#should i write a sequel

[elkniwirep-anti-fairywinkle]

LOVE TRIANGLE CORRUPTED WITH BETRAYAL

im sorry for everyone who now HAS to read this

Stanford Pines walked sensually down the street, hips swaying with a sexual energy no man could truly fathom. Large fingers dig into the bones of his slutty man hips, "hm," he grunted with a puff of his chest. Eyes flicker to a being that has appeared before the big tittied scientist. "You're a perculiar being, what exactly are you?" He inquired, brow raised with a slight smolder upon handsome features. He may be over 50, but goddamn was he smokin´.

Anti-Cosmo, the anti-fairy with a devilish grin leaned forward, eyes glued to such magnificant mounds of flesh just barely covered by the torn red silk sweater that Stanford donned. "Oh good heavens, what a creature! Very good, very good indeed." The anti-fairy purred, vampiric teeth bare in a wicked grin; was there an evil plot afoot or pure curiousity? Who knows. "You seem like an intelligent fellow, let's discuss what we will be over tea!" Small, clawed hands clasped in a muffled clap; evidently, the creature was amused with a glint in emerald green eyes. Suddenly a faint noise, Stanford wonders if it could be... was it really.. had he returned after leaving so many years ago? No, it couldn't be.

"Nyah!" Came a shrill cry, purple nubs wiggling as a floating moose came into view, an explosion left within the mechanical being's wake. Tears collected in eyes that strayed from one another, usual smile in a frown that conveyed such hurt... Minimoose had never been happier to see what he thought he'd once lost, small body thrown into the big boobied scientist's arms with another shrill cry. The bespectacled greying man releases a thick sob from tightened chest, droplets rolling down cheeks. "Minimoose, you're back!" Stanford choked, emotion clear as thick arms wrapped around a long lost lover. They hadn't been in contact since the divorce, Minimoose had believed he was nothing more than a rebound to the scientist after Bill's evidental betrayal. He'd killed Fiddleford once the other scientist had voiced strong feelings for his one true love, the moose did not take lightly to it. Light on his feet, Stanford spins the nuclear moose around in a gleeful cry from large, glistening lips. Such joy filled a once broken heart.

"STANFORD?! THIS IS WHO YOU LEFT ME FOR, MINIMOOSE?!" Came a bellowed scream, grouchy with a voice that sounded as though it'd eaten concrete. Cheap dress shoes stomp angrily upon the pathway, fist clenched around a cane that'd donned an 8-ball upon it's handle. Never before had such fury been witnessed, Minimoose felt almost... scared. "Nyah!" He cried, nubs gesturing to Stanford who held him close.

"How could you?!" That grouchy voice sounded to be on the verge of tears, thumb dragged across under eyes to collect any droplets threatening to form; bottom lip jutted out. Wide eyes stare at the moose that he once held close, betrayal filled his heart.... and with his own BROTHER no less. Large hands ripped Minimoose from Stanford's thick, big and sweaty palms while tucking the nuclear creature against the chest of a crinkled suit. Hopping into the maroon car that'd been parked there the entire time, he sped off with Minimoose, a laugh rung throughout the town's main street. Bill Cipher lay dead in the car's wake.

Stanford wakes up that next morning, cuddled in the arms of Anti-Cosmo who held a pipe; smoke billowing into white clouds within the quiet atmosphere of a fancy, cobblestoned built castle of the Victorian Era. "I did it... I saved Fairy World." He muttered under his breath, yet a tear spills in thought of Minimoose... wherever he lay, it'd be with that wretched brother of his.

[edwinspaynes]

Having once been a high schooler, I can tell you with 1000% certainty that some future kids at St Hilarion's at least tried to summon Edwin with a Ouija board. Would it have worked once he was out of Hell? Would he be summoned to the quad of St Hilarion's at 3 AM on a Monday? I can totally imagine him being super annoyed about it happening once in a while, but sometimes he just randomly is forced to poof there. He says something mildly scary but not too scary on the Ouiji board, hoping it will deter future sumonings, and poofs back. And he's good, for a few years, until some totally different stupid kids do it again

[plusultraetc]

okay but what if seeing quirkless pro hero Deku on the news inspires quirkless former-pro Takami Keigo to try the whole hero thing again, but this time on his own terms

[turning-monday-blue]

Sweets (1/?)

The snugness was barely tolerable. She had overestimated herself. She looked surreptitiously over her shoulder and ducked around a corner. The only thing following her were her bad decisions, but she felt chased all the same.

Okay. Calm down. Breathe (but not too deep). Evaluate the situation. What are your options? Can you loosen anything?

She looked down at herself. Past her swollen breasts, past a fluffy roll of upper belly, she examined her waistline. Nope. The button was the only thing keeping the zipper together, and vice versa. For the millionth time, she lamented her morning. What a bright idea, interviewing for a job with a snack company. She was very well aware of how sweets affected her.

Could she find somewhere discrete to wait out her... little metabolic mishap? She looked around for a discrete nook to accommodate her fresh bulk.

The little atrium she had found had a series of plush benches around the walls. She sighed and headed for the one in the corner. She sucked in as best she could and sat down. Some horny little corner of her mind made note of how it felt as her tight belly shifted against her puffy thighs.

Sitting like this, only barely upright lest bending too far compromise her jeans, she couldn't ignore how her waistband was trying to cut her in half. She thought back to how she had done this to herself. The lovely HR manager had very explicitly pointed out the basket of the company's sugary offerings there in the middle of interview table. The woman had been insistent that she try at least one of each, gushing like any good salesperson about their rich flavors and subtle textures, occasionally even peeling one out of its wrapper and handing it to her.

How could she have done anything but eat what was offered to her? And by a beautiful woman, no less. She knew how her body reacted to food like this, but she had been desperate to make a good impression, to look good and eager and employable. A good girl. She ignored that last thought, and the accompanying shiver through her frazzled tummy.

She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth (but not too deeply). All she had to do was calm down, and give her body a chance to do the same. Then she could find a back door to sneak out of, go home and hope that somehow that she hadn't blown the interview.

She opened her eyes again and caught sight of herself in a mirror across the room. Holy crap, she was huge. She had been her normal, narrow self, and her outfit had fit very very normally, when she had arrived. But now? Now it looked positively painted onto her. Her breasts were trying to spill out of her tastefully exposed bra and over the lapel of her blouse. She was more balloon than woman at this point. She ignored another tingle.

As she watched herself in the mirror, she noticed something change. Slowly but surely, the last wrinkle in her blouse smoothed out. Uh oh. That meant... she was still filling out. Panic. She tingled again.

No. No. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). She closed her eyes again, and could feel her plump body quietly grow. Crap.

Panic. Calm. Breathe (but not too deep). Calm.

Maybe if she didn't look, it would go away. That had never worked before, sure, but there's a first time for everything, right?

As she rationalized to herself, she noticed the sound of heels clacking towards her hiding spot. Panic!

Maybe their owner would pass and not notice her?

No such luck.

The woman who had interviewed her rounded the corner.

"There you are!"

She struggled to stand. So tight.

"You left your purse upstairs. I get it, though. Interviews can be pretty stressful, huh?"

Like nothing had changed. Did this woman not notice that she was currently three times the size she was when she had shown up? Could this woman not hear every seam in her clothes creaking in harmony? Could the woman not see how wide and deep and round she was becoming?

"It's such a beautiful handbag, I almost wanted to keep it for myself!" The woman laughed. "Oh well."

She took the bag from the woman. "O-oh! Thank you!" Leapt out of her.

"Listen," said the woman, "technically I have to review a few other candidates, but I think you're a shoo-in for the position." The woman moved closer. "No one else has shown so much... enthusiasm." Closer still. She basked in the smell of the woman's musky perfume.

"Oh... that's great!" she managed to squeak out.

"In fact," the woman continued, "if you'd like to come back upstairs, we can have you fill out the onboarding paperwork now, so you don't have to come back just to fill out some forms if... when we give you the job." So close now.

"Um! Okay!" What.

The woman placed a gentle hand on the side of her massive, tight, growing belly. "Listen, between you and me, that passion you showed today will take you far with us. Do you feel like the offer is fair? We can negotiate further if you need." The woman's eyes were so sincere.

