looks up at you again and nods a little. 

“I understand,” you murmur. 

With a deep breath, you start to push yourself away but his grip on you tightens. You lean down and press your lips to his again, running your palm roughly over the bulge in his pants and moaning softly into his kiss. 

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” he repeats, pulling away just slightly, “but I think I might want to try.

#aew imagine #aew fanfiction #hangman page fanfiction #hangman page imagine #wrestling fanfiction #wayward wrestle writing

[gaeasun]

Vacancy and Bed Bargain with Commander Ponds please???

I have not forgotten these! Going to be honest, I've never really thought much about Ponds, or Neyo (he's just as central as Ponds really), but I enjoyed writing them here! Hopefully they don't seem ooc.

Everyone I want to be alive is alive. Just go with it.

What was a soldier to do when the war was over?

Drink, apparently.

Commander Ponds wasn’t about to drown himself in a bottle, though. Now that he and his batchmates and other close vode weren’t scattered throughout the galaxy, they planned a night at 79’s, where they could relax for maybe the first time in their lives. No Separatist plot, no wayward General to worry about (not that Ponds’ ever had to worry about his general, because he was fortunate enough to have an alor who was responsible in all matters). Just drinks and brothers.

Ponds’ yawned and leaned back in his chair, wondering why he was so tired. He’d gotten a full night’s rest and more. Maybe it was his body protesting the sudden drop in activity. Yes, that was likely it.

A sharp rap at the door caught his attention, and Ponds nearly fell over.

Neyo stepped in, his eyes neutral as usual. A clone of few words, he tossed his head towards the door, indicating he was ready.

“Alright. Let me change my shirt and we’ll go.”

Neyo nodded.

Soft clothes were nice, as Ponds had discovered, but incredibly impractical. He’d torn the first shirt he’d bought with the pension the Republic had set up, and resolved to be more careful in the future. So he had soft shirts for the apartment, and tougher shirts for going out.

Neyo only had sturdy shirts, something about always being ready for anything. But Ponds had a good memory, and had noticed that his shirts on occasion looked ever so slightly ruffled, almost like someone had taken one out and put it back.

He’d never seen Neyo wear any of them. Ponds didn’t ask about it either.

He finished changing and yawned again before heading out the door, slapping Neyo on the shoulder as he did so.

Or, that had been his intention. Neyo dodged back, eyes wide and hands clenched like he was expecting an attack.

“Sorry,” he muttered, once he’d forcibly unclenched his fingers.

Ponds moved slowly to touch Neyo on the shoulder, more gently this time. “No need to apologize, brother. I’m sorry for startling you.”

Neyo shrugged, slowly relaxing again. He started out the door, Ponds following.

On the way, Ponds was unable to keep himself from yawning again and again.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he muttered. “I don’t think I slept poorly.”

“You didn’t,” Neyo said. At Ponds’ raised eyebrow, he added “I did.”

“Hmm,” Ponds pondered. “Do you need another blanket?”

“No.”

“Too warm?”

“No.”

“Less sweets before sleeping?”

“You know I don’t like... sugar.”

Ponds laughed at the distaste his vod put into that word. “I know. Just joking.” Neyo could barely handle fresh fruit; the one time he tried a cookie he spat it across the floor and rinsed his mouth out. Eating mostly ration bars your entire life wasn’t without its consequences.

Ponds just hoped Neyo would be able to drink enough to smile tonight. He wasn’t sure if his brother was happy or not, and his guarded nature made it difficult to tell.

79’s was alive tonight, with various commanders and a few adopted CT’s. Ponds laughed as he spotted Captain Rex arm wrestling Captain Howzer. The former he knew from Kamino, the latter he knew from Ryloth.

Neyo followed closer than his shadow, his eyes scanning every exit, entrance, and window in the place. He wasn’t the only one; too many vode sat with haunted eyes, nursing or quaffing drinks.

“Ponds!” Someone hollered- Bly, Ponds spotted, sitting with some other commanders. Ponds walked over, and the others spoke their own greetings. Fox had to take a break from his drink to do so, going right back to the glass and only setting it down when it was empty to slump against his seat. His eyes were dark and exhausted, which was no surprise given what Ponds had heard he’d been through, so his slowly relaxing posture was probably a good thing.

Ponds nudged Neyo to sit next to Fox, and then slung an arm around Cody. “Vod! Hoped you save me a drink or two.”

Cody laughed. “Of course, Ponds. How you doing, Neyo?”

