#the upper crust can drink

[lulublack90]

Prompt 21 - Fur

Wolfstar, January 21, word count 497

Previous part First part

Remus didn’t have time to even get to the same side of the ballroom as Sirius for the first two hours of the party. He’d been assigned the section nearest the kitchen as he was the best at refilling the champagne glasses, and Sirius was at the far end with his parents. Remus didn’t mind too much as he was rushed off his feet. These people sure could drink. 

By the third hour, they were sort of slowing down, but Remus was still busy. He was collecting a few empty glasses from a table when hands slid around his waist, settling on his hips. A smile spread across his mouth as he put his tray down and leaned back into him. “Hi,” He sighed. 

“Hi,” A voice that wasn’t Sirius’s breathed into his ear. Remus froze before he tore himself from the other man's touch. He spun around. It was one of the guests. He’d spotted the man with well-oiled hair when he’d walked in. He hadn’t liked the way he sneered at the girl who’d been attacked by the fur coat. 

“Sorry, Sir, is there anything I can help you with?” He said in his most professional voice. 

“Sure is hot stuff, you, me, room 326,” The man bit down on his bottom lip, dark almost black eyes raking over Remus’s body. “Say in an hour?” Remus grabbed his tray and tried to skirt around the man, but he blocked his way. 

“Sorry, Sir, but I have a boyfriend,” He told the man as he tried to go around him again, but the man blocked his path again. Remus was getting more uncomfortable. This wasn’t the first time a guest had come onto him, but it was the most insistent. His internal alarm was going off, warning him that this man was trouble. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” He chuckled darkly. 

“Is there a problem here?” Sirius said behind the man. 

“Sirius,” The man turned to face Sirius, a greasy-looking smile on his face.  

“Is there a problem, Barty?” Sirius asked again.

“No, no, of course not, I was just having a conversation with, er…” He looked at Remus’s lapel as though he expected there to be a name badge there. Remus clamped his mouth shut, he wasn’t going to tell him his name. 

“I think this young man needs to get back to work, Barty,” Sirius moved so he was between Remus and Barty, so Remus could slip away. “Mother and Father wanted to talk to you about a venture your father mentioned,” Sirius added, gesturing with his hand for Barty to lead the way back to Sirius’s parents. Barty grunted under his breath. 

“Room 326, hot stuff,” Barty winked at him as he allowed Sirius to guide him across the ballroom. Sirius looked over his shoulder with an apologetic look on his face. Remus rushed into the back and took a second to gather himself. Remus couldn’t wait for this night to end. 

Next part

[lordofdestructionm]

Wick Sable

The odd duck in the guilded cage

Despite this being a feral Mordecai and Viktor account I do occasionally like to dig into the others.

Wick is a character Lackadaisy fans love but don't talk about very much. He just the rich friendly geologist with a love of illicit beverages and a crush on Mitzi. Indeed he is all those things. But I want to dig a little into what may be hidden depth (geography joke haha)

Professional dissatisfaction

When we first meet Wick he is behind his desk looking very tired and beaten down. Forcing himself to keep working late into the night with excessive coffee. Attending to a large pile of paper work for tomorrow.

His expression shifts slightly when he sees the Lackadaisy pins fall out of the envelope and realises the letter is an invitation to him (and his fellow aristocrats) to the speakeasy.

This hatred of paper work and the administrative side of his business is a recurring issue for Wick. Making the reason for his reliance on the capable and attentive Lacy very obvious. Exhaustian and too much alchohol are no doubt partly to blame, but it seems to be something that puts him in a very depressed state of mind.

But when actually on the job, overseeing the hands on work of blasting a new quarry, his mood is much more positive. Indeed he has a very real and sincere love for geology and the nitty gritty work of his business. When he first went to the Lackadaisy he was spellbound by the lime caverns themselves as much by Mitzi's charm.

Its his special interest and he will go on long unprompted monologues on the topic if given the chance. Meaning it is specifically the being trapped in his office dealing with the red tape that makes him so unhappy not the industry itself.

Its almost sad that he is the one in charge of the company rather than in a role that puts him closer to the action which seems to bring him real joy. Like someone who loves cooking being in charge of a restuarant or someone that loves drawing running an animation studio.

They love the product/industry but that doesn't mean they enjoy their specific place in it.

Unimpressed Peers

Despite Wicks enthusiasm it proves not be infectious with his fellow elite, who complain about being dragged out of town to watch something, that while very important to Wick, they clearly could not care less about (even not that quietly mocking him and his love for rocks and construction)

When the evening doesn't go to plan due to the uninvited pig farmers Wick has an interesting exchange with Edmund Church, seemingly the most prominent of the St Louis upper crust in the group. Warning him about getting any more involved with an unsavoury crowd, especially Mitzi, outside of simply enjoying the occasional drink.

Wick doesn't take kindly to the snarky criticism and borderline threat to his reputation and responds with a much more direct statement on his peers sour nature

Tracy has mentioned that Church has a role yet to play in the story and it seems safe to assume from this it may well involve Wick in a less than friendly way if he continues to associate with his "lessers" as Church and the others see things.

Despite needing to remain on civil terms to keep them invested in his business, Wick clearly has little love for them, a feeling that is mutual as they have little respect for him and see him as an oddball, only tolerating him because his talent in his field can help make them a tidy profit.

But while he doesn't appreciate Church's sniping Wick IS concerned about his reputation, but not entirely for his own sake or that of his elitist associates, but for the many people who rely on him for employment, who could be hurt by extension of he gets pulled too deep into the less than repectable world of bootlegging

Romantic life

Outside of the crush he has had on Mitzi since first meeting her at the Speakeasy, we have very little information about Wicks love life before this. Being a handsome and wealthy gentleman from a good family, you would think he would he fighting women off with a stick, maybe even be a bit of a playboy.

Instead you get the impression Wick is pretty far away from being a ladies man. Mentioning to Mitzi that he doesn't even really know how to talk to women unless its about rocks, bugs or limestone.

He is clearly attracted to her and is tempted by her to risk his reputation and by extension his business to get closer to her, but so far his fear of the very real consequences are deterring him from taking that gamble.

Though there is that personal aspect to it, it seems that in a more abstract sense Mitzi's appeal to Wick is not just in her beauty and seductive personality, but in the excitement and thrill of her Speakeasy and bootlegging operations.

In that sense Mitzi represents that touch of danger and excitement that during prohibition many otherwise law abiding citizens enjoyed indulging in illegal drinking establishments. Being* just* naughty enough to give them a fun thrill while being detached from the more brutal blood soaked aspects.

Wick is a good natured person (the worst thing he has done is shoot a duck in his youth which he was forced to do) living a very "respectable" life, but that makes the superficial glamour of the world of underground drinking establishments and secret booze stashes even more appealing. Thats why despite his concerns and responsibilities he keeps going back ,not just to Mitzi, but to the Lackadaisy specifically. It has pretty geography, a pretty owner, and an open door to a more exciting avenue of life

Its for that same reason he doesn't seem to be overly uncomfortable with lovable bi disaster Zib flirting with him at the bar. He may have no intention of reciprocating, but it couldn't be a more different experience to the world he is used to

Even if he doesn't yet want to take the full plunge it all excites him enough to keep him circling the edges.

Because despite having so much going for him there are things about his life that not only bore him but make him unhappy. Whether its piles of paperwork, dealing with much stuffier "conventional" fellow aristocrats and not wanting to be like them, or just a general lack of true passion in his life, he is clearly a man looking for something more satisfying

Whether or not he remains a "tourist" or decides to take that gamble, throw his reservations to the wind, and take a more active role in the gang, is yet to be seen...

