#in the normalest way possible

[girltrickyuri]

i would let her preform medical malpractice on me

[kosmicdream]

my comics dont have a big fandom or anything, which has its pros and cons! (the cons are that i dont have as much money and i am attention starved at ALL times) but sometimes i try to imagine what discourse would happen if it did.. like obviously theres still discourse that still happens!! but it doesn't really develop/last the same way.. i dont think id handle big fandom discourse well, so its probably a good thing it isnt like that. but also i love drama and watching people fight abt my characters would probably be a bit entertaining. like the evil grinch aspect of me wants to see fandom wars.. although i guess its still very hard to imagine FFAK/NRD ever getting like "Big" you know. is that kind of thing still possible for webcomics?? i mean.. i guess??? im sure it happens? i dont know, im just thinkin' out loud. NRD is over 1000 pages long now, and soon NRD/FFAK combined will have over 10k pages. i have technically drawn over 10k pages if you add up ALL my comics.. but like just those two alone will have that many.. and what have i learned as a storyteller? at least one or two things i guess. i cannot be good at all the types of storytelling, but i can create psychosexual slapstick comedy horror dramas that make it difficult to recommend to your friends

[fappellmoan]

i’m sorry i get so obnoxious about this but it’s really still so jarring to hear people Everywhere casually referring to chappell roan. i literally feel like… who are you… idk like get out. i have literally left a room before bc i got fed up listening to someone’s thoughts on her. lowkey. i get so defensive over that bitch it’s not even funny and it’s not an agree to disagree with the way that she skyrocketed it’s a You can shut your mouth and keep it to yourself. even if people are speaking Nicely about her i feel like im sitting with my arms crossed straight faced ready to judge if you can pass go or not. im 5’3 btw

[hirokiyuu]

there's always a line in your writing that makes me as a reader stop and go "!!! wow :0" whether it's your tone or phrasing or imagery or some other coalescence of what you're describing or trying to convey. for the recent leona/yuujin fic you shared it was "It’s a pretty picture, objectively speaking. Too bad Leona’s a prince--he sees pretty things every day." emotionally it really hit me hard!! then later the follow-up with "And again, Leona’s a prince, he’s no stranger to pretty things, but--". the inner interruption!! aaaaa! great job as always :) love how your oc affects leona

THANK YOU..................................... (CRYING A LITTLE READING THIS)

[serpulalacrymans]

no need anymore ! i already came when you called me dumb <3

thanks for the free nutt daddyking !

I'm just that good! I'm just that good!!

..You're really just goin', huh?

Okay.

Good riddance, anyway. Bitch.

[jentlemahae]

not to sound too insane but mark and i would be such a terrible couple

[major-fukkup]

Astarion will literally drink your blood until you die if you let him lmaoooo

[three-eyed-elk]

YESYYEYRYWGSHAYAYYAY pleapslelkdpwlsleblue i will pay for. poster. of art. sniffle sob .

would new merch ever be available? i would do unspeakable crimes for a quality poster of your chnt artworks.

Aw shucks.. well I will say I am currently in contract with an artist where we just started on a big thing and we may (likely) strike a merch deal down the line when I can swing it.. which would be so cool!

I don't think you want my lil ol' visuals.. My penmanship is not fantastic and nowhere near worth money. I don't believe I have the professional skills to sell my art, but I am glad you like it. Smiles at you.

[stupidphototricks]

(Sorry I disappeared for a while, life happened. Well, in this case work happened, which you know, not at all the same thing. Anyway.)

The next Discworld book in my random selection was The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents.