What was going on here? She could barely think.

The woman placed her other hand on top of her belly, well hidden by her burgeoning breasts. "I do hope you'll say yes."

"Um..."

There was a pop. Her button pinged away across the room from her overburdened jeans. It made a little thwack sound as it hit the far wall. Her zipper flew down, zizzing audibly. Her belly erupted through the breach. Her blouse retreated upwards. The tingling became a roar. All the while, the woman, as though no tectonic shifts were happening right there and then, continued to implore with borderline puppydog eyes.

The world held its breath with her. How had this woman not reacted to any of that?! What? Was the woman still waiting for an answer?

"...okay?" She tried. She wasn't sure if her brain was still working. "Sure?" Best to stick to small sentences.

"Yay!" cheered the woman, "I really think you'll love it here!" The woman launched in for a quick hug around her exposed belly. The woman's arms didn't go even halfway around her. And still the woman didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong.

"Well! If you'll follow me back to the elevators, we can at least get the formalities out of the way."

The woman took her by the hand and pulled, still gentle. She followed, mutely. Even the horniest, shamiest corners of her mind were silent, waiting with bated breath.

As they reached the elevators, the woman pushed the up button and stood to the side. "Please," said the woman, "after you!"

On autopilot now, she stepped into the elevator and... wedged into the door. Stuck. What. Panic? Calm? The elevator dinged again as if to say "I'm waiting!"

The cold of the elevator doors brought her back to reality. She put a hand on either side of herself and tried to pull herself in. As though this were somehow normal, the woman chirped "Oh, here, let me help!"

She felt a gentle pair of hands press into her oceanic bottom. Her horny brain thrilled again. She clamped down on those thoughts. No time to be a pervert.

Between the two of them, they muscled her into the elevator. She turned to face the doors in time to watch the woman press into her in order to let the doors close. Normally equipped for eight full-sized human adults, due to her immensity, it very barely fit two.

"We need floor thirty," said the woman into her barely contained cleavage. She tried to reach for the panel of buttons, but by now there was simply too much of her in the way.

"I've got it," said the woman, reaching behind her without looking.

They rode the thirty floors quietly. She could feel herself still widening, pressing towards the walls of the elevator car. Her embarrassment had burnt out, leaving only a kind of stunned peace in her mind. She tried to will her body away from the woman, but where else could it really go?

By the time they reached their destination, the woman was firmly pressed against the doors, still showing no indication of the extra-ordinariness of the situation.

As the doors opened, the woman stepped back, grabbed her hands, and pulled as she tried to wiggle through the door. Eventually she floomped through, and they set off toward the HR suite.

Full-on waddling now, she felt an inner tension release. She had stopped growing. Relief. If nothing else, at least things had stopped getting worse. Sure, she was almost round enough to roll. Tingle. Sure, her clothing had been reduced to barely covering her... rude areas. Tingle. Sure, a beautiful woman was acting as though this was all perfectly normal. Tingle tingle tingle. But hey, at least it finally wasn't getting worse.

The woman pushed open the double doors to the HR suite and welcomed her in with another glittering smile. They seemed to be the only ones there. The woman led her, patiently, to the front desk area. The woman ducked behind the desk, looking for something.

"Hmm, it looks like I'll need to go print off more some more copies of the forms. Shouldn't take more than a minute or two." Finally she'd have a moment to collect herself.

Then the woman produced a basket, laden with various goodies, from underneath the desk. "Here! Help yourself, sorry to make you wait." Uh.

"Oh, here, allow me," said the woman, picking out a chocolate confection, peeling it, and pressing it into her mouth. "I'll be right back!"

She chewed and swallowed the treat.

Uh oh.

[gumnut-logic]

John Tracy hated taking public transport.

He hated the cramped seats, the invasion of his personal space, the fact the bus stopped every few minutes to pick up more passengers and the noise.

It was stressful, annoying and far too full of people.

But the astrolabs were too far from the dorm to hike it or bike it, so bus it was.

He mapped out the most direct route, left early to avoid the crowds and handled it the best he could. Earphones helped and he never travelled without his tablet and a network connection.

He made do.

He made do for over a year. Every morning and every night.

The work was fascinating and he thoroughly enjoyed it. He considered getting a car, but it wasn’t practical and parking was non-existent, so he stuck with the bus.

Despite the fact he hated it.

Every trip he buried himself in his own world whether it be his work, research, a good book or even a movie. He shut the world out and more importantly anyone who sat next to him.

Sometimes this was not possible.

Because sometimes they spoke to him.

John had been brought up polite. His grandmother would have slapped his wrist if she found out he was ignoring people. So, he always replied. Often concisely, but always watching his manners.

That often opened the floodgates. Because if there was anything common between big cities it was the people who were lost in them, desperately alone in a sea of faces.

John liked being alone to a certain extent, but he was blessed with a close and large family.

Some people had no one.

So, ever so reluctantly, he found himself answering their call for help.

The first was Mrs Bucklin. She was a tiny woman, well dressed, but slightly scented with mothballs as if her clothes hadn’t been out of the closet in a long time.

She sat right beside him and immediately enquired as to what he was doing.

At the time he was coding a new game and her sharp voice startled him enough for his fingers to slip and enter a chain of commands he had not intended. He would have sworn if he was alone, but the program righted itself and the new commands, instead of corrupting and crashing the function, actually appeared to improve it. He frowned and hastily input some bridging structures so the code wouldn’t fragment, idly wondering if the error would improve the game, ruin it, have him need to rewrite the whole section or be the spark that would initiate sentience.

Great, his tablet would rise up and eat him while he was distracted by a random bus passenger.

She did apologise and he did reassure her that it was all okay in the hope she would let him be.

She didn’t.

He learnt she had three cats, a niece in another country (he didn’t gather which because the woman’s pronunciation defied translation), that she had lost her son in the Global Conflict, she liked his hair (that was a first) and that he looked like an intelligent young man.

He acknowledged her quietly and politely as he eyed his code and the results of an initial compile test. How did it do that?

Her cats were named Scottie, Gordy and Allie.

He did blink at that, but didn’t comment.

Eventually, she said goodbye and got off the bus at her stop.

He would have forgotten about her, except she sat next to him the next day and the day after that.

Apparently, this was her route to work, and he was such a polite young man.

Three weeks later she admitted he made her feel safe just by being there. She had been mugged three times in her life and public transport was as much a bane for her as it was for him.

He actively kept an eye out for her after that.

Gus was a different matter.

Gus didn’t have a home and he often rode the bus just for the air conditioning and comfort.

He sat on the other side of the walkway to John. He didn’t say much and would likely have never said anything if it hadn’t been for the gang of boys who decided to throw verbal potshots at him one day.

John had had an all-nighter with exams coming up, so he was cranky. His latest project had stalled – the same game he had been tackling when Mrs Bucklin had startled him. The core of the program had become a little unpredictable and he couldn’t work out why.

So, when a group of teenagers crawled to the back of the bus and started needling a fellow passenger, it was not only a situation where the innocent man appeared to need a bit of a rescue, but it also pissed John off.

There were four of them. Teenagers flocked in groups apparently. He’d never been one for that formation himself, but he knew of them, had encountered them and Virgil had kicked a few of their asses for him.

John was in college now.

He could kick his own fair share of ass quite happily.

“Leave the man alone, or I will call the police.” He raised his voice, but not his head, transmitting all the body language of how beneath his notice they were and how he might respond if they didn’t comply.

“Mind your own business, kook!”

There was always a brave one amongst the group, usually the ringleader, the head dickhead.

At least they were only teenagers.

This time he did look up and put all that communication theory into the coldest stare possible. “Excuse me?”

All four of them froze. Hell, they couldn’t be older than fifteen, somewhere between Gordy and Alan. If either of his brothers acted like this, there were three older brothers who would quite firmly re-educate them on proper conduct.

Not that he thought either of his younger brothers would do such a thing.

In any case, all four of them stared at him wide-eyed. The eldest swore and climbed out of his seat just as the bus pulled up at the next stop. He snarled at John as he stalked past, spitting profanities. His cohorts followed and they climbed off the bus.

It was lovely and quiet after that and John went back to tackling his misbehaving program.

