#gay ski weeks

[gaytravelinfo]

Frias Properties - Aspen/Snowmass

Frias Properties of Aspen Snowmass presents an impressive selection of over 130 vacation rentals in the Aspen Snowmass area, catering to a wide range of preferences. Our offerings include slope-side condos, budget-friendly hotel rooms, spacious private homes, and luxurious resort residences. With a rich history spanning five decades of serving visitors from around the world, we are committed to…

[wintersportism]

what’s the ship name for them and why is tschofe holding jan like it’s their prom pic

[guy60660]

Aspen Gay Ski Week

[qnewsau]

Falls Creek round out ski season celebrating inclusion and pride

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/falls-creek-round-out-the-ski-season/

Falls Creek round out ski season celebrating inclusion and pride

As other Vic snow locations cancel pride events due to weather, Falls Creek rounded out their season celebrating Gay Ski Week Australia.

With changing weather patterns, the snow conditions haven’t been ideal to hit the slopes this year.

So much so that frosty Pride weekends around Victoria were cancelled due to rain and wind.

But not at Falls Creek, which once again hosted Gay Ski Week Australia at the end of its 2024 season.

“Falls Creek lit up again this year with glitter, glamour and more good times during Gay Ski Week Australia.” Sarah from the Events & Marketing Team at Alpine Resorts Victoria said.

“The apre festivities created a special buzz around the village lighting up venues with colour, laughter.”

It was great to see our guests and our local community involved in the events. We can’t wait to see the event return for another fabulous program again in 2025.”

Celebrating its 14th year, Gay Ski Week Australia hosted ten days and nine nights of pride and fun on the mountain.

With a gaggle of LGBTQ+ people from all around Australia coming to Falls Creek, there were plenty of pride flags and colours on display.

Including performances, bingo and pride-filled events hosted by drag artists DJ Cliterally and Frock Hudson.

  View this post on Instagram

  A post shared by Falls Creek Official (@fallsaustralia)

“Pride Day with the Rainbow Run was a highlight!”Betony Pitcher, Field Marketing Manager Falls Creek said.

“It is wonderful seeing everyone getting dressed up and riding together,”

“It was also great to see the resort get involved with staff getting dressed up and venues decorated to celebrate Gay Ski Week.”

“We love hosting this event at Falls Creek and look forward to many more Gay Ski Weeks in the future!”

Weather didn’t rain on this pride parade

“We’ve never had weather like this before, but we still bring the snow every year, even with the wind,” said Adam Bold from Points of Difference Travel and Events.

“Everyone was still able to get out and ski over the ten days of the event with the lead-up to our Pride Day filled with skiing.”

The weather didn’t stop the pride events from continuing, including the GSWA Queer Film Night in partnership with Queer Screen.

Hosting the Australian premiere of The Fathers Project, the film imagined a world where the AIDS epidemic never happened, and heroes lived on, weaving history and fiction together.

“A little less skiing created a great opportunity to experience the businesses on the mountain, especially the ones that dragged up as part of our competition.” Adam said.

Pic by EFP-Photography

“Businesses really stepped up this year, with our winners the Cock and Bull not only decorating their business but painting rainbows on people’s faces as well.

“This year we added a new category to the competition after Snow Monkey stepped up on social media creating their own lip-synch music videos.”

“It just goes to show that there’s plenty of ways you can show your pride.”

“Seeing this kind of engagement from the businesses is special, especially when people can choose to be so negative on social media.”

“Year after year we see more support and enthusiasm around the Falls Creek Village, which means we aren’t the only ones bringing the pride.”

  View this post on Instagram

  A post shared by Sando’s SNOW MONKEY- Falls Creek (@snowmonkey_fallscreek)

Celebrating regional pride

Gay Ski Week Australia doesn’t just bring the community to Falls Creek but allows a space for our community already on the mountain to share in their pride.

With rainbow families and queer staff already on the mountain, the pride flags didn’t just fly for the Rainbow Run on Pride Day, but for the whole ten days.

“This year we saw more pride badges and pins on the mountain than ever before,” Adam said.

“It’s one thing for the stores to stock pride content while we are on the mountain, but another for people to buy it and wear it in solidarity.”

“On Father’s Day, there was a father on the ski lifts with their child holding a rainbow balloon and pride flag and that was lovely.”

