#the metaphors and similes are probably very strained

[alectoperdita]

Kept poking at yakuza!Jou and lawyer!Kaiba. I did get them into bed eventually, but that part's even messier than the one I'm posting here. Will take a break to consider if I have more to add besides a secondary smut scene.

Still no title unless I keep my placeholder, In bed with the mob.

Still rated T, more backstory and feels

Part 1 here

Read the whole thing in AO3

___

They didn't go to Mega. No, Seto preferred a quiet neutral ground to Jounouchi's club. The hole-in-the-wall bar was a block away from where Seto parked his car, but it was still within Jounouchi's usual stomping grounds. Mega was but a short walk away from the storefront. Yet when Seto slipped through the unobtrusive wooden door, Jounouchi followed his lead without question.

The interior was styled after European bars—wood paneling, deco light scones, a minimalist chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. Similar to many storefronts in the area, it was long but narrow. A polished oak bar and shelves after shelves of artfully presented liquor bottles backlit by warm yellow light lined the left wall. Along the opposite wall was a series of small tables and booths to sit parties of two to three. Soft piano music played from the surround speakers mounted along the ceiling. It reminded Seto of a miniature version of the venues he frequented through his law school years.

The bartender, an older gentleman donning a crisp white shirt, dapper waistcoat, and ironed slacks, greeted them. Besides him, there were two salarymen seated at the bar near the entrance. Both men glanced in their direction but very deliberately looked away and avoided eye contact after they spotted Jounouchi behind Seto.

The bartender's expression revealed nothing behind his customer service face. He was likely the owner too. "What can I get for you, sirs?"

Seto asked for a gin and tonic. Jounouchi surprised him by ordering a whisky highball.

The gangster flashed another face-splitting grin. "Told ya. I'm all class."

With their drinks in hand, they made their way to the back of the bar and took the booth near the back wall. It was a tight squeeze even for two people on account of their heights. Their knees knocked several times before they settled into a comfortable enough arrangement. Jounouchi slouched, braced by the booth's corner, and stretched his legs diagonally until his feet poked out. Seto took the opportunity to sit facing forward, with his spine straight and knees locked perpendicular to the ground.

Jounouchi brought his dewy highball glass to his lips and drank. Seto did the same, choosing to contemplate his drink's zesty flavor instead of his companion. To his surprise, Jounouchi didn't guzzle his, but he did wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when he set the glass back on the table.

Seto's phone chirped. He pulled it out to check his notification. It was a message from Mitsurugi.

Mitsurugi Don't do that again.

Seto merely rolled his eyes and stuffed the device back into his pocket without replying.

"Why are ya making that face? Was it your boss or your boyfriend?" joked Jounouchi. That or he was still fishing.

"Neither. Just Mitsurugi bitching."

Jounouchi whistled. "So you weren't bluffing back at the station."

"I don't bluff," Seto snapped. One should never have to bluff if one had the goods.

Jounouchi sat up only to plant his elbow on the tabletop. Still smiling, he pressed his non-bruised cheek to his raised fist. Under the table, the toe of Jounouchi's shoe brushed against Seto's ankle, slow and deliberate and lingering.

"Look at you, friends in high places."

Uncowed, Seto locked gazes with the other man. "I could say the same for you if Yoshimori contracted us for your benefit."

"Aww, yer jealous? Don't worry. He's a bit too old for my taste." Jounouchi winked. "But can't deny he's a swell guy looking out for the guys in the area."

"Yes, I suppose this has nothing to do with the seven-year stint you did for possession and distribution of a controlled stimulant."

Jounouchi's expression collapsed, as swiftly as a earthquake ripping through an out-of-code building. Silence descended over their booth. One so thick that it felt as if nothing, not the bar's piano music or the other patron's muted conversations, could penetrate. Ice clinked in Seto's glass as he lifted it. If he strained his ears, he wouldn't be surprised if he could somehow hear Jounouchi's heartbeat.

After a long, awkward silence that began to grate even on Seto's nerve, Jounouchi finally said, "You know about that?"

"I'm your lawyer"—for tonight anyway—"I would be a piss-poor one if I didn't know. I do my due diligence for my clients."

Jounouchi sucked in a sharp exhale. His hand trembled as he gripped his highball. This time, he chugged half of it at once. "Yeah, and you always had to be the best at anything you did."

Seto studied the other man, noting his sudden downturned gaze and the abrupt change in his mannerism. He couldn't help but remember that Jounouchi often relied on bluster. Brainless loyalty was more of his speed than mean drive.

"If you're ashamed, you should've thought of that before you took the fall for someone else," Seto scoffed.

"Wait. How could you possibly know that?"

"A few well-placed inquires and money to grease some palms will tell me whatever people are already talking about. It's not a stretch of the imagination. Not only were you able to find employment straight out of prison, you were promoted to manager within two months. One possibility is stellar work ethics, but it's more likely that someone owes you a favor. A big favor."

Jaw dropped, Jounouchi gawked at him. Seto filled the new lull with sips of his drink.

To his surprise, Jounouchi burst out into riotous laughter, drawing the attention of everyone in the bar. "Holy shit. That was some Sherlock Holmes shit!"

"Simple deductions," Seto muttered into his glass. He didn't know where the sudden wave of self-consciousness came from. Then again, people sometimes accused him of being too self-assured about the conclusions he drew about others and sticking to them.

It was unsettling how difficult it was to get a read on Jounouchi, though. The tension broke, and the gangster was smiling fondly at him again. "Okay, lemme take a stab at it. You studied abroad. Maybe as early as high school, but definitely university. Your taste in drinks' the same as a returnee's," Jounouchi's gaze flicked to Seto's glass. "The only question's was it England or America?"

Seto took a sip before responding. It didn't escape his notice how Jounouchi's gaze lingered on his lips afterwards. He licked them.

"Neither. Germany."

Jounouchi laughed. "Ya always did bulk conventions."

Seto didn't stop his mouth in time. "Buck conventions."

"Po-tay-toe, po-tot-toe." Jounouchi waved a hand dismissively. "And for the record, I'm not ashamed. Not really. I know who I am. That's not gonna change. It's just... It's you. I always felt kinda shabby standing next to you, and now..."

The man's expression took a turn for the wistful. Seto's heart clenched unexpectedly. From their youth, he only remembered chasing after Jounouchi, a shining beacon that clambered through the orphanage's and the surrounding woods' nooks and crannies.

"If your background was an issue, I would've left you outside police headquarters," said Seto. Not share a smoke or bodily drag Jounouchi into his car so he couldn't escape. They wouldn't be here at this bar if that was the case.

"True. Guess you still don't put up with anyone's bullshit." Jounouchi's eyes crinkled again. "Good to know that hasn't changed."

They lapsed into silence again and finished their drinks in the meanwhile. Seto rose to order another round. When he returned with with another gin and tonic for himself and another whisky highball for Jounouchi, the other man was frowning at his phone, but he quickly shoved it back into his pocket when Seto sat down.

That was when Seto remembered it was a Saturday night, which meant prime business hours for a club like Mega.

"Don't let me keep you if you have business to take care of," he said.

Jounouchi shook his head. "Nah, Toshihiro can hold down the fort. It's not every day I get a chance to catch up with an old friend."

As Jounouchi reached across the table for his glass, his palm covered the back of Seto's hand. His fingers caressed the patch of skin under Seto's wristwatch band. Despite his best efforts not to react, Seto's breath hitched. He didn't necessarily want Jounouchi to stop flirting with him, but each successive touch further muddled Seto's purpose of mind. He slipped his hand out from under Jounouchi's touch. Jounouchi let him retreat without comment, clasping his drink and drawing it across the table.

It was almost a relief when Jounouchi changed the topic. "How's Mokuba doing?"

"Well, he's living in London at the moment." A small smile crept across Seto's lips at the thought of his little brother. "He's happy. I think."

That's what made his departure from the orphanage and the ensuing years worth it. Ensuring his brother's happiness and keeping his father's dying wish.

"Awww, that's good to hear. He's so lucky to have you. You love him to bits."

Even back then, Jounouchi had supported his plan. Even though it ultimately led to their separation. That was one of Seto's few regrets.

"I'm sorry I never wrote," he mumbled.

He tried early on. Until he found several weeks of letters crumpled in the trash in his new adoptive father's study. He got the message then. His letters would never reach their intended destination.

A self-deprecating smile wormed across Jounouchi's face. "That's alright. You were moving onto bigger and better things. I wouldn't have gotten 'em anyway. I ran away several weeks after you and Mokuba left. That place was the pits. There was nothing worth staying for."

The vise tightened around Seto's heart again. His blood roared in his ears. He could blame it on the alcohol, but he wasn't a lightweight. Seto wasn't nearly as much of a stickler for rules as some people guessed. He was a defense attorney. He knew when to bend the rules or even turn a blind eye. But he couldn't turn away from Jounouchi even if he tried.