“Thank you, sir.”

John blinked up at the unkempt man who had been the centre of the teenagers’ torment.

A small smile. “You’re welcome.”

Was this variable being changed by the program itself? How the hell could it do that?

He didn’t fail to notice after that incident that Gus, as he introduced himself the next time they met, always sat near John on his rides, morning or evening.

John met other people. Mrs Magarey and her three young children always needed a hand with her pram. John sometimes took advantage of this and stuck the pram in the footwell of the seat next to him so no-one could sit there.

That made Mrs Bucklin sit behind him and whisper her stories in his ear.

He wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with that either.

Two other students from his faculty took the same bus as well. Ridley was in the year behind him and always had a friend on the phone. She chattered a lot and he learnt to tune her out.

Well, until the day he boarded the bus and found her crying into her tablet.

She had lost her entire thesis in a computer crash. He was polite. He enquired and she answered, staring up at him as if she had never seen him before. Which was entirely possible. John didn’t like to draw attention to himself.

He accompanied her off the bus that day and delved into her damaged computer. He dug up her thesis and she gushed all over him, even crying into his sweater.

He hugged her awkwardly and wished her all the best.

After that, she always said hello and had a smile for him.

John smiled back, but his program was still not behaving. It acted as if it had a mind of its own and it was very distracting.

Mrs Bucklin said it sounded like cat number two, Gordy. Never behaving, but always loveable.

John stared at her when she said that, and wondered if she knew more than she was letting on.

The day Virgil landed in the seat beside him on the way to the labs startled him enough to drop his tablet.

“Hey, Johnny.”

He fumbled between the seats for the device. “Don’t call me Johnny.”

“Sorry.” But he could tell Virgil was anything but.

His fingers touched the cool metal of his tablet and he scrabbled for it. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t a brother drop in on his brother to see how he is doing?”

John eyed him. If it was Scott sitting next to him or Gordon, he might have been suspicious of any double meaning his brother might be communicating. But this was Virgil and although the engineer had a sense of humour that could cut when necessary, this wasn’t his style.

“I guess he can. But why the bus?”

Virgil shrugged. “Didn’t catch you early enough. Barely caught the bus behind you. I thought your classes didn’t start until later.”

“They don’t.”

“Then why are you up so early?”

It was John’s turn to shrug. “Just avoiding the crowds, I guess.”

Virgil eyed him with a slightly worried frown.

“And who is this lovely young man who has taken my seat?”

Oh god.

Virgil stared up at Mrs Bucklin as she bustled in to sit behind them.

An internal sigh. “Mrs Bucklin, this is my brother Virgil.”

“Your brother?” She eyed Virgil as if inspecting him for sale. “Doesn’t look like you at all. Where’s the red hair?”

Virgil arched a dark eyebrow.

“Nevertheless, Mrs Bucklin, Virgil is my older brother.”

“Then how come we haven’t met before? You’ve been travelling this route for a year now and we haven’t seen hide or hair of him.” She continued to glare at Virgil as if he was a threat.

Virgil was shifting in his seat, his expression decidedly wary.

“Virgil has been assisting my father on a project. He’s an engineer. I’m unsure what he is doing here right now.”

“Hmph, well, in my opinion, he should have been here earlier.” She addressed Virgil directly. “Did you know your sweet little brother has been a bastion of this bus route, defending and assisting all?”

What?

John’s head shot up. “Mrs Bucklin-“

“Don’t you go all humble pie on me, young man. I saw what you did to those teenagers and how you help young Mollie every week. That girl is going to work herself into an early grave. And poor Gus, you’ve given him a new reason to try. Did you know he has enrolled himself in a course? Got himself a grant from the government and everything. Got help from that employment assistance group. Not to mention that doe-eyed young student who stares at you with love hearts floating about her head. I don’t know what you did for her, but I have no doubt she would do anything for you if you asked.” She turned back to Virgil, accusation in her eyes. “Why haven’t you been looking after your brother?”

Virgil’s wide eyes darted between John and the older woman.

John had no idea what to say.

“Well?” Mrs Bucklin’s glare was determined.

“Ah-“

“Is this man harassing you?”

John looked up to see Gus looming over Virgil.

You know, the Virgil who lifted weights that weighed more than his brothers on a daily basis.

John frowned. Gus had a new coat on and was looking much healthier than the last time he paid attention. “No, Gus. This is my older brother Virgil.”

And Virgil was subjected to another staring glare. “Doesn’t look like your brother.”

What?!

“I can assure you that he is indeed my caring older brother and he is not neglecting me in any way.”

Gus grunted, still glaring at Virgil. He nodded in John’s direction. “Make sure he eats more. He’s too skinny.”

That started Mrs Bucklin off again. “My goodness, yes. John you do not eat enough. Have you tried any of those recipes I recommended?”

Gus was still eyeing Virgil.

Virgil appeared to be regretting several recent life choices.

“I’m fine, Mrs Bucklin.” He raised his hands. “And both of you, Virgil is not responsible for my wellbeing.”

His tablet beeped. A glance and he found a text message from Ridley. You okay over there?

He looked up and found her at the other end of the bus staring back at him worriedly.

A sigh.

A flick of his fingers. I’m fine.

He turned back to Virgil who was literally cornered, only for his tablet to chime again.

You free tonight?

Oh, for the love of-

“Guys, Virgil is my big brother. He looks after me. He cares. I’m fine. He’s here for a visit. I don’t know why yet. Stop glaring at him.”

Gus grunted again and wandered off to his seat. He didn’t stop eyeing John’s brother for a second.

Mrs Bucklin let off a slightly miffed sound before leaning back in her seat. “He better. Or I have a mind to bring Scottie with me next time. Or maybe Gordy. To teach him a lesson.”

What the hell?

“No need, Mrs Bucklin. I assure you.”

Virgil was staring at John as if he wasn’t sure what planet he was on.

John sighed.

Yeah, he hated public transport.

It was stressful, annoying and far too full of people.

His tablet pinged again. This time it was the program he was working on. It was claiming it was dawn despite the fact the sun had risen an hour ago. He let out an exasperated hiss.

Virgil was still staring at him.

Damn public transport.

-o-o-o-

[achlysfx]

To all the DA fans who are disappointed (however big or small your reasons may be) with Veilguard, use this as your support post. 💜

I'll still stream DAV at launch despite my own personal disappointments, but I want you to know that you're not alone!

May The Dread Wolf Take You.

[marlynnofmany]

Just a Rock

For all the time I’ve spent traveling through space, I haven’t spend much of it actually out in space. It’s unsettling. Inside the ship, I can forget how close the airless void is, how small our precious bubble of air. But outside, everything is black like some vast creature ate all the color in the universe first, then the air, and is now hungering for life forms too.

Sometimes those distant stars look like teeth.

These are the thoughts that tend to pop up when I’m in my exo suit, hoping that my thruster pack doesn’t run out of fuel before I make it back to the ship. But then an empty pack of chips will float by my visor, and I can refocus on business.

That’s how it happened today, at any rate. (And yes, “day” is a silly concept in the blackness of space.) We’d made a detour to see if we could pick up some extra funds by gathering salvage from a museum ship that had gone kablooey, but so far all we were finding was trash.

Paint jetted past in her own exo suit, upside-down to my frame of reference, then stopped to pull apart a jumble of carpet fragments. “They really did clear out the good stuff already,” she said over the radio. She swatted aside a drink cup with her tail, looking like a little space-suited dinosaur, a thought that kept me entertained for a good few seconds.

Captain Sunlight’s voice said, “Keep an eye out for scrap metal. That may already be gone too, but it’s worth a shot.” She was somewhere else in the drifting junk pile, or maybe back near the ship; I couldn’t tell. There was too much stuff in the way. This was a mildly alarming thought — out of sight meant out of safety — but I caught a glimpse of the Frillian twins posted as safety guards at the edge of the cloud, and my heartbeat settled a bit.

“Do you think anyone will buy some mildly used carpet?” Paint asked the captain. “It’s only in several pieces.”

“Let’s go with ‘no.’”

“What about some very exotic — what is this — napkins? Made with authentic Earth wood fibers!”

I looked over at that. “How can you tell?”