That visibility continues as this year saw the regional communities join the groups from Melbourne and Sydney for Gay Ski Week Australia.

“We have the local community drive up and join us from Bright, as well as guests from Shepparton this year.”

“That’s something we’re very keen to encourage because Falls Creek is regional.”

“Creating a space for regional people to be their authentic selves on the mountain and enjoy their pride in a regional setting is so important.”

Gay Ski Week Australia 2025 runs from 29th August to 7th September at Falls Creek.

Find out more about Gay Ski Week Australia here.

Pic by EFP-Photography

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, and community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[bosguy]

Caption this photo

With the start of Winter Rendez Vous (gay ski week) at Stowe Mountain beginning today, I couldn't help but share this photo. Please share aa witty caption of your own as a comment as well.

Hopefully the caption I’ve shared below inspires you to offer up one or two of your own. Leave a funny caption in the comment section, and I’ll approve it for readers to enjoy. What happens at gay ski week, stays at gay ski week.

[vifilms]

cowgirl!abby delectably being crushed by the weight of your thighs, on the bed of her truck you lay, a prize to treasure as she laps at the golden nectar slipping on her tongue. her staple hat adorning on your head, looking better than it ever has on hers, abby thought. like an angel ascended from the heavens, you glow underneath the moonlight, the open skies in the privacy of her ranch, she claims what is so rightfully hers. whether you know it or not.

“my precious sweetheart, just can’t get enough of me — need me between these thighs of yours, huh?” her heeled boot digs into the dirt, putting all her weight behind the power of her velvet tongue. “my fingers filling your cunt? my baby can’t stop clenching. need more?” with the pressure in your stomach building, the consistent rocking of her truck, the friction of her tongue against your pussy tugs at a thread she always pulls so effortlessly. a toy she often loves to play with.

further, her two fingers slip into a depth she hasn’t reached with just her fingers, actually not a depth you’ve felt before. she continues to fuck like she was born to, making you see stars. “funny, bet that golden girl, what’s her name…..ellie? the one you parade around town, the one who loves you so deeply, doesn’t hold a candle to my hand, does she? such a small little thing, ain’t she…youneed a real woman to make you feel good.”

all you see is baby blues looking up at you as if she is the last person you’ll ever see; this is the last feeling you’ll ever experience. getting fucked into oblivion on the bed of her truck, one you know you’ll find yourself succumbed to ecstasy a week, a month, maybe even a day from now.

taglist: @plutolovesyou @brackishkittie @cristaliesz @only4theweeknd @tlouloser @marvelwomenarehot0 @grey-jedi12 @r3starttt @bittersu1te @pxgeturner @maxinephobia @marsworldd @aouiaa @mytwoseater @cherrybunny @twopeoplee @i-lov3-w0men @lvlymicha @half-of-a-gay

wanna be tagged?

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Is setting him free a one shot?? cuz I need more bestie😭

Meant To Be || LN4

Follow up to: Setting Him Free || Meant To Be || Yours, Always Summary: If you love someone, set them free; if they come back to you, it was meant to be.

Lando tracked your life through the lens of your camera and what you uploaded to Instagram. He remembered seeing the toll the journey took, sporadic pictures taken between stopovers where you smiled but it never quite reached your eyes. It took you nearly 40 hours to reach your destination and he waited with bated breath for you to finally post that you had safely arrived. 

Lando remembered the first time he saw you tagged in a photo with a stranger, his arm curled around your waist while you laughed happily with no regard to his heart that you still owned completely. It had only been six weeks since you left, yet you were happy in another man’s arms while he still hugged your pillow.

Lando had fallen into a rabbit hole of despair that night until Max came home and turned into a detective and searched for the stranger, finding every social media profile he had.

With a triumphant shout, Max ran into Lando’s room with his laptop and pulled the blankets off his friend’s head. “He’s gay!”

Hope fluttered in his chest as he sat up and snatched the laptop. His eyes scanned the photos and the captions of a man most definitely in love with another man and not you. “He’s gay? Fucking yes, mate! Thank you,” he gushed as he clutched his chest where his heart had started beating erratically at the news.

“Now you can get out of bed and stop moping,” Max stated as he tore the rest of the blankets away and opened the curtains. Lando curled onto his side away from the blinding light with a groan but Max was there, grabbing his ankle and dragging him off the bed. “Come on, you lump of sod, we’re going karting. But, honestly, you need a shower, bro, you stink.”