Not again.

It took effort, but he swallowed the lump in his throat. "We should continue this conversation somewhere private," he declared. It shamed him to recognize the slight warble in his voice.

Jounouchi froze, his highball glass suspended in mid-air with his hand. "Wait, really?"

"You're more familiar with this area. You must be able to recommend such a place."

The other man downed his drink like water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Okay, okay. Yeah. A few places come to mind. Yer sure about this?"

"Don't make me repeat myself," he snapped, unable to keep an ounce of contempt from bleeding through.

Jounouchi either didn't notice or didn't care. After slamming his glass down on the table, he shot forward and clasped Seto's wrist. It was strong enough that his bones creaked under the pressure, but it wasn't a threat. Nor was Jounouchi trying to hurt him. It seemed he was as reluctant to let go as Seto was.

Then as if no time has passed—untrue because so much did—Jounouchi dragged him out of the bar and out onto the neon-lit streets.

[xserpx]

When the sapling seed finds a crack in the mountain, over long years its deep roots will burst the very rock apart. So the Bloody-Nine strained with every muscle and let the slow time pass, hissing out his hatred into the Feared’s twitching mouth.

— Last Argument of Kings by Joe Abercrombie

I'm sure I've said it before, probably with this quote, but I love how the Bloody Nine's POV is full of poetic devices. It really makes him into an epic figure fit for generations to sing about long after, and using Homeric similes and other metaphors related to nature, it shows how the B9 sees himself as a force of nature: he is the hand of death. It also enhances the flow of the action, which isn't as unique to Logen but I love that hyper-focused quality of the prose, where every moment matters, the senses are heightened, it puts you right in the character's head. I don't think I'll ever get tired of reading Abercrombie action scenes.

[tropicalrpg]

23 it'll do

i try not to look at myself when i sit on the passenger seat of a car. i can't see myself on the mirror of my sister's car, but i can in every other; yesterday i sat on the passenger seat of the driver's ed car, and i could see my forehead and eyes on the centre rearview. it was weird. i hate seeing my mirror image. i hate seeing my image, period.

i've given up on long posts or elaborate essays. i've given up on making these into anything but excuses. these are writing exercises; i'm trying to get a habit going; i'm trying to keep myself from losing the skill i've always been proudest of. i'm a writer. words come to me. they used to. i look around in my essay-writing class and everyone writes better than i do, because i write one of three things (fanfic, erotic poetry, and school assignments) and they can write whatever they want. so my words are rusty and formal when they aren't forced. every word of mine is forced. my throat strains. my hands are cold.

i would like to talk of the beauty. i'd like to do it justice. i love being at uni, i love my friends, i love the days i can romanticise if i step outside my body for just a little bit. it's cold now. i wore my best football shirt today, but my hoodie covers it. i wish i had someone to hold me. i wish i remembered what it feels like to touch their skin. i've been gaining weight, and i don't think i mind it for myself at all. i mind it because it means i might need to buy new pants and it means i'm straying further away from finding easy love. i look at my skinny friend and see how easy it is for him to be desired. i know i'm not unlovable but it still stings to be the victim of unfairness. i think of how it's probably my fault. i clutch my fist to my chest. i should complain less, and take more action.

i listen to joji in public transport. i listen to the mountain goats when i should be studying. i read about migration policies. i notice closed doors and fleeting moments of warm sunlight. people nap around me. i have to figure out when to charge my phone, because i don't want to stop listening to music but there's only a usb-c entrance and i hate bluetooth earbuds. i have things to do. i have a life ahead of me.

i like short sentences and transitive verbs. i like the word like and i use similes waaaay more than metaphors or analogies. i say he does this like this, instead of saying he is a dove, he flies upwards into the light, he nestles soft against my chest and i'm very careful when i sigh because i don't want to startle him.

23 05 24

[hetaliatxtpostz]

Common Ways I Describe Hetalia Characters I Write:

America: "Mega-watt smile." His eyes are sky-orientated: compared to storms and cloudless skies/vast expanses and infinite things. (He's associated as a whole with concepts that are abstract/hard to comprehend like dreams and space.) He gets described as vibrant/ moves in ways that are described in metaphor/simile as larger than life, exaggerated. And he's ALWAYS doing something physically. America is associated with youth.

England: Very cat-like movements in my mind. He's all fire, inside and out. His eyes burn, his soul burns. Burning man in a waistcoat. England feels old. He also writes himself in prose. England demands an almost Victorian style: there's an air of drama (heavy metaphor).

Canada: Rugged. I associate Canada with activity and work: his body is lived in. Hands calloused, clothes worn, boots dirty. I always say he looks kind. He also looks sad, a distant kind of sad that is subtle in his descriptions: sighs, head-shaking, and strained smiles.

Spain: Warm. Earth tones. Connected to nature: I describe him like the rain, like the sun, like a garden. He's also aligned with fire, but he's not burning; he is a being of fire, when he's ignited from smoldering embers (hints of fire in his person-- Spain's secondary description is dangerous).

France: Sunlight. I associate France with sunlight constantly. Sunlight as a person. I probably overuse the word elegant: I describe the way he moves deliberate and languid. His eyes are water-orientated: the ocean/rivers/rain. Much of his description is of a man in love (with life, with people, with art, with everything).

Prussia: He's so tense in my mind, like a loaded spring: everything is sudden, sharp. He has a lot of associations with mortality to me: blood red eyes and bone white skin. I use a lot of religious symbolism when writing Prussia. He's always a soldier: orders, commanders, bloodshed, calculations, victory. Loss.

Russia: Stoic is often used. Coldness permeates the way I write him: steel/ice/frost/stone. He's rarely moving. He's like a statue: Russia is the immovable object. Things carry a sense of finality with him: his eyes are the sun setting, he speaks firmly, he "leaves no room for argument." And he is extremely weary. That's the backdrop of all of it: he's been worn down a long time.

N. Italy: Flighty. He moves quickly and constantly and is like a butterfly, or like something caught in the wind. How he's described changes moment to moment as he dodges about, focused around this excited smile. He's pretty, but not effortlessly pretty: I describe him as having put work into it, and maintaining it. He gets to be "cute" and "sweet" and a lot of other words that contrast the way I describe him interacting with people like he's dueling.

[screensirenfic]

Black Leather - Chapter 1

Life had remained largely the same, despite the obvious overhanging changes over the last year. I mean; life had always been hectic; disastrous even, taking turns and downright derailing at the worst times. We’d experienced loss again and again, been chewed up and spat on, but got up fighting; because that was what being a Hopper meant, being too damn stubborn to die. It was in the genes.

Life had gotten weirder. The discovery of real, living and fucking breathing monsters had been a big ole’ “fuck you” to logic, but science seemed to back it up with the uncovering of Hawkins lab and whatever sinister experiments they were running there. Of course; that wasn’t a concern any more, considering old Uncle Sam had shut that down quicker than the health inspector at Benny’s; God rest his soul.

But even with the finality of the death and burial of Hawkins greatest catastrophe/mystery; it still left a lot of bodies in its wake, one of which I was currently adjusting to calling sister.

Eleven. El. Jane. Whatever people preferred to call her; she was currently sharing a home with Me and my dad, as we all played happy families in the darkened depths of Indiana woodlands. I liked the kid; I’d admit it. She was sweet in her own way, and knowing she could toss shit around with her mind made her much cooler than the average thirteen year old. Of course; all of that was a secret. Everything about El was; as far as the government knew, she didn’t exist. It was the price that had to be payed for safety, and God knew dad valued that above all else: including our sanity.

So instead we stayed shut inside that little wooden hut forgotten by time and space, sneaking in and out at the rising and setting of the sun, like criminals or bats in the night. It was enough to drive you crazy; and trust me, dad was already half way there. Tensions ran high all the time; higher than they had at the height of his PTSD, and God; sometimes I just wanted to scream. For someone to address that shit wasn’t normal, rather than sitting around and pretending that it is.

The only true bit of normality was school and work. Mainly just school, as the arrival of a new dependant meant my work hours were seriously fucked. Wasn’t the kid’s fault; dad was a workaholic, didn’t know when to call it a day, and that left me picking up the pieces. It was Sara all over again. At least back then things were normal. There was still trauma, but it was the kind normal families had. A missing parent; semi-alcoholic father; that was shit everybody had to deal with, but this. This was the stuff that only happened in B movies.

—————————————

God; sometimes I really loved having a motorcycle. The wind slapping your face like a Californian wave; that rush of adrenaline when you take a corner a little too fast, when death seems just moments away. It was like flying; soaring through the air without limits. No; it was more visceral than that. Like free falling; the absolute relinquishment of control as you hurtle through the ozone, the earth rising up at you as the void closes in; death approaching at a hundred miles per hour.