But people were people, even if they had four legs and had called themselves names like Dangerous Beans, which is the kind of name you gave yourself if you learned to read before you understood what all the words actually meant, and reading the warning notices and the labels on the old rusty cans gave you names you liked the sound of. -- Terry Pratchett, The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

I love this concept, reminds me of Ford Prefect choosing his name with only a confused understanding of Earth, or Ramona Quimby naming her doll Chevrolet just because she liked the sound of it. I think this is very nearly all of the rat names in the book, I tried to keep track but I may have missed one or two:

Dangerous Beans Darktan Peaches Bitesize Feedsfour Hamnpork Donut Enter Sardines Inbrine Bestbefore Farmhouse Nourishing Specialoffer Big Savings Delicious  Kidney  Fresh Tomato Toxie Additives Sellby

The thing is, this is a really interesting list. If I were making a list of names that someone might choose with if they didn't know anything but words on cans, I would probably slide more or less unconsciously into a theme. "Corn, Tuna In Oil, Artichoke Hearts, Beef Broth" or "Healthy Choice, Gluten Free, Original Flavor." But this list is just... anything. Everything. Way more creative.

Sometimes the name has the original spacing, sometimes not. Sometimes it's the biggest word on the label, and sometimes it's in the fine print. At least one of the names (Dangerous Beans) comes from (presumably) two entirely different sources. Why not? Different people (rats) would absolutely choose their names differently.

And it's kind of fascinating how well these randomish names seem to fit the characters and personalities. Could Sardines really be anything but a tap-dancing rat with a hat?

So there's a punchline of sorts. After all of these rats whose names are very important to them, then there's the (human) kid, whose name we don't even find out until chapter 4.

“You never said you had a name!” said Maurice. “No one ever asked before,” said the kid. “Keith is not a promising name start,” said Malicia. “It doesn’t hint of mystery. It just hints of Keith. Are you sure it’s your real name?” “It’s just the one they gave me.” -- Terry Pratchett, The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents

Possibly the normalest name in all of Discworld, Keith. Hardly worth mentioning. (No offense to any Keiths out there, I quite like the name, but you have to admit it's no Moist Von Lipwig.)

[ro-sham-no]

Motel Parking Lot Reverie

Sam had never been down this way before, but the sleepless nights were piling up, lately, and since Jess had moved in, pacing through his apartment late at night was out, so: Late-night walks to new areas of town.

Or,

While at Stanford, Sam finds Dean asleep in a motel parking lot.

cw: minor blood mention, gencest (in the most gen sense of the term)

Sam had never been down this way before, but the sleepless nights were piling up, lately, and since Jess had moved in, pacing through his apartment late at night was out, so: Late-night walks to new areas of town.

He’d made it a point, back when he’d first gotten to school, to not look at the yellow pages. Stanford was his ticket to safety, and being normal was a crucial part of that scheme, which meant not knowing exactly where his family would turn up- would have. Would have turned up, if he weren’t living this fever dream life where every waking moment was tainted with the un-ignorable flavor of losing the only home Sam’d ever had.

Anyway, normal: Sam was The Normalest Guy Ever™ and that meant avoiding looking at the first page of motels listed in the phonebook, alright? Don’t worry about it. But now, turns out he didn’t need that listing, after all. The proof, the undeniable, shining black, chrome-accented proof, was glaring him in the face. 

Just casually on a stroll, but setting a brisk pace, because even though he’s a big guy, walking with confidence doesn’t hurt your chances of not getting mugged. Then, cue record scratch, cue “I bet you’re wondering how I got here” monologue, cue the what the fuck, is that really– yep, it must be– what the fuck cliche of it all, all while standing twenty feet away, having just turned the street corner. Sam would recognize that car anywhere, as soon as she came into view, naturally. And to think he came down this side street randomly, to think it was all by accident. What the fuck.

An uncomfortable, gnawing thought containing the words fate and in the end, it all comes back to this flitted through his mind, but he swiftly ignored it; there were more relevant problems at hand. Such as, if Dean had a motel room, why was he passed out in the Impala? And, what would happen if I used the spare key I kinda-sorta stole to unlock the door right now?

Wait, what?

No, no, no- absolutely not, there was no way Sam would get any closer than the current fifty feet of space he had put between him and Dean the car. After getting fifteen feet too close on instinct, hence seeing Dean lying across the seat, Sam wasn’t taking any chances and had moved much farther back.

And yet, when Sam looked down, his feet had moved three feet forward. A single, halting stride. He looked at the car, then back down at his feet, and- there! It happened again!