Assuming Rocky doesn't set fire to him first of course XD

[bambiesfics]

⊹ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐖𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐭 ⊹

warning: water-sports, extreme overstimulation, graphic depictions of lesbian smut, r!receiving finger bang, sarcastic Ellie, fluff + loving at the end.

vague description: reader has a full bladder and is trapped in Ellie William’s hatchback.

author’s note: re-upload of my fic from last blog, also don’t read this in public. It gets intense.

“Pinup paradise diner…home to… ‘The World’s Bustiest Milkshake Jars?’”

You read, with your face nosed deep into the crease of the monotoned map. You deflated back into your seat, irritated at the amount of eye-strain required to make out such small font. And let the roadmap blanket the top of your thighs.

“Is that where we’re going next?”

Ellie's eyes were intently focused on the red Honda Civic in front of her, the one she’d almost rolled her windows down to spit at, less than a minute ago. Her stacked bracelets clinked as she cracked the knuckles of each one of her boney fingers.

“Is that what it says on the map?”

You flipped back to the legend, squinting at the list of diners, drive-ins, and street trucks. The corner of her plump smile quirked, hearing you mutter,

“Jesus, how do you read this thing?”

Your squint jumped between Ellie and the page, “uhhhh…yes?—yes!”

“Then that’s where we’re going next.” She crudely cracked her pinky last. The last finger with chips of black nail polish speckled on it and a snug silver braided ring that hugged it. She settled into her seat, merging onto the left lane.

“Pinup Paradise? Really? Seems like an odd choice for a drink after going to Whopping Wrap.”

You flipped the map neatly back onto your lap as your girlfriend flicked the blinker up.

“Milkshakes after chicken wraps Ellie? Really?”

“Hey—Tommy said they have the best milkshakes this side of the state. That type of man, the fucking lumberjack he is, does not fuck around when it comes to satiating that gnarly sweet tooth.”

She muttered “He probably has cavities bigger and darker than the cracks in the Grand Canyon.”

And your tiny giggle teased a smile out of Ellie, as she half-heartedly blocked the swats you struck at her with the rolled up map.

Your girlfriend got such a fucked up kick out of busting Tommy’s balls, and he knew it too.

She flicked the signal light up higher once more and cruised right into the strip mall lane that led the car through to the drive-thru, the diner growing closer each second.

In a smooth slow crawl you and your girlfriend rolled towards ‘Pinup Paradise Diner.’

A canary yellow, vintage diner, littered with paintings of 50’s pinup models that decorated all of the glass windows.

A drive-thru swinging sign read ‘The World’s Bustiest Milkshake!’ above the order window.

You were incredibly humored, noting all the double entendres and puns that weaved through the slogans graffitied across the menu board and windows.

A young crew member poked her head out of the order window, smiling tightly before asking for both of your orders. She watched on while Ellie fished for her peeling leather wallet in the back pocket, and poked her head out of the side of the hatchback window.

“Hey, can I grab a blueberry crust milkshake? And she’ll have….” Ellie trailed off, shooting you back a look with her eyebrow raised.

“…What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a vanilla bean milkshake please. Also could I get a bottled water, if you have that?”

“Okay, so right now we only have the 1 liter sized bottled water.. would that be alright?”

“Ah, I’m sure that’s no problem, I’ll take it. Thank youuu.” you sang, and the girl mirrored your gentle smiled. You settled back into your seat and she closed the window.

“Why’d you get water?”

Ellie observed, hastily touching up her upper and bottom lashes with mascara, in the dash mirror, before she had to put her foot on the gas.

Vain. You teased in your head.

….But so pretty.

The mascara made her already long lashes, even longer. Her dark brown eyeliner was smudged, yet the grittiness was still so attractive on her. “You should wear brown eyeliner more Els. It really brings out the green in your eyes.”

She side-eyed you suspiciously.

“Thanks?…”

And you rolled your eyes. Your girlfriend loved to pretend she was allergic to compliments unless they were talking about her earth-shattering service top abilities.

Ellie grabbed both your milkshakes. And used her teeth to rip the paper cover off her straw while passing you your drink.

She put her foot on the gas and peeled out.

“You still didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“The question of what possessed you to buy an entire liter of water?”

“Because like, you know the sweet aftertaste left in your mouth after you eat something really sweet? I don’t know, but it makes my mouth feel dry.”

“Ah.” she responded.

“…that’s actually real as fuck.”

“Right?” You settled deeper into your seat. Hugging the milkshake to your chest while you stalked a few instagram stories, relaxing into the rhythmic roll of your girlfriend's beat up hatchback.

Townhouses and parked SUV’s started running on either side of the car as Ellie drove on, deeper into suburbia. You pushed yourself up to gaze out the window.

“Where are we going?”

Ellie turned right into a smaller street.

“To find a place to park. I’m tired of driving.”

“Hmm, sorry baby” you hummed as you rubbed her thigh. Your eyes lit up. “Then can I drive your ca—”

“—no. When will you stop asking?”

“When you finally let me drive it? Let me behind the wheel please.”

She scoffed, eyeing you up and down. “So I can end up with my knees touching the back of my skull? Yeah no.”

“You’re not funny Ellie.”

“And you’re the only passenger princess I’ve seen whining to do her girlfriend's job. Be a lady, damn.”

You broke down laughing, clutching your chest while Ellie bit her lip down to put a lid on her own laughter.

You shimmied close to her, your breasts squishing her upper arm.

“Then can I have some of your blueberry shake?”

She circled the straw around your mouth and made you chase it.

“uh ah-uh-hah—Ellie.” You whined.

Ellie barked a laugh at how adorable you looked, and then slotted the straw onto your puckered mouth.

“Mmm…”

“You like?”

“Yeah it’s so yummy. I should’ve gotten that instead.”

Ellie attempted to take her milkshake back, but with some struggle as you leaned further and further into her seat, pressing your front body into her arms just to keep tasting it. You were practically finished your own drink, and were now drinking half of hers. And in that moment you recalled at all the previous times your girlfriend had gripped your ass and whispered how you were a greedy little princess in your ear. Ellie was an asshole through and through.

But she spoiled you, and she loved doing it.

You eased back, and Ellie stole her milkshake back. She circled her tongue around the tip of the straw before sucking it. Wrapping her pink lips around the sticky tip your rosy lip gloss had covered seconds prior.

You dropped your empty cup in the cup holder and went to chug most of your water. It provided an indescribable amount of relief from the saccharine blanket on your tastebuds. A cool feeling that settled in you, as Ellie pulled into a grassy park parking lot.

Willow trees lined up along the curb, their weeping pose provided shade to several lots, including the one above you.

Ellie killed off the engine. She tipped her head against the headrest in relief. She flexed her fingers, stretching out the kinks, feeling the breeze run past.

Her head lolled limply to face you. “Do I really look that good in brown eyeliner?”

“Yes you really do.”

Ellie’s cheek dimpled.

“I love when you tell me stuff like that.”

“Like what? That you look pretty?”

You murmured into her shoulder, looking up at her.

“Yeah, makes me feel…dunno, not like a greasy loser.”

“Please, as if I would ever let a greasy loser bag me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Jesus, kill yourself.”

She maintained eye contact with you, green eyes jumping between your own. Reflecting the amber beauty of the sun in its sparkle. She gave you a soft smile, you gave Ellie one back. A truce to the constant teasing. And Ellie took it as an invitation to dip her head down, and pull your lips into a kiss. One she’d been yearning to do since she’d first reversed both of you out of your driveway.

Ellie chased the kiss into the back seat. She gripped the fat of your hips to inch you slowly off of the center console and towards the back. She followed, kicking her loose driver’s seat forward with the sole of her sneakers. The slide adjusting rail had seen better days, and had been owned by better people than the currently horny, blunt, ungraceful young lesbian who had an avid penchant for violence, that owned it that day.