You couldn’t compare it to any other sensation. I’d seen kids trying to mimic it on tiny dirt bikes painted up like NASCARS; their little legs spinning the pedals like turbines as they tried to reach just a lick of that speed. To feel the breeze on their face; the closest you could get to freedom in the tiny township of Hawkins, Indiana. That rush didn’t touch the one I felt when I rode my Triumph, hitting 80 as I threaded through standstill traffic; the reaper breathing down my neck.

But like all great rides; it came to an end too soon, the nondescript flat roofed shape of Hawkins High rapidly approaching. I pulled into the parking lot, cruising through row after row of dusty cars; from the beat up old Pacard, to the shiny new Chevy.

I parked a couple of rows before the school, swinging my leg over my saddle as I finally accepted my joy ride was over and I’d have to land back on earth.

“Hey; Lola!” A familiar voice rang out as I pulled off my helmet, shaking my hair loose, less the dreaded helmet hair take hold.

Nancy Wheeler; Hawkins High’s very own Miss Perfect, the princess of Indiana. She was the daughter fathers dreamed of; pretty in a girl next door kind of way, well behaved, a high achiever; the kind to bring home boys who got her back by ten and kissed goodbye at the door. I got called other things. Jail bait, wild child; a lawsuit waiting to happen. Well meaning grandparents used girls like me as a cautionary tale to expecting parents on what too little discipline did to ‘nice little girls’.

Not that I didn’t like Nancy. She was nice, and Steve’s girlfriend too. Besides, being a princess was hard; a lot of expectations to live up to, a lot of hopes to let down. I never had that problem, and with her cotton candy smile; I couldn’t help but give one in return.

“Hey Nance” I chirped, placing my helmet on the back of my motorcycle and knowing damn well no one would dare touch it.

“Steve was just wondering if you’d take a look at his college application...” She began, and I could see the flustered figure in question trailing behind her.

“He’s been finding it hard to find the right words, and we know how you never get tongue tied.” She joked, and I took it at face value; I was getting A’s, despite the perception that girls like me were only good at one thing and one thing only.

“Is that so, Steve?” I asked, unable to hide my smugness as I stared at him, despite his insistence on avoiding eye contact.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than really digging into him. It was just too easy; to push all his buttons. Of course; he did the same in return, but who really had more to lose? The self proclaimed king of Hawkins High, or his leather clad sidekick?

“Yeah, sowouldyoutakealookatit?” He mumbled, rubbing his nose as if he could hide the words as you would a cough.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I didn’t quite get that.” I purred with all forced sweetness and sacharine smiles. I could never resist the urge to really twist the knife.

“I said, would you take a look at it...” he sighed; a visible strain on the admission of inferiority.

“Please...” He added, drawing a smile to my lips. Sweet, stubborn Steve; too good to ask for help, and  just desperate enough to need it; but then what are friends for?

“Sure thing Harrington...” I grinned, finally plucking the crumpled stack of papers from Nancy’s grasp. “Would love to.” I removed my gaze from him, savouring the rare look of humbleness on his face, and turned it upon the paper.

——————————————-

Steve Harrington was many things. Charismatic. Caring. Rich. Good looking. A great guy with almost endless good qualities, but smart wasn’t one of them. I’d spent the best part of a quarter of an hour troweling through his paper with about as much joy as a prospector in a dry well, but was yet to strike gold.

It really was garbage, and that was treating it nicely, but still both me and Nancy tried our best to revive a corpse; not because we felt there was anything worth saving, but because it was Steve, and we cared about his future; even if it was doomed to culminate behind a deep fat fryer in a fast food joint.

My eyes trailed across line after line of smudged ink; much of it crossed out and rewritten in the margins, trying to make sense of whatever it was he was trying to convey in a comparison between WW2 and a basketball game between us and Northern.

“And did you...” I said; pointing out a particular eyebrow raising line, talking about the all American value of victory.

“Yeah; that’s what I thought...” She agreed, picking up off my tone and honing in on the line in question.

“Uh huh” I mumbled reading onwards on what was a virtual mine field of badly used metaphors and poorly linked  stories.

Steve didn’t seem to fare much better than his essay, pacing restlessly up and down a small stretch of parking lot, reminding me distinctly of an expecting father in the delivery room. However; his midwives were much more willing to take our time perfecting the delivery of his academic baby.

“And don’t you think...” Nancy trailed of, redirecting my attention to a sentence circled in red marker. Another misused simile courtesy of the genius that is Steven Harrington.

“My thoughts exactly.” I concurred, knowing that we were both desperately avoiding as coming across as purposely nitpicky with his work.

A loud, impatient sigh interrupted our conversation as Steve’s nerves finally reached their limit.

“I’m sorry, but are you girls anywhere near done?” He asked, drawing our attention away from the paper and up to his signature Steve Harrington pose; hands perched on his hips.

“We were just trying to find some constructive criticism to give you...” She began her tidy little avoidance bullshit; the kind that came with years of forced diplomacy beneath the perfect four bed suburban roof. The kind of bullshit I couldn’t stand; let alone tolerate. I had to put an end to it.

I strolled up to Steve, shoving the proverbial toilet paper he’d used as an application to his chest in a way that told him loud and clear what the truth about his efforts were.

“She means your paper sucks, man...” I translated; my words holding none of her polish, but all of the dirty intentions beneath.

“I wasn’t going to say that. I was...” She said; already backpedaling the hard truth I’d spilt onto the table.

Steve just gave her a look. He knew she was lying; if only to save his feelings. He may not have been smart, but he wasn’t stupid.

“Okay; it’s a little suckish, but nothing we can’t fix...” She offered in consolation; a weak smile the most she could offer in her lie.

I was about to object, knowing the hole she was digging the both of us was deeper than we could deliver upon, when a grisly roar overshadowed all thought. I knew the sound well; all eyes turning to it’s source, the newest arrival to Hawkins.

A Chevy Camaro; older, probably fixed up by some dedicated hobby mechanic with too much time on his hands. I’d seen hundreds of them in the shop in varying states of rustiness; most beyond repair, but still, some insistent gashead would insist it could be done, sinking fistfuls of dollar into what was essentially raising the titanic.

“Nice car.” Nancy remarked, and for a princess like her to notice, it must be true. It was in good shape. Baby blue with just the slightest of wear on the paint; someone took a lot of care with their baby. Fuck; if I had one, I probably would too!

“Yeah, but I bet the backseat is a nightmare.” Joked Steve; insecurity seeping into what was meant to be a light dig.

Not the only man with a nice ride on the block now.

His dig fell short when the driver stepped out, hard rock pounding in his stead.

Pretty; was my first thought. Like his car, he had all the well tailored ruggedness that created the perfect balance between pretty boy and rebel. Blonde haired, blue eyed; think James Dean if he had a mullet.  His clothes looked good too; double denim that clung to him like a second skin, with a white t shirt that really left nothing to hide.

Smoking a cigarette with movie star casualness, if I’d seen him in a movie, I’d be drooling. But this wasn’t a movie; this was Indiana, and I’d seen too many of his type roll up to Charlie’s in pretty cars with prettier faces thinking it meant the world owed them something. That that something was hidden somewhere down the denim shorts I wore so religiously.

I’d had it with pretty boys. They could all go jump off a bridge.

And as if he was already decided to live up to the cliche, he went and cemented it when he strolled past us, dripping sex and arrogance; his eyes trailing up and down me like I was something to be bartered for, like I could be bought.

“What an asshole.” Sneered Steve, taking the words out of my mouth, and I almost smiled; because of course he’d be the one to say it.

But I didn’t; not when the new kid was leering at me with all the restraint of a hungry dog.

I watched him lick his lips; that’s right, lick. his. lips. Pink tongue peaking out past too perfect teeth, running across a full bottom lip. I tried telling myself it wasn’t sexual. That it was just a private little tick that he couldn’t control. But his eyes had never left me; a dark grin that promised any number of sins stretched across a heartbreaker’s face.

“Yeah. An asshole.” I agreed; the word rolling off my tongue automatically, but I don’t think my heart was in it. That frightened me.

That, and the small itch in my stomach that grew every time his bright baby blues met my green.

Finally; those blues relented, tongue disappearing behind white teeth as he shot me a smile that could’ve sent knees buckling. A quick wink and he was done, strutting into Hawkins High like a stormy breeze that was sure to rock the entire school.

“Hey Lo. You listening?” Came Steve’s voice through a fog of cigarette smoke and gasoline; the smell reminiscent of home, despite its cause being far from homely.

“Yeah. Sure...” I replied, tearing my eyes from where the newcomer had disappeared into the school.

“Let’s get to class before we’re late.” I said, shouldering my bag as if it was any other Monday morning. And it was.