“Oh, I have no idea,” Paint said. She held up half of a wall placard. “But this is from the Earth exhibit, so maybe the napkins are too.”

I looked around at the trash in a new light. “Man, it’s a pity we weren’t here for any of the good stuff.”

“Yeah, and all these food packages are empty! We can’t even get you a slightly exploded taste of home!”

I waved my hand through a cluster of soda bottles. “I appreciate the thought.”

Paint jetted over to a different pile of whatever. “Hey, do you think any of this food trash was actually an exhibit? Packaging from olden days?”

“Uh, maybe,” I said. “Probably not. That’s not the sort of thing I’d expect on a multi-species museum ship. A janky little humans-only one, maybe. But even then, most people aren’t going to care.”

Something clunked against the back of my helmet. I hate that. Nothing like a reminder that I can’t see behind me like some species can. I toggled the jets to rotate in place, so I could find the offending object.

It was a rock.

“What’s this doing here?” I asked, closing a gloved hand around it and bringing it in for a closer look.

“What’d you find?” Paint asked, sticking out sideways from behind a twisted bench.

“A rock.”

“A meteorite rock?” she asked. “Oh hey, do you think it pierced the hull?”

“No, it doesn’t look like a space rock,” I said, turning the small gray-and-white lump over. It was mostly smooth, with a divot that would have fit a fingertip if I hadn’t been wearing the gloves. “Weird. I wonder if it was part of some Neolithic exhibit or something.”

“Can I see?” Paint jetted over to park herself in roughly the same orientation as me. She was very good with that jetpack.

I showed her the rock. “It doesn’t look like any gemstone I know. Maybe some kid had it in their pocket, then threw it away.”

Paint cocked her head. “Is that normal, for your young to carry rocks around?”

“Sure. You never picked up something you thought was neat as a kid?”

“Not a rock,” Paint said with exaggerated disdain. “A sweet-smelling seednut or herb, absolutely.”

“But look: it’s even got a little finger groove,” I pointed out. “You could stick it in a pocket and rub it for luck.”

“Could you?”

I smiled. “You could. You probably wouldn’t, but…”

“Why?”

I looked at the rock again, already fond of it. “I get the feeling that I couldn’t explain this to a point where you’d agree.”

Paint shrugged. “Probably not. But hey, we found you a souvenir after all. From probably the Earth section of whatever museum this is.” She grabbed a handful of colorful pamphlets drifting by. “The ‘Galaxy in a Bottle Museum Tour Ship.’ Who named that?”

My smile turned into a wide grin. “Humans.”

Paint grumbled about the unflattering comparison of an elite starship to a simple bottle. When she moved to toss the pamphlets away, I held out a hand.

“What’s that white one?” I asked. “It looks like a display sign.”

Paint flipped over the stack and separated the one I meant. “You’re right. Hey, it’s about a rock!”

I reached out a grabby hand. “Gimme.”

She passed it over. “Is it that rock?”

I read the title, then was gut-punched by familiarity. I’d heard about this. “Yes,” I managed, skimming the rest of the sign and holding the rock close. “This is Bethan’s Rock.”

“What?”

I fumbled to explain. “Ages ago, a kid visited a museum — a human kid — and learned what museums were for, then offered her favorite rock as a donation, so other people could appreciate it too.”

Paint cocked her head in the other direction. “And they took it?”

“Yes!” I must have looked a little wild at this point, but I didn’t care. “The adults agreed that it was a fine thing to donate, not to mention adorable, and the only one of its kind that I’ve ever heard of. More museums should house the occasional favorite rock, though I suppose they wouldn’t be as special if they did.”

“So just to clarify,” Paint said. “There isn’t anything valuable about this rock, except that one of your youths decided there was. And all the adults played along.”

I smiled down at it, careful not to let it drift away. “It’s the most precious non-precious stone I’ve ever seen.”

Paint stared for a moment. “It’s not even one of those shiny ones you like.”

I laughed. “I know!”

The captain called us back in at that point, having found one decent chunk of metal among the mountains of trash. We had a schedule to keep.

I folded the sign and tucked it into my suit pocket, but held the rock tight in my fist as I jetted toward the ship, working the controls with one hand. I was already thinking of the safest place in my quarters to keep it until we got ahold of the proper Earth museum authorities. Other humans would want to see Bethan’s Rock, after all, but it would be my honor to watch over it until they could.

~~~

(Inspired by this post. Long live Bethan’s Rock.)

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character of this book. More to come!

[poison-into-positivity]

i ADORE that vianton has garnered a sort of cult following. like they’re two characters from a nearly decade-old movie, one of which only has like seven minutes of screentime, that interacted twice. then we saw ofmd and were like you know what, these men need to kiss in every universe. and we were right

[livesincerely]

“Jesus, Jack,” Davey groans when Jack releases his lower lip from between his teeth⁠—from between his fangs, Davey mentally corrects, noting the change with a quiet thrill. “I thought you didn’t want to dance?”

Jack’s hands slip lower, one curling around his hip, the other splaying wide and possessive over the small of Davey’s back. “Changed my mind.”

“Oh?” Davey murmurs, curling his fingers through Jack’s belt loops to draw him closer even as their hips continue to sway to the beat. “And why’s that, I wonder?”

“One’a life’s great mysteries,” Jack says, leaning in to kiss along Davey’s jaw. “Why would I want an armful of the prettiest guy in the room? The world may never know.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Davey asks, pitching his voice to something soft and sultry, batting his lashes just so.

Jack’s eyes narrow, his grip around Davey’s hips tightening that much more.

“You’re a menace,” he growls, and god, he’s so easy to rile this close to the full moon. Davey has to bite his lip to keep himself from smirking. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doin’.”

“So, you don’t think I’m pretty?” Davey pouts.

Jack tilts his head and catches Davey’s mouth in another kiss, deep and dominating.

“I think,” he says against Davey’s still-parted lips, his voice low and rough, “that you’re the most gorgeous creature on the face of this Earth. An’ I think you’re gonna regret teasin’ me like this when we get home.”

“And I think,” Davey replies, a little breathlessly, looping his arms around Jack’s neck and bringing their foreheads together, “that isn’t as much of a threat as you probably think it is.”

[poebrey]

I’m tired of seeing all these caveats on The Acolyte saying that the writing could’ve been better or it wasn’t as good like there’s a need to preemptively defend criticism of it when saying it deserved to get renewed. It was just as good or bad as most of the other star wars live action, none of which in terms of either quality (everything except Andor) or performance has surpassed The Mandalorian.

The Acolyte had a good first season, set the stage for a new direction, was able to build word of mouth and attract new audiences, and by the end of the season was going viral in a way that only Obi-Wan managed to do by bringing in a second legacy character (Anakin). This is now the 4th production including the sequel series that received a targeted hate campaign, by which I’m placing strong emphasis on the words targeted and campaign because both Ahsoka and TBOBF received large amounts of racist abuse.

Star Wars is a stagnant media property, coming off of a widely-panned sequel series (which managed to achieve the rare feat of alienating both the racist and misogynistic parts of the fanbase and just about everyone else in refusing to properly develop the new leads as it re-tooled itself to appease the former.) Just about every actor of color in a leading role has been subject to widespread racial abuse, it frequently undermines its own initiative to focus on female characters, and in refusing to stand by its own IP it’s destroying any long-term plan to revitalize the fanbase before it even gets off the ground, the High Republic era now having years of investment and buildup cast aside.

When all of the following media projects fail because no one has faith in them after how they handled their previous projects (looking at the upcoming Rey-centric Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy led film) its going to once again be blamed on ‘bad quality, bad production, whatever the racist dog whistle of the season is like the current “wokeism” etc.’ and not an inherent refusal of a company to stand by its own work. This is Star Wars, no one, not even the biggest fans of the prequel films were coming out of theatres thinking this was Oscar-winning high art. What made it work is George Lucas’ refusal to give in to criticism and fundamentally change his own creation, for better or worse, whether it be bad CGI and Jar Jar Binks, or making an annoying little kid named Ani the central protagonist of the first film in decades. That same attitude stood by giving Anakin a padawan named Ahsoka. It should be ushering in a new era of Star Wars, instead half the audience is convinced Lucasfilm hates its own IP.

[findafight]

I think there's something deeply interesting about the Clone troopers learning Mando'a from the trainers, and passing that on to each other. It's probably not a full language, not at first. They only got the basics from the trainers, but they take loan words from Basic, and then from other worlds they're stationed on. It gets passed down to the shinies, evolving and changing quickly. It's a living language, and it has different accents, different words taken from different languages depending on where the troopers speaking it have been for the longest. It's not hidden, not really. The Jedi actively encourage it, though Kaminoans have never wanted it to spread. But it's a remarkable thing, how quickly it changes and how precious it is, for clones to have something that is It morphs into something unique and theirs.

And then, order 66 happens, and clone troopers are phased out and replaced by recruited, but some sources have them training together/training new recruits, and so they pick up on the language as a kind of military slang or code. But it's still a language, still taught and spoken, though more covertly, more carefully even as the clones are slowly decommissioned, but their language is passed on through imperial stormtroopers.

Even when the New Republic seems to have defeated the Empire, there's still Grand Moffs, there's still Stormtroopers, and the First Order rises. And yet somehow, stormtroopers keep this language alive, even though no one who speaks it now knows where it came from, or why only troopers speak it.

Eventually, all those kidnapped children grew up not knowing anything but the first order, and fear, and whispered words under bedcovers that the higherups can't understand. Sometimes they call them natborns and they don't know why. Sometimes they call each other vod'e and don't know why. They know what it means, (it means brother, means sister, means sibling, it means something deeper than that) but not why, not the how. They just know it's a secret. Some of them know songs, and some of them don't get a chance to learn them before they're heard by higherups and whoever knew it was reconditioned and it was lost.

When the First Order falls, troopers who escaped try to find their vod'e, find their family, and along the way they also find decedents of Clones, who speak a language similar to theirs. Who know the words that First Order troopers have only whispered to each other and speak them in the open with their families without fear. Who know all those songs that were so precious and dangerous and more. And they discovered their shared heritage, shared history, through the language the clones built for themselves.

[izloveshorses]

Cowboy Like Me

ao3

Rated M, 5k, smut, western au 🤠