Neyo nodded, which could have meant any number of things but at the moment was his equivalent of I’m fine.

Rex returned in triumph. “Hah! Told you. Pay up Cody.”

Cody groaned. “Osi’kyr. Now that we actually get paid I keep forgetting we actually have to keep our bets now.” He flipped a credit to Rex.

“Ponds! See what I did?” Rex grinned, and Ponds laughed in delight that their blond little vod’ika was cheerful after the war.

“Way to go, Rex’ika. Howzer’s no pushover.”

Rex rubbed his bicep and grinned. “Yeah. Now, move. My seat.”

Ponds held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I was going to get a drink anyways.”

After ordering something fizzy, he returned and sat next to Neyo, who was “talking” to Fox through rapid tapping on the table. Ponds chose to drink instead of translating.

The next few hours passed in a blur, going faster as it grew later. Ponds didn’t have too much to drink, but his head spun all the same. He laughed and joked without understanding, until he grew too hot and was burning and had to go outside.

“‘M fresh air,” he muttered before hastily stumbling towards what he pretty sure was the door.

The cool night air was a relief, even if the stink of the air wasn’t.

Ponds groaned as his stomach churned. He moved away to vomit somewhere away from the entrance, then sat near his pile of sick.

Finally he decided he’d been sitting for long enough, and unsteadily rose to find his way back inside. But all the music and sound and light blurred together, and he kept walking. And walking and walking. He had to reach the entrance sometime, right?

But the sound and light faded into darkness as he wandered, in reality further and further from the bar. Ponds had no idea where he was, but he couldn’t stop. He just kept walking, too dazed to change course.

“Hey clone!”

Not good. Other way.

“No you don’t!”

Something roughly slammed into him, and Ponds toppled to the ground head spinning.

“Hmm?” was all he could manage.

“Can’t believe my taxes had to pay for you. Doesn’t that still make you property?” An ugly, potbelly man jeered from somewhere above Ponds.

“No. ‘m not your property, ‘m my prop’rty. G’ ‘way.”

A boot slammed into his side, and Ponds realized his stomach was not completely empty yet. He proceeded to vomit the last dregs of whatever was in his stomach onto the boots in front of him.

“You filthy-” The man tried to knee him in the face, but battle instincts and vertigo saved Ponds when he collapsed onto his side, narrowly dodging the concussion.

The boot reared back again, and Ponds curled up, his arms protecting his head.

The kick never came. Instead, Ponds heard something- the indignant squawk telling him it was probably the man- hitting the ground.

Firm hands pulled tugged Ponds onto his back.

“Hey Neyo,” he slurred. “When’id you ge’ here? Where’s here?”

Neyo put the back of his hand to his forehead, and pulled it away. “This isn’t just alcohol. You’re sick.”

“I am?”

Neyo hauled him to his feet, and pulled one arm around Ponds, carrying some of his weight. With his help, Ponds stumbled… stumbled somewhere. It was a long trip, and Ponds just got dizzier and more exhausted. By the time Neyo started slowing down he was supporting Ponds almost completely.

Neyo took Ponds directly to a medic, who confirmed Ponds had come down with something and the alcohol had exacerbated it. The best thing to do now was let Ponds sleep it off and check him again in the morning.

Ponds only heard muffled voices and saw blurry lights. He still didn’t know where he was, but he was with Neyo, so he knew he was safe.

Neyo helped him to somewhere soft. A bed, maybe?

Soft clothes hit his lap, and Ponds recognized his sleep clothes by touch. He instinctively began tugging at his shirt, but he was too disoriented to pull it off completely.

Then gentle hands were helping him, pulling the shirt off the rest of the way and putting his head and arms through his pajamas. The pants were much easier and Ponds managed to do them himself.

“ -o- ee-” Ponds heard Neyo say, but didn’t know what it meant. When Neyo got up, Ponds followed him like a duckling in his namesake.

“ -ee-” Neyo said again, but Ponds could only stare in confusion. Neyo moved away again, and Ponds followed.

Neyo was quiet, then sat down on the bed. He nudged at Ponds til he was laying down, then laid down himself beside him after wrapping Ponds securely in a blanket.

Ponds waited to see if Neyo would move again, but he didn’t, so he closed his eyes and tried to move past the light-headedness into unconsciousness.

Past all the confusion, Ponds could faintly hear Neyo’s heartbeat, steady and sure. He focused on the rhythm a bit, until he relaxed into sleep.