Just another manic Monday.

[lonelygahwd]

dear you

Nobody goes on my tumblr except for you so I know you’ll see this if you want to. There’s a bit of politeness in this way of communication no? I could message you but then there would be an obligation to respond and a bit of tension as to who would end it and then we would be back at square one again. In this way, if I’m still on your mind, you can come here to peruse at your pleasure. But if you’ve moved forward, you won’t need to anymore.

We first bonded over our shared use of Tumblr and yet here we are again, almost 5 years later. How magical our first date was. 

I’ve done a lot of dirt over the years. Unintentionally causing hurt and sadness but causing hurt and sadness nonetheless. This year especially, I spewed a lot of filth at a lot of people. I was just a bull in a china shop, I didn’t care who was in my way I just lashed out at whoever came near me. Actually, I was more like a leech. I latched onto whoever foolish enough to come through the shallows my way and would suck them dry. And once they would collapse, a former shell of themselves, I would swim away in search for my next victim - my own shape black and formless. (An analogy and simile, no metaphor ;) ) 

From watching After Life, I saw myself. A man who loses his wife and turns to drugs, alcohol, and toxicity to mask the festering wound inside of him. It was only after confronting his sadness does he start to realize the kindness and beauty of the world around him. Watching After Life reminded me of my capacity to cry. I had avoided confronting my sadness for so very long now...and the last two days... well... let’s just say it was my second time crying in the shower since the last time we met for coffee.  

I keep asking myself if this is normal. I keep asking the people around me if this is normal. I am only reassured that nobody knows anything. They can only tell you for certain how they have lived their life and how it has turned out for them and even then...Point is, my head is spinning because I have surrendered. I don’t know anything. Is this what it’s like to live on the bleeding edge? To have constant vertigo, trapped in a cube tumbling through the void? That’s what it felt like yesterday. Confronting the truth is scary and nauseating. The truth is scary because it is messy - it’s up to you to clean it up afterwards. 

You are so wise now: cautious and measured. It’s funny how we both turned out. I guess it’s kind of funny how everything came to be. Sort of leaves you with a bit of optimism as to what else we will be able to laugh at in the future hey? Last year, I definitely could not have fathomed talking to you about whether or not you got along with his family. Maybe this is our version of “Cool” after all. I think if there’s any song I avoid, it’s that one. Is that a truth I am too afraid to confront? Yasser tells me to stop these mind games, it is tiring...are they mind games? Or is this just how we communicate? We just get each other? Is that toxic? I’ve refreshed your VSCO page about 10x now and have seen the captions edited and deleted and edited again. Are you somehow aware that I’ve been on it? Or is it just because you’ve been doing the same on my page? Fuck me. I know your friends and family hate me and I’m not going to lie, my friends and family are not the biggest fan of you either - probably because of the unhappiness that has been bred because of all of...this. Can this continue on? I don’t want to know. I had the impulse to control the outcome so bad, even if that meant lying to you... but I know that in doing so, that would only hurt both of us even more. I guess we’re both a little wiser now. 

Honesty is nauseating but it’s sort of liberating. There is nothing more to say, there is nothing more that I can do. There isn’t any sort of scheme or persona I need to assume to prevent anyone from finding out the truth because the truth is out now. I feel resolved? Well I guess there’s the anxiety of what will happen in the future now that my grubby hands are out of the game. Perhaps living honestly and genuinely is overrated? Overall, I’m so grateful for the fact that we were able to reach an amicable conclusion yesterday, although I’m not sure if I prefer amicability over anger. At least anger is definitive. I’m never going to talk to her again. I’m never going to think about her again. I’m never going to want her again. Now, it’s more like, I’m never going to talk to her again? I’m never going to think about her again? I’m never going to want her again? 

I guess there are so many questions up in the air for me and maybe you want to be with someone who has more answers, and that’s fine if that’s what you want...then...I guess I have to work on being more at peace with that. I think the agony from my end comes from this feeling inside that you are on the same page as me with the same number of questions and the same approach to life but lying to yourself in search of stability...but that is presumptous of me. I don’t know you anymore - things have changed. You want stability, you want what you have right now with him and with everything you have in your life. That much is apparent from what you told me and I have to trust that. What I offer is perhaps an echo of what you wanted before, and only beckons at the version of you that has not entirely been shed yet. And... I guess the same thing could be said for me as well. I like what I have here and in a sense, the instability of my life. Well, at least I like it enough to not drop out, pack my bags, and head home (even home isn’t something that I’m not even sure about anymore as well haha) and perhaps the agony on your end comes from a hunch that you know I don’t want all of this and that deep down inside I’m just the same Calgary boy. But I think we both have to keep on trying our new lives out. Is this what being at peace is like? And yet, I still feel so anxious about the future - ironic isn’t it? I guess with this in mind, we can start living life more fully and pursue the versions of ourselves that we arrived at yesterday with greater confidence. I mean, that’s what it felt like when we were dating. We were unabashedly confident in what we wanted and never looked back.  I think that’s what made it felt so magical. But then again, one’s definition of love is constantly shifting. Is a magical relationship something we need now at 23? Does every relationship have to be magical in order to be a valid? Maybe there is a darker side to magic as well... perhaps it is too fantastical for the harsh realities of life. 

I think we are both dreamers and that’s the pull we feel towards each other that is irresistable and as you said, a slippery slope. At heart, we are able to both say fok it and just go barreling down. And maybe we both need someone to ground us. I was always criticized that you and I were always in our little bubble, blissfully ignorant of the world around us. Maybe we were too invested in the idea that the love between us was all that was needed to sustain us through this life. Hopeless romantics in a way? I mean there is a certain strain to that. Admittedly, I personally felt a bit suffocated when we were together because I had nobody else but you. And so, maybe soulmates are not meant to be together? Their pull being too strong, it obscures the world and anyone else around them? But we’ve changed haven’t we? Maybe we could make it work with our newfound wisdom? Our sense of balance and our new perspectives on life to try and compensate for whatever was lacking before? Chalk up the fact that I broke up with you and attribute it to me having an identity crisis, is that valid? Chalk up all our difficulties to us being young and insecure and call it a day? Is that valid? I don’t know, I don’t know. And I’m sorry I don’t know. I have surrendered to trying to answer the questions that I don’t have the answers for. Only time will tell where this will go and I have to trust that we will make the decisions that will make us happy, if not happier than we ever were when we were together. I think our decision yesterday is the first step towards that.

:) 

[avani008]

Headcanon Meme Redux: Multiple Characters

Amarendra, Devasena, Mama Baahu, Vikramadeva, Grandmama Baahu, and Kattappa, below the cut!

Amarendra

A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school? *smiles* By now, I’m sure you guys know my thoughts on science dork! Amarendra enough for me not to have to launch into that. M: What is their favourite dessert? Payasam. I’m just warning you guys, this question is going to come up multiple times, and I’m just going to keep on saying the same thing. *grins* R: What are their hands like? Long and graceful and talented....*exaggerated swoon* E: How are they with children? Oh, Amarendra’s great with kids! He’s sweet and friendly and will go out of his way to be kind to them; and, as we see, in “Dandalayya,” doesn’t discriminate in his fighting lessons based on gender. Obviously most of this is to break our collective hearts that Amarendra Baahubali, Best Dad Ever, never gets to meet his son, but I reckon it still counts. N: What do they usually eat for breakfast? I….have no idea what the breakfast menu for a medieval palace would be, so—shall we say venn pongal? That seems fancy enough to belong on a royal menu. D: How they react to being flirted with? Before he meets Devasena, a cheerful smile and flirting right back; afterwards, still a cheerful smile but gently redirecting the conversation while being charming and managing not to embarrass the other person.

Devasena

D: How they react to being flirted with? Devasena’s general attitude is: if they’re brave enough not to be intimidated by her at her frostiest, they’re actually worth flirting back with.  E: How are they with children? Also very sweet; but being around children doesn’t come as naturally to Devasena as it does to Amarendra. (They both had private “what do I know about being a parent?” freakouts after she got pregnant, but Devasena’s was definitely centered around the fact that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever been around a child for a prolonged period of time.) She’s not as much of a pushover as Amarendra is; which, given that someone has to be the disciplinarian, is probably a good thing. V: What’s the easiest way to annoy them? Be Sivagami Devasena has no patience for people insulting her intelligence with blatant lies. She can see that you’re mugging, Kattappa! You’re not fooling anyone! A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school? Truthfully, Devasena is so good at coming up with off-the-cuff speeches, complete with fancy metaphors and similes, that I think she’d be quite good at rhetoric. Or at least debate, I think we can all agree on that. S: How stealthy are they? Given that she sneaks up on the Pindari and then also on random bandits, I think she’s pretty stealthy—speed and surprise are Devasena’s two strengths in swordplay. N: What do they usually eat for breakfast? See answer for Amarendra above, but—since Kuntala is more of a farming community, maybe a simpler dish: uttappam or appam or dosas.

