#lite fanfic

[arverst-aegnar]

ZK Month Day 17: Reality TV AU

I can only hope that someday the ever-increasing catalogue of "things i want to draw" will grow powerful enough to defeat my absolute disinterest in actually drawing, but until then.

I have a few ZK month ideas i'm working on (slowly, so slowly) apart from the one i've finished, but this idea isn't likely to go anywhere, so i'll share it as-is and hope that someone is inspired enough to draw/write something based off of it ;-). Basically: Zutara "Dancing with the Stars" AU.

Zuko is the professional dancer, following in his mother's footsteps (haha). He's anxious about having a role on such a public platform, what with the scar, but it's something his uncle has been gently encouraging him to do for a while now. Katara meanwhile is a famous athlete. While she's more interested in competing and reaching the top of her field than the fame, she certainly doesn't dislike all the attention, and her press agent thinks that, since she's recently risen in public status thanks to a particular accomplishment, competing on the show can only help keep her in the public eye for longer. Her desire to prove herself and to be a serious contender clashes with Zuko's insecurity and hesitance to Be Seen, but the push and pull between them (countered by an immediate spark of connection) is enough to keep them moving without throwing them off-balance.

[arverst-aegnar]

(x)

Orpheus/Eurydice Bluesey goes so hard. What if the only way to bring Gansey back was to venture into barely healed Cabeswater, wake him like Glendower would never be woken, and bring him out without Blue ever actually getting to set eyes on him. The reminder of how he looked on the corpse road that first night haunting her the whole way out. Blue who almost broke in the cave when the mirror lake showed her a broken version of her mother. How would she do with nothing but trust? Knowing she’s not just doing this for herself, but Adam and Ronan and Henry waiting for her on the other side. That if she fails she breaks more than just her own heart. How would Blue deal with Gansey’s voice in her ear. “That’s all there is.” “Kiss me, Blue.” “Bees, Jane.”

Would she turn around?

[logosbot-tm]

It's only me and Grian in this corner who cares about the fact that Mumbo died, btw

[bg-brainrot]

Thinking about how, like a cat, Astarion would hate it when you smell different. Not like if you're covered in mud or blood, but if you have the scent of someone else on you.

Astarion: What have you been up to?

Tav: Oh just hanging out with Karlach, why?

Astarion: You smell all wrong. I hate it.

Tav: I hadn't even noticed. Well, I'm sure I'll return to normal soon enough.

Astarion: *openly contemplates rubbing on you like a cat*

Tav: Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?

Astarion: *snaps out of it* Gods no, what do you take me for, a mangy stray?!

Tav: *barely holding back a 'yes'*

Astarion: Ugh, stop that. Either go take a bath or let me fix this.

Astarion would then spend several minutes dabbing you with his scents.

[ivyodessa]

@hellcheeranniversaryweek Day 4- Medieval

Tristan & Isolde AU

The willows swayed above them as the sweat cooled on their bare skin, the breeze caressing their bodies like an invisible lover.

“I wish we could stay here forever.” Christine said, her soft voice breaking the quiet that had settled over them after their lovemaking.

“I could build us a little house deep in the forest,” Edward said with an easy smile, “I could fish from the stream. Live like no one knows who we are.”

“I could spend my days reading to you,” she smiled at him sweetly.

The mirth in his eyes dimmed before he asked haltingly, “When do you have to be back?”

Her smile faded as she answered quietly, “Soon. I told Bragnae I would be back by midday.” Her lady’s maid would be able to hold off suspicion if she were a little late, but not too much.

“I suppose we should cross the bridge then, your Grace,” he said it in jest, but it still stung. The reminder that he was her subject, and more importantly, the king’s wife.

She watched him as he stood to dress himself, admiring the lines of his strong body littered with scars. The shiny skin of the largest scar sat on his chest, healed by her hands the day he washed up on the beach all those months ago.

But they were in Cornwall now, far from the place they first met. Far from the private refuge of their seaside cabin where she nursed him back to health and they opened their hearts to one another.

She cleared her throat as she lifted her shift over her head, “Maybe….maybe there is a way,” she said tentatively. He turned to her as he pulled his shirt over his head and the intensity of his stare momentarily left her breathless.

“My father’s men talk. I know they plan to conspire with the dissenters at court to overthrow Henry.”

Edward’s eyes widened and his brows lifted, the information bowling him over, ““He…he is my king.” He struggled with what to say next, “He saved me from death, I owe him my life.”

“And he is my husband,” she took a deep breath before continuing, “But every day his rule grows crueler. He will stop at nothing to expand his kingdom.” She reached out to grab his hand, “He has never been unkind to us, but I worry the day may come when we meet his wrath.”

Edward’s face morphed into a pained expression, nodding solemnly at the truth spoken so plainly aloud. Henry’s mind had become warped and his sanity seemed to be hanging on by a thread, much like Edward’s loyalty to his king.

“In the midst of all the chaos, we could slip away. Go wherever we please,” she looked up at him, eyes shining brightly with the spark of hope and promise of freedom.

The thought of never again having to hide away in stolen moments, to be with each other out in the open…it was at once exhilarating and terrifying. Was there truly a chance for them to be free?

She reached her hands up to gently cup his face as he bent down until their foreheads touched, staring into one another’s eyes.

“How many have you loved before me?” she whispered into the stillness between them.

“None,” he said back simply, hands resting on her hips. The heat of his hands through her thin shift igniting the spark within her hot enough to set a kingdom ablaze.

“And after me?” she asked, her voice taking on a desperate edge.

His voice was all warmth as he smiled and said “None.” One of his hands coming up to cup her jaw and pull her into a gentle kiss.

“For all time, they’ll say it was our love that allowed a kingdom to be brought down,” he said solemnly. She frowned and nodded as her thumbs gently stroked his jaw before he spoke again,

“Well then…let them remember us."

He pulled her to him with the arm now wrapped around her waist and crushed his mouth to hers. Sealing their fate, and the fates of many, with a kiss.

[be-my-ally]

The Morning After

I’ve been neck deep in smut and I wanted a short little break, I also was on such a roll with some other things (anons in my inbox - what you want is coming soon I promise) so this is a super short sweet one. A follow on/tidying up the morning after from ‘Do You Mind?’

For the prompt “Are you always this shy?”

warnings: none? I don’t think there’s any anyway - lmk if I’m wrong! oh wait. the tiniest reference to 'leading you on' which is obvs not ok. but makes sense in context.

wc: 1.1k - honestly, I'm just happy there's some words on the page.

as always!! thanks for the support + encouragement @whositmcwhatsit @thatbanditqueen @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love @powerofelvis

The next morning you wake up with Elvis still clutching at your waist, your head pillowed in the crook of his neck. You blink rapidly into his shoulder, trying to assess the situation. It’s unnerving, that you don’t feel more unnerved - you feel unmoored, uncertain of the day and what it has planned, unsure of how to navigate the situation you’ve found yourself in but ultimately, tucked in Elvis’ arms - you feel safe. Calm even. As you’re letting your mind wander his arm tightens around you, his hand squeezing your hip - you’re suddenly very aware that through the night his too-large-for-you shirt has risen up, leaving your lower half exposed in just your underwear. You wriggle, trying to tug it back down to a more respectable length but pause as his chest rumbles. He does a strange little half-cough, voice remarkably low and growly on the top of your head, 

“Are you always this shy?” You lean back a little to glance up at him, taking in the shadow on his chin and cheeks, barely resisting the urge to run your fingers over it. You’ve never even seen a photo of him with stubble. His eyes are still tightly closed, like he’s hopeful he might not actually have to wake up right now. 

“I’m not shy! I’m just - you’re practically a stranger.” You’re indignant on this point, not wanting him to think you were uncool and inexperienced or a massive prude. His fingers stroke your hip, absentmindedly, as if he has no idea he’s even doing it. He hums back at you, 

“Mmhmm, just a stranger, baby, that’s me.” You can hear the smile in his voice, see it lifting the corners of his mouth. He ducks his head lower, eyes blinking open - you’re taken aback at the blue of them in the hazy morning light, your throat dry with the sudden desire. “Just a stranger.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, gently, and you feel your face flush at the intimacy of the gesture. He pauses momentarily, before pulling his hand away and up to your neck, brushing up the side of your body to cup your face. He bends to press his lips against yours, jumping back like he’s been burnt when you jump in surprise and leap out of the bed. 

He laughs, his head falling back on the pillow as you stand there. “Lord. Normally the girls are desperate to get into my bed, not out-ta it.” You feel awkward, and embarrassed - you hadn’t even really wanted to jump out it was just instinct, it had just happened. His laugh though is infectious, and you find yourself giggling a little too. 