Clearly, his shoes were possessed and he needed to tear them off his feet and burn them, as quickly as possible. Fuck- he got distracted (damn those shoes!) and fifty feet had reduced to thirty. Shit. Twenty feet, now. Two. Sam gripped the nearby lamppost, unlit, for support. In resisting, for support in resisting, the- uh, the possessed shoes! Obviously. Not because the unobstructed view of Dean’s face for the first time in nearly four years made him weak in the knees, and in the heart. Definitely not.

His fingers burned. The key in his pocket, never taken off of his had-since-high-school key chain, burned. His lungs burned. Since when did his breath get so fast? And was it just him, or was the brisk night air suddenly sweltering? What is happening? Maybe these shoes really are possessed—

The thought process went like this: Cursed object. Heart attack. Hex bags. Collapsed lung. Blood loss. Hemorrhaging, hemorrhaging. Blood loss.

Dean— right in front of him, Dean, two feet away, right fucking there— was suddenly covered in blood. Sam’s responding lurch snapped him out of it; he looked again, and the blood was gone.

The silence, loud and quiet as the ocean and Sam’s own tinnitus, rolled and crashed against his ear. Not dying, no— scared. 

A barked, wooden laugh garbled in his throat as he tried to stifle it. Scared.

The door handle of the Impala gleamed menacingly (menacingly!) in the glare of the half-moon, and Sam gulped non-existent spit down his suddenly dry and aching throat. Yep. Scared.

Hilarious. Real fuckin’ funny. More than a lifetime’s worth of death and danger and fighting for his life and fighting for his brother’s and father’s lives, and he’s scared of a goddamn door. 

Sam’s free hand flitted up to touch the car — when had he dug out his keys? — but it stopped two inches from the black paint. He took his hand back, conscious of it now, and put the keys back in his pocket, careful not to jingle them, a surefire way to wake Dean up. Keys secured, Sam reached back out, bare-handed and trembling, and placed his splayed hand gingerly against Baby’s side, like a gentling touch to a horse’s flank, keeping it still. His hand was firm on the steel, since he was half-convinced the awful door would spring open at any moment, exerting his will without lifting a finger.

Dean’s chest moved up and down steadily, dead asleep. The door stayed shut.

Sam exhaled shakily, through pursed lips, mouth tense as he minutely began to pull his hand away. Both his hands came up to either side of his face, a universal sign of what the fuck am I doing, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit— but also covering his ears, clutched close and squeezing, just as his eyes squeezed shut, too, his breath coming in quick bursts, again, hitching and painful.

His eyes snapped back open just as fast, though, scanning every inch of the scene before him — the graceful gleam of the Impala’s leather seats. Dean’s slack mouth. Dean’s drool on his arm where it was tucked under his head. Dean’s shitty green cooler that he should really give up on lugging around. Dean’s, Dean’s, Dean’s– Dean, whole, peaceful but for a small furrow in his brow that Sam hadn’t seen before. Dean, uninjured and driving around with the two pieces of Sam’s life that were the most integral to his definition of home: the Impala, and Dean himself. All absorbed, all stolen from the peaceful nightscape and tucked away into the webs of Sam’s fingers and behind his ears and in between his teeth and wherever he could fit them, really, all in the span of the few seconds Sam felt he could spare. 

Sam’s breath was hiccuping, at this point, but no, his eyes were not wet, thank you very much- this was grand larceny, not a damn soap opera. His foot shifted back in the loose gravel, just barely loud enough to be heard through the hands over his ears, but it was enough, setting him off like a track field gunshot. He ran. 

Hands off his ears, now, swinging him into his stride; more loud gravel, more hiccuped gasps, more not-tears, more stolen visages clutched tight, and a resolute decision to not glance backward to see if Dean had woken up. A thief in the night. He ran.

...

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced But never quaked before. I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.

- Emily Dickinson

[chaos-has-theories]

[raspberryrotten]

♡ [Degradation & Cumming in Pants] × [Law/Reader] ♡

This fic is also on AO3: [HERE]

✎ 2900 words

♡ You Are:  Lawrence’s coworker from his warehouse job. You two hardly know each other but you’ve always found him cute.