Mama Baahu

M: What is their favourite dessert? …Payasam? A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school? Mama Baahu B: Do they have any allergies? This is very random, but I imagine she had a sensitivity to gold and so didn’t wear much of it—being fiercely clever, however, she publicly claimed that this was because she did not want to flaunt her wealth when her subjects were suffering, thereby significantly increasing her support from citizens. That is Mama Baahu in a nutshell: turning even her weaknesses into strengths.  H: What is their deadly sin? Pride. Mama Baahu’s is definitely pride. U: What’s their voice like? Low for a woman’s and very quiet— she uses the fact that people have to strain to hear what she’s saying to make sure they concentrate on the content of her words (one more way that she’s the anti-Sivagami.)

Vikramadeva

V: What’s the easiest way to annoy them?

Vikramadeva is a sweetheart who isn’t easily annoyed, but I think insulting his family or his country would do it.

I: On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do they love themselves?

A 7/10? Whatever the happy healthy medium is; Vikramadeva, in my head, isn’t one too beat himself up too much, but nor is he particularly vain. K: How do you know when you’ve upset them? Vikramadeva wears his heart on his sleeve: it’s easy to tell you’ve upset him by his frown or any other facial expression. R: What are their hands like? Since he’s played by Prabhas, too, I guess the same as his son and grandson? A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school? Like his nephew Bhalla, Vikramadeva had a soft spot for literature — sadly for everyone, this did not translate to talent when he found himself inspired to write love poetry of his own. (Eventually his friends—and his wife—convinced him to seek solace in quotations instead.) M: What is their favourite dessert? Payasam. D: How they react to being flirted with? Vikramadeva, as the dorkiest of the three generations of this family, would turn bright red and attempt to stammer out words (and usually fail miserably at it.) It’s to the point where before his marriage, “Flirt With the Prince and Watch Him Trip Over His Own Two Feet” was a regular form of entertainment for the ladies of the court. E: How are they with children? Vikramadeva is surprisingly bad with them, actually. He tries very hard — but he ends up coming across as horribly condescending (i.e., using baby talk with an eight-year-old who just stares at him like he’s crazy; buying every child he knows the same sort of dolls and/or toy weaponry because that’s the only gift ideas he can come up with)

Grandmama Baahu

G: How do they flirt? Very practiced; honestly, she’s got a lot in common with her grandson Bhalla in how the overall impression is that of being very very convincingly charming, except for that one little niggling feeling that s/he is trying too hard. R: What are their hands like? Broad and strong. N: What do they usually eat for breakfast? *shrugs in defeat at this point* D: How they react to being flirted with? Usually a noncommittal smile while she quickly calculates if this person is worth flirting with or not; and if so, please proceed to answer G. M: What is their favourite dessert? Once again, payasam. A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school? I think, like her grandson Baahu, she has a good head for maths, and is, at least in her youth, interested in the natural sciences. B: Do they have any allergies? ….I don’t think so? H: What is their deadly sin? I think, by the end of her life, she was rather prone to sloth: she was certainly clever enough to see the impending family conflicts arising but, I think, was just too tired after a lifetime of scheming to do anything about htem. U: What’s their voice like? High and sweet; like a bird’s, as one of her smitten suitors once said.

Kattappa

K: How do you know when you’ve upset them? With sweet Kattappa, you don’t have to worry—he’ll let you know. Either by complaining loudly or by being brought to the point of tears (also loudly). A: What are/were this character’s best subjects in school? All things weaponry? And cooking, weirdly enough. T: Where are they ticklish? His feet. (This is honestly something I can say I’ve never wondered about before.) P: How do they handle money?Kattappa, I think, would be very careful with his money; he is definitely a saver rather than a spender. That said, I doubt Mahishmati allows its slaves to carry around money, or even to have any of their own, so I think it’s a moot point.

[artificialqueens]

weak (violet/trixie/katya) 5/? - kitty

A/N: smut! feelings! hedgehogs! also i now have a writing blog @kittydoux if you want to yell at me. as always, much love to polly

summary: 

“Tell us what you want,” Violet says quietly, hates saying the words because they like to know, not ask.

Katya is silent for a few moments.

“Tell us what you need.“

Violet wakes up with a crick in their neck and Trixie Mattel drooling inelegantly on their shoulder. They’re pressed up against the arm of the couch. A red five blinks insolently at them from the digital clock on Trixie’s table. It’s early, too fucking early, thanks, but Violet knows they’re not going to be able to fall back asleep. They ease themselves out from underneath Trixie, who slumps further against the arm of the sofa. Katya is burrowed into him, arms slung loosely around his waist and mouth open on his chest. Violet takes a moment to look at them like this, open and vulnerable. They’ve seen Katya asleep, god, how many times? Napping on the tour bus, passed out on airport sofas. Once, in their hotel bed after a long gig where Alaska had accidentally taken Katya’s room key and was currently getting ploughed by a bar tender. Katya had looked at Violet sheepishly, put on her raspy voice (that reminded Violet secretly of a deranged farmer they had once known) and shrugged, saying “Sorry, mama. Guess you’re stuck with me”. This was in the middle, Violet remembers, of tour. It was after they’d started fucking (which had happened, really, as a joke once about Violet riding a pensioner, and had ended in this – both of them curled up in Trixie at 5am). That time, that time with the bed, they hadn’t had sex. Katya kissed them on the forehead (“This stops the goblins from harassing you while you sleep”), then once on each cheek. Violet remembers how they looked perfectly, as though they were an external observer. They see themselves cross-legged on a hotel room bed as Katya holds their face, kisses their closed eyes, and says good night. They see themselves watching Katya as she sleeps, tracing a finger down her shoulder. 

This is the first time since then that Violet has seen Katya in this state, whole and surrendered and peaceful. This feels secret and safe, like they have to take in all of these details now for fear they’ll never see it again. It’s the veins in Katya’s arms, specifically, blue and spindly, contrasting with Trixie’s warm gold skin. Trixie tans naturally, in a way that makes Violet think of long summer nights, of abandoned highways, of the desert and the way it makes the sky look when it’s hot and nothing feels real, even less the stars. Preservation, is what Violet thinks, and shakes their head slightly at their own ridiculousness. The sun is rising slowly. Trixie’s curtains aren’t fully shut, and a few fingers of orange light press against them. Violet wanders around, feeling slightly like a kid, up too early on Christmas morning and trying to figure what the presents are. Trixie has a rack of vinyls, including his own album (Violet listens to it sometimes on tour. They’ve never liked country music, but there’s something oddly comforting about his voice, singing about things that no one except a traveller could ever really understand). There’s some fanart on the walls, some ugly cushions (that Violet just knows Katya picked out, gets a pang when they imagine Trixie and Katya going furniture shopping together). Trixie’s bedroom is simple, he has a pink bedspread and a guitar against the walls. Violet rifles through his wardrobe until they find a pair of light grey sweats and an inoffensive white tank, rolling their eyes at Trixie’s frankly terrible fashion sense.

They shower quickly, making sure to inspect all of Trixie’s assorted shower gels, finally deciding on one that smells like plastic apples. Katya is perched on a stool at the kitchen counter when Violet leaves the bathroom, Trixie’s sweatpants rolled down in an attempt to keep them on their skinny hips. She looks tired but lovely, as Katya so often does. She reminds Violet of a dancer from the seventies, all prominent cheekbones and big wondrous eyes, slightly emancipated in a way that makes Violet ache in a sad, small way.

“Good morning, Violet. Did the whispers of you inner demons wake you up early, or was that just me?” It’s a joke but not a joke, delivered with a wheeze and a sense of melancholy.

“Nah, mostly Mattel’s avalanche of drool.”

Katya bares her teeth at that, in a smile but not a smile. “He is truly the human embodiment of a curiously sticky waterfall.” Violet ignores her, and they both watch Trixie asleep on the couch, curled up now and covered in a blanket. 

“Coffee?” Violet makes coffee, and Katya stretches in the corner, popping her shoulders and back in a fascinating yet disgusting way.

The smell of coffee rouses Trixie, who demands a mug in their hands before his eyes are even open. He and Violet sip in tandem as Katya moves into a downward dog, lean and lovely, framed in the light shining through a window that Violet had opened. It’s hot already, a sticky cloying.

“Nice sweatpants,” Trixie observes mildly, eyes unfocussed in the general vicinity of Violet’s chest.

“They were the only half decent things in your wardrobe.”