Ellie teased her hand up from your hips to the base of your neck, to grab the back of your head as she worked her puffy lips against yours. She was hungry for your little mouth, and it was seen in the way her jaw flexed.

Ellie kissed you with a remarkably intense eroticism.

Her hands ran down over the fabric of your milkmaid top before ripping the holes away from the buttons to let your tits spill out right into her hands. Each nipple immediately kissed the waiting pads of her thumbs, as they moved to greedily massage the sensitive head. Grazing each of your puffy tender domes over and over. “Fuck, need to suck these heavy tits baby.”

Ellie’s lips made their way down your chest. She suckled some swollen red marks into the skin, before making her way lower. Coming eye to eye with your nipples.

“Can you please squeeze your boobies together?”

You took your palms and pushed them together. Ellie's whiny sigh sent heat pooling in your tummy. She leaned in, licking a greedy stripe across both nipples, tickling their head with the tip of her tongue, tonguing the flesh around both areolas. And suckling your nipples intermittently then popping off them. Leaving both of them so puffed out.

Your squeaks filled the expanse of her small car, and her aroused groans joined to match.

She shoved her fingers in the waistband of your tiny denim shorts and tugged at them. They budged, but barely, so you helped your girlfriend. You lifted your ass off the seat and slid your shorts and thong down your thighs, before Ellie slid them the rest of the way off your ankles and threw them in the front seat.

The soft breeze blew past your cunt. Exposing the warm skin to a cooler environment.

“S-should we be doing this in a park?” you squeeked.

Ellie kissed her answer on your lips “there’s” *smooch* “no one” *smooch* “here.” As she shoved her hand down to palm the fat of your vagina. Feeling your pussy fill up her fingers. Ellie curled a middle finger into your tight hole, it barely wanted to split apart to accommodate her finger. But she marveled at how hungrily it sucked her in. She pumped shallowly before adding in her ring finger.

Her chrome ring grazed the swelling mound inside your hole; your g-spot. And it pulled a pathetic mewl out of you. She curled her wrist up, ligament appearing. And pumped harder. Enjoying your shaking thighs in the air.

Your brain was melting into mush. And all you managed were barely coherent babbles.

“…feels ss-s'good” your eyes were rolled backwards.

“God bunny…” Ellie marveled, “your pretty pussy’s so greedy.”

Ellie’s teeth dug into her lip “How did I bag you?”

All you could muster were delirious squeak noises in response as you tugged on the base of her ponytail.

“Look-look down” Ellie’s fingers grasped your chin, pulling your eyes away from her flushed aroused face and towards your own shiny pussy. “L-look at how you’re swallowing my fingers.”

Ellie’s forehead knocked against yours.

“Hey…c-can you squeeze for me?”

You never disobeyed her instructions, not when you both were like this. Nodding limply, you clamped around Ellie’s fingers, a choked moan escaped you. And a deep, throaty groan escaped her. Feeling how tightly you suckled in her fingers, how badly you wanted her there, made a warm heat throb between Ellie’s legs and left her boxers sticking to her sloppy cunt. Ellie could almost cry that she couldn’t bully a cock inside you, just to feel that desperate clamp around her cock.

Her ring pushed into your plump inner walls over and over, and dragged a new delicious zing of pleasure through the ribbed inner walls. Puffy, swollen, and sloppy with slick.

Ellie had a newfound resistance in her thrusting, the clamping, warm grip of your puffed out walls were holding her fingers still. But she kept pumping, like a suction cup being stuck on and popped off.

You were assaulted with thrilling pleasure from your walls clamping, chasing the press of her jewelry. And from your girlfriends frenzied, desperate thrusting. Ellie was just as hazy brained as you.

It was a costly mistake. All of the fluttering was stimulating your pelvic muscles. Which stimulated the other tiny hole snuggled in your pussy. The familiar pressure of a full bladder pressed behind the teeny hole of your urethra. Your squeaks came out strained. You scooted into different positions on the seat, trying to ebb away the pressure.

The shifting positions only made it worse as your tummy squished from movement, and as Ellie pumped upwards.

She jack hammered her fingertips against the puffy roof of your warm cunt. Her feverish ministrations put so much pressure on your bladder. You choked out a breathy plea.

Your hands skated up your girlfriend's torso, past her exposed waist and pebbled nipples that strained against her t-shirt, and finally towards her square shoulders in an attempt to push her back.

She needed off.

“I gotta…uhn… I gotta.” you whimpered.

“What was that?” Ellie sighed.

“I-ah!” The thrust felt so good.

You were whiny “th-think I needa pee.”

“I’m fucking you so good it’s got you confusing cumming for peeing? Y’so adorable it’s insane.” Ellie kissed your lips, picking up her pace.

She took the hand she’d used to squeeze and pinch your tits and brought it down to press on your lower tummy, as she thrust up.

Oh.

“Nnnnhnhn no! ph-please ewwie.. can’t—hold it.” You babbled the same desperate plea incoherently, but with a mouth nearly paralyzed from the incessant abuse of your hole Ellie was doing, you were left whiny and gulping, babbling tiny sentences at a time.

Sweat pricked at your skin, an orgasm was fucked into your vagina, and a full bladder pressed at your urethra. You didn’t know what to do as the mounting climax forced against your urethra left you with a desperate need for release, in the car.

Ellie’s lips kissed your jaw, snuggling against your head.

“You wanna let it out, big girl? Make a big mess f’me. We can clean it all up later, I promise.”

“nuh—ah Ellie no no…aghh! ”

Your urethra let out a thin light spurtle. Settling into the space between you two as more slick gushed out of your hole. You sobbed through your orgasm, from the joint pleasure of climax combined with relief from pressure pressing against your urethra. Ellie kept fingering you through each tiny pump of liquid that squirted from your urethra and through each contraction of its sloppy wet vagina, as slick spilled out of you and ran past your bare ass, onto her leather seats. With each aggressive thrust of Ellie’s fingers—fuck in—pull out—came out spurt after spurt, from each hole. She slowed down once you fell back into the seat softly; boneless and glass-eyed. Like an abused rag doll.

You both caught your breaths, Ellie from the aggressive thump and heat in her pussy. And you from your ‘accident’.

Ellie watched as the looming embarrassment creeped every so slowly onto your face, as the orgasm slowly ebbed away. She placed shaky kisses on top of your head. Cupping the back of it in support.

Sure, maybe her car wasn’t the best time to explore that kink. Seeing as the bottom half of her shirt and her belt was wet.

But she wasn’t going to let her girlfriend curl in on herself in shame, just because of her body’s natural reaction. Especially one that Ellie practically fucked out of you.

If not for the small space of the car she might’ve pulled you into her lap, to kiss away the upset creases between your brows. But she could do nothing more than hover above your trembling body, and caress your squished tummy with her free hand, until the shaking eased.

She was breathless. “You did so good, baby.”

You shoved your face into the crook of Ellie’s neck. The sweet cologne on the collar of her shirt calmed you down, with its medley of gourmands, lavender and florals.

Your girlfriend had a way of grounding you. Everything about Ellie had the ability to. From her cold, icy fingers, to her soft, pine scented hair. To her woodsy cologne, always left on the collar of her shirts, ready to tranquilize your unrest.

“nuh-uh I—.”

“—So good. My good girl, doing exactly what I tell you too, c’mere.”

Ellie unplugged her fingers out from your hole and suckled the last bit of slick cream off, then swiped it on her shirt. She licked her lips. Using her now clean hand to cup the side of your jaw and draw you into a heated kiss that left both of you trembling.

You shifted positions in the seat from discomfort.

“You still need to pee s’more?”

“No.”

“Babe…”

“Maybe.”

Ellie reached over and opened your door, then hopped out from her side. Jogging over to shield your body.

You crouched in behind her, her and the car towered over you from both sides.