♡ Plot Peek:  You and Lawrence end up alone at the bar after a group hangout. He’s awkward, easily embarrassed, and clearly inexperienced, so you push him a little. He doesn’t know how to handle it.

♡ A/N: He is literally so normal. Lawrence Oleander is literally the normalest guy in the world.

⚠ TWs: Virgin Shaming, Public Humiliation, Implied Future Kidnapping

BTD (Boyfriend to Death), TPOF (The Price of Flesh), and YKMET (You Kill Me Every Time) are horror-porn games intended for adult audiences. These fics may include canon-typical violence, disturbing content, and dark psychological themes. They are not suitable for minors.

⎯⎯⎯ ❝ NSFW AHEAD ❞ ⎯⎯⎯

The Braying Mule smells like fried pickles and spilled beer, which is honestly more charm than fault. It’s the kind of place that hasn’t updated its decor since the ’80s and has only grown stronger for it. It’s full of dark wood, scuffed floors, and cracked leather seating that sticks to the backs of your thighs. Half the night shift from PrimePath Warehouses have gathered here tonight, sweating through their uniforms and hollering to be heard.

You’re wedged into a booth, a greasy basket of something fried in front of you and a watered-down whiskey sour at your elbow. Work had let you leave early after the AC cut out and the union guy said it was a human rights violation, but the sweat still clung to your skin.

Across from you, one of your coworkers is halfway through a story and well past decency. He leans back with one arm stretched across the booth, beer in hand, grinning like he knows he’s full of shit.

“—and I told him, If he’s gonna cry when I fuck him, least he could do is make it sound pretty,” he barks, laughing so hard he nearly drops his drink.

The others howl. Someone slams a hand on the table

You roll your eyes, chewing slowly on something that might’ve once been chicken. Crude as ever. If that man had a filter, he sold it for beer money a long time ago. He talks about his boyfriend like the guy is a stress toy. Not that anyone ever stops him. The guy works hard, lifts double pallets without breaking a sweat, and makes a game out of fucking with the foreman. Everyone loves him.

And honestly? You don’t really mind. You treat him as just background noise. Your attention’s been elsewhere tonight.

Lawrence is half-hidden at the edge of the group, looking like he regrets ever stepping out of the house this morning, possibly like he regrets being born. Hoodie zipped too high, hair barely tied back, sweat clinging to his hairline.

You’ve never seen him on a night out before. Hell, you’ve barely exchanged ten words with the guy in the whole time you’ve known him. He barely looks up from the line during shifts, skittish as hell, afraid of eye contact. And yet, he’s out tonight, nursing a vodka soda for far too long, trying not to flinch every time someone shouts.

In the background, your coworker is still going, relentless. “Swear to God, I love that mouth. ‘Specially when he’s pissed at me. Gets real quiet, real pouty. He knows I’ll fuck it outta him. Every time.”

Somehow, that kicks off a round of oversharing, everyone trying to one-up each other. Stories about exes, hookups, drunk mistakes that turned into repeat offenders. Nothing sacred.

“Swear, I didn’t even know his name,” one guy says, grinning. “Didn’t matter. Best head I ever got.”

“You remember your first time?” someone else asks.

“Hell yeah. I was sixteen. In the back of her stepdad’s truck. Damn near saw God.”

They start going around the table. You’re only half-listening. That is, until someone nudges Law with a lazy elbow.

“What about you?”

He blinks, clearly caught off-guard. “Huh?”

“First time.”

He hesitates. Just a little too long. That’s all it takes.

“Wait, no way,” the loudmouth says, eyes wide like he just struck gold. “Don’t tell me you’ve never—”

Law looks like he wants to vanish.

“Shiiit,” the guy laughs, slapping the table. “You’ve never had your dick sucked? At your age?”

The table pops off, everyone giving an opinion. You watch Law shrink down by the second, shoulders curling inward, face red and stiff.

“Shit,” someone laughs, jabbing a thumb toward him. “I never see this one talk to anyone. Real quiet, huh?”