#star wars #the clone wars #sickfic #commander ponds #commander neyo #captain rex #clone captain howzer #commander cody #commander fox

[milf-harrington]

HI BESTIE i was scrolling through your account and saw that you reblogged the ask game so

♟: patching up a wound + ... okay my first thought was your sk8 / atla au (either universe) so maybe two characters from there that you'd want to write about platonically?

or, if you aren't feeling that, jinzula, maybe? <3

COREYYY HIII BESTIE <333

it's probably short enough that it doesn't need a title, but i gave it one anyway

who'll save you when you fall?

word count: 1 200

---

It was something Miya should have been able to do in their sleep, a simple ollie over a crack in the pavement that was mainly for fun and not out of any necessity. Reki was always going on about skating being fun right?

Yeah well, Miya didn’t think there was anything fun about landing slightly off-balance and feeling your board shoot out from under your feet. They yelped in surprise as they went careening towards the ground, barely managing to save their face as they hit the cement with a punched out oof.

“Woah, are you alright?”

Miya tensed at the voice, having not been aware of an audience, and felt the hot rush of embarrassment flood through them as they hurried to sit up.

Skating at S had, ironically, made Miya complacent about safety gear, which left their knees and hands scraped and stinging from the fall. 

A low whistle and a shadow made them look up to find a girl in a crop top and bike shorts lowering down into a crouch beside them. Something about her felt familiar, and when she bared her teeth in a sympathetic hiss, they were crooked. “That looked rough.”

“I’m fine.” Miya snapped, cradling their aching palms in their lap as they glared at the girl in a silent demand for her to go away. Their face felt flushed with the mortification of knowing she’d seen them fall like some sort of rookie.

The girl raised an eyebrow and dropped backwards onto her butt, crossing her legs before leaning into Miya’s space to inspect their knees. Even her hair seemed familiar, the auburn strands pulled back on top while the bottom was left to hang around her face and get stuck to her neck from sweat. 

“Yeah that looks bad.” She decided, before reaching towards her waist where there was a fanny pack that Miya somehow managed to miss. It was bright blue and covered in scribbles and pins that clattered against the keychains hanging from the zipper. 

“Lucky for you,” she continued, unzipping it. “I have Sokka’s bag.”

She proceeded to pull out what looked like a miniature first aid kit and Miya scowled as they scooted back a bit. 

“I told you I’m fine.”

The girl snorted as she attempted to wrestle a water bottle out of the fanny pack as well. “Hello Fine, I’m Suki.”

Miya felt the ‘error’ message plaster itself across their brain as they struggled to register the sudden, and unexpected, dad joke. A certain brand of irritation that they usually reserved for Reki surged through them, replacing the embarrassment in an instant. 

“My name is Miya.” They snapped.

At that, the girl looked up with a bright smile. “Oh! You were at S the other night, right? You had that beef against Aang.”

Ah, that’s why she was familiar.

“You’re K.W.”

Suki nodded, pouring water onto a cloth and apparently she was giving them first aid regardless of their opinion about it. Miya tried not to feel grateful. “Kyoshi Warrior, that’s me.”

That… was kind of a badass name. Miya scowled down at their legs and then grimaced. There was a graze running down the length of their shin, and their knees were a bloodied mess of stinging skin.

“Don’t worry, it’s not that bad.” Suki promised, swiping the damp cloth up his leg to rid it of any wayward blood. “I have a friend, Toph, who stacked it hard when they were first learning- scraped up their whole side from the knee to the armpit.”

Miya perked up at the pronouns, and was caught off guard by the acidic sting of rubbing alcohol that Suki seemed to have pulled out of nowhere and was dabbing on their knees. 

“It’s a good thing they’re so stubborn, otherwise they probably wouldn’t still be skating now.” She added as an afterthought, like she wasn’t in the middle of torturing someone with medical supplies. 

Miya hissed at a particularly bright stab of pain and Suki grimaced in sympathy.

“Which one was Toph?” They asked through gritted teeth, trying to distract themself as Suki blew gently across the grazes to sooth them. It worked, to some degree, and Miya wriggled their toes in their shoes to direct the nervous energy somewhere.

“The Blind Bandit.” 

“Do they actually skate with the blindfold on?”

“Well yeah,” Suki shrugged. “It doesn’t make much of a difference either way, but they like the mystery of it.”

Miya watched her unpeel a bandaid. Her nail polish was chipped. “Doesn’t make a difference?”

Suki hummed, leaning forward to gently press the bandaid over one of the smaller scrapes under their knee cap, before leaning back for some squares of cotton. “Yeah, Toph actually is blind so the blindfold is just for show.” 