For a few months Lando found a new contentment with life. He trained, he raced, he hung out with his friends. But every time there was a lull of activity he found himself gravitating back to you. 

“Max, give me her number,” Lando ordered as he busted into the guest room his friend had moved into when you moved out. He had wanted to keep an eye on Lando and Lando, though initially annoyed at being babied, had come to enjoy having the company. 

Max groaned as he saw the time on the clock and wondered why Lando was awake at 3am. “It’s for emergencies. You’re meant to be keeping a distance, mate.”

The weather alerts set up on Lando’s phone had woken him before he darted down the hall to Max’s room.

“This is an emergency,” he rushed, clambering over the bed, kneeing Max in the process, and grabbed his phone off the charger. “There’s a fucking tropical cyclone.”

Max stopped fighting for his phone with a defeated sigh and fell back onto his pillow. “Say hi from me.”

Lando gave an affirmative grunt as he left, the call already starting the dial tone before he reached his room and shut the door.

Your phone had been going off with your family sending worried messages as soon as they heard about the cyclone headed your way. You thought you had finally got them to relax when a call came through, but it was Lando’s contact that appeared.

“Hey, Lan,” you greeted softly after committing to answer the call. “Are you okay?”

“That’s what I was going to ask,” he replied with a gravelly voice, reminding you it was early in the morning where he was. And he was not a morning person at the best of times. “I saw the news.”

“You’re a mother hen, you know.”

He chuckled as it wasn’t the first time you called him that when he worried about you. “I know, only because I have someone to remind me.”

“You really don’t need to worry,” you assured him, though the afternoon skies were much darker than normal as the storm quickly approached. “The locals are used to this and if they’re not concerned then I think it’ll be fine. You know how the news is, they dramatise everything.”

“You’re sure? Do you have supplies just in case power goes out? I can order whatever you need-”

“Lando, stop,” you chided him gently. “You don’t have to buy anything.”

You could imagine him pacing in his room, dodging the mess of clothes on the floor and a half unpacked suitcase from his last trip. You were always the organised one, the one who kept the house tidy while he was busy with work.

“I want to. I want to know you have everything you need, that you are being taken care of. You did that for me for so long, I want to return the favour.”

You rubbed your temples as you tried not to fall back into the place you had been six months ago. But it was hard not to miss him with every fibre of your being when he was the sweetest man you had ever known. “Even if I wanted you to, it’s impossible. They don’t exactly have online shopping on the island.” You giggled at the sound of disbelief that came through the phone. “Our supplies come by boat from the mainland.”

“And that’s your idea of fun?”

“I like the work we do here,” you said with a smile. “Need I remind you that some people like to go vroom vroom around in circles.”

“Har-har.” You could practically hear his eyes rolling around in his head before you heard the shuffle of his sheets as he climbed into bed. “We’re halfway there.”

“You’re not meant to be counting the days,” you reminded him, as though you didn’t have the days marked off on the calendar in your office.

“I tried not to.”

The wind started to pick up, brushing the hibiscus plant against your window with an incessant scraping noise. Then came the pitter-patter of the first drops of rain on the tin roof.

“Me too.” On the other side of the island lightning forked from the gathering clouds and a few seconds later the boom rattled the house. “I should probably go, you should be asleep.”

“Wait,” Lando shouted in your ear. “Just wait, please.”

You knew the delay was only going to make goodbye harder and your throat was already clogging with emotion. “I need to save my battery, Lan.”

“I know, I know.” He sighed and the sound lassoed your heart, slowly choking it as the seconds dragged on. “I just, I want you to know that I love you and I know that in another six months that’s still not going to change. Or a year, or however long it takes for you to do what you need to do.”

“Lan…”

“You don’t have to say it, I know it’s hard.”

“Lan-”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Would you shut up for one second,” you laughed as he rambled on. “I love you too.”

“Please stay safe.”

“I will, but you know it’s cyclone season here. They will be coming every couple of weeks.”

“Then I’ll call you for every single one,” he promised. “Gotta make sure my girl is okay.”

You laughed at his tenacity but quietly revelled in his words. “Good night, Lando, I’m glad you called.”

“I wish I called sooner.”

Click here for the final part.