You pouted up at her, and she glowered down at you. Her arms crossed firmly as she looked away briefly to scan around the area. Before parking her gaze back down at you as the remaining stream from your bladder emptied itself.

“No more vanilla bean milkshakes.” you winced at the feeling of the breeze tickling your swollen labia.

“Of course. Yeah, that was the real culprit. Not the mega-giant 1 liter water bottle.”

You frowned.

Ellie’s arms dropped from their cross, and her black fingernails pinched the fat of your cheek and pulled teasingly.

She reassured you.

“Yeah sure, we’ll blame it on the vanilla bean milkshake.”

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

One thing I truly love about Ed and Stede's adorable and iconic "tea with seven sugars" bit is that...Ed does not like tea. He obviously cannot STAND tea.

I know this because I like tea, and one time I tried making a cup with seven sugars and a dash of milk just to see what it would be like. My friends, that concoction was no longer tea. The sugar could not entirely dissolve in a nice big mug, let alone the dainty teacup Ed was drinking from. The milk combined with the high sugar content made the drinking experience like a very, very gritty milkshake. The unincorporated sugar grains started to kind of hurt my tongue. I have a low tolerance for very sweet things and I could only manage a couple sips.

So that paints such a picture of what happened here. Has Ed been the kind of person who could really indulge in a nice warm cuppa before? Probably not. So Stede is teaching him about the aristocratic lifestyle, and they Simply Must have tea because tea parties and coming round for a cuppa are such a core aspect of upper-crust social life. Stede invites Ed to make it how he likes, and...

Well, Ed can't stand the stuff. It's bitter and thin and the tea dregs are unappealing to him. So he just keeps adding sugar until he can stand it, and he winds up with seven. Plus a dash of milk, to tie everything together. And THEN, Ed can understand why this is a nice indulgence.

And what does Stede do? He doesn't remark on it. He remembers how Ed likes it. Ed hates tea, he just likes sugar, but Stede's not going to tell him that, because Ed enjoys having tea with him. He'd never dream of making fun of Ed for this. And that's what love is all about, really.

[atopvisenyashill]

the two betrayers were always very flat especially when they’re standing next to fucjing ADDAM and NETTLES they simply can’t compare and i’ve seen some grumbling but i actually really like the way they’ve incorporated ulf & hugh. folding them into the story by focusing on the fact that t they’re not just baseborn but lowborn as well. giving them real stakes in the war beyond “cartoon villain who wants power” by giving hugh a family to fight for, to grieve for, to eventually fall from grace for. giving ulf all these insecurities about these stories his mother told him, the way it’s been this dream he holds onto that maybe one day he’ll be drinking with the upper crust if only the stories were true. really digging into why THEY claimed the specific dragons they claimed by giving hugh this amazing moment where all he can do is stand his ground against a dragon and SCREAM in defense of another dragonseed, another baseborn lowborn cousin, and ulf being claimed by silverwing instead of the other way around simply bc she could see the goofy light heart in him and connected it to her previous rider’s love of song. making jace increasingly suspicious and angry over lowborn bastards claiming dragons because it clearly and obviously undermines his own claim as rhaenyra’s child. ulf and hugh are not just treacherous villainous touchy bastards overreaching anymore, they’re living breathing members of the smallfolk trying desperately to survive a war they don’t understand and don’t care about….until they’re given dragons and suddenly two bastards from flea bottom have tangible reasons to care about who wins this war they still couldn’t care less about.

[sevikasmommy]

I didn’t think I would find myself writing again, but the chokehold this woman has on me is too much to bear. So, here is Exotic Dancer Reader and Patron Sevika. Men, Minors, and Ageless blogs DNI.

You've started getting excited for your regular on Saturday nights. She was the definition of tall, dark, and beautiful. Your exact type. Every time she came in for a dance, you would run your hands down those sculpted biceps, feeling the muscles twitch and stretch underneath your fingertips. 

Her lips always twitched into a teasing smirk, her eyes lighting fire every time they raked down your exposed chest. You loved the attention she gave you. It’s so much better with her than with any of your other patrons. She made you feel like the only gorgeous girl in the world. 

You keep your Saturday nights fully open. She always tips you plenty, so you don’t worry about it too much. Tonight was a little different though, something just felt different. The doors to the club slammed open, all the dancers, waitresses, and patrons freezing in their spots as they watched the large woman walk in. 

Your head rested in the palm of your hand as you sighed, her metal arm peeking out from under her poncho. She always knew how to make an entrance. Her eyes caught yours, a small smirk playing at her lips. She had a cut on her upper cheek, and dried blood crusted around the cuts. You could see some bruises blooming on her face and arm.

“Hey there, Gorgeous.” Her voice ran sultry in your veins, making you a little weak in the knees.

“Hey,” you tried your best to sound flirty, your voice cracking slightly, “You here for our usual, Vika?”

You could see Sevika bite her lower lip, her eyes slowly searching your face, then shooting down for just a moment to your cleavage. You chuckled lightly, your hand reaching out to run down her biceps.

“I was thinking about just… talking tonight, sweetheart. Just wanna enjoy your company.” Her smile dropped, almost as if she was disappointed. 

You gave her your most reassuring smile, your hand flowing smoothly down to catch her wrist. “Come on, big mama. You have me for as long as you want.”

Without waiting for her answer, you take her to your favorite room. It wasn’t the specialty rooms you usually had her in, but a destressing room. With low warm lighting, comfortable seating, and a light lavender incense wafted in the corner. 

You took a deep breath, opened the little cabinet, and grabbed Sevika’s favorite with two small glasses. Sevika slowly made her way fully into the room, taking in her surroundings and watching as you readied her favorite drink. 

You smile sweetly at her, drinks in hand. “Go ahead and sit down, love. You know I won’t bite.” You chuckle slightly.

It earns you a slight hum from her as she sinks into the soft cushions. She readjusts a little, the cushions fighting against her movements. “Since when did you guys have… these rooms?”

You shrug your shoulder, standing between her legs as you hand her a drink. “They’ve been sittin’ empty, so we decided to turn them into ‘softcore rooms.’” She accepts the drink, humming at your response. 

She takes a sip and leans her head back against the couch. You could see her chest rise and fall as she sighed deeply. 

You take your place on her lap, shimmying to make yourself comfortable. Her metal arm gently grabs your crossed legs, pulling you a little closer to her. She quietly asks you to take her drink so she can run her flesh hand up your bareback and wrap it around your waist.

You hum slightly, placing the drinks on the coffee table. Sometimes when Sevika gets too overwhelmed with everything, this is how you would find her. Your comforting weight on her lap, her head buried in the crook of your neck. You wished this could be all the time, dreamed every night of being the perfect wife for this woman. 

But you never knew if you were even that attractive to her. Maybe she just liked you because you had easy access to blow off steam. You shook your head, the thoughts threatening to sting your eyes with tears. You concentrated on her shallow breaths, her shoulders relaxing as you ran your fingers across them.

She squeezed you a little tighter, and you thought she had said something to you. “What was that, Vika? I didn’t quite catch it.”

She sighed, her head lifting to look into your eyes, “Thanks for… well everything.” Her eyes were so beautiful in this light, little flecks of amber floating among the dark grey. But, she looked so exhausted.

You sighed, bringing your hand to her jaw. “Of course, Vika. I’m always happy to help.” Your thumb caressed her cheek, some of the dried blood flaking as you did so. You smiled softly, reaching under the coffee table for a small first aid kit. 

Sevika chuckled slightly, rolling her eyes as you got a small gauze pad to put disinfectant on. “You don’t have to do that, Princess. I can take care of it later.” 

You scoffed slightly, giving her a soft pout. “I can’t send you home beat up like this, love. That just won’t do.” You chuckle lightly, watching as she silently twists her head to let you clean the wound up. 