What.

“They’re blind?!” Miya exclaimed, sitting forward in surprise and then wincing when they put weight on their hands.

Suki frowned as their knee moved, but readjusted the cotton, two strips of tape sticking to her finger. “Blind people can skate too dude.”

Miya cringed and bit the inside of their cheek. “Sorry.”

Suki shrugged their apology off with a smile and taped the cotton in place before shuffling to get closer to the other one. Miya watched her work, the quiet only broken up by the occasional hiss or wince as she attempted to flush out dirt and pressed a second square of cotton over the wound. 

“You don’t have to do everything on your own, y’know.” She said out of nowhere, smoothing out the last piece of tape and then reaching for the cloth again. “Just in case that maybe had something to do with your earlier denial. It’s okay to need help, and it’s even better to accept when it’s offered. It doesn’t make you… weak or lame or anything.”

Miya stiffened, letting Suki take one of their hands and begin dabbing at it as they stared at her, wide eyed. 

It was something he’d heard from Reki before, and some of the others, sure, but to hear it from a virtual stranger… For the second time that afternoon, Miya felt their skin flush with embarrassment as tears blurred the edges of their vision before they managed to stubbornly choke them back. 

“Yeah, I’m figuring that out.”

After cleaning their hands and slapping bandaids over the worst of it, Suki declared them all patched up and hopped back to her feet, holding out a hand to help Miya stand. She was careful to keep her hand wrapped around their fingers, tugging with a deceptive strength until Miya was on both feet again. 

Their knees twinged with the movement, the skin feeling stiff and weird, but they didn’t hurt as much now that they were clean. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you Miya.” Suki said, shaking the hand she still had in her grip before finally letting go. “I’ll see you at S, yeah?”

Miya nodded, suddenly feeling unmoored. Had they just made another friend? On their own? “Uh, yeah, whatever. Thank you.”

Suki only grinned as she turned away, and by the time Miya managed to recover their board from where it had rolled, she was gone again.

#nonbinary miya #atla / sk8 au #suki #chinen miya #atla #sk8 #my writing #asks #that-was-anticlimactic #corey #mutuals #i dont know if it's any good but i liked writing it so *shrug*

[gabrielkahane]

Heirloom

Short form:

Heirloom (concerto for piano & chamber orchestra) premieres with Jeffrey Kahane & the Kansas City Symphony under the baton of Michael Stern, September 24-26. Tickets are here.

I’ll play a solo show at Rockwood Music Hall on Tuesday, September 28th. My dear friend and colleague, Johnny Gandelsman, will open with a solo violin set. Johnny’s on at 7pm, I’ll go on around 8pm. Tickets are $20 and are here. This will be my only NYC appearance this year!

Applications for Luna Lab with Oregon Symphony are now open! If you are a female-identifying, non-binary, or gender-nonconforming composer between the ages of 12 and 18, and live in Portland or Southeast Washington, please apply for your chance to study for a year with the incredible Nathalie Joachim!

Long form:

Several years ago, my friend Eric Jacobsen started pestering me about writing a piano concerto for my father, Jeffrey Kahane. It was an intriguing (and natural!) idea, but I kept putting it off in large part because I’ve never felt comfortable with large-scale instrumental composition. I think of myself first and foremost as a songwriter, and while I love to write for instruments in the context of vocal music, I feel almost entirely unmoored when voice & text are taken away. But Eric was persistent, and, well, here we are. Next month, the Kansas City Symphony will open its season with Heirloom, after which the piece will be heard in the coming years in performances presented by the co-commissioners who’ve rounded out the consortium: the Oregon Symphony, the Aspen Music Festival, the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra, and Eric’s Brooklyn-based group, The Knights.

Heirloom is an aural family scrapbook, exploring, in its three movements, a series of inheritances. I’m incredibly excited to witness its birth September 24-26 in Kansas City. You can find the program note I’ve written to accompany its premiere at the end of this email.

The following Tuesday, September 28th, I will play my first concert in New York City since our lives were individually and collectively turned upside down by the pandemic. Most of the evening will be devoted to a new slate of songs drawn from thirty-one composed in October of 2020, the final month of a year-long, complete internet hiatus. Johnny Gandelsman, violinist of Brooklyn Rider, opens with what promises to be a ravishing solo set. Tickets are here.