“I wasn’t - I didn’t mean to, I didn’t wanna get up!”  He smiles, eyes crinkling as he leans forward, his hair flopping over his eyebrows, looking like he’d been dragged through something backwards. You know he’s had plenty of women but as you look at him lounging in the bed so casual and carefree you have to wonder how many others he’s allowed to witness him like this. You pull his sleeves down over your hands, shuffling your feet, feeling further embarrassment at the strength of the affection you feel for him at just that thought. “Sorry - I didn’t -“ 

“No, No, I’m sorry - I should’ve checked you were - I shouldn’t have assumed.” You stare back at him as his tone turns serious, breaking eye contact with you to look to the side. 

“I was in your bed. I think it was a pretty safe assumption.” 

“Still I should’ve checked first.” You roll your eyes, slightly annoyed that your rash action was being taken so seriously - 

“Honestly, it’s my fault El, I just panicked for a second. I’m not - not ready to do anything much more than kiss at the moment, didn’t wanna give you the wrong impression. Lead you on.” You walk back over to the bed, his expression turns earnest as he pats the space next to him. 

“I ain’t gonna do nothing but kiss doll, swear it - haven’t got, motor ain’t running yet.” He pauses, as if hearing how that sounds, “Not that - I mean, I’d definitely wait for you to ask for that.” He grins, a mischievous expression coming over his face, curling his lip, “Beg for it.” You roll your eyes, 

“In your dreams.” You expect him to laugh, but he nods instead as if agreeing. You rapidly change the subject before he can say anything, lying back down next to him, “Right then. Kiss me.” This time he lets out another shocked laugh, shaking his head as he rolls over to lean on top of you.

“ ’S not a chore doll, is it? You could sound a lil more ‘nthusiastic!” You laugh, reaching up with a hand to cup his face, thumb brushing over his high cheekbone, the creases by his eye. 

“Kiss me and you’ll see how enthusiastic I can be.” You’re not sure where this confidence has come from, but you know you love the look in his eyes when he thinks you’re funny. He presses his lips to the corner of your mouth and you giggle as he completely misses, ending half on your cheek. He mumbles against your skin, 

“Stay still baby,” He moves to slot your mouths together properly and you immediately surge forward, hungry for it, desperate for it - despite your earlier reservations. You didn’t even think about the possibility of morning breath and you don’t now - opening your mouth, inviting him in. His teeth are catching on your lips nibbling on them and it feels unparalleled to any sensation you’ve ever experienced before. The softness of his famous pout, mixed with the gently harsh stubble on his cheeks, and the tug of his teeth on your soft skin. You pull away, 

“God - Elvis, you gotta, need you to,” You reach for his hand, pulling it to land on your stomach, He looks slightly shocked at your clear desire to have him effectively pin you down. 

“That ok?” You nod frantically, 

“Good god, yes, just, just keep going,” He rubs his fingers in a little circle, just barely tickling before he presses it palm down, resting on you. It’s heat seems to amplify everything you’re feeling - down to the little jolts of arousal when he tugs your lip just right.

 You have no idea if you’re making a noise, no idea if you’re even breathing. All you can feel, see, taste, hear is him. Finally his tongue slips in, you don’t fight him letting him straight in, do what he likes. You suddenly hear yourself the little moans and breathy grunts that you’re letting out when he pulls back enough to let them escape, and you gasp as he presses little wet open-mouthed kisses against your cheek. You’re lost to everything but the feel of him, heat thrumming through you as he captures your lips in his again.

He pulls back and you’re in a daze, unable to do anything but lie there and try to catch your breath, hoping to be left there for eternity. 

[queenaeducan]

Var Shiral'vhen - Chapter Seven: Mission of Mercy

Ian accompanies the Thora on a journey to the Fallow Mire. As they struggle through a deluge of rain and hordes of undead, he comes to better understand the nature of the woman they call Herald.

Thora comes to stand at Ian's shoulder, hesitating before she kneels beside him.

“You’re her.” The scout’s words rasp in his throat, dark hair plastered to his forehead with fever-sweat. One hand protects the stained bandage that wraps his middle, but the other extends to reach for her. “The Herald.”

“My name’s Thora. What’s yours?” She catches his fingers in her own, folding both of her hands around them to squeeze with the same gentleness that Ian hears in her voice. While she speaks, he reaches into his satchel, tugging free a small bowl and waterskin, along with a bundle of clean–and, miraculously, dry–cloth. He sets the bowl at his side, filling it only half-way before passing his hand over its surface, first pulling heat until bubbles rise, then frost to force away the burn, leaving the liquid tepid.

The scout struggles in his answer, voice aching with blood loss and pain, though his Antivan accent is impossible to mistake.

“Emir, your worship.”

“It’s good to meet you, Emir.”

“I need to remove your bandage.” Ian’s bare hands hover over where Emir guards his hurt, yielding until permission is granted. “I’ll be gentle.”

(Read the rest on AO3!)

[fairybonesandstardust]

i read a fic recently and the author said no incest and polyamory. girl i think you should update those tags 💀

[browneyesandhair]

Forgettable by Browneyesandhair

Summary:

One would think that it would be difficult to conceal a secret like Lady Whistledown from an insular community like the ton. But the first mistake that people made was thinking that Lady Whistledown would be popular. Oh, her writings were extremely popular. But the woman herself? Not so much.

[wizardnuke]

i truly don't understand how people can get really into a fandom without seeing all/most of the material involved. how are you doinf that

[shyphonics]

Salad Days, Chapter 8: Tell Me Now, and I Won't Ask Again

(Rodrick Heffley x reader)

chapter directory

hi hello I'm here and apologizing in advance for the turn this story took because I started having emotions while I was writing it lmao.

I have once again added a few secret songs to the playlist, so go and check that out if you're so inclined :) thank you so much to everyone who's read this. I'm having a time.

Life's an illusion, love is the dream

But I don't know what it is

Everyone's saying things to me

But I know it's okay, okay

Everybody's happy nowadays

Everybody's happy nowadays

~

Rodrick nods to Buck as he finishes loading up his truck, stretching his arms above his head and hopping into the driver’s seat. It’s been just short of a week since he’d last seen you. He sighs, looking at the dashboard, trying to shoo the thoughts of you away. He’d almost broken the night before and opened up his email account, taken a chance and said something, anything to you.

He’d ended up being too scared.

There’s no point.

Besides, he kind of likes his new job. He just drives around all day, does some light physical labor, and the people at the restaurants, or liquor stores, or wherever he is that day, smile and thank him. Tell him he’s a good, fast worker. He’d specifically requested no downtown bars on his route.

Buck had laughed and said I can’t blame ya. We’ll make Tony do it.

The engine roars to life, and he scans through the radio stations until it lands on a good-sounding song. The music is upbeat, with a high, meandering guitar riff.

Life's an illusion

Love is a dream

Life's the illusion

Love is the dream

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot. The words of the song prick his ears, and he ignores them, pretending they mean nothing to him as the song fades out.

Then he hears a voice.

An all too familiar voice.

This is 98.7, radio free Port Hanna. Buzzcocks, Singles Going Steady, 1979. Personally, it's in my top five. Sometimes, I just feel like-

Suddenly, he sees flashes of your apartment, the lights above your bed. Your kitchen counter. Your face, so close to his, praising him. You, on top of him. Your soft skin. The smell of your soap, and the tile of your bathroom.

I really, definitely like you.

He switches the station fast, to some lifeless buttrock. He leaves it there. This is… fine. A month or two ago, he might have even liked this song. He sighs, stopping at a red light and looking at the map in his passenger seat. He notices a red line veering off from his uptown stops. He picks up the map. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

That looks like The Strike.

 As he gets closer, glancing down at the map, he realizes it’s not, but it’s close. He drives by, seeing the giant, boarded up window, which somebody has painted we’ll be back, fuckers! on. The front of the building is fenced off. He feels bile rise in his throat.

His delivery is 2 doors down, a liquor store on the corner, Phoenix Liquors. The guy inside is friendly, with red hair and a silver nose ring.

“Oh, hey! Are you my delivery guy?” He sounds excited.

“Y-yeah!” Rodrick stutters.

“Oh, thank god. It’s usually this guy named Terry, and he’s an asshole.” The man laughs.

Rodrick wracks his brain. Terry, Terry…

“Oh! Yeah, Terry’s weird. He has these pictures of, like, women in 80s aerobics clothes in his truck.” Rodrick laughs.

The man cackles, steadying himself with a hand on the counter.