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

---

Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for telling a guest his snowsuit was the trans pride flag?

okay so i work at a super popular ski resort in the midwest, and most of our clientele are white Straights. im like very obviously a tranny. there was one day that this guy came thru, his snow suit was black with the trans pride flag stripes all over it. he was sat in a gondola cabin with about 5 other men. he came by, and i was in a weird mood ig. i gushed over how "cute" his pride flag snow suit and "omg hun where can i get one🤗" and his friends just started going in on him. it was kinda gross to watch, but idk it felt satisfying? they continued to make fun of him relentlessly for the next 3 days, especially whenever they saw me "yooooo look he's still wearing it🤣how hilarious is that"

i know I just put that man thru about a week of hell, but it felt so perversely nice to get one over on a straight white man.

ive actually started doin in to everyone i see in pride flag colors (its a crazy high amount of people???), and like ill only "assume" that folks here are gay

ex: this guy lost his gf on the mountain, and he didnt say her gender so I was calling her "your partner", "oh I hope you can find them soon!", "omg i hope ur bf gets to you asap :(" and he seemed rather frustrated with me over that but like. fuck em?

so. am i the asshole for "assuming" everyone is queer even if its obvious they arent?

What are these acronyms?

[mediumgayitalian]

fic rec friday 16

hi!! welcome to fic rec friday. every week, i pick five fics i have bookmarked and rec them with a little review. check them out!

best friend, baby by @ghosttotheparty*

“You— You make me feel so… good,” he finishes lamely, his head void of any words that could describe it, because how can Will describe the peace he finds in Nico’s presence, or the way he feels like he can finally breathe whenever Nico looks into his eyes? “You’re my favourite person,” he breathes. “My best friend.”

hooooooo boy the intimacy tag was NOT joking. i was gagged. yall tell me all the time how high u value will angst and like....this one DEVASTATED me for him??? like do yall ever think about how the first dialogue we hear from will in nico's perspective is self-loathing. yall ever think about how nico has always known him hating himself. well this author did. "i know you hate yourself but just because you hate yourself doesnt mean everyone else does too" hey what if we FOUGHT. also im going back in to all my FRFs to star my FAVE FAVE FAVE fics bc this is one of them LET ME TELL YOU.

2. just a dumb game by @ghosttotheparty

Nico di Angelo is not a party person. But Will Solace is going to be there. So.

they are SO FUCKING GAY and SO FUCKING IN LOVE and SO FUCKING STUPID. god i love them so fucking bad like they are inherently down bad obsessed with each other and this is how they should be. this is the way of the world.

3. even in the silver light by @ghosttotheparty

Nico is back. Will is still smitten.

first of all. latino and nb will. thank you. second of all. i am (obviously) obsessed with this author bc they KILLLLLL w burning intimacy. like you have no idea they write them like there is a twice burning fire only alive within them it's CRAZZZYYY. i also fckn LOVE that this is like. okay so the author says its plotless and it is kind of 45k of plotless, yes, but idk theres something to be said of love as a plot?? of learning and loving each other as a storyline.

4. splash by @ghosttotheparty

Annabeth is reading her favourite book. Someone walks directly into her.

yeah okay i think this is another one author week. sue me. this fic made me GRIN okay. it was so fucking cute and sweet and soft and autistic annabeth my beloved!! my love and light!! they are so in love in every universe fr and i fckn LOVE them dude i am OBSESSED. when this author writes people together it's as if you can hear them click.

5. isnt she lovely by @ghosttotheparty

Their eyes always meet in the halls. Her eyes are grey and shiny, and they make Percy think of stormy skies and marble sculptures. (She could be a marble sculpture, in the entrance of a museum, surrounded by scholars and artists and mesmerised passersby. Fucking beautiful in a way that only art ever is.) - - - Percy has had a crush on Annabeth since eighth grade. (He doesn’t know she likes him too.)

percy hitting the ground when annabeth kisses him 😭😭 HES SO REAL. i just recced this fic on instagram and i am here reccing it again bc it is EXCELLENT. i rly rly love to see pjotv percabeth in fic like i DO. theyre so fucking cute. and i LOVE how this author writes autistic annabeth!! it is so important to me!!! and this one is so CUTE like percy had such a huge crush on him.....like not just he liked her he had a CRUSH on her. god. i am melting.

thank you for joining me this friday!! happy reading!!