Lastly, in 2019, I took on the position of Creative Chair with the Oregon Symphony. I’m very pleased to announce that this season, we’ve begun a partnership with Luna Lab, the brainchild of composers Missy Mazzoli and Ellen Reid. Luna Composition Lab offers mentorship and professional training to female-identifying, non-binary, and gender-nonconforming composers between the ages of 12 and 18. We at the Oregon Symphony are incredibly grateful to partner with Luna Lab to offer one student a year-long period of mentorship with Grammy-nominated flutist, composer, and songwriter, Nathalie Joachim, who happens to be one of my all-time favorite humans, and who will be giving the world premiere of Suite from Fanm D’ayiti with the Oregon Symphony in the spring of 2022. What makes this even more amazing is that another all-time favorite human, the violinist Pekka Kuusisto, will be playing Nico Muhly’s concerto Shrink, on the same program. Oh, but we were talking about Luna Lab. If you or someone you know wants to apply, you can find more info & the application form here; you just have to submit one score & a recording (MIDI is acceptable). I will be reviewing submissions along with Nathalie. Applications are due on September 7th.

Obligatory capitalism appeal: I know it’s been a while since I’ve put out new music. It’s coming. I promise. In the meantime, may I remind you about this gorgeous limited edition vinyl record?

That’s it for now, folks. Stay safe. Try to lead with love, even when it’s hard.

All my best,

Gabriel

Heirloom program note:

Tucked away in the northernmost reaches of California sits the Bar 717 Ranch, which, each summer, is transformed into a sleep-away camp on 450 acres of wilderness, where, in 1967, two ten-year-old kids named Martha and Jeffrey met. Within a couple of years, they were playing gigs back in L.A. in folk rock bands with names like “Wilderness” and “The American Revelation.” They fell in love, broke up, fell in love again. By the time I was a child, my mom and dad had traded the guitars, flutes, and beaded jackets for careers in clinical psychology and classical music respectively. But they remained devoted listeners of folk music. Growing up, it was routine for dad to put on a Joni Mitchell record when he took a break from practicing a concerto by Mozart or Brahms. That collision of musical worlds might help to explain the creative path I’ve followed, in which songs and storytelling share the road with the Austro-German musical tradition.

That tradition comes to me through the music I heard as a child, but also through ancestry. My paternal grandmother, Hannelore, escaped Germany at the tail end of 1938, arriving in Los Angeles in early 1939 after lengthy stops in Havana and New Orleans. For her, there was an unspeakable tension between, on the one hand, her love of German music and literature, and, on the other, the horror of the Holocaust. In this piece, I ask, how does that complex set of emotions get transmitted across generations? What do we inherit, more broadly, from our forebears? And as a musician caught between two traditions, how do I bring my craft as a songwriter into the more formal setting of the concert hall?

The first movement, “Guitars in the Attic,” wrestles specifically with that last question, the challenge of bringing vernacular song into formal concert music. The two main themes begin on opposite shores: the first theme, poppy, effervescent, and direct, undergoes a series of transformations that render it increasingly unrecognizable as the movement progresses. Meanwhile, a lugubrious second tune, first introduced in disguise by the French horn and accompanied by a wayward English horn, reveals itself only in the coda to be a paraphrase of a song of mine called “Where are the Arms.” That song, in turn, with its hymn-like chord progression, owes a debt to German sacred music. A feedback loop emerges: German art music informs pop song, which then gets fed back into the piano concerto.

“My Grandmother Knew Alban Berg” picks up the thread of intergenerational memory. Grandma didn’t actually know Alban Berg, but she did babysit the children of Arnold Schoenberg, another German-Jewish émigré, who, in addition to having codified the twelve-tone system of composition, was Berg’s teacher. Why make something up when the truth is equally tantalizing? I suppose it has something to do with wanting to evoke the slipperiness of memory while getting at the ways in which cultural inheritance can occur indirectly. When, shortly after college, I began to study Berg’s Piano Sonata, his music— its marriage of lyricism and austerity; its supple, pungent harmonies; the elegiac quality that suffuses nearly every bar—felt eerily familiar to me, even though I was encountering it for the first time. Had a key to this musical language been buried deep in the recesses of my mind through some kind of ancestral magic, only to be unearthed when I sat at the piano and played those prophetic chords, which, to my mind, pointed toward the tragedy that would befall Europe half a dozen years after Berg’s death?

In this central movement, the main theme is introduced by a wounded-sounding trumpet, accompanied by a bed of chromatic harmony that wouldn’t be out of place in Berg’s musical universe. By movement’s end, time has run counterclockwise, and the same tune is heard in a nocturnal, Brahmsian mode, discomfited by interjections from the woodwinds, which inhabit a different, and perhaps less guileless, temporal plane.