“God, that makes so much sense.” He laughs, “I’m Joey, by the way. You look… really familiar.”

Rodrick panics, feeling sweat start to prick at his hairline.

“I, um, uh…” He pulls his hat down, trying to cover his face.

“You played at The Strike last Friday! That’s it. You’re a drummer, right?”

“No, I…” Rodrick laughs nervously.

“Yeah! You guys were fucking sick as hell! You played ‘Rise Above’! What was your band called again? Löded Diper?.”

“No, no,” Rodrick’s voice falls to a hushed tone, “I mean, yes, but no…”

“Dude. You guys were great. I’m in Put Down, I’d love to play a show with you guys sometime.”

“Really?” Rodrick’s eyes widen, “I- I mean, no I’m kinda… I don’t know when we’ll play again, y’know?”

Joey looks at him in disbelief.

“What? Are you guys doing, like, a weird album release thing? Building hype? Because people loved you. You got a mention in The Eye this week. Alex Garcia, the music reporter, really liked you guys. Which is a big deal. Because he kinda hates everyone.” Joey smiles.

“What?” Rodrick perks up.

“Yeah! You gotta take your chance while you got it, man.”

Rodrick’s mind goes blank. Joey’s eyes are kind, and Rodrick feels like he can trust him.

“I, uh… I kinda…”

Joey cocks his head to the side.

“I kinda messed things up with somebody important.”

“Who?”

“Um, the lead singer of The Shrieks?” Rodrick’s voice sounds small, afraid.

“Oh.” Joey laughs, “Yeah, she doesn’t fuck around. We’re friends though, do you want me to ask about you? Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.”

“No!” Rodrick blurts out, then calms down, “No, no, I… it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I… I should start loading in.” Rodrick sighs, walking away from the counter.

He makes his way back to the truck out front, keeping his head down in case anyone from The Strike is outside.

He comes back to find that Joey has put a doorstop down, and smiles. What a nice guy. Rodrick gets to work, wheeling cases of bottles and cans into the store, stocking them, and starting over. A different song seems to be playing every time he comes back. Joey makes light conversation, and time seems to fly. Before he knows it, he only has one load of cans left. He wheels his dolly through the front door for the last time, loading the final empty shelf with a quirkily-labeled local beer, the can featuring a topless woman riding a dragon. He wheels the dolly back up to the counter.

“Hey, well, even if you don’t play, we should hang out, okay?” Joey smiles, “I’m always here, or at one of the bars. I kinda work everywhere."

Rodrick feels a pang of sadness in his chest, knowing he probably won’t make it out to hang out with Joey.

“Yeah… yeah, we totally should.”

“We’ve been around, like, if you guys wanna know where to tour when you’re ready, we’ve got a whole guide written up. I'll make you a copy."

Rodrick might as well have been slamming his head against the wall, like the idiot that he was. This guy is offering him tour advice, and he knows he’s not going to take it.

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

Joey holds his hand out for a high five, and Rodrick meets him halfway, smiling nervously. He freezes in the doorway as he hears your voice once more, low and stable over the store speakers.

Sorry for all the sap today, folks. It’s just one of those days.

Joey flashes him a sympathetic look, that he doesn’t stick around to see.

He makes his way back out to his truck, grabbing a copy of The Eye from a box outside. He sits in the driver's seat for a minute, bonking his head against the steering wheel. What is he doing? This is what he’s wanted, as long as he can remember, and he’s throwing it away, because…?

Because he’s a bad person.

He sits up, looking at himself in the rear view.

He’d forgotten to remind himself of that today.

Bad. Bad.

He stares into his own dark brown eyes, starting the truck and driving off, towards the other end of town. He can’t let himself forget. He did this to himself. No one else. It was him.

~

Tonight you’re mine completely

You give your love so sweetly

Tonight the light of love is in your eyes

But will you love me tomorrow?

~

It’s been a week since you saw Rodrick. Your radio plays are a little spiteful today, you’ll admit. All songs of scorn, or longing, and maybe a small part of you hopes that Rodrick is listening.

This is stupid. You’re strong. You should’ve forgotten him, written him off by now.

But you can’t.

Some part of you is still hoping he’ll call and apologize, have some magic excuse for leaving you hanging for a week. It doesn’t even have to be a good excuse. You really just want to hear his voice.

You hate that you’re so desperate to hear his voice.

You spin in your desk chair as a commercial break plays, a man yelling about discount tires. You’re tempted- so tempted- to send him another email. One with harsh words. One that will hurt him, maybe stick with him forever. You want him to feel just as bad as you do right now.

Something tells you this isn’t just him being a dumb guy, though.

Something tells you that something much bigger is at play.

You instinctively take the mic as the commercial break ends, your mind unfocused, running on pure routine. You barely even hear the words you say.

“98.7, radio free Port Hanna. Listen up, folks. Repairs are delayed. The city sent the fire marshal after us, and we’re on cable control duty until they say we’re good to go. I’m sure you can imagine the nightmare that guy walked into- power strips as far as the eye can see. But the window will be back tomorrow. Why don’t you come up and drive past us sometime?”

You sigh, preparing to hit play on your next pick.

“Stay strong, folks. You never know when the man is out to get’cha.”

The next song plays, and you stare into the grainy little screen of your cell phone. Then just like that, it's ringing. An unknown number. Your eyes nearly jump out of your skull.

You do have a rule with unknown numbers, though. You always let them talk first.

You answer the phone, bringing it to your ear, and squeeze your eyes shut, hoping against all hope that it's Rodrick.

The voice on the line is familiar, but in a way that makes your blood run cold. There's no way… it can't be.

It sounds like your dad. He's laughing, in a smug, awful tone.

“We found you,” he says, the laughter coming to a halt, “We finally found you.”

Your jaw drops, and your hands shake as you hang up as fast as you possibly can, the phone falling out of your hand and onto the floor.

No way. No fucking way. He's bluffing.

Then you remember… you were on TV last week. There's a good chance that news piece made it back to your hometown. You put your head in your hands, cursing yourself. Shit! Free access to what you look like and where you work got broadcasted straight to the man you've been trying to hide from for nearly 6 years. You don't know how much he's capable of on his own, but you should clearly be cautious if he found your fucking phone number.

The thought hadn't even crossed your mind, you'd just been so angry about what happened. Part of you had hoped he just wouldn't care anymore.

You check the clock. You're on air for another hour, and then it's straight to the bar for more work on repairs. You cross the studio and double check the lock on the door. Checking the window, you see that the parking lot is as empty as it should be on a day like this.

Cautiously, you pick your phone up and see several new texts.

You ungrateful brat.

You thought you could hide? You think you're smarter than us?

You're still sick. You need help.

I'll be waiting outside of that horrible bar to collect you and bring you home.

Your hands shake so hard, you can barely read what he's sent. You feel your breaths coming fast and ragged, trying to come up with any plan at all.

You have one beam of hope left. You hadn't said anything on the phone. He may know where you work, and what you look like, but he doesn't know for a fact that this is your phone.

You unlock the studio, rushing downstairs and giving the receptionist a frightened look.

“Bonnie…?”

She smiles, looking up from her knitting.

Bonnie is a woman who proudly describes herself as “funky.” She's in her mid 70s, and she dresses like she's in a Deee-Lite video. Her orange hair is tied back in a floral scarf, her eyes are lined in bright turquoise, and her lipstick is a jarring shade of coral. You smile back. She's one of the sweetest people you've ever met.

There is a reason that she's trusted to man the front door, though.

Bonnie doesn't take shit from anyone.

Not a lot of people know about your past, but you have had a few late night talks with Bonnie in the studio, and she knows your dad is not a man you want to see.

“Can you do me a huge favor?” You smile sheepishly, clasping your hands together to keep them from shaking.

She nods, putting the knitting aside, “Oh, please! I'm so bored.”

You laugh, despite the situation, and take your cell phone out of your pocket.

“Well, I'm getting these harassing phone calls,” You start, frowning down at the little screen.

“From who?” She looks devastated.

“My, um… my dad. Remember how I said he's kind of a bad guy?”

She nods fiercely.

“He found me, and he called me, but he never heard my voice, so he doesn't know for sure that it's me.” You frown down at the phone, then look back up at her, “Bonnie, will you record a voicemail message on my phone?”

She leans back and laughs, nodding and reaching her hand out for the phone.

“Oh, this will be fun!” Her tone is devious.

This is Bonnie Forester. You’ve reached my personal telephone line. If you are a solicitor, I ask that you take me off of your list. I’m old, and I will not buy anything. Go to hell!