Another voice pipes up, louder: “You still a virgin, or what, Lawrence?”

Law’s face goes red, high and fast, like a kettle about to whistle. Pure, deer-in-headlights mortification.

The loudmouth cuts back in, sharp and sudden. “Alright, that’s enough. Leave the guy alone. Nobody else’s fucking business.”

There’s a beat of quiet, then someone mutters, “You brought it up…” But they drop it. No one pushes. The conversation veers, lurching toward something else entirely.

You watch as Lawrence tries to smile, to laugh it off, but you can see straight through his embarrassment.

Huh.

That’s cute.

★·.·´¯`·.·★

It’s past one by the time the pub quiets down. Most of the crew left an hour ago. A few stragglers lingered, finishing drinks, chasing last-minute shots, but even they trickled out eventually. Now it’s just you, Law, and the loudmouth. Except that guy has currently disappeared into the bathroom with his boyfriend after a phone call that started with ��Bring your tight little ass over here” and ended with him tossing two twenties on the table to cover his drinks.

They’ve been gone for a while now.

Law sits across from you, still nursing that same drink. He hasn’t touched it in twenty minutes.

“I, uh, was surprised to see you out tonight.”

He doesn’t look up. “Haha, yeah…”

Nothing to work with there. You sip the last of yours and let the silence hang for a little while.

“I hope you’ll come out again sometime,” you say eventually. “Hope all the guys and their… sex talk didn’t put you off.”

“It’s fine.”

Quiet again. You let it stretch. Then—

“I wouldn’t have guessed you were a virgin.”

That actually gets his attention. He lifts his eyes, brows pulling together like he’s trying to read you. “Why not?”

You shrug. “’Cause you’re cute.”

His flinches like you just pinched him. “Don’t make fun of me.”

You frown. “I’m… not?”

He looks away, jaw tightening. You watch the way his fingers tap the side of his glass, irregular and restless.

“You don’t like compliments or something?” you ask.

“Not really,” he mutters. “They just… feel weird.”

You laugh, leaning in and placing your elbows on the sticky table in front of you. “Well, I can be mean, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

Lawrence goes still. Like, completely still. Not even blinking.

“…What?” he says, voice thin.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh. That got your attention, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. His mouth is slightly open, like he’s forgotten how to hold it shut. He looks like he just swallowed his tongue.

You sit back in your seat, swirl the ice in your glass. He’s pink from the neck up. You’ve had just enough to drink that the whole thing is funny… and, honestly, a little hot.

“Do you want me to be mean to you?” you ask, speaking quietly even . “Really mean?”

Still nothing. Just that look on his face, somewhere between mortified and spellbound.

You glance around. There’s no-one else left at the pub; it’s just the two of you.

“I mean, you let them laugh at you,” you say, calmly. “Sitting there with your drink, letting them make fun of you like that. I bet I could say anything I wanted to you and you’d just sit there and take it.”

He shakes his head, quick and jerky. “N-no. I wouldn’t—”

“You would.” You don’t give him room to protest. “You would. You already did.”

Then, slowly, you stretch your leg beneath the table. Let your boot slide against his shin. Higher. Press your foot against the inside of his thigh, just enough to feel how tense he is.

His breath catches. He makes a sound, barely anything. A low, humming noise from the back of his throat, half-shocked, half-desperate.

You smile.

Lawrence stares down at where your boot is pressed against his thigh.  He doesn’t know how he feels about it. He knows how he should feel. Your voice is practically dripping with mockery. It should humiliate him.

And maybe it does. But there’s something else, too.

You’re looking at him. Really looking. Focused. Unflinching. No one ever looks at him like that. Not with curiosity. Not with interest. Not with… is that desire?

He’s not used to it. He’s not sure he likes it.

Part of him wants to snarl, to bare teeth, to end this early, the way he’s ended other things. He’s alone with you. He knows how to hurt people. If this turns ugly, he can make it worse.

There’s a sick heat curling low in his gut. Hunger, maybe. Or dread. Or both, tangled so tightly he can’t tell one from the other.

But, for now, he doesn’t move.