To close, we have a kind of fiddle-tune rondo, an unabashed celebration of childhood innocence. In March of 2020, my family and I were marooned in Portland, Oregon, as the world was brought to its knees by the coronavirus pandemic. Separated from our belongings—and thus all of our daughter’s toys, which were back in our apartment in Brooklyn—my ever resourceful partner, Emma, fashioned a “vehicle” out of an empty diaper box, on which she majusculed the words vera’s chicken-powered transit machine. (Vera had by that point developed a strong affinity for chicken and preferred to eat it in some form thrice daily.) We would push her around the floor in her transit machine, resulting in peals of laughter and squeals of delight. In this brief finale, laughter and joy are the prevailing modes, but not without a bit of mystery. I have some idea of what I have inherited from my ancestors. What I will hand down to my daughter remains, for the time being, a wondrous unknown.

Heirloom is dedicated with love, admiration, gratitude, and awe, to my father, Jeffrey Kahane.

#jeffrey kahane #kansas city symphony #piano concerto #pekka kuusisto #nathalie joachim #oregon symphony #st. paul chamber orchestra #los angeles chamber orchestra #aspen music festival #missy mazzoli #ellen reid #rockwood music hall #johnny gandelsman #folk music #classical music #the knights #eric jacobsen

[sabbactroll]

DWC, Day 1 - Afterlife

"Fetch" - @daily-writing-challenge

The cold blue glow of Ardenweald’s trees were especially bright tonight. If this was night, here in the Winter Queen’s domain. Here, in one of the last refuges for wayward souls travelling from Azeroth and worlds immeasurable, a place marked out for those most attuned to nature. A place for rest. A place for rebirth. A home away from home, until you went home again.

It was here, beside a particularly noisy stream that a certain tall, Darkspear troll (or undead troll, if the unnatural glow of her eyes were any indication) had decided that this particular moment would be perfect for a dip. It’d been far too long since she’d had a proper bath, after all, and the water here, far south of the Heart of the Forest, felt perfect. She might have felt it was below freezing, once upon a time. Not now.

Broadsword firmly planted in the dirt. Spiked armor tossed here and there. No care taken to anything besides herself. How undeniably selfish. The Queen would surely frown even more than she usually did, and the little winged pests would certainly have something to say. Must everyone have an opinion about how a mortal (not really nowadays) take care of herself in the afterlife? She was a member of the Ebon Blade, protecting Oribos from the Jailer and threats beyond. A little thanks was in order, wasn’t it? And perhaps a little freedom, in what was supposed to be one of the more peaceful places a person, or creature, could go.

Freedom, thought the troll as she soaked her feet. Now there was a word that felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore. Not since the Drakkari Foothills. Not since the day that she was denied her rest by the dwarf that raised her into undeath, who slung her corpse over his horse like some ghoulish prize and rode all the way to Acherus with the rest of his knights. Who took his *very sweet* time in bringing her back, if the dagger marks around her arms and legs were any indication, the smelly bastard.

“How long have I been gone?”

“Long enough. The Lich King calls fer ye, lass, same call he’s been putting out across the world. Take my hand, now. Up ye go.”

Still a bastard of a dwarf. A good thing he was gone, and the troll was here. She always did have a staying power.

Of course, her thoughts were interrupted by a soft masculine voice. A very young voice, at that, calling out from just behind the troll, towards the rotted, hollow tree that had lost nearly all its leaves. “Fetch?” it asked, or barked. That was odd, to hear a child beg like that, in such a playful tone. “Fetch? Pretty please?”

The troll turned her head slightly to see a glowing blue dog sitting patiently besides her. It couldn’t have been more than a yearling, if it was wobbling about like it was, and a corgi, if its stumpy legs and round belly were any indication. The large, curved bone it kept a fierce grip on wasn’t helping things either. “I would like to Fetch, please,” the dog said again, matter-of-factly.

“I don’t know what dat be, and why yah be askin’ me,” replied the troll. “Especially since I be taking a bath.”

“But you’re not going to be bathing forever, are you?” asked the corgi, still wrestling with its bone. “That would make your skin all wrinkly. And then you would have no time to Fetch with me, because you’d be in a towel getting dry.”

“Mebbe I am. Mebbe I be stayin’ in de water all day, until I look like a wrinkly ol’ hag. What’cha tink about that? Hmm?” The troll splashed about in the water, and wriggled her hands at the dog. It jumped nearly out of its skin!