~~~

“Get me a whiskey, will ya?”

The sun was just starting to set through the windows, the cigarette smoke and the dust in the air making the beams of light thick and hazy, almost heavenly. Dmitry about laughed at the thought. As if this place wasn’t as far from heaven as it could get. 

Dmitry poured the shot, the amber liquid catching in the light, and slid it to the man too drunk to sit upright. “Take it easy,” Dmitry said. “Last one, okay?” 

The man grumbled something unintelligible but he probably wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow, so Dmitry didn’t take it personally. 

Since things were slow, Dmitry took his time lighting a cigarette, inhaling slowly. Just one small breath of relief. It wasn’t like he had a bad life here. A rough one, sure, with the usual crowd he got, hungry and angry and bitter creatures they all were. And the saloon he owned, though filthy down to every crack in the wood, was, really, a fairly decent establishment. 

But he couldn’t help but notice he was mildly miserable almost all the time. That he felt more like a ghost than a person. Aimless and hollow.

The doors swung open, squeaking loudly on their hinges. His eyes couldn’t help but trail up to the source of the noise and linger there. By the sudden silence without the piano going or the noisy chatter, Dmitry wasn’t the only one to stare.

And who could blame him? She was too pretty, too clean, for such a place. Her reddish blonde hair was neatly pinned into an updo, the fabric of her dress lacy and such a rich and deep shade of blue it was nearly black, her chin raised so high there was no doubting she came from a world of civilized refinement far from here. Most folks around here got their pride beaten out of them. But this young lady hadn’t a speck of dirt or hardship on her. 

Her piercing blue eyes found his. Slowly the bar returned to its normal chatter, the piano picking up again. Dmitry started cleaning a glass as she made her way to order. 

“What’ll it be, miss?” he asked without looking up. 

“You stole something of mine last time I was here,” she said in a clear, commanding voice instead of ordering. “I came to demand you return it.”

He just raised an eyebrow at her. “Bold accusation. All I do is pour drinks.” 

“I know it was you.” 

“How do you know,” he tossed his towel over his shoulder and set the glass down, “that I didn’t pawn it off as soon as you left town? If you’re so sure I took whatever it is you’re looking for?” 

She was still narrowing her eyes at him. “I don’t think you would’ve done that.” 

He rested his hands on the bar, leering over her. “If you want it so bad,” he smirked, “you should just go on and take it.”

They stared, daring the other to break first. Slowly she reached to steal the glass he had just cleaned, and then, like she owned the place, found the neck of a bottle of vodka, all without breaking eye contact. And she poured herself a shot, knocked it back, her pretty throat swallowing it all in one gulp. While she was still in his space she plucked his cigarette from his lips and backed away from the bar. 

Dmitry, god help him, watched her amble up the stairs. When the chatter returned, he vaguely realized the whole saloon had fallen silent to watch the exchange. It wasn’t every day someone threatened the man who poured the drinks, after all.

“Hey, how come the lady can walk away without paying,” the drunk man at the bar whined, “but you’re charging me for every shot?”

Dmitry pulled the rag from his shoulder.  

“What, if I give you a kiss and bat my eyelashes, I get a discount?”

Dmitry removed his apron. “Just don’t fall off your stool, Ivan.” 

“Aw, fuck you!” 

He stepped out back to find Vlad, snoring with his feet propped up on the wooden porch railing. Drunk as a skunk already. He kicked at his legs and Vlad startled awake. “Cover the bar for me, will you?” Vlad only grunted, still nursing the heartbreak from when his lady left him a few weeks ago, it seemed. But he pushed himself up and followed Dmitry inside. Vlad was in charge of the hospitality side of things at this saloon, only here to keep the few rooms upstairs in order and such, but, even in his depressive state, he was capable of pouring drinks in Dmitry’s absence. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably.

With his friend behind the bar and the saloon seemingly calm— at least for now— he made his way up the stairs, and had to force himself not to take two steps at a time, only because he knew the entire saloon was eyeing him. A part of him didn’t really care anymore. On the landing Marfa and her girls silently glared at him through their cigarette smoke, flicking ash to the floor, while he passed. Maybe because they knew they would never get business from him in particular. 

He knocked twice at the usual door, then tried the knob. The sun cast long shadows in the room but his eyes still found her easily. She was seated at the rickety vanity, her hair unpinned and falling over her shoulders in golden curls, reading a book in one hand and holding her— his— cigarette in the other. He slowly pulled the door shut. 

Her eyes flicked up at him, then back down at whatever she was reading. “Took you long enough.”

In spite of himself, he smirked, because damn, he couldn’t help it. “In case you forgot, some of us actually have to work around here.” 

All she did was hum, unimpressed, and slowly rose to her feet after snuffling the cigarette in the ceramic ashtray. It had only been a few minutes, but the candles on the mantle were dripping wax. 

“And you’re the one who was gone for…”

His retort died on his tongue when she let her gorgeous, spotless dress slip to the dusty floor. 

All right then. 

Dmitry didn’t take his eyes off of her but blindly kicked off his boots. She moved in a wide arc, slow but purposeful, her footsteps creaking the floor, smirking at him all the way. And, like the complete idiot he was, his smile widened. “What brings you to Saint Pete’s this time?” he asked when she sat at the edge of the bed. “Business or pleasure?” 

Her blue eyes were light, playful. “Just passing through.” 

He tsked, kneeling in front of her. “You’ll have to be careful,” he drawled, “there are some scoundrels in these roadside towns who’ll rob you dry.” 

His hands slid down her ankles, unbuttoning her silk shoes one at a time. But her fingers tilted his chin up towards her so he would look at her. “I can handle myself,” she insisted. 

He managed a soft “I know” just before she kissed him, and flashes of light sparked in his vision. 

Dmitry didn’t know what to call it, this thing between them. ‘Arrangement’ was too detached a word. But it— whatever it was— started on an evening where she genuinely was passing through, all the way from New York to wherever it was she was going, he couldn’t remember, and by some stroke of luck her train had to stop here overnight instead. And when she ordered a drink at his saloon, alone and unaccompanied, well. He had to make sure she was all right. So he kept checking up on her, making small conversation. Even had a drink with her when she asked for the company after the bar died down. 