This wasn’t new territory for you. Any time she came in slightly beat up, you were there with something to clean her up with. But this time, her flesh thumb stroked down your hip bone causing slight shivers to run up your spine. 

For some reason, this time felt so much more intimate. You pressed down a little harder, the wound opening slightly. You heard her hiss slightly, her hand squeezing your waist a little harder. 

“Sorry, bein’ a little stubborn. But I got all the gunk off. Let us get some bandages on it.” You smile slightly, her eyes fluttering open to stare at you. You could feel the blush staining your cheeks from her gaze. 

You bandage her up, making sure to be careful and not hurt her again. She smiles at you, her cute tooth gap showing slightly. You chuckle, her head dipping back down to the crook of your neck. 

Eventually, she starts mumbling. How her job is going? How she managed to get herself hurt like that? You stay silent, running your hand along the back of her head, feeling the buzzed hair. Scratching in that one spot you know she likes. 

She stops talking suddenly, her breath coming out kind of shaky. “Can… Can I ask you something?”

You feel yourself freeze up, but relax immediately. “Yeah, Vika. What’s up?”

She takes in another shaky breath, squeezing you closer to her. “Would you…. Would you go on an actual date with me?”

Your mouth drops open, and your brain freezes instantly. “I…. Did I just hear that right? You’re asking me on a date?”

You feel Sevika’s grip leaving you, she grips your wrists to get out of her hold. She’s not looking at you, though. You panic slightly, dropping your hands down to her shoulders. 

“Sevika, oh my gods, yes! I’ll… I’ll go on a real date with you.” She whips her head to stare at you, her eyes searching for something. 

She releases a breath, her chest deflating. “Really? Is Tuesday night okay with you? Around 6?”

You couldn’t manage to wipe that smile off your face. Her eyes shone brightly as she looked up at you. “Yeah, that sounds great! I would love that.” 

After that, you both chatted about nothing in particular. About your lives in the undercity, and how you both managed to get there. 

After a couple of hours, your shift is almost up and the club closes in 10 minutes. She gives you a soft peck on the cheek, chuckling as she sees the blush crawl up your neck. 

“I’ll see you Tuesday, Gorgeous.”

[down-to-helltown]

Another headcanon set, this time for the Dynamite Duo! i drank a can of soda and have many thoughts

Anton -Anton was raised solely by his mother (canonically, according to Tony) in the backstreets of Boiler City. He never knew his father, who abandoned the family when he was super young. Anton tries to be a better father than his old man with Amy. He's also a bit of a momma's boy. -Anton has thalassaphobia. He knows how to swim, but hates being in the ocean or even deep bodies of water. 'The Big Bath' was made by Satan specifically to torment Anton with this fear. -Anton really is one of the reddest people on/in the Earth. Few of the technicolor humans reach the same vivid red color as he does. He jokes and says its because he's angry all the time. -His liver might as well be made of titanium; he's been drinking for a long time and in such a large quantity, but he's never really suffered any serious health issues. Doctors are utterly baffled by it, thinking it might be some kind of mutation. (their world does exist in a post-nuclear war)

Annie -Unlike Anton, Annie has both of her parents; who are pretty damn loaded. Though she hated living with them and the upper crust (as upper crust as you can get in Boiler City) and ran away from home when she was 18. As per the ending credits, they've tried to contact her but she keeps destroying their letters. -She's known Anton for a pretty long time, the two meeting in Brulo's casino when she was about to be thrown out for not being 21. Anton bailed her out and ever since then they've been friends and roomates. -If Anton has a titanium liver, then Annie has an iron gut. She can eat food that's a week old and not get sick. She also likes eating really weird foods just to gross people out. Bonus ship headcanon -Her and Anton as a couple is... complicated. Sometimes they're dating, sometimes they're just roomates, but most of the time they describe themselves as friends with benefits.

[pineapple-split]

Caitlyn is privileged, from an upper crust noble family in an oppressive society. Before this point, she’s never lost anyone or anything. She’s had every luxury and every opportunity handed to her. She had in total maybe a week of exposure to the realities of life in the undercity, and while she sympathized she never had to actually confront her role in the society that made things this way.

Then things fall apart, her mother is dead, and she’s angry and grieving. She also has access to a militarized force that, to her mind, presents a quick, handy solution while also allowing her to feed the rage and grief she’s feeling. Remember, she’s a cop! She’s trained to think this way, and she has not undergone any kind of reckoning wrt who and what the enforcers are.

I don’t find it very surprising that this is the path she walks down. Ambessa is operating in the background sure, but she’s still just leading a horse to water. Caitlyn’s drinking it herself, and it makes a horrible kind of sense. Things have become very black and white in her mind, as intended for cops enforcers. The Zaunites are the enemy, and more and more it becomes easier for her to justify to herself eliminating them by any means necessary. She has a whole society behind her, with one (1) person pushing back and by that point, all she sees is that this person is also a Zaunite!

I don’t like her actions, but I do appreciate what’s being shown here, which is how easy it is for someone to get radicalized in the wrong direction. A lot of stories hinge this around personal tragedy without taking into account these other factors: personal privilege, access to overwhelming force, and no pushback from peers because the whole fabric of society is designed for this. It’s been made very clear over and over again that Piltover’s prosperity is only possible through the oppression of the undercity. This is the world Caitlyn is from. This turn was always a possibility, and the fact that it’s Caitlyn taking the reins (Ambessa or no Ambessa) just drives this home.

We’ll see where the show takes it from here, but imo there can be no coming back from this (and certainly no “happy ending”) for Caitlyn without her really confronting all of what I laid out above. If she can’t reckon with the violence her whole life was built on, that she then actively fed with eyes wide open, she’ll never find peace.

[daisyofwaterdeep]

Hiii it’s the Caz anon again!! Thank you for the kind response 🫶 I have a few prompts I’d like to request but to make it easier I’ll send them as different asks! (Also don’t feel the need to get these done fast!! ik I’m in line behind like 30 people lol)

1) Everyone around them thinks Cazador is the dominant one in the bedroom based on public appearances, how reader often does not speak unless spoken to and never leaves his side and how Cazador is well, Cazador. But in reality, Cazador is sooo tired from his long nights of tormenting spawn and negotiating with Nobels that all he wants is for his service dom partner to ride him until he can’t think straight (BDSM, femdom, Cazador secretly likes being humiliated)

'Punishment'

Cazador/Reader Contains: sub/dom dynamic, spanking, blood drinking, handjobs

!NSFW!

~

He's in a terrible mood. A night of rubbing elbows with the upper crust is already enough on his plate, but to then come home and find that his spawn were only able to procure a single human for dinner...Even punishing the vermin wasn't enough to shake the air of foulness he can feel rolling off of him.

Still speckled and smeared with spawn blood, he marches straight to your chambers. The moment he lays eyes on you, lounging comfortably in an armchair in a sheer-fabric nightie with a book in hand, he feels the frustrated tension in his muscles loosen.

You don't look up at him immediately, your eyes flitting down the rest of the page before slowly dog earing your spot. You sit up more straight in your chair and lay the book on the side table before finally aknowledging his presence.

"You're late." Your eyes rake over him briefly, "And filthy."

Cazador inclines his head, "Forgive me."

"Oh, darling. You know better than that, don't you?" You beckon him forward and put your hand up to stop him in front of you. "I don't give forgiveness. I give punishment."

Cazador can feel it like a physical thing--the weight of the day, the anger, the frustrations, they're slipping off of him like water over feathers. He's sinking into that exciting and still unfamiliar place of letting go, of relinquishing himself. The fresh blood in his veins moves faster as you twirl a finger in the air and give your command.

"Undress."

He does so, a sense of numb euphoria blanketing him as he lets his mind go blank, knowing that he doesn't need to think right now, only obey.