“Oh no, I would not like that at all! I don’t like hags. Hags can’t play Fetch with me. And even if they did, I wouldn’t play Fetch with them. No no.” For an annoying little dog like this was, it was funny to look at, swinging its bone like it did, shaking its entire being to and fro. “But what if I taught you? Then I would let you have your bath, and then we could be friends, and I would keep all the spriggans away from you. I can bark really loud. Do you want to hear me bark?” The corgi let out a few muffled “Wufs.”

“Dat be enough barking, dear. I seen enough.” The troll reached out a hand towards the dog, who immediately ran over in a bid for pets. Lots of pets, even if she didn’t feel anything when her fingers ran through the dog’s lustrous fur, or scratched under its chin. It seemed to appreciate the attention, at least. “So yah gonna explain to me how Fetch works, so yah can be lettin’ me be?”

The corgi nodded. “Oh yes! You throw my bone, and I chase it, and I chase it really well, and I bring it back to you, but only sometimes. It is my bone, after all.” Its butt wiggled. “Will you Fetch? Please?”

The rest of the night, or whatever period of time it was, was spent playing Fetch with a glowing blue dog, eager to catch their bone over, and over, and over. Not a bad way to spend time in the afterlife.

#fetch #corgi #daily writing challenge #shadowlands #death knight #sabbac #sabbactroll #wra horde #wyrmrest guard

[cajunquandary]

New Year’s and Supernatural 600 Follower Challenge

Come one, come all! To those of you who have been here-- why? (But THANK YOU AND I LOVE YOU.) To those of you just tuning in, welcome to my corner of the Internet. You are welcome and you are valid, no matter your labels. We’re all family here. This challenge is all-inclusive and hate-free. After a year like 2020, we could all use a little pick-me-up. 

Are you a writer, gif-maker, art enthusiast, musical magician, candlestick maker or Misha Collins?? Then check it out--I’m doing a thing! Below you will find some rules and prompts, but most of all, have fun.

Must be following me (it is a follower celebration after all)

Please list your warnings and tag them when you post. 

Add a “Keep Reading” if your post is over 500 words. 

You can pair this challenge with anything else, and I don’t mind if your entry is part of an established series! 

No word limit. Have more of a headcanon? Okay. Have a 500k word novel? Okay. 

You may write or create whatever you wish, but due to personal limitations, I will only read:

Reader inserts/ofc paired with Sam, Dean, Castiel, Benny Lafitte, or Gadreel

Ships: Sabriel, Sastiel, Destiel, DeanBenny, Saileen, Megstiel, anyone with Donna <3

Non-pairings and vintage Winchesters or Castiel are okay. (Tell me about a thing that happened when they were growing up)

Threesomes and moresomes are good as well

Things that make me squick: degradation, a/b/o, wincest, underage.

Things that make me happy: Winchester sandwiches, crack fics, dark fics, Destiel, sex pollen, and MOTW. 

“Overused” tropes are welcomed and encouraged! (Looking at you, @thinkinghardhardlythinking) Remember, they are popular for a reason--people like to read them. Lay your weary insecurities to rest my wayward peeps. 

This can be as fluffy, smutty, angsty, cracky or as dark as you want it to be (please tag for trigger warnings!)

It doesn’t have to be a fic. It can be any kind of art! Digital, Traditional, Musical, Video, etc.

WRITE AND CREATE WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY. Even if it’s not my jam, you are valid and welcome here! ALL entries will be reblogged and included on the masterlist.

Send an ask with the following: 

Your new year’s resolutions (if you want to share)

Choose one situation and one song OR lyric from the lists below. Up to two people per prompt.

Inspired by a few things? Why settle? You can send multiple requests. Please send a new ask with each new selection. 

Tag #cajunsuper600challenge within the first five tags. If I haven’t reblogged it within 3 days, submit it to me and/or shoot me a message!