And there was this… current, of something. Of want, maybe. Of recognition. Between them. Something he hadn’t felt before. So when she beckoned him to follow her up to her room after he closed the bar, and then proceeded to unbuckle his pants, he was surprised, of course, but not startled. Because nothing had ever felt right, like this. 

Or maybe he was just really fucking lonely. 

What is this? he had asked. Not because he wanted to stop, but. It seemed like the only reasonable question to ask when a stranger was actively pulling down your trousers. 

Her blue eyes had met his. Whatever you want it to be. 

So he had cupped her face and bent forward and kissed her, and that was the end of that discussion, as far as he was concerned. 

The following morning she had resumed her journey, leaving him with nothing more than a kiss on the corner of his mouth when she thought he was still sleeping and the ghost of her smell on the ugly paisley sheets. And she stopped in on her way back a few days later, as if to prove she was not just some lucid hallucination, and then after another couple months she came in again, and… well. You see how the pattern formed. 

They didn’t talk much beyond what was necessary. She told him to call her Anya, though he was pretty positive that wasn’t her real name. He didn’t blame her. It didn’t matter anyway. All that mattered was that when she was here he wasn’t thinking about his dead father or the lawmen threatening to raid his saloon once a week or the patrons with guns and tempers who were sore losers at the poker table. All that mattered was her skin, her eyes, her sighs. 

It was obvious she came from money. Sometimes she would babble something in French, which meant she was well educated. Maybe her father was some oil tycoon or something. Sometimes he thought about asking, insisting on a real answer as to why she ventured all the way out here. But if she wanted him to know she would’ve told him. And, then again, he didn’t exactly want her to know all the dark parts of himself he wasn’t so proud of, either. 

So now, when she was letting him unlace her corset, he didn’t dare ask why. Or how. A lucky man at the poker table didn’t question his winning hand, didn’t ponder how the dealer possibly dealt him the perfect lineup of cards, didn’t ask if this was some fluke or trick. He just cashed in his chips and ordered another round of drinks before anyone got suspicious. 

Unlacing and unbuttoning her garters and petticoats was Dmitry’s way of cashing in. 

When she was here, he didn’t want to waste time on pondering such things, because if he did, there was a chance she would wake up and remember she had better things to do than romp about with some street rat who—

“Anything interesting happen today?” she asked as she peeled his shirt off of him, eager thing she was, and he couldn’t help but take some pride in how breathless she sounded. 

He was too busy to answer at first, tired of chasing after her, his hand curling around the nape of her neck and tangling in her hair so he could kiss her proper, nipping at her lower lip. Hold still, goddammit. And for a second she did. Melting against him, angling her jaw open and sighing, his hand cradling her head. His knees were on either side of her, kneeling like a stupid religious beggar, with her arms looping around his neck.

Her hands traced down to his chest, always curious, and pushed him away slightly. “I asked you a question, sir.”

He snorted an exasperated laugh. “I’m getting there,” he insisted, angling her jaw with his thumb so he could kiss her throat. “Missed you too much. And you’re still in too many clothes.” 

Her sigh was strained. “It hasn’t even been that long.” 

“Three weeks and four days,” he huffed out. The shortest time they’d been apart since this started, sure, but still. Enough to make him feel pathetic and impatient now that she was within his reach again. He felt his fists close around the fabric of her slip at her side and back. “So forgive me for being a little…” 

She bit back a smile. “Libidinous?” He didn’t know what that meant, and his confusion must’ve shown on his face because she let out an entirely unladylike giggle before he could puzzle out the word. This was always embarrassing, saying or doing something absolutely stupid in front of this beautiful, intelligent, remarkably educated young lady, revealing his hand that he really couldn’t keep up with her like he pretended he could. But instead of teasing him she lifted her arms so he could lift her slip off of her. And then, scarring his dignity even more, he actually let out a noise at the sight of her. He impatiently threw the garment away— off off off!— as she lowered herself to her back, hair fanning out around her on the mattress, pulling him down with her by his cheek and the scruff of his hair. 

Once she was finally—finally— bare, he hovered over her, planting kisses on her soft skin. Sometimes they didn’t even bother taking their clothes off before getting started. Other times she would slip into something a little easier to remove, or, like tonight, she would make him earn it, one button at a time. He huffed as he nudged her legs apart with his knees. “You missed it,” he said into her sternum. “Poker game this afternoon ended in a big fight. Had to pull them apart and they dueled out front.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” she said, fingers digging into his shoulder when he noses at her breast. “I thought I smelled gunsmoke when I got here.” 

He smiled at her. “Don’t worry, the crowd tonight has really mellowed down.” 

“I like it when they’re a little rowdy.” 

His mouth found her nipple, earning a broken exhale. She wouldn’t let him leave marks that would be visible in the morning— she was a lady, after all, wherever it was she came from and wherever she was going— but sometimes he nipped at spots only he would get to see. Like on her stomach or the inside of her thigh, or here, on the soft flesh of her breast. Just for him. “If they were rowdy,” he murmured, his voice husky and low, before hovering over her face, “I would still be stuck down there.” 

As if on cue, roars of laughter erupted downstairs, loud enough to hear up here. The piano kept on with its ragtime tunes, muffled by distance and the wooden walls. 

He thought she liked the idea of it, having a real cowboy from the Wild West all to herself, all rough and jagged with his rowdy saloon and bar fights and gunslingers obeying him, only tame for her. Little did she know he couldn’t shoot a gun to save his life and he was terrified of horses and bourbon gave him a stomach ache, so he made a pretty lousy cowboy at that. So maybe it was good they didn’t talk. Lest whatever illusion she had crafted for him gets ruined and she never comes back. 

She cupped his cheeks. “You wouldn’t dare keep me waiting.” He had just enough time to smirk before she tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him. Her tongue slipping against the seam in his lips, his head tilting to part his mouth open for her and properly deepen the kiss, she tasted like the vodka he served, warm and sharp at the same time. Addictive. Making his stomach roll.

His fingers found their way between her legs, earning a muffled gasp into his mouth, a fist tightening around locks of his hair, the feeling so good he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a second. He knew her well enough by now, all her tells, that he could coax her over the edge pretty quickly. The rhythm of it. The allure, the push and pull. The way her hips bucked eagerly into his hand. Needy. Always so needy for him. 

“Easy,” he murmured. “Save some of that energy.” 

She huffed, annoyed he was telling her what to do, probably. “Need more.”

His fingers curled inside her, thumb brushing over her. “You know I’ll always take care of you.” The words came out a little softer than he intended, laced with something tender. But he moved a little faster, even though he didn’t like being told what to do, either. Her arms looped around his neck to keep him close. In return he sucked kisses down her neck, following the path of goosebumps lighting up her skin, paving the way for him.

She really was gorgeous, writhing below him like this, so much that sometimes it made him forget to breathe. She was probably the most beautiful thing he would ever get to see. And sometimes he couldn’t help but marvel at it, his luck of the draw, that she let him even look at her, let alone brand kisses on her skin, trace constellations on her freckles, whisper prayers into her flesh to a god that may have existed only to have created someone like her. 

When she came all over his hand, pulsing around his fingers, her nails dug into his shoulder blades so much it hurt. Let her mark him up. Let everyone know he was taken. If only for tonight. 

She sleepily opened her eyes, offering him a dazzling smile that he couldn’t help but kiss. With her breasts brushing against his bare chest and her knees squeezing his waist and her pretty sighs in his mouth, his trousers were tight and uncomfortable. With one hand he propped himself up above her and with the other he undid his belt and shimmied out of his pants.

She pressed a foot against his hip bone until he was on his side, and then on his back. Dmitry had stopped bothering to ask how she would like to take him this time. She always told him what she wanted, or just took care of it herself. Like now, as she was straddling his hips and angling him against her entrance. 

And then, god help him, he moaned when she sunk around him, her palms on his stomach, not one to waste time. She felt so good his vision went white for a few seconds. This was always good. Every time. 

She wiggled her hips back and forth for a second, either to test the waters or just to torture him, he wasn’t sure. But he did moan out a “Fuck…” just the same. 