Bare before you, he stands still as you look him over. His ears twitch and his cock stiffens under your wandering gaze.

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"But not enough."

"No."

You reach a hand out, letting your fingers brush against the dip of his hip. "I'll get you fed, darling. Don't worry about that. But first," You adjust yourself in the chair before patting your thighs, "Across my lap."

Gods, how he loves you. The way you can tell his hunger and anger just from a look. How you know exactly what he wants. How your warm thighs feel against his stomach as he rests his weight against you. The feeling of your hand, gliding over the backs of his legs, down the curve of his spine.

And he loves the pain of your hand coming down, the flat of your palm connecting cleanly against the fat of his ass with a sharp noise. He jolts against you, his swollen cock bobbing against the side of your thigh.

"Count them for me, love."

He draws in a hitching breath and lets it out, "One."

Another hit, in the same spot. He can feel the blood rushing down, filling his cock and reddening his ass, leaving him feeling light-headed.

"T...two."

You deliver your punishment with slow, lingering slaps, his voice starting to tremble and raise with each one as the sting builds to a burn. You alternate cheeks, then give the backs of his thighs the same treatment. His thoughts are slow and lurching and dark blotches appear in his vision, like inkstains. His lips catch on his fangs as he pants out each number-- 18, 19, 20, 21...

His body has stopped jerking with each hit. Cazador hangs limply against your lap, his cock oozing thick strands of precum that dangle from him before falling onto the carpet. Tears prickle his eyes and run down the sides of his nose, clogging his throat and making the whine in his voice more pronounced as he counts out obediently, mind now blank.

27, 28, 29...

Another slap comes down, but this time, your hand stays. He whimpers out a weak "Thirty," and shivers as your fingers smooth over his sore skin.

"Very good," You coo to him, brushing a lock of hair behind his quivering ear, "You always take your punishments so well."

Boneless and weak, he sniffles as you gently ease him up, supporting him as you both make your way to the bed. The cool satin of the sheets against his burning skin makes him gasp and shiver with relief. You slide into bed next to him, brushing more of his long black hair from his face.

"Would you still like to eat?"

Cazador groans, his arm already snaking around your back to pull you closer, "Yes."

You let your head fall to the pillow, exposing the side of your neck. He can already see it-- the flutter of your pulse just under the skin, beckoning him in. He feels like a fledgling again, hungry and desperate to the point of delirium. He resists the juvenile urge to duck down and tear your throat open, but still finds himself being far too rough. He bites harshly into your neck, his teeth puncturing your carotid artery with practiced ease.

And then bliss. The first pump of your blood fills his mouth and brings him to life, the taste flooding him as his eyes roll closed and his sighs through his nose. He sucks and gulps greedily, groaning into your neck as his stomach warms with you.

Your soft hand slides up his thigh and grabs his still-leaking cock. His groans shift into high whines as you begin stroking him, first in time with each pull of his mouth, and then with the speed of your own heartbeat. It's mesmerizing, like he's being consumed with the rhythm of you. It's ecstacy, and love, and adoration, and everything to him in that moment.

Cazador spills against you with a desperate whimper, his entire body shuddering before relaxing. Only when your hand stills does he realize that your heartbeat has grown weak, and he quickly lifts his teeth from you, laving at the punctures with his tongue.

"My apologies, love." He cups your face and draws your gaze up to him, "I took more than I should have."

Your eyes seem dazed, but they still sparkle with your vitality. You smile and roll over on your back, drawing his head to your chest.

"Nothing a little sleep and a potion of healing won't handle." You begin petting him, smoothing out the silken strands of his hair, "Do you feel better?"

Cazador nods against you, then moves his head until he finds your heartbeat once more.

"Do you want to talk about whatever happened today?"

He sighs, draping an arm around your stomach, "Perhaps tomorrow. For now, I only wish to hold you close and sleep."

You trace the edge of his ear, voice lowering down to a whisper. "Then sleep well, my love, and sweet dreams."

Obeying your orders had never been easier.

[terrence-silver]

Old man Terry slipping lactation pills in beloved's drinks and food and relishing in the way her body changes and her breasts become heavier, fuller, sore, bigger. I think he would do it as a means to control beloved and to obviously drink from it daily, believing it has benefits or something. When she lactates for the first time and is so confused, he feigns concern and gives her pills that he makes her believe it's for her health but it's to keep her producing milk. His good little calf.

---

Of course it has benefits; mother's milk is the fountain of youth. Didn't you hear?

If Cleopatra could bathe in it, Terry Silver can drink it.

If it's good for a newborn, it's even better for an aging, power hungry Billionaire hellbent on quite literally latching unto and sucking dry whatever controlled and highly vetted source of health, longevity and strength he can like a vampire, and what a more fitting place for it to stem from than his very own beloved? Milk. It does a body good. A famous commercial from the 80's and 90's might come to Terry's mind as the idea occurs to him and of course the maintenance of a physique like his well into his sixth decade being alive doesn't come cheap (cheap, and not in the material sense, because Terry's more than willing to dish out cash) in fact, utilizing basic logic, it would be more and more complicated with each passing year; constant training, dedication, therapy, steam baths, devotion to the sport, very specific dietary choices. Yesterday, it was vegan screws and salads, but he so happens to find beloved's milk infinitely more appetizing, inviting and decadent to the degree he can and would induce their lactation through specific pills. Crushed in meals, crushed in beverages, crushed in a fine wine as they toast together over an intimate, romantic fine dinner for two. How very unassuming --- but he's here with an agenda. Terry Silver not only seeks rejuvenation because youth is the only thing money cant buy according to his own words, but he wants to consume in the general sense of the word. Consume beloved until they flow through his bloodstream, his organism, infused with his very bones; the things he breaks stone slabs with with such ease. The things he fights with. When he's in the midst of combat, it's like beloved's right there, alive and infused inside of his knuckles. You are what you eat, after all.

And of course, being Californian upper crust, he'd hear and see things.

He'd hear and see things for decades --- no doubt having participated too.

Celebrities eating their baby's placenta, Gwyneth Paltrow's beauty regimen that includes bee stings, Sandra Bullock's Hemorrhoid Eye Cream, Cate Blanchett's Foreskin Facials and Demi Moore's Leech Therapy. Hollywood's right next door. It would make Terry Silver's propensity for the strange and unusual almost seem commonplace; him drinking beloved's breast milk? Just another Wednesday in The Valley.

But, he cares. Of course he cares with every fiber of his being and his big, black heart. He tracks every change, every reaction, every sore and every bit of swelling surrounding beloved's body, perfectionist, control freak that he is. Their every complaint. Every bit of fluctuating transformation. Every bit of pain. Hell, he'd even bring in (a bribed off) doctor or ten to regularly check on beloved and quell any fears they might have by assuring them this is totally normal. It happens when someone's young and fertile; it is simply their concern he isn't truly surprised by because everything is going according to his plan and if he feigns anything, it's mostly innocence. But, Terry's far from innocent. This is him desiring to be one with beloved in every sense, consuming them, dominating them, wishing to take whatever he can from their youth and in equal measure, no doubt in mind it's a fetish too because the exchange simply turns him on. He is a dirty old man and he deliberately plays into it and just how very dirty and debauched he can be and that all by itself serves as a gleeful kink precisely because it's total filth. Total filth that totally amuses him. Perhaps even more so that he can expertly get beloved to actually allow him to drink from their breasts of their own volition to alleviate their pressure and pain they're feeling and have them thank him no less once it actually helps, perhaps utilizing a few well-learned massage moves of his as a gateway to everything that comes later. Oh, Terry the kindhearted saint, truly! What's best, beloved consented to everything of their own free will. Well, with some conditioning, white lies (in Terry's opinion) and slightly omitted details involved in the process, of course.

But, the ends justify the means.