Trixie hums non-committaly. “I might have some jean shorts that would fit you.” Neither of them makes a move to retrieve them. Katya pads over, takes a swig of coffee from Violet’s mug. “I’ll make eggs” she offers, but it comes out as a question. “You’ll burn my apartment-” “condo,” Violet corrects unhelpfully. Trixie shoots them a look. “You’ll burn my living zone down. I’ll help.”

Violet doesn’t offer to help, and takes their coffee outside. They sits on the red box they’ve come to think of as theirs, sweat pooling underneath their thighs. They know that most people find sweat distasteful - gross, even, but Violet finds a weird sort of pleasure in feeling the beads roll down their back and arms and legs. They like the feeling that the sun is focussing all it’s attention on them, reducing them to a puddle. It’s whatever. The door to the kitchen is open, and Violet can hear Trixie and Katya talking. They wonder if one of them will mention last night, or the weird state of limbo the three of them are currently wafting through. They don’t do any of those things. Well, not really.

“You never mentioned Violet’s cephalopod tendencies.” Trixie’s voice sounds casual, in a way that wholly indicates he doesn’t feel casual at all. 

“Why, has she been squirting ink in your shower? That’s a new feature”

Violet hears Trixie shriek, the familiar sound of skin slapping skin.

 "No, you absolute monster. She’s so cuddly. It’s like sleeping with the world’s meanest scarf.“ Violet strains, listening for Katya’s laugh. There isn’t one. Her voice comes out slightly warbled when she replies.

“We never really did that.”

 There’s silence for a few beats, Violet’s heart thumping in their neck and wrists and toes. Sweat clings to them almost unbearably now.

“Why not?” Trixie sounds so soft that Violet thinks they love him a little. Who knew that the answer to the Violet and Katya mess of feelings and fucking would be Trixie, right? They can practically hear Katya shrug, are very tuned in to the minute shifts of her bones and muscles. “Because I…I don’t know, I assumed they didn’t want to? Vi’s more of a sea urchin than an octopus”. Violet hears the tremble in her voice, uses it to mask the stab of pain they feel at the words. Trixie’s voice screams of raised eyebrows and disbelief. “Bitch, I know that that’s not true after three days. You’re seriously telling me, after how many months of fucking, that you didn’t know she’s a massive softie?” Another pause. Violet’s not sure they’re even breathing any more.

“Violet’s like. Violet’s like…you know, like porcupines? Well, in England they had hedgehogs-”

“Katya, I went to college. I know what a hedgehog is”

“Alright, okay, I mean you did do a degree in musical theatre in Wisconsin”

“Oh my god, I hate you. It was Wisconsin, not Siberia!" 

"I think they have hedgehogs in Siberia?”

“What were we talking about again? Oh yeah, Violet. Continue with your analogy.”

“Violet’s like a hedgehog because she’s prickly." 

"Poignant.”

“Fuck off. And like, hedgehogs roll into little balls when they’re scared, right? So they’re cute and then BAM! Like a tiny ball of cactus-like pain.”

 "Okay, but like. I take your simile, and raise you a metaphor. What if you’re the hedgehog? What if Violet’s been, I don’t know, exposing her soft metaphorical stomach to you the whole time, and you’ve been the one in a spiky ball?“ There’s silence again.

Violet is attempting to take in the fact that Katya thought a hedgehog was the most fitting animal to describe them.

"That is disturbingly profound, Tracy.”

“I have my moments." 

Silence descends. Violet’s sure that at least Trixie knows they’ve been listening. After a few moments, a freckled wrist shoves a plate of eggs in front of them. Trixie grins at them tiredly, and sits down on the adjacent red box. Katya joins them. They eat in silence.

“This is messy, isn’t it.” It’s an observation that needs to be stated, clearly, and Violet’s always been one for pushing that line. Kat and Trixie – they’re too close to ever say what they’re feeling really, to ever push that tension into romance. This is Violet’s civic duty, and they feel very much like the good and noble citizen they try so hard not to be.

Trixie shifts almost imperceptibly next to them. Violet hears him sigh.

“You’re right. This is messy.”

They wait expectantly for Katya’s input on the messiness. It doesn’t come, per se.

“In my educated opinion, I think we need to fuck again. To ascertain just what level of messiness we’ve reached. Can we just…postpone the other conversations?” 

“Wow. Sexy.” Trixie mutters, and Violet huffs a laugh as they see his hand reach for Katya’s knee.

Violet elbows Trixie. “She’s an old woman, her idea of dirty talk is probably sending a carrier pigeon.” It’s weak, Violet knows, but Trixie laughs anyway and the golden line of his throat suddenly transfixes Violet. They want to bite it, so they do.

“Children,” Katya hums, before standing up and grabbing both of their hands. They follow her into Trixie’s bedroom. Like before, Katya is so effortlessly and undeniably in control of this physical relationship, regardless of her internal tumult. Her hands are connecting the three of them, and Violet has a sudden, absurd desire to grab Trixie’s hand as well and form a circle, like they’re about to form a ritual. Please, god of polyamory, let this work out. They feel Trixie’s eyes on them, and give in to the urge to look at him. His eyes are pretty. It seems such a stupid, trivial thing to think. And Violet’s not used to sex meaning this much. They don’t know if they like it. But still, they trace Trixie’s flushed cheek with a finger. They wonder if Katya’s enjoying the contrast in their skin tones as they press a soft kiss to his lips. Violet’s taller than both of them, uses it to their advantage as they press Trixie against the bed, other hand still clinging to Katya. They break the kiss and Trixie smiles sweetly, softly, privately. He’s let go of Katya’s hand at some point, and Violet uses the opportunity to grab Katya’s face in both of their hands.

“Close your eyes,” they whisper. Katya does, and Violet kisses her gently on both eyelids and then on her mouth. Because this is what Violet’s good at, they’re good at taking control and calling the shots. Violet knows what people want, and sometimes they give it to them. They can tell that Katya wants this, more than she’s ever wanted Violet on their own. The thought should sting a little, but it doesn’t. Trixie’s sat on the bed, watching, and Violet feels Katya reach down blindly to grab his hand. This feels important, jarringly so.

Let us take care of you, let us hold you, let us be soft with you.

Violet breaks away from Katya, whose eyes are still closed. They make an odd picture, Trixie sat on the bed holding Katya’s hand, Violet looming over her.

“Tell us what you want,” Violet says quietly, hates saying the words because they like to know, not ask.

Katya is silent for a few moments.

“Tell us what you need.” Trixie’s voice is gravelly and rough, and fuck it’s turning Violet on. They’re hard, aware of the fact that there’s more than likely a significant damp patch on Trixie’s borrowed pants.

“I want…Vi, baby, I wanna see you ride Trixie.”

Violet smirks. “I can do that.”

“Ugh, topping,” Trixie rolls his eyes. Violet relinquishes Katya, approaches Trixie steadily and sits on his lap. “You’ll like it, promise.”

Trixie kisses them then, all vestiges of softness gone. His teeth scrape their tongue, and this is it, this is Violet’s fucking game. They grind slowly on his lap, feeling him harden, and then climb off him. Trixie whines through his teeth, desperate.

“You’re such a brat, Tracy,” Violet grins. “Get on the bed.”

Trixe pushes himself back as Violet crawls over to him. Teasingly, they run their hands down his chest, down his still clothed dick, barely touching. Violet’s always loved irritating Trixie, and now they know it comes with the delightful image of him writhing and sweaty and needy, and oh man is Violet going to use that against him.

“Play nice, Vi,” Katya’s voice comes from the edge of the bed. She’s still stood there, watching.

“Take off your clothes, Kat. I think Trixie needs some help.” Katya obeys, makes light work of her clothes and clambers up the bed. She pauses for a second before leaning down and kissing Trixie. Violet sits back on their heels to watch Katya deepen the kiss as Trixie’s hands come to grip her shoulders. They think Katya might be crying, but it could just be the light. Violet usually saves their emotional and sexual trysts for late at night. Morning sunshine is still streaming in through the crack in Trixie’s curtains. Trixie and Katya are so clearly absorbed in each other, in this wanting that’s plagued them for how many years. Violet watches them with a touch of jealousy and a pang of desire. Katya’s got her hands down Trixie’s pants now, tugging him gently. Trixie breaks away, and Violet thinks he might be crying, too. But it could just be the light.

“Stop, Kat, stop,” he says softly, and Violet might just leave now, might just walk away and not come back because all of a sudden this feels like too much. Katya pauses.

“Violet, I want to – just, come here.” Violet loves him again in that split second. “Kiss Katya.”

Katya’s eyes are bright when she looks up, but there’s a certain steel in her gaze and she kisses Violet, knees still on either side of Trixie’s torso. This is familiar territory, Katya’s lips are an old friend and Violet grips her hip, kisses her deeper. Katya’s softly grinding down on Trixie’s stomach, and he’s whining.