[specialagentlokitty]

Carol Danvers x reader - always a little jealous

Heyyy OMG I love reading your works so much. I admire you for having the time and inclination to write so much of it. I'm always busy, but when I have time, I lose inspiration for anything 😭. I have a request for Danvers x reader. How about we switch roles now and make Carol jealous of the reader, pleasee. As I already said, I love your works and I would be happy if you wrote it with willingness and inspiration 💖 because I wouldn't want you to be too busy. Have a nice evening/day depending on when you read this 😘🥰 - Anon💜

Hand in hand with your girlfriend, you smiled up a little at her before turning back to the beach in front of you.

“When do you have to go again?” You asked.

Carol sighed softly, giving you hand a small squeeze.

“In a couple of weeks, I don’t know when I’ll be back I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, I understand. You do important stuff.”

Carol turned you to face her, and she placed her hand on your cheek.

“You’re the most important aspect of my life, you know that right?”

“Of course I do sweetheart.”

Leaning forward, you kissed her cheek and leant into her so you could go back to watching the beach.

You loved watching the water, and with everything going in space and the universe, it was relaxing for her to just stand there.

No aliens.

No wars.

Just you.

The beach.

The slowly setting sun.

It was these moments that helped her get through everything.

Carol stood behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“What’ll you do while I’m away?”

“I’ll probably just work, though I got a holiday with Benny soon.”

“Benny?”

“Yeah, you remember my friend at work?”

You felt Carol nod her head.

“Yeah it’s him, we’re both heading to France for a week.”

“France? Really?”

You turned around, leaning against the railing and you looked at her, raising a brow in question.

“What’s wrong with France?”

“You’re going on a holiday with your friend to one of the most romantic counties?”

“Oh my god Carol, we’re just going skiing.”

You ducked under her arms, going to the railing you sat on the ground and dropped under it into the sand.

“Hey! Don’t run!”

Carol climbed over and jumped down, jogging over to catch up to you.

“But why France? That’s our thing…”

“Cause it’s one of the best ski resorts we could find, plus we’re going to do some exploring.”

“But that’s our thing, plus he hits on you.”

You looked at her.

“Carol, Benny doesn’t hit on me.”

She stood in front of you, stopping you from walking away from her.

“He hugs you all the time, gets as close as he can to you, he’s always complimenting you. He kissed your cheek the other day in front of me…” she grumbled.

“Yeah, that’s normal you know that.”

Carol walked over to you, walking behind you she wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder.

“But you’re not his, you’re mine… I’m dating you now him…”

“I’m yours?” You laughed slightly.

“Uh huh…”

Carol placed a kiss on your shoulder then one on your cheek, holding you a little tighter.

“I don’t appreciate people trying to take you away…”

“Carol?”

She hummed.

You rested your head on hers.

“He’s gay sweetheart.”

“Oh…”

You laughed, turning in her arms so you could look at her.

Carol grinned a little bit at you.

“You are so jealous!” You laughed loudly.

“I am not…” she grumbled.

Leaning forward, you softly kissed her before pulling away.

“It’s okay to be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous…”

“You’re jealous of a gay guy.”

Carol placed her forehead against yours, and you smiled a little bit.

“So jealous…”

“Shut up…”

You laughed, and leant forward to kiss her again before pulling away.

You tired to wonder off but Carol took your hand, holding it in hers so you couldn’t walk away.

She was definitely jealous but she wasn’t going to admit that, but you knew despite knowing about Benny she was still going to be jealous

[blakbonnet]

AUTHOR OF THE WEEK: @soupbtch

Ever read a fic and go "they're so 😭" - that's every single Danny fic to me, aka today's second aotw feature, and god, what an amazingly talented author they are.

I'm so glad you decided to write and grace us with your lovely and bonkers fics, because I cannot imagine the OFMD fic world without your incredible Every Part of You series. I cannot imagine logging into this website without another incredible post from you. Every single thing you write (and do) leaves me in stitches and then, more often than not, you straight up chair your friends with your ultra soft way of writing how much they love each other - in between the much needed elbow fucking. You are such an amazingly kind person - hilarious, supportive, and the best cheerleader 💕 Thank you for answering my questions:

What's your writing process like? Do you start with the beginning or the end? Do you write in order or as the scenes come to you?