Sooner or later, he'll sell the story to them in its entirety and have them agree to it regardless.

His good, perfect little calf indeed.

Not entirely out of the question he wont bottle samples and save them up behind a locked glass veneer in a specially refrigerated portion of his private wine cellar only he can drink from.

[sentient-cloud]

The magic that seeks to create a worthy scion in Stallion Quartermane’s image is woven deeply into the world of Lemuria, creating countless ‘heroes’ in its history. Of course, all were failures, in a technical sense. No great heroes of the past managed to harness The Old One’s secrets and rise to become his ideal scion, despite the world’s best efforts. Not all even accomplished great feats and notoriety, such as the legendary He Mander. Some simply ran headfirst into danger until they couldn’t anymore.

Eileen Patrick was one of those heroes. Born and raised amidst the upper crusts of Heap, she spent her days living the life of a socialite, dressing up pretty and talking nice to her father’s friends. He was the only family she had, and in her eyes he was an admirable, hardworking man, a man who’s secretive work must surely be of great importance, importance that would one day be passed down to Eileen, hopefully. Of course, in Heap such wealth rarely comes cleanly. Eileen only found out about her father’s workings with the cities mobs and mana smuggling when it got him killed. Bitter at her father for his secretive dealings and even more bitter at the crime lords for taking him from her, she coped the only way a girl could, becoming a masked vigilante known as The Dalmino Lady.

The Dalmino Lady’s run of Heap lasted all of four years, but it was the only time Eileen Patrick felt fully alive. Running across rooftops in heels with a reckless abandon, seducing her way into criminals homes, and stealing evidence of their crimes (and perhaps a few extra things as well, certainly this necklace would be better off in the hands of that pretty waitress at the diner on the corner.) It’s also when she met Darla Blake, her closest friend and a woman she fell deeply, helplessly in love with. A hero in her own right, going my the moniker Miss Purry, the two wagered themselves a fierce duo. They were unstoppable, they could make a real difference in lives of Heap’s citizens, they were certain of it. Then a new face showed up in Heap, a man they called a Lion, and the scales tipped. Of course, Dal couldn’t have known this, and her confidence was only growing. Confidence that led to arrogance, which led to rushing in fights without a second thought to one’s lack of combat abilities, which led to bleeding out in a dark alley at the age of 24. The Dalmino lady’s Demise and Eileen’s secret identity would be spread around in newspapers and as a topic of conversation amongst gatherings of socialites, before eventually, it was forgotten. Darla retired from the hero business, and that was that for Heaps grand heroes.

Eileen’s biggest talent is her charisma, she’s, a talker, first and foremost. And seduction, well, she can charm her away around any man she pleases. Women… she stumbles her way around, it’s a lot harder when you actually care. Of course it all became a matter of business when she met Darla. Following after anyone else would be utterly unthinkable.

She enjoys a good drink, though she’ll more often than not exaggerate just how much she’s had, it makes people let their guard down, and works as a good excuse for a quick exit. While her identity as the Dalmino Lady is a close kept secret, she craves notoriety, to be known for her actions rather than just her pretty face. She’s crafted calling cards, little taunts to slip in the place of the items she steals - it’s no fun if people aren’t talking about you.

——

Eileen! My token Lemuria hero oc, she’s similarly based on a classic pulp hero, her inspiration is The Domino Lady. Miss Purry credit to @kindcolors, everyone go clap for her too, she kind of won the nonhuman w101 oc bracket a bit back.

[ladytauria]

kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference with jaydami <33

*puts on clown nose*

reverse robins, anybody? xD

thank sm for the prompt maya <3 i knew p much immediately what i wanted to do with it, but it took a bit for the fic to actually take shape, lol.

i hope you enjoy!

>> AO3 <<

Jason’s life would be so much easier if Damian wasn’t so damn pretty.

Every so often, Bruce is expected to host some of his peers for dinner and drinks—some long-standing tradition that Bruce can get away with skipping out on sometimes, but too much, and people will start to talk. It's stupid, but part of the cover.

If you ask Jason, they're worse than galas. He misses the days he could duck out after dinner. He guesses he still could, but— Now that he's older, it's a little more expected for him to actually participate.

Jason would rather not. He knows plenty of Gotham’s upper crust would rather he didn’t, too, no matter how well Jason has managed to assimilate. But… he has plans, and unfortunately, he can acknowledge that they’ll be raised if he’s in somewhat good standing among the folks with the money.

Doesn’t make attending any easier.

At least he only has to worry about attending the ones Bruce hosts. Eventually his peers will start inviting him to theirs, but for now, he’s still being very quietly snubbed. Which—for the moment at least—suits him just fine, plans or no.

Damian showed up this time, an hour before dinner started; wrapped in green and gold and looking like he just stepped off of a magazine cover. Jason barely paid attention at dinner tonight—too busy trying not to blush anytime Damian sent him a sly smile, or covertly rolled his eyes, or signed something discreetly across the table. He knew it was hardly private—Bruce had been there, he’d surely caught every one—but. The attention—

It made him feel… special.

Stupid, of course. Damian hardly sees him that way. He’s… To Damian, he’s family, and that’s all he’ll ever be.

But it’s kind of nice to pretend, when he gets the chance.

Bruce’s final guests are finally on their way out the door. Jason sits, chin in hand, at the top of the stairs, watching as Damian and Alfred see them out. He thinks the whole house breathes a sigh of relief when they finally leave. Alfred excuses himself to the kitchen, likely to oversee the temporary staff Bruce hires for these things. He’ll have them out the door as soon as possible, too, and then Jason will finally be able to sleep.

Damian lingers by the door for a moment. Then, finally, he begins to ascend the stairs. "Jason," he says. It’s a greeting and a question all in one.

Jason stands, smoothing the wrinkles from his slacks. “Can’t sleep until I know everyone’s gone,” he says. He knows they’d never be able to get into the family wing, not with Bruce’s security, but—

Old fears are hard to shake. Jason never sleeps well when there are strangers around, no matter how many locks Bruce gives him for his door.

Damian nods, like this is perfectly reasonable, and not a weird hang-up of Jason’s. ‘Course, considering... Damian probably feels the same way. That— It’s not comforting, ‘cause Jason hates to think of why he might, but… At the same time... it's reassuring to know he’s not alone.

Damian stops a few steps down from him. Like this, they’re almost at eye level; Damian’s eyes just past Jason’s nose.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” Jason says. Mostly just to say something. Keep the conversation going, even if just for a little while. It’s not often anymore that it’s just the two of them. He can’t begrudge Dickie the comfort of Damian’s presence, nor would he ever want to lose his time with Tim, but—

He does miss, sometimes, when it was just Damian and Jason—and sometimes Steph or Cass.

Damian hums. “Father is not as unbearable at these as he is at other functions, but. I’d still be remiss in my obligations if I left you to deal with him alone for too long.”

Jason knows his ‘obligations’ are purely platonic. He knows. His heart flutters, though; the traitorous bastard putting a more romantic lilt on the word. “Well. I appreciate it,” he says, softly. He bites his lip. “I… It’s nice. Having you around.”

Damian smiles. It’s small; mostly in his eyes, the way they upturn at the corners. “It is nice to, ah, ‘be around’,” he says. He reaches up to smooth down the lapel of Jason's blazer. Even through the layers, his touch burns like a brand. “You’ve grown up well, habibi.” His mouth curls up, just a little bit more.

The compliment is unexpected. The smile even more. And the touch—

Jason flushes scarlet. Every blush he’d fought back at dinner hits him now, and he feels a little lightheaded with it.

That, he decides, is the reason he leans down, foolishly, and presses a kiss right against one of those upturned corners. “Thanks,” he breathes—and then, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest, he flees to the safety of his bedroom, leaving Damian alone in the stairwell.