Violet breaks away, pushes Katya off Trixie gently, and gets to work undressing him. Katya is tugging at their tank and Violet pulls off their sweatpants. Trixie’s hard, and Violet can’t resist taking him into their mouth, revels in that fucking whine, in Trixie’s hands in their hair, in the fact that Trixie is kind of a little bitch. Violet smirks around his cock. They’re a little bitch, too. They pull off him to see Katya stroking herself slowly, condoms and lube by her knee.

“Wait, wait,” Trixie keens. Violet pauses, about to slide the condom onto him. He leans over, grabs Katya’s hand from where it’s resting on her dick. Slowly, he takes two of her fingers and sucks them gently. Katya’s eyes are wide as she watches him. He releases her, and grins snarkily up at Violet. “Kat, can you get Violet ready?” Violet loves this, falls to their hands and knees as Katya presses up behind them, circles their hole with one finger before pushing in slowly. Katya’s fucking her slowly. “More,” Violet demands, and Katya obliges with another finger. Violet presses back eagerly, and feels the vibrations of her laugh.

“I think you’re good,” Katya says, withdrawing her hand. Violet keens at the loss, leans over to put the condom on Trixie. Slowly, they clamber onto him, sinking down. It’s Trixie’s eyes on theirs, his mouth forming a delightful little ‘o’. It’s Katya’s heavy breaths next to him, the sound of skin on skin. It’s Katya’s hand on them. It’s all of it, overwhelming and so fucking right that tips Violet over the edge, spilling onto Trixie’s chest and Katya’s hand. Trixie follows a few seconds later, strung out and flushed. Katya is still jerking herself, harder tugs now, Trixie and Violet watching her hungrily. She pauses, and looks up at them both with a desperation Violet recognises.

“Touch me.” It’s a command more than a question, but there’s a please in there somewhere. Violet slides off Trixie with a hiss and flicks Katya’s hand away from herself. Trixie joins her seconds later, jerking in tandem.

“I want to hear you, baby,” Trixie says quietly, mirroring Katya’s own words back to her, and she comes with a strangled groan. The three of them sit heavily on the bed, sticky, chests heaving. A car horn beeps loudly outside as the sounds of the city filter in. In Trixie’s bedroom, however, there’s still a tangible silence, heavy and cloying like overripe peaches. Violet rubs an arm over their eyes, hands still sticky.

“Shower?”

Trixie nods and runs his thumb over Katya’s bottom lip. She’s smiling softly, eyes far away, as if she’s so focussed on this moment that she’s lost it somehow. They climb off the bed and Violet turns on the shower, watching Katya and Trixie squeeze in afterwards. It’s cramped, clearly, but Trixie and Katya are both so fucking hot and Violet wants to die, slightly, wants to touch them both and be touched in return. Once they’re clean (mostly, Violet isn’t sure packing three adults into an average sized shower is particularly cohesive to cleanliness), Trixie throws them both towels. Violet dries themself off quickly, and wanders out of the room naked. They know Trixie and Katya are both watching, and settles cross legged on the sofa. Katya and Trixie both emerge in boxers, and Violet rolls their eyes at the middle aged dad-ness of it all.

“So, this is where we talk.”

Katya lets out a suffering groan and collapses on the couch, head on Violet’s naked thigh. Trixie settles down on the floor, a mirror image to Violet on the couch.

He sighs, lets out a whistle through his teeth.

“I’ll go first.”

[ladedanixie]

Fake/Pretend Relationship Fic Recs

a wfn challenge (Its 3 days late, but I decided to finish it anyway) : themed recs by trope, kink, or specific au.

The Expiation Expedition by @obstinaterixatrix & @dragonomatopoeia: Voltron, Keith/Lance, 40k

Lance is well aware that miscommunications can result in horrific, preferably avoidable mishaps, which is why he tries to circumvent them whenever possible. It just figures that the state of an entire planet's fragile political climate rests on him running straight into one.

This is possibly one my favorite fics. There is so much well done world building and honest exploration of relationships that it brings a tear to my eye. There’s political intrigue, and clear character writing for all the characters. I love the development of Keith and Lance’s relationship as a result of being fake married and its done without any of that excessive or unnecessary angst that most fics with this same trope do. Like the healthy open communication that happens between them is probably one of my favorite aspects about it. There’s even lesbian space lizards, which is awesome. Also unique and hilarious metaphors, similes, and descriptions, think maybe a cross between douglas adam and terry pratchet. 

6 more recs under the cut

this sudden burst of sunlight by @attilarrific: Critical Role, Shaun Gilmore/Vax’ildan and Kashaw Vesh/Keyleth, 40k

Vax and Kash get drunk and pretend to date. It's all Scanlan's fault.

This fic is a riot to read. It’s fun and hilarious and does a great job of exploring Vax’s and Kash’s personalities as well as showing how much of a jackass they both are. It’s fun to see them more or less commit to this fake relationship more out of spite than anything else despite the fact that they don’t like each other that much in the beginning. And in the process they kinda of learn what’s important to them, and they learn more about each other, and kinda become actual friends, which is a process I very much enjoyed. 

never say never. by @mel-iorn: Shadowhunters, Simon Lewis/Jace Wayland, 4k

As the office holiday party draws near, Simon is getting borderline desperate to find a date to bring with him. Well he knows he can go solo... but with his rather recent ex AND someone in management that keeps dropping hints that he should impregnate their daughter going to be in attendance, he really, really, really rather not.

Such a cute fic. I had a smile all the way through. Simon is so sweet and smitten and that is so nice to read. I especially enjoy this line: “ he’d really, really like a definitive answer so he can go back to over analyzing the usual things like how Not Straight Poe Dameron is instead of whether he wants to get coffee with Jace in a platonic or romantic sense.” It cracked me up and me feel for poor Simon. Jace’s thoughtfulness for Simon in this fic was so nice as well. The gift he gave Simon made me melt. 

How to Torment Your Family in Six Short Courses by @mcbangle: Check Please, Shitty/Lardo, 2k

Shitty answers an ad from a certain art student proposing to pretend to be his girlfriend with the express purpose of pissing off his family on Christmas. Mischief ensues.

Couldn’t stop laughing while reading this fic. I feel a special kind of joy seeing Shitty’s asshole family being tormented by Lardo’s uncouth behavior during dinner. Shitty’s voice is fairly well done here. And his obvious enjoyment of his family’s disapproval is fun to read. I do like the breaking up of the six courses and seeing how Lardo gradually amps up the behavior until the family just kicks her out. 

Feels Good to be Alive Right About Now by @mikkalia15: The Flash, Iris West/Linda Park, 1k

“You’re going to be fine,” Iris says firmly. “There isn’t anyone I’d want more as my back up than you.”

Right, right, Linda’s backup, nothing more. Never mind that she’s had a crush on Iris West since she was hired for Central City Picture News, never mind that she’s currently going to a gala in Starling City posing as her girlfriend. How the holy hell is she suppose to make it through the night without making a fool of herself and/or overloading on the urge to just blurt out her feelings?

Her smile feels a little wobbly, a little strained, all she wants to do it pull Iris into a kiss, turning her perfectly done lipstick into a smear of dark red, instead, though, she swallows.

A cute fic. Linda’s internal panic about going on a fake date with Iris during the date is great. Love the way the two of them shut that one dude down. I like the detail of their coworkers already thinking they’re dating. It’s sweet that Iris knows her fave tea and candy. A nice breezy read.

Practice Kisses by Drownedinlight: The Flash, Wally West/Cisco Ramon, 5k

Wally asks Cisco to be his pretend boyfriend to show off to an ex-boyfriend. It turns out that Wally and Cisco are not that great at pretending, though. 

Adore the interactions between Wally and Joe. I feel like that isn’t often explored, so I appreciate their warm relationship here. The way Cisco stuck it to Wally’s ex with his music knowledge was hilarious. That and the details about Cisco knowing so much about music cause of his brother was so good. I really like the thought of that, and now I’ve adopted it as a headcanon. Also there are not enough Wally/Cisco fics out there, and this one is so good, and cute, so I can’t be more thankful that this exists. Also the fact that Joe assumed they were together cause they were both on the bed was so funny, as was the intervention that followed. 

Who Knows, Someday I'll Win Too by @biofreak659: Transformers Prime, Knockout/Breakdown, 20k

Pre-series. All love stories start somewhere. Some just start off on the wrong foot, and continue spiraling downwards. Based largely on Bringing up Baby.

What a fun ride. Real detailed world building. Great Knockout and Breakdown voices. Knockout’s snark is hilarious. Their dynamic here is honestly the best part. The way Knockout gets roped in had me cracking up. I love the fact that in later chapters they wind up having to open and run into doors. All the shenanigans these two get into is great.