You burst into laughter the second she’s done.

“That’s perfect.” You grin as she hands you your phone back, feeling a sense of relief wash over you.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.” She winks.

You make a mental note to bring her flowers or something on your next shift.

She picks up her needles and waves as you go back up to the studio. Songs are still playing from your CD queue, and you decide to call Mike before commercial.

“Perfect timing, kid,” he answers, “You ready to check 28 power strips?”

You sigh.

“Mike… is there a car parked outside the bar? One that looks out of place, maybe? A white BMW?”

You're not sure if your dad is still driving his stupid vanity car, but you wouldn't doubt it.

You hear his footsteps.

“Yup, white BMW. Yuck. Why? Are you psychic? Have you been hiding that from me this whole time? Do you know how useful that would've been?”

A laugh almost escapes, but the dread of the situation is just too consuming.

“That's my dad. I don't know if you remember, but-”

“Your dad?” Mike's tone is hushed, panicked, “The one who-”

“Yes!” You interrupt, pinching the bridge of your nose, trying not to let any stray memories come in.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” You hear Mike pacing.

“He found me, I don't know. I have to assume he saw me on the news last week and tracked me down. I thought he would've stopped caring by this point!” You lean against the wall, hand on your chest, in some effort to comfort yourself.

“Should I go out there and say something?” Mike asks, “I’ll make something up! Tell him we forgot to paint the curb red.”

“He already knows I work there, Mike. There’s no point. He said he'd wait at the bar to ‘collect’ me.” You feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Collect you?” Mike scoffs, “You’re a fucking adult!”

You sniffle, shaking your head, your voice starting to break, “What if he's got a court order or something? What if he can collect me, Mike?”

Mike is quiet.

“You're right. Don't come in, lay low. Finish your shift, and then go home.”

“Should I go home?” You feel yourself unraveling completely, your heart beating fast, your eyes twitching, “What if he knows where I live?”

“I'm watching his car. I'll let you know if the fucker moves. Just keep your door locked, and let me know if you need anything.”

You nod, wiping your eyes, “Thanks, Mike. I'm… I'm so sorry.”

“He should be fucking sorry. I'll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

You hang up, collapsing into the rolling chair just in time to play a commercial break. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was never supposed to find you. He wasn’t supposed to give a shit anymore. You turn the playback volume as high as you can handle, trying to get him out of your head. Trying not to remember.

You feel like a zombie for the rest of your shift, finishing out your queue and waiting for Nick to come in for his shift.

You hear the doorknob rattling behind you and spin around, your eyes wide in fear. Nick puts his hands up in surrender.

You let him in, sighing in relief.

“Hey, paranoid, what's gotten into you?” He smiles, hanging up his jacket. His face drops when he looks at you.

“My dad is here. He's at the bar waiting for me.” Your voice comes out small, pitiful. You hold your elbows, slouching over.

“Your dad? Oh, fuck,” He whispers, “What are you going to do?”

“Run and hide,” you shrug, “Wouldn't be the first time.”

You grab your stuff and turn to face him, forcing an uneasy smile.

He sits in the chair, putting the headphones around his neck, and returns your uneasy look.

“Well, if you need help, you know where to find me."

"I know."

~

My eyes feel like they're gonna bleed

Dried up and bulging out my skull

My mouth is dry, my face is numb

Fucked up and spun out in my room

On my own, here we go

~

Rodrick sits in his usual stool at Jimmy's, a mug of beer in his hand, staring down at the bar. The top is smooth, clear plastic, with ads and business cards slipped underneath. Used cars, chiropractors, nail salons, and so many little concert fliers.

Most seem to be for smaller country, tribute, or solo acts, people that play in places like this.

Currently, a man sits in the corner with an electric guitar, playing a simple riff, with no rhythm to be found. His off-key crooning makes Rodrick want to cover his ears, but the guys from the plant are watching him closely, cheering him on.

He hates it here.

He opens his copy of The Eye, flipping through to the music section.

Hey, Friday Night's Alright for Fighting, Too

by Alex Garcia

A brawl broke out last Friday at The Strike, just a day before the vandalism took place. I personally think that the raw power of all 5 bands was too much for the local frat boys to handle, and their little brains just straight-up exploded.

Newcomers Löded Diper burst onto the the scene for the first time. Ignore their name, and go see them as soon as you can. With a powerful rhythm section, and a palpable friendship between the members, these guys are definitely one to watch. The chemistry was off the charts.

Dammit. That's a good review. That's a really good review. Rodrick leans forward, his elbow on the bar, his head in his hand.

The bartender is the same one as usual, Caitlin. She's about his age, with flat ironed hair and an eyebrow ring.

“This sucks.” She slumps down on her elbows in front of him.

“I know,” he shakes his head, taking a long drink of his beer. He feels a slight smile on his face. At least someone gets it.

“I'm going to this tonight,” She points down at the counter, to a small, square flier advertising a show at one of the bars downtown, Dime Store. His heart sinks, remembering that you'd said he could probably get a show there. “You wanna come with?”

He looks up. She's smiling sweetly, with one of her eyebrows raised. Is she… flirting with him? Rodrick swallows hard, his mouth falling open, but no words come out.

Caitlin is pretty, and nice, and tough as hell for working in a horrible place like this.

He can't say he's interested in her, though. She's not you. He's still thinking about you, even if he's accepted that he's completely ruined his chance.

Not to mention, he can't show his face down there, even if he was interested.

“I…” he looks down, “I can't, I'm sorry. I'm really busy.”

He looks up, sheepish, knowing that was a shitty lie.

Caitlin looks disappointed.

“Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. I get it.” She stands up straight, grabbing a rag and wiping down the empty side of the bar.

Rodrick lets his head fall with a thunk. Dumbass.

“Y'know, if you have a girlfriend or something, you can just say it. It's better than some lame ‘I’m busy’ bullshit.” She looks down at him, mocking him with a deep, dopey voice as she repeats his words.

He picks his head up, eyes still down towards the bar, focusing on an ad for a dog groomer. The picture is old and warped, and the dog looks like some sort of monster.

“I don't have a girlfriend, I just…” He sighs.

“Oh, you like someone.” She teases.

“Sure, you could say that.”

“And you screwed it up, because you're a dumb guy?” She laughs, but her face is sympathetic when he looks at her.

He nods. That’s a pretty good way to put it.

“You should call her or something, it can't be that bad.” She comes back to stand in front of him.

“It's that bad. I'm that bad. I'm a bad guy.” He sulks.

“You? C’mon,” She laughs, “You’re not a bad guy. You're the only one of these assholes who's actually nice to me.”

Rodrick turns to look at his horrible coworkers. Buck is singing with the guitar guy. They’re doing a Creed song. Fucking Creed. Buck is crying. He rolls his eyes, turning back to Caitlin.

“Yeah, they’re pretty fucking horrible. I don’t mean that I’m mean, though. Like, I’m not rude or anything. More like… sometimes I think I was just born bad. I do bad things, and I don’t even realize they’re bad. Or that I’m doing them! I try my best, but I just spread… badness. Everywhere I go. I’m a bad person.” He shrinks back in the barstool.

Caitlin gives him a look of absolute pity. It makes him want to disappear.

“Jesus. What the hell did you do to this girl to make you think that?” She laughs softly, shaking her head.

“I got into a stupid fight with a stupid asshole at her bar, and the stupid asshole went and vandalized the bar, so it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have even given him a second look.”

“How… exactly is what happened to The Strike your fault?” She looks unimpressed, “Sure, bar fights are fucking stupid, but did you start the fight? Or did he?”

“Well,” Rodrick thinks back, “He pushed me, I pushed him, he sucker punched me in the face.”

“Buddy,” Caitlin laughs, “That is not your fault.”

“But…” Rodrick looks down, “You should’ve seen the way she looked at me when it happened, and when she figured out it was the guy who punched me who did it.”

“How did she look at you? Show me.”

“Like… like…” Rodrick frowns, and shakes his head, doing his best impression, trying to match the rage that had been in your eyes. Caitlin covers her mouth as she laughs.

“Okay, that just looks generally pissed off. Did she say anything?”

“She said,” Rodrick thinks, “She… she said… ‘don’t feel bad, it’s not your fault, I’m just pissed off’.”

Caitlin looks at Rodrick like he is the dumbest man in the world.

“...what?” Rodrick asks quietly, after a moment of silence.

“She said it’s not your fault!”

“She didn’t mean it, it’s totally my fault.” Rodrick groans.

“She would’ve told you if it were your fault. So, what you’re telling me is, this girl had her workplace vandalized and a guy she presumably liked completely stop talking to her on the same day?”