I start with a pretty detailed outline because if I don’t go in with a plan, I’ll drop threads and/or write myself in circles. Then I have my outline open on half of my screen while I have a separate doc open on the other half where I’m actually writing. I write in order from beginning to end.

Favourite trope or headcanon you like to explore while writing? (Things like Ed's sweet tooth, Stede's ability to bury his feelings etc)

I have a lot of fun writing angst, so I think any facet of that I can explore is a good time. Weigh them down with insecurities and see how far I can bend them with external factors like plot points, each other, or other characters before they snap. So things like Stede believing he ruins everything he touches, Ed believing he doesn’t deserve fine things, and how they both stand in the way of their own happiness because of these feelings. I also love exploring like, the horrible communication skills Ed and Stede have with each other when it comes to their emotions, and setting up story beats where that intercommunication can break down. Because they’re idiots (affectionate).

Whose voice is easier to write - Ed or Stede? Why?

Ed for sure. I find him very easy to connect with, emotionally. All my favorite characters think they’re unlovable monsters and no, this says NOTHING about me personally, etc etc etc.

Your personal favourite thing you've written that you'd like more people to read

Red Skies at Night! It's modern au, but they're still on a boat! If you like slow burn, bitchy Stede, Ed with a tongue piercing, fun costumes, and a big dash of pining, I def recommend checking it out!! ❤️

What is the one word that you think you use a lot?

The one that comes to mind is ‘blink.’ Kind of a funny one, but to me, it’s such a juicy way to imply so much while saying so little, so I know I use it frequently. Stede asks, “Do you trust me?” and Ed blinks back at him as he tries to work out why that question hits him like a truck (because the answer is a very easy yes). Ed says, “You make me happy,” and Stede blinks back at him in awe (because Stede? Making someone happy? That can’t be true). You get it.

Do you have a beta reader? Have they made you a better writer?

Yes, Beedle (@sleepystede) and Connie (@spirker) have both beta read for me! They’ve helped me tremendously with flow and rewording awkward sentences, and I’ve improved a lot from their feedback. Connie has also been invaluable to bounce ideas off of for new fics and just generally pushing me to be more creative through her never-ending support and big beautiful brain.

Why OFMD 🥹

I loved season 1 when I first watched it, but as soon as I saw the season 2 trailer, something clicked in my brain. Where season 1 was slow burn, will-they-won’t-they, is this real or are they queerbaiting, season 2 was posing itself as very, very clearly queer. Stede is going to get his man. That’s it, that’s the show. Undisguised, unabashed, unapologetic gay yearning and gay romance. There are a million other things I can say, but I think it really all comes down to that. What a gift. No one does it like our show. 💖

Please head over to @ofmdlovelyletters (who also made the header) and send your love to all your favourite authors (and authors of the week 😈 watch that blog for some special letters coming your way)

[misskattylashes]

Alex... Miles and the AM machine– some ruminations

I have been doing some more thinking about the PR machine that surrounds AM...

These people who perpetually feed the straight image (the LA/NY set) with the exception of Matt and Louise, we never see Alex hanging out with socially. On saying that, yes, he was seen with Matt at the Fontaine’s gig the other week, but AM and the Fontaine’s share management, so technically this could still go under work. As for Louise, all we see are staged pap walks or photos taken by Zackery Michael (who is part of the LA/NY set anyway), the only exception being the grainy picture of Alex and Louise taken by Roscoe (JapanDuran) earlier this year in the pub....in London.

So, looking at the bigger picture there are this group of people all on social media who comment and like Louise’s PR posts, drawing attention to her, and at the same time, these people openly shun Miles (who let’s face it is the thorn in their side and the constant reminder that Alex isn’t the person they’re trying to promote), as a Brit this looks weird to me because to us, love him or hate him, Miles has always been in the picture. Even for the few hours the pap holiday photos were up on the Daily Fail website last year, British people were commenting ‘he’d prefer it if it were Miles Kane’ ‘he’d be happier with Miles Kane’, but I am assured that in the US in particular very little is known about Miles, so therefore all people see is this smoke and mirrors effect of people who are supposed to be close to Alex (although we never see him with them) blowing smoke up Louise’s backside so it must be real..