To be a part of the Challenge Masterlist, please post and tag me on or before Mardi Gras! (Tuesday, February 16, 2021)

Situations:

Singing in the Shower @anaelsbrunette

Fixing up the Car @utopia-winchester​

Wrestling Match

Drag Race

Kicked out of a Library @ilysm-mybabybrother

Learning to Drive @katelynw93​ @gia-25​

Supply Run

Movie Night @scoobydean

Game Night @mercurialkitty

Patching up after a hunt @msmarvelouswinchester

Fishing @wonder-cole​

Monster of the Week @carryonmywaywardcaptain

First Encounter @chevyharvelle​ @writethelifeyouwant​

Awkward Coffee @thinkinghardhardlythinking

Handcuffs

(and)

Songs:

Ramble On- Led Zeppelin

Back in Black- ACDC

Tuesday’s Gone- Lynyrd Skynyrd @graciehams

The Chain- Fleetwood Mac @scoobydean

Born on the Bayou- Credence Clearwater @wonder-cole​

Heaven and Hell- Black Sabbath

When the Levee Breaks- Led Zeppelin @writethelifeyouwant​

Houses of the Holy- Led Zeppelin

The Unforgiven- Metallica

Dream On- Aerosmith

**Bonus: 11. House of the Rising Sun- The Animals (@wonder-cole, you devious heathen I love you) @anaelsbrunette

(or)

Lyrics:

“Hold the day/ Oh we pray/ To make it through the night”

“Even the fires on the road/ Trying to get away/ And all the stars seem on a roll/ Out of control today”

“I wear this crown of thorns/ Upon my liar's chair/ Full of broken thoughts/ I cannot repair” @ilysm-mybabybrother

“Blastin' out to Johnny Cash/ Headin' for the highway/ Baby, we ain't ever comin' back”

“I saw the light in the sunrise/ Sittin' back in a 40 on the muddy riverside/ Gettin' baptized in holy water and 'shine”

“There'll be no value in the strength of walls that I have grown/ There'll be no comfort in the shade of the shadows thrown/ But I'd be yours if you'd be mine” @thinkinghardhardlythinking

“I wrestled long with my youth/ We tried so hard to live in the truth/ But do not tell me all is fine/ When I lose my head, I lose my spine”

“I can’t drown my demons/ They know how to swim” @carryonmywaywardcaptain @msmarvelouswinchester

“I stand on the ash of all I've ever loved/ Memories of a broken heart/ Now I'm alone in the dark.” @chevyharvelle

“Weep not for roads untraveled/ Weep not for sights unseen/ May your love never end and if you need a friend,/ There's a seat here alongside me” @mercurialkitty​ @katelynw93​

(NO Pressure Tagging)

WAYWARD PEEPS:

@carryonmywaywardcaptain @manawhaat @supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79-blog @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction @inmysparetime0 @impala-dreamer @arryn-nyxx @idk-life01 @attorneyl @deathtonormalcy56 @xwing-baby @wonder-cole @itsangelpie @thinkinghardhardlythinking

ANGST BABES:

@trexrambling @abbessolute @emptywithout

ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

@akshi8278 @will-winchester

Others Who May Be Interested:

If you are tagged here then you are either a favorite writer/artist of mine or were recently prominent in my tags or both :) *please let me know if you would like to be removed*

@idksupernatural @jellydeans @roonyxx​ @jay-and-dean​ @wanderingcas​ @idabbleincrazy​ @icecream-and-gadreel @thatmotleygirl @starrynightdeancas @that-one-gay-girl @on-a-bender @tearsofgrace @galaxycastiel @chaoticdean @the-chief-moosekateer @chevyharvelle @scoobydean @winchester-reload @moosewinchester @writethelifeyouwant @antifacas @caughtaghostsomehow @amionthetumbler @sloth-with-y-yo-a-ti-cas @rowdyhooliganism @katelynw93 @anaelsbrunette @castiel-left-his-mark-on-me @friedchickenangelwings @baconcheeseburger @seffersonjtarship @deanwinchesterswitch @heller-jensen @rainbowscas @myeyesarenotblue @i-do-know-and-idc @joined-at-the-everything @deanacasa @mercurialkitty @deanwanddamons @ilovebeingintroverted @fandommaniacx @lunaravenwillow @luci-in-trenchcoats @negans-lucille-tblr @smol-and-grumpy @graciehams @stusbunker @tlakhtwritesdestiel @waywardjoy @waywardbaby @wayward-and-worn @fangirlonamission @ughcas @herstarburststories @crashdevlin @thoughtslikeaminefield @mummybear @msmarvelouswinchester @atc74 @cockslut-padalecki @kittenofdoomage @there-must-be-a-lock @thecleverdame @katymacsupernatural @valleydean @thefriendlypigeon @impalaimagining @lizleeships @mariekoukie6661 @sunforgrace @gabester-sketch 

#cajunsuper600challenge #writing challenge #art challenge #supernatural #writing prompts #art prompts #spn family #tfw3.0