She smirked, and then started moving for real. 

She just. She was so perfect, Dmitry didn’t think he could ever be with anyone else. She ruined him. Ruined everyone that wasn’t her. 

He wanted to sit up and kiss her, the sorry sap he was, but her hands were on his chest now, pinning him down. She was so small he could easily take control and have his way with her. But he liked seeing her like this, taking what she wanted from him, confident and needy. His fingers dug into her thighs, so hard that maybe he would leave bruises, and his hips snapped up to meet hers, needing to exert at least some of his frustrations of the day. That first night he had been so careful, fucking her slow and tender until the sun rose, but he learned pretty quickly that wasn’t what she came here for. She didn’t want gentle from him. So now he knew she could take it a little rough, a little mean, a little dirty. 

She really did love his body, he could tell by the way she always caressed him like this. Obviously. She wouldn’t be the first. But he was dumb enough to think there was something more to it than that. Hope, maybe. There were moments where she would look at him with something affectionate and loving, would laugh with such fondness at things he said, that his heart would crack with want. 

Sometimes he wondered if he could get her to his shitty house instead of staying in this shitty room, even if it wasn’t much better. But it was his own home, and he had his kitchen, and maybe he could make her breakfast in the morning… 

She let out a little moan, his attention snapping back to the present. Her breasts bouncing, hair cascading over her shoulders, back arched… he didn’t want to miss a thing. 

His hands slid up to hold her waist, hip bones digging into his palms, steadying her. She was close. “Doing so good, darling,” he encouraged. “Want you to feel good.” 

She bit her lip, rolling her hips this way and that. “Fuck,” she swore, “don’t stop doing that.”

In spite of everything he smirked, but did as told, pistoning his hips at the angle she was clearly enjoying. The mattress groaned and creaked under them as she bounced faster on him. 

Dmitry wasn’t an idiot; he could piece together the clues. She probably didn’t get to be this… unbridled… where she came from. Didn’t have the freedom to curse or get mouthy with a man without consequence. Didn’t get to ride whatever man she pleased without marrying him first. And Dmitry was probably nothing more than a means to find release from having to be so buttoned up all the time. 

He didn’t know why she came here. Why she picked him. What kind of life she came from. But if she needed to cope with whatever darkness existed in her or her life— and, let’s face it, everyone on the fucking planet needed to cope with something— then he was sure as hell not gonna complain about it. He was happy to provide whatever distraction she wanted. Even if it left him ragged and gasping and ruined. 

Her hand found his, locking them together, eyes holding his own. “Dima…” 

She didn’t often use his name. Not this gently. And there was that feeling again. Like his heart— his soul— was trying to hammer its way out of his chest to get to hers. Like it recognized her. 

“Anya, I—” he whimpered, cutting himself off. No need to tell her he loved her or something stupid. 

He kept babbling, nearly growling, as he felt her reach her peak. That’s it, feel good on me. Feel good on me— 

When his thumb brushed over her she shattered above him, completely wrecking him in the process. It took everything he had to thrust a few more times before he spilled himself inside her. 

After she slumped on top of him, breathing hard, she curled against his side, and he kissed the top of her head. The sun had set by now so she was nothing more than shades of silver and blue in the evening light. This was always his favorite part. Where she let him hold her, dropping that mask of regality and haughtiness, where she was just a girl and he was just a boy. And he could pretend, at least until the second or even the third round, that he was hers and she was his, in this small way.

He was happy, here, like this. You could say that was probably just the sex talking, but. He felt safe with her. Felt wanted. For once. 

“Do you have to go back downstairs?” Anya finally asked. 

He shook his head. Vlad could handle it. Hopefully. Maybe. Regardless, Dmitry wasn’t sure if he could even walk himself out of bed just yet, anyway, his legs were still shaking. 

Vlad probably wasn’t even aware of what Dmitry was up to right now, he wasn’t exactly lucid at the moment. Dmitry didn’t blame him. If Anya decided to never see him again he would probably be in the same state of misery, too. 

At first, Dmitry thought Vlad wasn’t aware of what was going on between him and this young lady from the east coast. But last time, the morning after Anya had left, Dmitry was sweeping the floor when Vlad stopped him, helped him light a cigarette. 

Is she paying you? Vlad had asked. 

Dmitry’s fist tightened around the handle of the broom, exhaling a long drag. No. But he gave his answer quietly. Because it wasn’t like women hadn’t paid him for a night upstairs before. 

Are you paying her?

Dmitry’s head snapped up. No! 

Ah. I see. Vlad only nodded thoughtfully. Dmitry thought that would be the end of the discussion, so he continued his chore, but his friend rested a hand on his shoulder. She’ll break your heart.

At the time Dmitry had rolled his eyes. What did he know? 

But now, his sorry heart felt so fragile he thought it could shatter at any moment. 

Because happiness didn’t really exist for people like him, in this place. Because men like him were destined for nothing more than to drink themselves to sleep on the back porch and wake with wet eyes, or slump over on a barstool because he had nowhere else to go, or get shot in front of a saloon after a poker game. 

“You sure you don’t want to go down and check?” she went on. Dmitry shook his head again and his fingers brushed up and down her spine. “We started earlier than usual.”

He smiled up at the ceiling, tilted his head down to look at her. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?”

“No,” she said. “It’s just… you like taking care of people, is all.”

He blinked at her, a little surprised. If this was just supposed to be a casual rendezvous here and there, how had she noticed this? How could she observe parts of himself even he wasn’t aware of?

Dmitry escaped the warmth of her arms and rolled to sit at the edge of the mattress. She whined in annoyance, but he only bent forward to collect his trousers and dig through one of the pockets. His fingers snagged on the chain and he held it aloft so she could see it, nearly laughing at her expression— relieved and incredulous how dare you at the same time. If she weren’t naked and lithe and irresistible on the bed he might’ve even called her adorable. When he brushed her hair away and secured the chain around her neck he kissed the bump in her spine where the clasp fell. The golden locket, studded with green gemstones, was resting on her sternum between her breasts, back where it belonged. 

Anya’s fingers traced over the locket while she flattened herself onto her back. “So you did steal it.” He grinned and nodded as he got comfortable at her side again, arm draped over her middle, kissing her shoulder. It would’ve been so easy to swipe her jewelry or her purse from her every time she visited him. If it was anyone else, he might’ve gone and done it. But he didn’t dare with her. Not until last time, when he was watching her sleep, the locket sparkling in the moonlight. “Why?” 

He swallowed, wet his lips. “Because I wanted you to come back.” 

She wore it every time, never took it off. He figured this one would be important enough. 

Her eyebrows furrowed. “I always come back.” 

But he never knew when she would come back. Or even if. If this would be the goodbye, this time. And, dammit, not even his spite could stop his heart from turning sentimental and sappy at the thought of losing her. Even though he knew she came from a world of gold lockets and pretty parasols and fancy garden parties and her pick of the litter of eligible suitors— hell, she could even be married for all he knew— he heard himself ask, “Why do you?”

She bit her lip, hesitating. Perhaps deciding if she should keep playing their little game or actually be honest. Her fingers picked up the locket, holding it up so they both could see. “This belonged to my grandmother,” she said quietly, popping it open to reveal not a photo but an inscription. He hadn’t opened it at all, felt too wrong and invasive, but she was showing him now. “I haven’t seen her since I was seven years old.” 

Dmitry frowned, struggling to follow. “Dead?”

She shook her head. “She lives in Paris now.”

“Oh.” Paris. The complete opposite of this town, he was sure. 

“And the life my family wants for me…” she brushed her fingers over the inscription— something written in French, he now recognized— and closed the locket, set it over her heart. “It’s not enough.”

Dmitry swallowed. But this still didn’t explain anything. “Anya…” he whispered. That may not have been her real name, but she responded to it like it was, her blue eyes flicking to his. “Why do you keep coming back here?”

She looked so vulnerable, so small, like one wrong word from him would cleave her in half. But she took a breath. “Hope,” she finally answered. “That maybe this time you’ll ask me to stay.” 

Now it was Dmitry’s turn to be confused. “Who are you running from?” he asked, because that was the only reasonable explanation as to why anyone would want to stay in this dump, to stay with him of all people. 