Which brings me to another couple of points

Is it a deliberate act on management’s part that Miles never plays the US? Okay his fanbase is small but are you telling me Miles would pass up the chance of playing to a sweaty club that held 200 people? Is he discouraged by management from playing the US because too much exposure would lead to fans looking more into his relationship with Alex? Including the fact that Alex gave up the LA lifestyle to move back to London within months of Miles moving back.

And Alex. How much control does he really have? I think he has control creatively (ie what the songs are about) and things like stage design. But I think he has less control than we imagine. Why is it we got one B side from TBHC and none from The Car? Are you telling me every song they wrote and recorded was good enough to make the cuts of both albums, or was it both albums are deeply personal and they didn’t want us hearing ones that were possibly more revealing?

On tour why didn’t we get Jet Skis (but Alex starts Star Treatment by singing ‘I just wanted a jet ski for the moat), no Golden Trunks...Mr Schwartz... too personal? Too gay? Why the ‘I don’t wanna be hers’ outbursts, quite often when the ‘her’ is in the audience.

Who was it who conveniently broadcast that AM were on their way to Glastonbury? Louise...but once again she was not seen with Alex once during the whole festival.

What was his pay off for having Miles with him for the final dates of the tour? No collaborations? No grand gestures during 505 only a hug in the dark...(let’s not forget the pic of Miles meeting the manager days before the gig).

What I am trying to get at is that I don’t think Alex has as much control over AM as we think. The public image is out of his hands and I think that is why when he is forced to play the game, that’s why he looks so miserable.

[ahsoka-in-a-hood]

When I was a child, for reasons I do not really remember, I asked another boy "what's it like, your dad being gay?" Because my parents had told me his parents had gotten divorced because his father ran off with a man. Turns out the boy had NOT been given nearly as much information as me, so he had a crisis about that for the rest of the ski lift ride, most of which I don't really remember, except for him exclaiming that this did explain the pictures he'd found on his dad's computer. Over 10 years later, my aunt asked me not to mention to my grandparents that she and her companion were getting married and everything. I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. 10 years I didn't slip. In general I actually quite like dropping "my aunt's wife" when it comes up in conversation because I live in another country and I can gauge the reaction and also, frankly, I'm quite proud of her. But I had no intention of breaking my promise, no. 10 years later it fucking slipped out. I was helping the carer and we were chatting. I told her my aunt's wife is an excellent cook and supplied me with severval meals. My grandma is absolutely listening to everything we say around her even though she's too weak to talk herself. 10 years on, grandma in her last weeks, I did it again. The fuckening,

[shieldofiron]

Vibe Check Part 8

You Can Sleep When You're Dead

The Frat Boy Au

Read Previous on Ao3 or tumblr.

Steve doesn’t know what time it is when the door swings open.

“Honey, I’m home!” Billy announces in a booming voice, flinging his keys vaguely in the direction of the hooks by the door.

“Sorry, Steve.” Carver bustles in, scooting around Billy and grabbing the wastepaper basket, positioning it next to Billy’s bed.

Steve blinks into the light coming from the hallway, seeing only the vaguest outline of a female form. Did Billy bring home a girl from the bar? Maybe Carver did, because he can’t imagine a girl wanting to stick around for Billy in this state.

Only a few people can handle Billy like this. Argyle and Argyle’s girlfriend Eden are used to him. Steve is pretty used to it too, although he’s gone a few weeks without it.

Is it weird to say he’s missed it. Missed Billy’s drunken rants about gossip, the way he moves a little sloppier, not so tightly wound.

Steve misses him. Present tense. He feels like all he does lately is miss him.

And his eyes hurt but he refuses to close them, watching Billy take out his wallet and lay it on his dresser with supreme concentration. Steve'd been up the night before reading the queer theory that Robin had sent him because apparently gay porn and being in love with a man wasn’t enough.

And he’d also held Robin’s hair tonight when she’d puked in the bushes. Luckily Heather Holloway agreed to walk her back to Heather’s sorority house or he’d have let her sleep here too. Blessedly Eddie’s girlfriend had taken the night off too, so at least they didn’t have to contend with that too.

When he’d finally gotten around to asking about Billy, the party was over, and only Eddie had offered a halfhearted explanation.

Guilt crept over him now as he watched Billy struggle out of his jeans, bare ass on full display.

Steve pushed himself up and reached over to his desk to retrieve the open box of Alka Seltzer. Billy snatches it out of his hand before Carver can add it to a bottle of water.