You press your foot firmer against the inside of his thigh, slowly working it higher and higher and higher.  “So,” you say, light as air. “If you’ve never had your dick sucked…” Your foot is now only about an inch from his cock. “…what’s the furthest you have gone?”

He doesn’t reply. He’s still looking at your boot.

“Have you even kissed anyone before?”

He mumbles something too soft to catch.

You lean forward slightly. “What was that?”

“…None of your business.”

That makes you grin. “No, but I’m making it my business.”

Lawrence opens his mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

“I’d bet good money no one’s ever even touched you before.”

He doesn’t deny it.

That’s when you shift up into his lap, pressing in exactly where it counts. He’s absolutely, disastrously hard. He jerks like you've shocked him, head snapping up and eyes snapping wide for a split second before they drop back down. But he doesn't push you away.

You study him, expression carefully neutral, almost bored, as you slowly start to grind your boot against his erection under the table, deliberate, unhurried.

“Oh,” you say, fighting back the urge to start laughing, “you're already worked up. That really didn't take much. Are you always such a pervert?”

Lawrence makes a choked little sound. His breath comes in sharp bursts, chest rising and falling faster than before.

“I think someone's enjoying this.”

“You're not supposed to-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You're hard as a rock, Lawrence. And look at your face…” Your eyes flick up to his burning cheeks. “You're so red. And your thighs keep twitching every time I rub right here-”

You punctuate your words with a particularly firm grind right at the tip of his cock and he lets out a broken whimper.

“Fuck!” He sounds wrecked already. His fingers are shaking now, gripping the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored. “I can't help it. You’re—you’re being so weird.”

“Mm.” You nod, just once. “I am.”

You don’t deny it. You are being weird. Worse, you’re being cruel. Even worse still, he’s loving it. That much is plain to see.

A soft clatter draws both your gazes as a server sweeps past the edge of the booth, collecting empty glasses with a practiced hand. She offers a quick, friendly smile as she stacks them. “Don’t mind me. Just grabbing these out of your way.”

You look up, still rubbing your foot against your shy friend under the table. “No problem. Take your time.”

Lawrence’s fingers flutter uselessly near the rim of his glass, then drop to his lap like he forgot what he was reaching for. His shoulders curl inward, spine bowing ever so slightly, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Less visible. Less implicated.

The server is focused on her job. She doesn’t notice Lawrence’s weirdness. Or, at least, she pretends not to. She leans in slightly to grab the glasses, close enough that you catch the smell of floor cleaner and citrus hand soap.

“You two doing alright?” she asks brightly, glancing between you. “Need anything else?”

You look up with an easy smile. “No, we’re good. Thanks.”

“It’s getting late. We’ll be calling last orders soon.”

“I know,” you assure her. “We won’t be staying much longer. Just waiting on our friend in the bathroom.”

She gives a cheerful nod. “Well, shout if you change your mind, honey.”

And then she’s gone, making her way back to the bar.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you turn your attention back to Lawrence. He’s melting against the back of his seat, slumping downward like he’s turning to mush.

“Do you think she noticed?” you ask, sounding way too pleased by how this night is unfolding.

He stares at the worn wood of the table, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

No answer.

“Well, I think she noticed,” you say, fishing for some kind of reaction. “You made it hard for her not to. Look how jumpy you’re being.”

He doesn't respond.

You hum, disappointed. “Gone quiet again? Can’t have that.”

Your foot lowers from his erection to his balls and presses in hard, just enough to cause a little pain. He makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a yelp.

 “There you go. That was a pretty noise,” you praise. “You’ve finally done something right.”

You move your foot higher again, begin rubbing again, watching him unravel like a spool of thread.

Suddenly, he shakes his head, sharp and quick. The awareness, the life, seems to come back into his eyes and he blinks. “You need to stop,” he says, voice rasping. It sounds like he means it.

You stop, of course.

You're not here to push him into anything he doesn't want. That's not the game you’re playing.

But you do notice the way his fingers are shaking, the way his eyes can't quite meet yours, darting anywhere but your face. Most importantly, you notice the way his hips still twitch forward slightly, like he's chasing more friction, more pressure.