“See?” Rodrick blurts out, “Even if the bar wasn’t my fault, that’s not good either! Either way, I suck!”

“Do you know what you can do about that?” Caitlin gets closer to him, smiling.

Rodrick is quiet.

“Call her!” She enunciates carefully.

Rodrick stutters, starting and abandoning several sentences, finally landing on, “I can’t.”

Caitlin rolls her eyes.

“She probably doesn’t even like me anymore! She probably just wanted it to be a one night stand after all! She was probably just being nice when she said she wanted to see me again! She’s, like, hardcore!”

Caitlin’s eyes go wide.

“One night stand?! Rodrick!”

“What?!”

“You slept with her?” She yells.

The music stops. Rodrick’s coworkers all look at him, and start hooting and hollering as they always do.

Yeah, alright, Ricky! Atta boy!

Rodrick puts his head down in shame.

Caitlin lowers her head, whispering.

“Okay, dude, I do not think you’re a bad guy, but you seriously need to call this girl. Like, right now.”

“I… I don’t have her number.” He admits.

Caitlin puts her face in her hands, rubbing her temples.

“You can not be serious! Okay,” Caitlin flips her phone open, “I have everybody’s numbers, what’s her name?”

She scrolls through her contact list, and fuck. There you are. Caitlin keeps an iron grip on his arm as he dials, and he takes deep breaths as it rings.

This is Bonnie Forester. You’ve reached my personal telephone line. If you are a solicitor, I ask that you take me off of your list. I’m old, and I will not buy anything. Go to hell!

Rodrick stares, dumbfounded, at the phone.

“She didn't answer?” Caitlin releases his arm, leaning over the bar.

“It was… an old lady's voicemail.”

She looks at him, confused. He dials again, this time putting it on speakerphone.

This is Bonnie Forester. You’ve reached my personal telephone line. If you are a solicitor, I ask that you take me off of your list. I’m old, and I will not buy anything. Go to hell!

“She changed her number.” Rodrick murmurs, looking down.

“No, no,” Caitlin looks at her own phone, her eyebrows hitched in worry, “I met her, like, 2 years ago, she's probably just changed it since then. Or I took it down wrong!”

Rodrick crumples onto the bar, groaning.

Caitlin grimaces, putting a tentative hand on his back.

“Hey, hey. This doesn't mean anything.”

“It means fucking everything,” his mouth pulls into a frown, “It means she hates me.”

It's quiet for a while. Caitlin slowly takes her hand off his back, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“Well,” she finally says, “Come out with me, then.”

He lifts his head.

“As friends! Just as friends.” She clarifies, waving her hands, “C'mon, I'm off in 20 minutes. Let's have a good time at a bar for once.”

He looks at her for a while, before finally agreeing.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

~

You don’t want me anymore

So I just walk right out that door

Played a game right from the start

I trust you, you use me, now my heart’s torn apart

So I'm sailin’, yeah I'm sailin’ on

I'm movin’, yeah I'm movin’ on

Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on

~

Your cell phone rings once again, and you debate snapping it right in half. You sit, curled on your couch, staring at it in fear. This is a new number. Probably your mom's phone. You consider yourself lucky that Bonnie had been there to help you out. The message will at least throw them off your scent a little.

You've received one text from Mike, ugly car is at Motel 6 on Coal Ave.

That's a relief, at least.

You feel like you're going crazy.

A thunderstorm rages outside your apartment, and you're suddenly hating how many windows you have inside. The entire outside-facing wall is essentially just one big window. Every time lightning strikes, you find yourself thinking, that's it. He saw me.

Yet, when you check the window, nobody unusual is parked on the street below.

You're struck with a passing thought as a clap of thunder rattles your windows.

What if…?

No way.

Why would Rodrick call now?

You carefully pick up your phone, looking at 2 missed calls. You'd bet good money on that being your mom's cell phone, or even your dad having a backup number.

You'd really like to hear from Rodrick, though. Now more than ever.

As pathetic as that may be.

You take a deep breath. If you don't talk, nobody will know it's you.

You dial. It rings for what seems like forever.

I'm sorry, but the person you have dialed has a voicemail box that hasn't been-

You hang up quickly. Dammit. Now you have no idea.

You eye your laptop for a second before opening it.

Rodrick hasn't emailed you. You decide to send another one to him.

Not to hurt him. Not to destroy him. Just to see.

~

From: worldsbestbartender@aol.com

To: bigrod@plainviewcommunitycollege.edu, lodeddiperrawks@aol.com

Subject: Did you call me?

Rodrick.

Are you calling me? I assume the ship has sailed and I don't know why you would be. Dick move, by the way.

Let me know if that was you who called me twice in a row tonight and I'll answer. I can't answer mystery numbers right now. I don't want to explain and you probably don't care anyway.

Just please let me know.

~

You drop your head as you hit send.

You doubt he'll answer. You doubt it was him.

But the chance is enough to make you wonder.

Enough to make you miss him.

You know he wouldn't have some grand plan to save you from this situation, but that's not what you need, anyway. You have a feeling that Rodrick’s form of support would just be sitting on the couch with you until you could fix things yourself.

That's what you need.

You stare at your inbox for a while, refreshing over and over, feeling more helpless. You wonder where he is. If he's even thought about you once.

You feel so weak.

You feel so angry.

No person should make you feel like this. You're better than this.

A knock at your door scares you within an inch of your life, and you cover your mouth to stifle any sound you might make. You creep towards the door, peeking through the peephole.

It’s Nick, with his hands shoved in his jacket pocket. You open the door and let him in.

“Hey,” He closes the door behind him, locking the deadbolt, “Any word?”

“Nothing. I got 2 calls, but it might be… someone else.”

He eyes you strangely, then takes his hands out of his pockets.

“I had this crazy idea,” He reveals what he’s got to you.

2 plane tickets from the nearby regional airport to LAX. You take them, staring up at him in disbelief.

“It’s crazy, I know,” He scratches the back of his head, “I just thought, if you’re gonna run, you might as well go far, far away. Somewhere exciting.”

You keep your eyes on him, eyebrow raised in confusion.

“And I’d wanna go with you.”

“What? Like, run away together?” You hand him the tickets back.

He looks at the floor.

“Look. Ever since I met you, I…”

“Don’t, Nick. I know you feel bad for me, but don’t say anything you don’t mean, okay?”

You walk to your couch, sitting with your hands in your lap.

“I mean it,” He appears in front of you. He looks so sincere, “I love you. In whatever way you want me to.”

You don’t really know what you feel for Nick. He’s been there, with you, since the beginning, but…

Do you love him? As a friend, maybe. You decide to shelve those feelings for now.

“I can’t leave, Nick.”

His face drops when you don’t respond to his confession.

“I have too many things here worth fighting for. I can’t leave. Plus, who’s to say my dad can’t find me wherever I go? I have to stay here and fix this.” You look out the window as another flash of lightning strikes.

Nick looks at you for a long time, head down, shoulders slouched. He finally speaks.

“Just think about it, okay?”

(tag list: @crumpets-are-better-with-jam @stargurl-01)

[nightmarewritings]

I'm not really back to taking requests, but I finished a fic and figured this would be a good place to share it too! It's for the game Outlast, and is a Richard Trager/reader f/m fic.

This fic is NOT Worksafe and contains mild blood, dubious consent, and sex.

The People Pleaser

It was dark, you had lost track of everything; your phone, your flashlight, even your glasses had become lost not long ago. Hell, the only other safe person you had met in this hellhole, an equally terrified man clutching a camera, had no choice but to leave you while the two of you were chased down opposite hallways, though he promised to come back and find you, that was before you got lost, before you passed through the twisting corridors and blocked off staircases.

You couldn’t see anything in the darkness, your hand tapped along the wall beside you, hoping to not somehow wind up more lost than you already were. It had been a while since you last heard anyone near you, as if the danger had passed, but you remained vigilant.

It would only take the tiniest slip up to be caught, to be tortured and gutted and eaten or any manner of other horrible fates. But that wasn’t going to be you. As terrified as you were, you were a survivor, you told yourself. You would live. You would live. You would live. You repeated it over and over, hoping to steel your nerves and fill yourself with determination. You weren’t quite sure it was working, but you didn’t exactly have any other options.

Light slowly began to appear as you continued on, you paused for a moment when you noticed movement ahead, but a strange sense of relief passed over you. They were strapped to beds, squirming in pain and agony, but a part of you was just glad they weren’t trying to rip you apart too. You had to get out of the asylum, being chased for as long as you had been was having a clear effect.