“For me? Oh, Stevie. You shouldn’t have,” Billy began to struggle with the paper wrapper.

“I’ve got it,” Carver said.

“I’ll just eat them dry,” Billy said.

Carver winced.

“He will too,” Steve muttered, “get in bed, asshole. Quit fucking around.”

Billy drops the alka seltzer to the floor and Carver topples over trying to retrieve it with a very un-Carver-like giggle. 

Great. They’re both drunk as skunks.

At least that’s a good excuse as to why Billy yanks on a pair of Steve’s sweats and pulls back Steve’s covers to get in beside him.

“Hey!” Steve is cold for a moment before it’s replaced with a blistering guilty heat and Billy, warm and sweet.

Billy snuggles right up next to him and takes the offered bottle from Carver like a little princeling, born to the Manor. Steve looks blearily towards the hallway but it’s empty now. Maybe he imagined the girl after all.

“Billy, you can’t-” Carver says, frowning.

“It’s fine. We’ve shared beds plenty of times,” Steve says weakly. It’s true. They bunked together last year on the ski trip and it was no big deal.

They were just plastered from ankle to chest and Billy’s hair was adorably askew after he threw off his t-shirt.

“Have it your way.” Carver throws up his hands and he moves the trash can to Steve’s side, throwing Billy an inscrutable look.

Billy sucks down the still fizzing water bottle with a disgusting slurp before turning into Steve’s chest, curling into himself.

It is disgusting of Steve’s heart to skip, but it does, and it’s disgusting that he thinks w e’re not alone with a mix of disappointment and panic. But he does.

Steve is disgusting, not because he has gay porn on his phone or because he has feelings for Billy. But because he can’t control these wayward thoughts, can’t seem to corral himself. He wants to brush Billy’s static-y curls back. He wants to feel Billy’s sweat sticky skin and have it not be a big deal but it is.

“Thanks, Carver,” Billy croaks. “I’m still gonna kick his ass.”

“I know, Cheryl.” Carver nods. “You… you take care of yourself, alright?”

“I’ve got him,” Steve says.

Carver nods again, like a little blonde bobblehead. “Kay. Uh… goodnight. Want me to get the light?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Steve says, worried that his voice is giving him away. He should ask Carver to stay. Not because anything’s gonna happen. Just because he can’t be alone with these thoughts.

And then they’re alone in the dark. Steve and Billy. Not alone like that, just… alone.

Steve lies stiff as a board while Billy won’t stop curling closer.

“You have a good time?” Steve asks after a period of silence that feels at once way too long and way too short.

Billy snuffles a little, adorably, “Yeah.”

“Why’d you leave the party?” He hates how he sounds. Needy, like a girlfriend.

Something seems to wash over Billy then, and his limbs rustle a little, settling around Steve a little differently.

“No reason,” he says lightly. “Carver and I just decided to go out for a bit.”

The stab of jealousy is expected, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Billy never used to leave a party Steve was at. Not without taking Steve. And the feeling is worse close up, with the bear sticky smell of Billy skin tight.

He could just turn his head and kiss Billy and get pushed away. He could push Billy out of the bed, too. Both would probably be a relief.

So he’s not sure why he chooses the pain. He stays there, breathing lightly. Not trying to touch Billy, and not moving away either. Lightning crackles over his skin with every brush against Billy. It’s so close to what he’s imagined when he’s trying not to imagine it.

They could be together so easily. Walk each other to class and come back to their room. Kiss and play wrestle and fuck with each other and fuck too. They could be together, all the things Steve has wanted forever, if Billy wouldn’t hate his guts for him even suggesting it.

He’s only ever been on the edge of feeling this once before, with Nancy. He thought they could be everything to each other: best friends and lightning and thunder.

But that was all a lie.

And this is too much to take in at once. Being gay is the easiest part to understand, it almost feels soothing.

But being in love with Billy is much harder, much more painful. It feels like he’s seeing a glimpse of everything he’s dreamed of again, only to see it dashed before it even had a chance.

And Steve knows it’s shabby that he hasn’t been talking to Billy, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He wants to be near him so badly but he doesn’t know if he can bear it.

And so he just lies there, not moving, listening to Billy’s breathing even out, feeling Billy’s arms go heavy. Until Steve eventually can join him in that in between place, letting go.