You lean in closer, testing the waters. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.”

“I do,” he insists, but it sounds weak. It sounds like a lie. “I do. If you don’t stop, I’m gonna…”

A mocking laugh bubbles up your throat. “You're going to cum?”

He flushes even darker, if possible, redness spreading all the way down his pale neck. “I mean, it’s-” he starts, but you don’t let him speak.

“From a little rubbing under the table? God, Lawrence, you really are a virgin.”

You return your boot, rub him rougher than before, really digging your foot into his crotch, grinding it against him just the way you know he needs it.

“Go on then,” you prod. “Embarrass yourself some more.”

When it happens, it's obvious. Obvious in the way his entire body goes rigid, muscles locking up as every fibre pulls taut. In the way his mouth falls open, lips parting like he’s barely holding back from screaming. In the way he slumps back against the booth, boneless and dazed, staring up at the dark ceiling with glassy, unfocused eyes.

You grin down at him, feeling a dark rush of satisfaction. He's panting, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You can just barely see it, but there's a damp patch darkening the crotch of his jeans, the fabric clinging to his softening cock. You did that. You made him cum in his pants like the virgin he so obviously is.

“You’re fucking disgusting,” you croon quietly. “You’re lucky I like that.”

Then, you glance toward the hallway that leads to the bathroom, where your loudmouth coworker vanished with his boyfriend ten minutes ago. Still no sign of them. You tilt your head, thoughtful.

“They’re really taking their time, aren’t they?” you murmur. “I guess some guys can last longer that others.” A pause while the dig settles in. “Still, I can’t wait for them to come back and see what a mess you made.”

Lawrence’s head snaps up like he’s been slapped. “Don’t,” he says, voice cracking on the word. “Please. You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you?”

You just smile.

“Tell them what?” you ask, faux-innocently. “That you got all worked up under the table? That you soaked your jeans because someone said a few mean words and touched you through your clothes?”

His eyes are wide, whites fully visible, pupils centred and locked forward. One brow twitches higher than the other, both drawn tight, and sweat beads along his temples. His mouth is drawn open, lips peeled back slightly to show clenched teeth. Every muscle in his face is tense.

“I could tell them,” you tease. “It’d be easy. One little slip, and that’d be it. Can you imagine how fast it’d spread? By lunch, the whole warehouse would know.”

He looks like he might cry.

Poor baby.

You pull back with a wicked grin. “Relax, Lawrence. I won’t say anything. Not this time, at least.”

His relief is visible, as sharp and raw as the rest of him.

“And in exchange for my silence,” you continue, reaching casually for your jacket, “you can pay off my tab.”

You slide out of the booth, smooth and unhurried, with one last glance to make sure he’s watching you go.

“This was really fun,” you say brightly. “You should come out with us more often, Law.”

And you wink.

Lawrence watches you make your way to the door, watches you thank the server on your way out, then vanish into the dark beyond the doorway.

Around him, the pub staff start stacking chairs, glancing his way every so often to hint it's that they’d prefer if he left too.

He doesn't move. He stays there, frozen in the booth. He's barely aware of them. He has no idea if his other coworker is still in the bathroom or slipped away without him noticing, but it doesn't matter: he's alone now, just like always.

You leaving right after all that doesn't surprise him. He wasn't expecting you to stay, to talk, to pretend this meant something. People don't stick around Lawrence Oleander. He supposes that's just natural. Nothing in nature is permanent, after all.

What he doesn't understand, though, what's gnawing at the edges of his mind, is why you ever touched him at all. Why you did that to him. He imagines splitting open your pretty head like ripe fruit, peeling back the skin and bone until he finds the slippery folds of your brain. He wonders if your reasons would be hidden somewhere inside that pink mess. Maybe if he saw inside, he could make sense of it. Understand how you work.

He supposes you must just think he's weak. Easy. Something you can humiliate and abandon, knowing he'll just take it. But he's not weak, not like that. And he won't just take it.

No, this isn't over.