But she just shook her head, her smile so fond he started to doubt. “Running to,” she corrected. 

Oh. He wanted to argue, to say no one in their right mind would choose this, that he— a nearly illiterate orphan with hardly a penny to his name— couldn’t give her the life she deserved, the lifestyle she was used to. Nothing about him or his life had happiness on the horizon. But. but. She was looking at him like she already was happy. Like he had the answer to what she was looking for. He didn’t know what to do with it. 

And, well. If happiness existed for him, here she was, in person form. 

He maneuvered so that he was hovering over her and dropped a single kiss to her neck. “You’ll have to work,” he drawled. Her face lit up with relief. “Everyone around here has to earn their keep.” 

Even her laugh was pretty. “Of course.” Her knee slid up his side, until her calf was hooking over his hip. “I’m a hard worker.” 

“Pretty thing like you?” He found her hand, smooth as porcelain, a hand that hadn’t seen a day’s labor. But she was strong. He knew that. She was brave for coming all the way out here on her own so many times. She had to know how to fend for herself, how to take care of things. And she was smart as a whip. Not porcelain, then. Polished and beautiful, yes, but not brittle. Made of stone. His lips twitched into a smirk before he kissed her knuckle. “Think you can handle it?” 

Her hand dragged up to cup his face. “I’ll have you know,” she started, “where I come from, I am the fastest sharpshooter in the county.” To prove her point, she took her thumb and forefinger and angled her hand at him, closing one eye, like she was aiming a revolver. “I’ll protect you.”

His smile grew. Well, then. He kissed her mouth, slow and soft and sweet, like she deserved. Maybe one day he could see himself deserving the same tenderness, too. “Stay.” 

[duskier]

Never will I ever stop posting about dyke Ghost on T thank you!!

Thinking about her bent over Price’s desk so Price can give her the injection and Price absolutely pulled her pants down much lower than necessary. Always groping at her big meaty arms and thighs under the excuse of admiring Ghost's progress- but there's no excuse when Price is on her knees sucking off Ghost's swollen t-cock, is there? That's just an old woman acting like a needy whore, a fresh-faced barracks bunny, but Ghost doesn't mind. She just spreads her fat thighs apart further and grabs Price by her hair, hips flexing as she bucks forward into her tight, hot fleshlight of a mouth!!

[lesbiannieism]

I NEED TO STOP STARTING NEW FIC IDEAS WHEN I STILL NEED TO FINISH OLD ONES but i had an idea for a fic where charles and edwin have to pose as a couple to attend this ghost gala and im kind of obsessed with it

[itsjaywalkers]

do you think DO YOU THINK i can focus on work under these conditions (nsfw under the cut . kinda)

“Did you touch yourself while you were at it?”

James’ breath hitches. “Baby—”

“Did you imagine it was my hand instead of yours, daddy?” Regulus tilts his head up, looking up at James from under his eyelashes. Their lips are close enough that a tiny push would be enough to shorten the distance. “Or my mouth, perhaps?”

James’ gaze falls downwards, eyes hooded and darkening as he watches the way Regulus’ tongue wraps around his words.

“Or maybe it was something else,” Regulus whispers, barely audible. “You remember how good it felt to be inside me, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” James exhales, not looking away from Regulus’ lips.

“I bet you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how perfectly your cock fit in me, how hard you fucked me. How much you came.”

“Fuck. Yeah, baby, fuck. It’s been on my mind all the bloody time.”

“On mine, too,” Regulus confesses softly, like it’s a secret. “You can’t even begin to imagine how much I’ve jerked off to the thought of you.”

“Regulus—” James starts, strained, his hand clamping down his arm.

“It just wasn’t quite the same, you know,” he sighs, completely ignoring the other man. “I still came, of course, but my fingers don’t feel as good anymore. Yours are longer, daddy. And thicker. They can fuck me so deep.”

“Fucking hell, Regulus,” James groans, sounding pained. He makes an attempt to kiss him, but recoils at the very last second, to Regulus’ disappointment. “Your brother is literally right there.”

[no-light-left-on]

post-DotO Emily and human Outsider shenanigans, because their friendship needs more love. a little over 800 words

“How do I look?”

Emily looks up from her correspondence with the Duke of Serkonos to see the Outsider dressed in his new clothes. The shirt is of fine ashen grey silk, paired with deep blue pants and a waistcoat to match. He’s fidgeting again, his fingers toying with the corded loop of his top button, but he lowers his hands to let Emily take the whole look in.

She knew why she recommended her personal tailor to fashion the Outsider's new wardrobe for his inevitable introduction to the court.

The clothes suit him.

“You look stupid,” Emily says and the Outsider gasps.

“I will have you know that this style of embroidery and fine cording has a long tradition in Tyvia that predates the Empire of the Isles by centuries,” he tells her. “By incorporating it into the newest fashions of the Isles the people of Tyvia express their connection to their history and tradition while embracing the modern ways of life and cosmopolitanism of the Empire.” His back straightens and he rolls his shoulders back. The fine wool fabric hugs his chest perfectly and the silk of his sleeves falls over his slender forearms like waves of a stormy sea as it spills over into the Void. And yet the clothes make him appear much more human than the leather he wore back when he still was the Outsider.

Emily rolls her eyes. “Wow, you are nerdy and stupid.”

The Outsider’s cheeks flush with irritation and his top lip juts out. He is pouting. Emily chooses to forego teasing him about that.

“I thought you said you want to try something new?” she asks instead, diverting the Outsider’s attention from whatever lecture he had coming next about the importance of tradition and history of Tyvian folk motifs in aristocratic fashion. She vaguely remembers him speaking of it as she wrote a letter to Wyman while he decided how he should present himself to the nobles of Dunwall.

“This is different,” he says. “I’m wearing more colour than you could have ever possibly seen me don in the past.”

“Barely,” Emily shoots back. The blue of the fabric mirrors that of a clouded sky right after sunset. Variety, Emily thinks, is not something that she can expect from the Outsider’s wardrobe anytime soon.

Her tailor, bless her heart, does not say a word in regard to the insults thrown at the Outsider’s personal style and taste. “We can still adjust the fit,” she says, brushing over the differences between black and indigo or ash and slate grey that encompass all of the Outsider’s wardrobe. She’s heard enough on the topic from Corvo in her years at the helm of the royal boudoir. She provides no warning as she grips the strip of fabric at the Outsider’s back and pulls until the fit is snug and the Outsider startles and yelps. She pays him no mind, instead fixes the folds of the fabric fanning out over his backside.

Emily whistles. “Your waistline is incredible.”

“Thank you,” the Outsider says with a smug smile. “I hear narrow waist is popular with the older gentlemen of Dunwall these days.”

Both Emily and the tailor freeze.

“Do not,” Emily stresses, “ever say these words around me ever again.”

“I could fit the waistcoat to this size,” the tailor suggests in a desperate attempt to move the conversation anywhere that is not the Outsider’s subtle suggestion of sleeping with half of Emily’s court to gain their favour and support. “We can keep the clasp, too, but that is mostly seen as…” she weighs her words, “juvenile.”

“Leave it as is,” Emily tells her. “He’s going to fill out some, now that he has real food, and then you’d have to change it again. Save yourself the trouble, please.”

“Real food,” the Outsider mimics with a tinge of sarcasm. Juvenile, Emily thinks, is the perfect word to describe him after all.

“Yes,” Emily says. “You’ve only really eaten whatever in the Void Billie bothered to feed you with. And I would not ever dare suggest that to be real or proper meals, for the most part.”

“How would you even know what she fed me?”

“I spent a couple weeks with her. To call our eating habits proper meals would be an insult. Then again, your habit to eat only pastries is not to be considered a proper meal, either.”

The door opens, then, breaking the awkward air hanging over their little company, and Corvo walks in with a small collection of letters for Emily.

“Corvo,” the Outsider exclaims in way of greeting. “How do I look?”

Corvo does not spare him even a glance, instead passes by him to hand the letters to Emily.

“Stupid,” he answers after a beat of silence, and the Outsider pouts once more.

“I hate you,” he tells him, then turns to Emily, “both of you.”

Emily bursts out laughing.