Taking a deep breath, steeling your nerves, you walked past them, keeping your eyes locked dead ahead. Some struggled, some screamed, some could do nothing but scream. Pain was starting to stab its way into your brain, an unfortunate side effect of your eyes straining to see without your glasses. A promise was made; when you got home, you would order a spare pair.

Home. The thought made you smile. Though you had only been in the asylum for likely a few hours at the most, it felt like it had been days. In hindsight, agreeing to pick up a friend from his security job was a bad idea, but you had always been somewhat of a pushover and a people pleaser. No use in dwelling on it. Now, the only thing on your mind was survival. You even briefly considered picking up a weapon, but most things that seemed as if they could work were all either too heavy or already in use.

A sound clattered forth from somewhere to your right and you jumped, clutching your, now sadly ripped and stained, cardigan tightly in your grasp. It appeared as if one of the unfortunate patients had managed to kick over a metal tray. You breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that you were still safe.

“I swear, you can’t get any peace and quiet around here, if it’s not one thing, it’s another!”

A voice, surprisingly calm despite the circumstances, came from behind you, right as a hand grabbed your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. You couldn’t get a good look at him, he was just a tall blur, but from the way he paused, you had a feeling he was getting a very good look at you.

Despite the circumstances, you could feel your racing heartbeat slow somewhat. He didn’t sound dangerous, though you knew that was hardy an indicator of safety, and he wasn’t instantly trying to rip your guts out.

“When I heard someone running around here, I didn’t think it’d be a pretty thing like yourself. C’mon, it’s dangerous out there, you stick with me and you might keep your head on your shoulders.” He released his grip and his hand migrated down to your back, continuing lower until it stopped right on the small of your back. He pushed gently, guiding you along. “Though, you’ve been wandering around like it’s already been cut off, what’s the deal with that?”

True, you didn’t exactly feel safe around him, but it was beginning to sink in that you really had no choice but to go along with him. A sniffle pushed its way out of you as you tried to speak, your voice hoarse from earlier screams. “M-My glasses… I dropped them somewhere up here, but it’s just so… so dark.”

“Lemme guess, can’t see without ‘em? What a shame, you’re really missing out on the scenery here, believe me.”

His joke wasn’t all that funny, but you laughed politely anyway. You walked with him, fully aware that every step would only result in your becoming even more lost in the labyrinthine halls, and you didn’t exactly expect him to show you the way out.

Soon, the two of you reached a room, more brightly lit than the ones you had passed through, though the light held no comfort as it illuminated the copious amount of blood splattered throughout.

“You tired? Just hop up on that bed, take a rest.” He didn’t even bother letting you try to climb up, not that you would have if you had a choice, instead he leaned down and scooped you up, placing you exactly where he wanted you to go. Before you could even begin to protest, your legs were strapped down. “Just a little insurance, can’t have you running off again or bumbling around and knocking shit over.”

“Wait, what? That’s not fair!” You knew something wasn’t right, that it was a stupid idea to trust him, your optimism had always been as much a curse as it was a blessing.

“Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you. Well, maybe a little, we’ll see how the night goes. Truth is, I’m a bit rusty, it’s been a while since I last got to wine and dine, and this isn’t exactly Dorsia, but old habits die hard, and it's been too long since I last saw a pretty face.” As he continued muttering, mostly to himself, he turned away from you and headed towards a table, where he lifted something up. You weren’t sure what it was, but your heart began to race as every possible, horrible, painful option passed through your mind. You closed your eyes, if he was going to cause you pain, you didn’t want to watch.

Instead, you felt something very familiar, the feeling of your glasses being slid on. Your eyes snapped back open. Aside from slight smudges, your vision was restored, the persistent blur was gone, and now you saw the man in front of you. You liked him much better with your glasses off.

“There we go, with your glasses on you look almost too cute for surgery, maybe you could be my little nurse instead? Or maybe, maybe you could be something a bit more.” His voice was low, barely above a whisper, and his hands closed around your thighs, clamping them down to the table. “I’ve had all sorts of girls in all sorts of places, but you’d be my first in here.” His grip tightened, and you knew it would be best to go along with whatever he said. You would live.

You gave him a nod, and he removed his hands from you, quickly turning around back towards the table. Good lord, was the whole asylum allergic to clothes? The question left your mind quickly, when you saw him raise a pair of rusty shears. "Lemme help you out of those clothes, buddy."

“Wait! I can just take it off, okay? Let me keep my clothes intact, and I'll.. do what you want.” You tilted your face up towards his, batting your eyelashes and playing at everything you could think of to help you live through the night with all your limbs intact.

“You drive a hard bargain, shredding that shirt would do the world a favor, but alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Though he didn’t place the shears down immediately, he did cross his arms and take a step away from you, giving you room.

The cardigan fell away first. Your fingers trembled as you undid each button, slowly revealing more of yourself to the man in front of you. The shirt fell to the side softly, barely hanging on the rusty, blood-stained bed and leaving you vulnerable. His eyes didn't leave your body for a second.

"You shouldn't be shaking, come on, buddy! I could've just left you out there alone with all those wackos, feeling around in the dark like a helpless little bunny. Don't you think you're much better off here?"

"Mister, I-I wouldn't feel safe in here even with a bazooka." Honestly, he didn't make you feel safe in the slightest. You had absolutely no doubt that he was responsible for the mutilated patients you passed in the hall, and his friendly demeanor only put you more on edge.

He laughed, it sounded as warm as everything that came out of his mouth. "That's a good point! Oh, and don't call me 'mister', makes me sound old. Call me 'Doctor Trager', or 'Rick'. 'Mister Trager' was my father." Another small chuckle came out, as if he was an actual licensed medical professional, you didn't believe that man had ever been to medical school.

The rest of your clothing soon went the way of your shirt, the release of your ankles from the straps helped, each discarded item of clothing only brought more interest, and increasingly lewd comments, from ‘Doctor’ Trager, making you wonder why he was taking his time. Did he really like the sound of his own voice that much?

“Not normally a leg guy, but you’ve got some grade A gams on you. I need a closer look, you understand, doctor’s orders.”

He climbed up on the bed, straddling your body. Your hands shot up to his chest, trying to push him back, but it was no use, he was stronger than he looked. Trager was close enough that you could see his face in all its torn ‘glory’, you hadn’t even noticed before that his lip had been partially torn off, the scars criss-crossing his head, or how deeply that lens was embedded in his eye. Before you could say anything, however, you were met with a very unwelcome intrusion, his fingers pushed their way past your lips and into your mouth. You could feel his nails scratching as he felt around, paying particular attention to your tongue. There was a copper taste in your mouth, and it dawned on you that Trager had not washed any of the old blood from his hands. It took all your willpower to not gag.

“That’s a good girl, warm and wet. Let’s get those legs of yours up and- nice, nice.” Your legs were wrapped around his waist, with only his stained apron between your bodies. His skin felt unusual, textured in a way unfamiliar to you. It was almost a blessing when he pulled his fingers out of your mouth and replaced them with his tongue, even despite the unpleasant scraping of his teeth against your skin, it beat hearing him chatter on.

You couldn’t help but feel your body respond to his touch as his hands roamed every bit of your exposed flesh, he did indeed seem to know his way around a body very well. Still, the thought that you were doing something wrong lingered in your brain, that you were taking your people pleasing, passive nature too far, that you needed to fight your way out of Mount Massive with a merciless fury or die trying.

But what you were doing seemed safer, easier, and it had kept you alive. If you had to let him have his way with you to survive, why not try and enjoy it? At least that way you would get something out of it beyond a good reason to see a therapist.

Like it or not, you were getting wet. Your body wanted him, and not just for his surprisingly skilled fingers moving over your skin. Maybe you could let yourself go, to give yourself over to him and forget about the horrors that surrounded you. His hands went to your hips, you could feel his fingernails dig into your skin. The kiss broke, and you were left with no choice but to hear the satisfied groan leave his ragged lips as he pushed his cock inside you.

"It's been too fucking long..." He muttered. Trager didn't even wait until he was fully inside you before he began to speed up, his hip bones slammed painfully against you, but he barely seemed phased.

His mouth moved down your neck, his teeth sank into your skin as he bit down, though he stopped before he drew blood, it still caused you to yelp. The friction of his movements against your insides sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body. He seemed to perfectly hit that bundle of nerves inside of you that your fingers couldn't reach, knocking little gasps out of your lips every time. You could feel his hot, wet breath on your neck and his heart pounding in his chest.