He's coming after you next. He's going to show you exactly what it feels like, being helpless, being powerless, having someone else touch the vulnerable parts of you.

Lawrence doesn't know much, but he knows one thing for sure:

He'll find out where you live. And then it'll be his turn.

[barbiegirldream]

Need a fic where Nobara is trying to help Hana and Ozawa get their men while Yuji and Megumi are increasingly frustrated the three of them keep crashing their dates.

Like Yuji is in the normalest way possible trying to explain he has reached out and beared his heart to Megumi's actual soul so sorry that you're still hung up on middle school.

And Megumi is in the most awkward way trying to explain to Hana that he literally lives for Yuji he was just trying to make up for biting her arm off is all.

[strang3lov3]

you and Courtney have met? i’m emotional. i’m aching. that’s so… 🙁. 🙁! i’m just thinkin you two are like the most awesomest duo.

i think i sound a little crazy but i mean this in the normalest and nicest way possible. likee idk friendship is just so sick like yeah that’s my fucking FRIEND. my friend who is cool and awesome and thinks i’m cool and awesome too, so we can be cool and awesome together. plus they love me. my mf friend.

Not yet!! We’re meeting this summer :) very soon, very very soon.

It’s not weird to be ecstatic about friendship! I’m also ecstatic about my friends :) I feel this exact way. So grateful that the coolest sexiest smartest most creative and wonderful people in the world picked me to hang around?! It’s out of this world. I cherish them dearly 💕💕💕

[tiktaaliker]

the dreamer trilogy is so funny to me because it manages to pull some really gruesome and hard hitting shit (hennessy's nightmare, the nightwash, mattew finding out about being a dream, declan dealing with the consequences of being surrounded by dreams and dreamers, parsifal, tbh literally everything about the moderators and visionaries, etc) and then also just do goofy ass shit (ronan constantly worrying about adam replacing him in the funniest way possible, ronan and hennessy lugging around dream swords everywhere, declan trying soooo hard to be the normalest guy ever, escaping from the big confrontation using a stupid floating piece of wood as a skateboard, they have a not-quite-invisible car named burrito, bryde having the most pretentious ass dialogue ive ever read)

[drabbles-mc]

For the Writer Fic Ask game.....

if you had to write a sequel to a fic, you’d write one for…

Pssst! For a lil razzle dazzle, please pick one of yours AAAAAAND someone else's! *shimmy shimmy* Thaaank youuuu! 😜

the way i reblogged this ask game yesterday and then was immediately taken out by the cold i've been battling 😂 but! we're back!

A fic of my own that I'd write a sequel for? The internal struggle of this as someone who is always building out elaborate universes in my head for all of my fics regardless of if they are one-shots or longfics 😂

BUTTTTTT I can definitely and easily say that one I'd write a sequel for is my Opie x OC fic Playing It Cool But She's Lying. In my head I have a whole longfic arc for those two but I just haven't gotten it all down on paper yet. But I love and adore them so much I simply thrash about when I think of them lmao

As for a fic of someone ELSESSSSS that I'd love to see a sequel to???? I want all of my friends to write always and forever let's be so real. 😌 I can't limit myself to one. I have no self control. This is not news to any of us I fear lmao

Hard to hate up close by @hausofmamadas is something that I think about a truly innedsane amount. What I'd give for Andrea and Julian to keep ending up across the table from each other under whatever circumstances would make it possible. I want to peel their brains apart like onions in the normalest way possible.

Old Habits by YOUUUUUU!!!!!!! Love of my life YOU 🫵🏼 are not marked safe from this!!!!!! You give me Opie and the longing and the tension and the characterizations of him that make me cry and because I'm self-destructive by nature I would happily saddle up for more

And you? by @garbinge because you know bitches loooooove a crossover. it's me! i'm bitches!!!!!!! Narcos and SOA crossover??? Two of my most insufferable blondies thrown into a fic together??? What more could I possible ask for except for more situations to be in together????

Anyway. The thesis of it all is: i would read any and every word my friends write and would still always be down for more. You love to see it. 🥰

Fic Writer Asks