[seuzz]

Novel: The High Window

Summary Philip Marlowe is hired to recover a valuable coin by a woman who hopes to pin the crime on her estranged daughter-in-law. Marlowe meets another detective who is working the case from another angle, and when that detective is killed he is forced to unravel the murder (and another; and then another) against his client's wishes in order to both protect himself and protect his pledge of confidentiality to the client.

Notes "Who cares who killed Owen Taylor?"

That's a famous question in film criticism, a reference to the film The Big Sleep (1946), which in its final cut famously declined to explain who, how, or why a key supporting character was murdered. The film's director, Howard Hawks, later claimed to have learned from the experience that plot and story hardly matter in a movie. As long as it moves, has an attractive cast, and contains a minimum of three good scenes, a movie will "work."

I don't think there's a similar lacuna in The High Window, but the novel demonstrates the same truth about books. The plot is serpentine, and the solution to the mystery is very convoluted, but it doesn't matter. The story pulls you forward with a compelling cast of characters, incidents that leave you wondering "What'll happen next?" and a smooth narrative voice. That's enough.

There are some niggles to be made. I've read enough Marlowe books by now that I'm not quite as enraptured by the sleuth's insolent manner—I'm now wondering if it's ever occurred to him that he could probably get farther with oil and honey on his tongue than with vinegar. The best character in the book is the monstrous Mrs. Murdock because she's a surprise; the rest of the crew is a menagerie of such typical El Lay lowlifes that Chandler even lampshades the fact in one of Marlowe's speeches. He lampshades another cliche by having Marlowe mock the typical detective-story trick of explaining everything at the end with hitherto-unmentioned clues before ... explaining everything at the end with hitherto-unmentioned clues. In terms of style, I'll also mention that too many of the metaphors and similes are too strained to be useful; they bully us into taking an attitude toward the things described instead of helping us see them.

But, really, it doesn't matter. A crackling pace, chewy characters, and lots of hooks to pull us along. That's what it has, and that's more than enough.

Recommended.

[futuristicpersonatheorist]

6 Red Hot Tips To Get Your Articles Read

New Post has been published on http://moneymag.site/6-red-hot-tips-to-get-your-articles-read/

6 Red Hot Tips To Get Your Articles Read

There are many people who dread having to write papers or articles. Many just feel like it seems to be too much work and it all just goes to waste when no one reads the. To some people, reading articles seems like work to, especially if the article is boring and very bland. Well, articles are supposed to be read, that’s their purpose to impart your message and information. If it is not read then it is a waste of time and effort.

But all the same, articles have to be written to be read. It’s just a matter of making them good. Making a good article doesn’t have to be strenuous and straining. There are just some points needed to be reminded of, and some guides to follow. Once you get the hang of it, writing articles could be fun, as well as profitable for you and your site.

Of course, writing articles must be about something you know about, that’s why if you own a site, you probably is knowledgeable about that certain topic and theme. When you write about it, you won’t have a hard time because you already know what it is and what it’s about. It’s just a matter of making your articles creative and interesting.

To make sure that your articles get read and enjoyed, here are six red hot tips to get your articles read. These tips will make your articles readable and interesting.

1) Use short paragraphs. When the paragraph are very long, the words get jumbled in the mind of the reader just looking at it It can get quite confusing and too much of a hard work to read. The reader will just quickly disregard the paragraph and move on to much easier reading articles that are good to look at as well as read. Paragraphs can be a single sentence, sometimes even a single word!

2) Make use of numbers or bullets. As each point is stressed out, numbers and bullets can quickly make the point easy to remember and digest. As each point, tip, guide or method is started with a bullet or point, readers will know that this is where the tips start and getting stressed. Format you bullets and numbers with indentations so that your4 article won’t look like a single block of square paragraphs. Add a little bit of flair and pizzazz to your articles shape.

3) Use Sub-headings to sub-divide your paragraphs in the page. Doing this will break each point into sections but still would be incorporated into one whole article. It would also be easy for the reader to move on from one point to another; the transition would be smooth and easy. You will never lose your readers attention as well as the point and direction to where the article is pointing.

4) Provide a good attention-grabbing title or header. If your title can entice a person’s curiosity you’re already halfway in getting a person to read your article. Use statements and questions that utilize keywords that people are looking for. Provide titles or headers that describe your articles content but should also be short and concise.

Use titles like, “Tips on making her want you more”, or “How to make her swoon and blush” .You could also use titles that can command people, for example, “Make her yours in six easy Ways”. These types of titles reach out to a persons’ emotions and makes them interested.

5) Keep them interested from the start to the finish. From your opening paragraph, use real life situations that can be adopted by the reader. Use good descriptions and metaphors to drive in your point, just don’t over do it. Driving your examples with graphic metaphors and similes would make it easy for them to imagine what you are talking about. Making the experience pleasurable and enjoyable for them.

6) Utilize figures when necessary and not just ordinary and insipid statements. Using specific facts and figures can heighten your article because it makes it authoritative. But do not make it too formal, it should be light and easy in them and flow. Like a friendly teac her having a little chat with an eager student.

[lovelyxmelanin-blog]

Effective College Essay Writing Tips

But producing successful college essay writing is the challenging part.

College essay that is writing efficiently is problematic for reasons that are distinct, as well as for each person.

Regardless of what your rationale might be, effective college essay writing is essential for many purposes whatever your goal may be. There'll never be a moment where obfuscation will undoubtedly be an edge for you personally. In college essay writing, you'll most often encounter research-based even essays or papers where you have to make an argument for or against a stance. To be able to write with curt, concisely and compellingly is very important if your end goal would be to create effective college essay writing.

I’ll share a terrific guide to effective college essay writing. You may want to keep this helpful overly so be prepared to take notes:

Never make use of a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are accustomed to seeing in print. Never work with an extended word in which a short one can do. If it is possible to cut out a word, always cut it out. Never make use of the passive where you'll be able to make use of the active. He was especially referring to the political propaganda at that time even though you might want to remember that at the time Orwell wrote the bullet points above. Nevertheless, I consider every point he made in the list is also quite definitely appropriate for successful college essay writing. Another text I always refer to when writing college essays of just how to compose it efficiently to remind myself, is from Kurt Vonnegut. He lays out the seven rules for writing effectively, and this also is quite applicable for successful college essay writing:

Do you need help with paper writing? Or pay someone to do my paper service is ready to help you.

Find a topic you care about. Don't ramble, however. Keep it simple. Seem like yourself. Say that which you mean to state. Would you notice a general routine between Vonnegut and Orwell ’s points? If you sum it up, they can be both pointing towards precisely the same essential points as it pertains to proper powerful college essay writing, or any writing as a matter of fact; and that's: brevity, specificity, and clarify.

Out of all these points for how to create successful college essay writing, the most crucial point is to maintain your writing concise. Always remember that when you're submitting any type of paper, whether it's an essay for admissions or a curriculum vitae for a job application into university or a college, the individual you happen to be submitting to most likely or almost undoubtedly have a batch of other essays and writings to read every day. Now in this scenario, most of the recruiters or the person reviewing your application will mostly probably spend only a couple of minutes on your essays. This is why if, let’s say a college needs a 250 word essay writing, then ideally you should stick around not 600 words and 250 words because at that point, you would already be straining their patience - and you definitely do not want to try this. Also, they'll be assessing your ability to write efficiently. Not much you are able to compose; but how much you are able to say in as little words as possible. That is not only far better in carrying your point across, but can also be a representation of your writing ability in general; or in this case, your college essay writing ability.

If you’re still having trouble with producing powerful college essay writing, you might want to additionally consider following the 3 steps listed below:

1) Analyze the prompt completely

Spend a few minutes thinking about the prompt before you start writing anything. Go ahead if the prompt could be split into phrases or sections and have a look at them separately from different viewpoints. Meanwhile, ask yourself why you happen to be asked this prompt? What would you believe they want to learn?

Although this might look like a time wasting measure, I ensure you should you find yourself having to rewrite your college essay, that in analyzing your prompt the 5 minutes you spent will save your hours or even days of work.

This measure is quite just like the first step - it’s something that does not take a very long time however a measure most commonly skipped by many students and is extremely essential; again, potentially saving you hours of rewriting, worry, and frustration, if planned correctly from the start. Having a great writing can even eliminate any significant rewriters and this is one of what college essay writing that is powerful is of the definitions.

All it consists of, is developing a rough outline as you brainstorm brain map and your anecdotes what points you want to talk about, how long you want each point to choose, then eventually, figure out when you need to compose it. Creating deadlines for yourself will also help inspire you in completing an effective college essay writing, in time for your own deadline.

Hands down, this is one measure that is of necessity and absolute value. However, be sure that you do not have responses from too lots of people as the danger of confusion increases, resulting in decreased quality of your school essays. Therefore, stick to a couple of people to review your faculty and make sure that they are capable individuals who have foundation in your subject area or editing.