One of his hands left your hip and gripped your hair, forcing your head to tilt back. He stared into your eyes, watching them dart around as you tried to avoid making eye contact with him. "You look me in the eyes when you cum, got that?" You nodded, and he gave you a quick smile. "I can bet it won't be long now, not with how you're clamping down on me. You want this."

You wouldn't say it out loud, couldn't say it, but he was right. You did want it. Trager was making your body feel too good, better than it had any right to in the situation you were in. Your legs rubbed against his waist, pulling him closer despite the rational part of your brain still telling you it was wrong, he was dangerous, you shouldn't enjoy yourself with him. Perhaps you could rationalize it away as adrenaline? You had been chased around for hours prior, your body needed some release.

"Atta girl, nobody likes a cold fish." He teased you, and released your hair from his grasp. Instead, he maneuvered you around once more, bringing your legs up to his shoulders. You could feel his thrusts even deeper than before. The sensation was so intense, you wondered if you would be able to handle it, if you would break if he kept going.

Your breaths were coming faster and faster, your fingernails dug into your palms as you tried to keep yourself from cumming. That would only make it worse, make it harder, but you were desperate for it. "Let me help you there, buddy..." Trager said, and you felt his fingers against your clit. Like it or not, you knew he would make you cum.

You were right.

With a few quick circles of his finger, he sent you over the edge, your resolve shattering into a million pieces as waves of pleasure rolled through you. You kept your eyes open as best you could, locked on his like he wanted. He kept up his frantic thrusting, holding you tight as he worked your body through it, he could feel how tightly your cunt gripped him. "That's it, that's it!" Before you could even finish your own orgasm, he pushed himself as far inside you as he could, filling you with his own release.

He pulled out and watched his semen ooze from you and puddle underneath your body. "You're on the pill, right?" He asked, though it was much too late for that question. You gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Can you… help me get out of here now… please?" Your voice was barely a squeak. Your legs were sore and wobbly, but you were certain you’d make it out safely with his help.

Trager climbed off of you and brushed his hands against his apron. "Well who said I was going to do that? I told you already, you're staying with me, I could use an assistant. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get some decent help around here? I ask for forceps, they give me clamps, it's a whole thing. Now-"

He began to ramble on again, but you had already tuned him out. He wasn’t going to help you out, and with how long it had been since you last saw that cameraman, you had a feeling no one would. Maybe staying with Doctor Trager wouldn’t be so bad after all? At least, until you could find another way out. You were a survivor, you would live, no matter what.

[redlegumes]

Drips

Written for @eddiemonth AO3 Link

I had this half ready early October and kept telling myself I'd have the second done in time, but my impatient ao3 draft was about to auto deleted so, let's gooooo

Summary: Eddie is stuck in the Upside Down, Vecna's new creature, Vecna's new lieutenant. But Eddie's remembering pieces, putting things together. Luckily, the Upside Down trauma gang learns he's alive and puts plans in motion to save him. Even if they can't be sure it's still *Eddie* they're trying to save.

Excerpt:

"His master called him Kas, at first, followed by a dry chuckle Eddie could never understand. He only feared it. Feared him: Vecna.

He would try. Try to remember more. He was not born from the nightmare; he was plunged into it. There was an evil stitching him together. It had changed him, but he could regain what was.

It was from Vecna he was also given tasks and guidance. Eddie was encouraged to learn. Learn his powers and control the creatures who dwelled with him in the dark. But it was a task he hated. He feared himself every time he mastered a response in the darkened expanse of what he knew to be Vecna's domain.

But the more he feared, the more he began to remember vestiges of another life outside the dark, constant night. He'd been something else.

He'd been 'Eddie.'"

AO3 Link

[getthrawnin]

#StarWars #ThrawnThursday drabble for image:

In his ready room aboard the ISD Chimaera, Thrawn receives a long-range transmission from an ally in the Ascendancy of his homeworld Csilla in Chiss Space. With a few buttons pressing, he activates the projector, and a hologram appears. After a brief flash of the Ascendancy sigil, the transmission begins.

“...How soon can we expect help from the Galactic Empire?”

Learn more at our Patreon

[be-my-ally]

Vegas Calling

very short, very sweet but has gotten me out of my writing slump so success! spoiler alert: the plot is heavily inspired by linda’s tale of elvis telling her he’s bought her a unique ring, and then giving it to sheila and buying her a boring tennis bracelet and pretending that was always the intended gift.  but uhhh because this is my fic, and reader is totally, completely, absolutely not based on me, it’s a happier ending.

Loosely based on this prompt: “You will love it” “I will hate it” “Nah, you won’t.” warning: this is unedited.

Reader x elvis 1975 (takes place during the march/april vegas engagement)

wc: 2.4k of a single phone call. let me know if you want a follow-up of reader in vegas!!

@whositmcwhatsit @thatbanditqueen @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @missmaywemeetagain @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love @arrolyn1114 (on this note - I never know who to tag in these little one-shots so let me know if you want to be tagged in future!)

It had been a long ten days already, Elvis had left you behind, asking that you just “let [him] get all settled in, hon, then you can come on out and cheer me up.” You didn’t question it - or question the kind of settling he was expecting would be required. It had been a mere six months since his last residency, and by now it was a pretty smoothly run operation. But then, you were both well aware of what he really meant when he asked someone - or really, you specifically -to not come out to Vegas. It likely meant he’d already requested some sparkly  little two week wonder to join him. But, you knew his schedule better than everyone, and you knew full well that at the moment he didn’t really have time to be messing about with anyone else, or at least, not in any meaningful way. From what he’d been saying he’d been embroiled in rehearsals for the first few days - time he now claims, fed-up, that was wasted - busy even before the twisted schedule of his show routine started. All in all it meant he’d barely had time to chat, and you were desperate for his call tonight when he’d promised he’d have more of a chance to talk - but more of a chance didn’t mean any earlier, after-all he still had to get through two shows before he could relax and the two hour time difference between Vegas and Graceland felt a lot longer at 2 and 4am respectively. 

The phone rings insistently, and you blearily rush to pick it up, unsure how long it had been ringing for while you woke up and panicked that he may hang up if you didn’t get to it fast enough. He’d not been very happy two days earlier when you’d missed his call - his mood swinging from annoyance into being downright teary the following day. You were sure that some other source had been to blame for the extreme emotion, although part of you had hoped it was simply how much he’d loved you, and while you hoped it never got back to him you’d been worried enough about him that you’d called Joe directly to ask him to check in. 

“Hullo Elvis baby,” You breathed down the line, still blinking awake. He breathes a little laugh back at you, fondly, 

“Hey sweetheart,” He pauses, “That how you always answer the phone?” You’re still not fully awake and you can’t think of anything clever to say in response so you have to settle for a simple, 

“Maybe…but… I knew it was you.” 

“Better have - You haven’t been givin’ out my special number have you?” It was indeed, very special, his own little hotline straight to you. 

“No!” you laugh down the phone, 

“Better not - or you’ll be in trou-ble,” he sing-songs it down the line and you giggle back at him, 

“I swear! Hey - how’d the shows go tonight?” He pauses, and you can hear the sound of others in the background, 

“Oh you know. Same as always, nothing to write home about.” He’s never particularly talkative about these shows - not like he can be on tour, but he normally has some funny anecdote about a woman climbing the tables, or a lyric fudged, or even a joke one of the boys made - he’s not normally totally reluctant to share. 

“No?” He doesn’t seem to hear you - distracted, talking to someone else, and you can hear a tittering giggle accompany Joe’s characteristic cackling laugh while you wait for his attention back. You try not to assess it too much or spend any time deliberating who’s wife or girlfriend that might be. You know the others pretend not to know, Joan and Pat and Judy and all the others  all turning a blind eye to their own  husbands’ many indiscretions and pretending to each other there’s nothing to know. But…Elvis could never keep a secret, and you were more looped into the gossip than any of them probably knew - it made it a tad tricky when you had to pretend to the other steady wives and girlfriends, and you had been so proud of being a girls-girl, the type that wouldn’t have put up with hiding this kinda thing before Elvis - but, ultimately, you didn’t believe any of them truly had no idea - or that they weren’t willingly pretending.  And more than anything the potential to be lying in bed, curled up on Elvis’ chest, giggling and gossiping  about the ins & outs of the mafia’s relationships was worth more to you than being friends with any of them. None of this made you feel any better about being confronted with the possibility of Elvis distracted by a different girl. 

“Elvis?” You question again, 

“Uh-huh?” Still distracted,  you don’t know what to say other than, 

“Is now a bad time?” 

“Naw, now  why would you think that?” He sounds a little annoyed, short with you, although at least you now have his full attention. 

“No -no,  no reason. Just wanted to check you could talk.” 

“Wouldn’t have called otherwise, would I?” It feels a little like he’s riling you up, and you can’t tell if it's your sleepy state that makes you quick to annoy or if he really is intentionally trying to be a little mean. 

“Of course not,” You rapidly try to change the subject, “I really miss you.” You weren’t trying to manipulate him, but you can’t pretend it doesn’t please you when you can hear him call out in the background; 

“Go on, yeah, no - no, all of you -go on,  clear on out! I’ll be fine, go on.” You can hear the sounds of the guys all rapidly leaving, and then, finally, there’s a momentary lapse before Elvis picks up his bedroom phone, you can hear him breathe down the line, and a little grunt as you hear the bedcovers rustle about. 

“Go on then yittle, tell me that again,” You squirm under your own covers, his voice just low and deep and rough enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I - I miss you Elvis, I really do, I-I-I  can’t stop thinking about you.” 

“Do ya?” 

“Uh-huh, I do,” There’s not much point now to try and play it cool but still you give it a go, lasting all of five seconds before gushing, “I can’t wait to come out there. I’ve been thinking about it all week, can’t wait to see you again.”

“Oh, ba-by, I can’t wait to have you out here either…” You can hear the smile in his voice, “What do you think about -  when you’re thinking about me?” 

“Oh god,” You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, even though you know it’s just the two of you,

“Go on, honey, you can tell me.” He has to know what he’s doing, emphasizing his accent and tone. 

“Oh Elvis” You hate how breathy and girlish you already sound, but from his fond chuckle he’s agreeable to it and that makes you feel confident enough to keep talking, “Everything, oh, just everything - there’s, there’s just so much to think about…” 

“Well if you hadta pick?” He’s teasing you, but you can hear the affectionate tone in it - he’s digging for compliments more than anything. 

“Oh well, if I had to, I guess… I mean, maybe sometimes I might think about your voice…”

“My voice?” He intentionally lowers it, “You like my voice baby?” and you giggle, fidgeting one foot against the other, rolling the sheets between them. 

“Yeah-huh, your voice, and your…” You try not to be too shy, “your, well, I guess your face,” Elvis laughs, slightly taken aback at the pronouncement.  

“My face?” You can still hear the smile in his voice, and you decide to do the best to make him laugh again. 

“Yeah your cute little face, and, and your cute little butt.” He roars with laughter, 

“Ain’t so little ‘ccording to the reviews.” It’s the kind of comment he means light-heartedly, but one that could turn the conversation dire if you don’t have quite the correct response - and it's a lot harder to reassure him that you like every part of him when you can’t touch and show him just how much. You keep the conversation joking, hoping he’ll laugh it off. 

“Notice you don’t protest the cute.” 

“Well now, honey, I ain’t a liar.” You can hear him shake his head and despite the fact that you’re alone in the room you bury your grin into your pillow, “I miss you too darling girl,” and then almost shyly, “I got you a present today.” 

“A present?” You peek out from the pillow, twisting the cord around your finger, “What kind of present?” 

“You’ll love it, I promise, doll, it’s just gorgeous - it’s the most unique lookin’ ring I’ve ever seen. Got a huge ol’ red stone right there, next to some diamonds - but all twisted and natural like - it looks totally, totally, organic.” 

You feel your tummy flip, he’d promised you similar things before that had never materialized - given away perhaps before you made it to his door, and you’ve not been seeing him long - only a couple of months, and it sounds expensive - probably too expensive. 

“Oh - oh Elvis, it sounds lovely, but that’s, that’s too much - I’ll, I’ll hate it - having to worry about wearin’ it and all that…I’ve never, never had diamonds before and you’ve already given me those earrings - and, and my necklace - I’d hate having to worry about them on my fingers.” 

“Nah you won’t darling, just trust me - it’s lovely - it’ll look lovely on your little soft hands, you’ve got them softest hands I’ve ever felt.” You were about to protest more, but his voice had dipped down, imploring you to listen. 

“Do I?” 

“Uh-huh, lil soft hands that deserve to be treated.” 

“It's just, it’s just a lot E - I really don’t think -” 

“Look why don’t you just wait and see when it gets delivered tomorrow - you’ll be here by then won’t you? You can tell me then.” He’s trying to change the subject, but you still feel guilty, and you just need him to know that you like him for more than just his excessive gifts. 

“Well, ok, but you didn’t have-” Elvis growls, cutting you off, tone sharpening as he speaks. 

“I aint gotta do a damn thing, I’ve not got a gun to my head - if I wanna buy you a thousand rings I will.” You squirm, while you feel uncomfortable at the concept of the sheer dollar amount he’s suggesting he’d spend on you, you can’t deny the little thrill it gives you. “Think I’ve earnt the right to treat whoever I like to whatever I goddamn want.” 

“Of course, I was-“ You try to backtrack. 

“Good, because I picked it out special - couldn’t wait to give it to ya, wanted to give it to my sweet yittle grateful babydoll  - not have to listen to you bitch and moan ‘bout it.” 

“I’m not Elvis…I swear - it sounds,” you give in, sighing “It sounds lovely, I can’t wait.” 

“Uh-huh.” He huffs, 

“I mean it, I promise.”

“Well…you’ll see it tomorrow. I’ll give it to you then…” 

“I really can’t wait… I can’t wait to see it, and I can’t wait to see you - It’s been so hard.” He sighs, 

“I know darling, I shouldn’t have left you behind, all on your own. Wasn’t - it wasn’t fair on you.” He pauses, “You know there wasn’t one damn reason why you couldn’t have come with me.” 

“Oh.” That was a surprise to hear, and you weren’t one hundred percent convinced of the honesty of the statement.  “You don’t, - you don’t have to lie to me, if, if your plans fell through - it’s, it’s okay, I promise.”

“No sweetheart, you’re not listening, don’t,” You can picture him shaking his head, “ don’t make it to be something else - I never made any other plans.” 

“Oh, well, I - next time I’ll come with you right away.” 

“I’d like that.” It’s abrupt and gruff, and you can tell he means it - probably more than he means the babytalk or the gifts. He yawns and you can practically hear his jaw through the phone, reminding you it's late for him, and later for you, although at least you’d had some sleep before the call. 

“Elvis…do you…is there anything you miss about me?” 

“Miss about you?” He questions again, and you can hear him shift lower down the sheets, picturing himself settling against the pillows, phone tucked into the crook of his shoulder. 

“Uh-huh?” 

“Well, well, that’s easy, honey, I-I,” His voice is slowing, and you wonder at what point in the call he took his sleep aid. “I - miss, miss everything about you.” You consider if it’s ridiculous to feel disappointed he doesn’t bother to specify further. 

“Everything?” He snuffles, heavy breathing traveling down the line. “Elvis - everything?” You can tell the question practically wakes him up, 

“Miss, miss your cute little lips, and, and your - god, honey, I miss your, miss your hair.” 

“My hair?!” You can’t help the little screech and Elvis  breathes a little laugh back at you, 

“That’s right, baby, - your hair, I love your hair, it’s just,” He breathes, “It’s just perfect.” You laugh, he must be thinking of his other girlfriend who doesn’t have your wild frizzy mess. 

“Anything else?” 

“Well, I-I,  miss your  legs too, honey,” You make an encouraging hum back to him, closing your own eyes in response to his further slowing speech. “Miss getting to watch you leave a room, you’re so, god you’re so, so pretty baby, miss you so much darling.”  Your thighs squeeze of their own accord, and you know he’s probably too sleepy for it but you figure it’s worth a try. 

“What would you do if I were there? I-I’ll - If, I mean, if you go first, I’ll tell you what I wanna do to you right now.”

 You hope your nerves at your proposition don’t convey over the phone. It doesn’t matter though, since he makes no reply. Tiny snuffling noises straight to your ear. You know it’s wrong to take advantage - since if you’d been footing the bill for it you wouldn’t dream of it but, you also knew he wouldn’t mind - and you’ve missed him beside you so much.  So instead of hanging up you settle the phone against your pillow and  wriggle all the way  down under your covers. Closing your eyes to the sounds of his gentle snoring and sniffs, counting down the hours until you’ll be physically beside him.

[kyliafanfiction]

Look, I'm sorry, but radfem-lite lesbian fanfic authors who use their fanfics to scream at the writers are not actually good judges of what makes for a 'toxic heteosexual relationship' when they define the most banal shit in the world as 'toxic heterosexual relationships'.

YOU THINK EVERY HETEROSEXUAL RELATIONSHIP IS TOXIC