[ 50 Types of Kisses ]

[randomfanner]

My Ramshackle Headcanons

if you haven’t seen the animated pilot for Ramshackle you should. It’s really good. These are just my headcanons based on the limited information we have. completely understand if you have your own these are just what I think and could easily be disproven.

headcanon number one that applies to all of them: all these mother fuckers have Autism or ADHD or both. Also I know they are referred to as kids a few times but I think they are more young adults. (Expect Stone, he is an ‘old’ man)

Stone(27ish)(He/They) - Demi-romantic and asexual - I think the alcohol he is drinking is vodka, because it is something strong enough for Molotov Cocktails. (And sometimes when he wants to fuck with people he will drink Vinegar) - He was actually part of the upper crust considering his more expensive habits he has picked up before meeting with the other two. I don’t think he left his family on the best of terms. - Keeps watch out during the night most often… probably after the others have gone to sleep. - Oldest in the group and the last one to actually join everyone else

Vinnie(24ish)(She/Her) - I have been describing her as a hungry battle whore lesbian and I don’t plan to stop any time soon. - Likely came from the orphanage and escaped or was kicked out due to constantly causing trouble. Not that she cared much. - She somehow is always showing up with mysterious bumps, bruises or cuts and whenever it is addressed she just shrugs and “I don’t know where it came from-“ - Literally never gets sick e v e r. She has an iron stomach and an iron immune system.

Skipp(25ish)(Look me dead in the eyes and tell me Skipp cares what pronouns you refer to him as. He doesn’t) - Pansexual because much like not carrying about what pronouns you use for him, he doesn’t care what gender you are! - Before running into Vinnie, he would get by playing music and getting tips. Never made all that much but will still sometimes do it. - Vinnie totally taught him the basics of how to fight on the streets after an unfortunate incident of someone trying to steal his fiddle and that is how they first meet. Now he can kick your ass. - if anyone in the cast has a living blood relative they get along with it is probably Skipp. However they probably aren’t doing much better.

[lesb0]

X comes with a long list of upper crust black dyke drama and traumas but she IS really experienced at sex and hot and sweet and very good at being gentleman girlfriend which is all I'm asking her to do for me. and all she wants from me is intelligent hot rebound arm candy that she can show off to all her society friends which is all I'm going to do for her. I'm not going to stop her from fucking up the mistresses car or sneaky drinking or pretending to be a "hard hood nigga" with her snobby little prep school accent lmao and she's not going to make me into her 5th fiancee out of a desire to make her wife jealous like I'm just happy to go to fancy dinner parties

[inkblot22]

Idia and the expression of displeasure

Uh, shoutout to that guy who I thought was my friend, asked me if I wanted to hook up despite being over 1000 some-odd miles away, despite me being very openly not that into men and, more importantly, telling him very clearly that I have no interest in dating him specifically. You're so cool for that, man. I just love to feel like an object. The "something about me" is the crippling c-PTSD, anxiety, and possible psychotic illness rotting my brain and your reading of me as a "Creepy Goth Chick", thank you.

Anyway, I hope I was able to direct that shitty man behavior onto our beloved Idia. I did tag you, it's later on and if you'd like me to remove it, I can absolutely do so, just let me know. Also all I can think about is this vine.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

TW for verbal abuse, manipulation, emotional abuse, captivity, use of a shock collar, mention of physical abuse, Idia is an asshole, abusive relationship dynamics, lack of communication.

Idia is the type of person to believe he is pragmatic, when, in reality, he is rather mercurial. He will fly off the handle at the smallest thing but be completely unbothered by larger issues.

I imagine this could lead to a few problems for his dear, sweet partner. (By the way, I refer to Idia’s darling as his partner because that is what they have rationalized their situation to be, currently: they are Idia's captive partner. Idia doesn’t label them very often, and although he does call them his partner, he definitely sees them as an endearing pest, kind of. Despite them being there because of him, he often acts like they're a mouse or roach that popped up one day and he grew attached to.)

Idia is not the type to like striking or physically harming his partner. He’s the type to get rude and nasty, and play victim. This does not mean he doesn’t ever physically harm his partner.

See, that shock collar around their neck? We have previously established that this is connected to his technomantic energy, and his technomantic energy is connected to his inherent magic ability.

The collar is set up with a warning system. If Idia’s partner does anything he remotely dislikes or any set of pre-established actions that they are not made aware of, they will receive three low-voltage, quick-tap jolts of electricity right against the column of their pretty throat.

These actions include, but are not limited to: acting in any way to harm Ortho or Idia, attempting to harm themselves (this one had to be added after the hanger incident), walking too close to the door or the covered-up window, touching any of Idia’s current or past projects without permission, touching Idia’s gaming setup, ignoring Ortho (this only is put in place if Idia’s partner is hostile towards Ortho at any point, even just once) and refusing any food or drink given to them by Idia specifically. It's important to reiterate that Idia has not told his partner literally any of these rules. Much like the ways that some people train a dog, they have to learn the hard way.

After the three taps, Idia’s emotions and/or intentions dictate how intense the next shock is. Sometimes it’s a bored little zap, like a fourth warning to cut it out before he gets mad, sometimes it’s a rolling pulse that pulls them away from whatever they’re doing, sometimes it’s a tidal wave that literally brings them to their knees and makes them throw up. It really depends on the most annoying kidnapper in the world. 

Idia is very aware that holding this person hostage because of his own predilections and perversions is a wildly morally incorrect thing to do, but Idia also doesn’t give a steaming shit. He’s been given what he wants, having grown up as a member of the upper crust, and if he doesn’t get it given to him, he finds a way to get it.

This means that, as much as we all love him, Idia is a whiny pisslord. The second his partner doesn’t do what he wants, he’s grumbling about it, he’s whining, playing victim, getting huffy.

While that might not sound bad, please remember that Idia’s partner has a bunch of exposed wires situated with the intent of shocking them around their neck at all times, and the shock collar is connected to Idia’s emotions. While getting shocked in a more violent manner isn’t very common for them, it can still happen, and therefore it's possibly best to do a little eggshell walking.

Besides that, it’s not very pleasant to be around someone who is so volatile, even if at their most disappointed they just complain for a few hours or days. Having to deal with someone else’s displeasure in life while being more or less unable to discuss your own does not do wonders for your mental health.

Let’s go over some scenarios and the punishments connected to them.

Idia has been playing some online fighting game all day, pretty much ignoring his partner. He hears them move during a cooldown between matches, turns around in his chair, and asks demands that they come over and let him kiss them a little. Of course, Idia’s partner declines. In this situation, Idia would usually get upset and complain about it for a while, name calling included. His words and mood definitely have the vibe of, “How dare you breathe around me and then not let me touch and kiss you. That’s just leading me on, breathing around me.”

Idia’s partner made some cup noodles while Idia was taking a nap after he raged all night and well into the afternoon. He wakes up and sees them sitting in his gaming chair, facing away from his computer and eating. In this situation, Idia would straight up zap them for two reasons. Number one, they didn’t make him anything to eat, and number two, they’re not supposed to be sitting in his chair or at his desk. Anywhere near his computer/anything that could possibly be used to contact someone on the outside without supervision is a huge issue. Keep in mind that he never deigned to share this rather important rule with his partner.

Idia’s partner has a bad day and snaps at Ortho, shoving him away very, very gently. It almost goes without saying; they’re getting zapped to the point of unconsciousness, because Idia panics and then gets mad, in that order and in rapid succession. The emotions blend together for a moment which makes the jolt stronger. This is when the “no ignoring Ortho” rule would be implemented, because they’d better be really nice to Ortho for the next few months before Idia decides he can trust the two of them to interact without his watchful eye. He trusts his little brother, but he doesn’t trust his partner.

In honor of a certain discussion I had with @tht0nesimp (thank you so much, you're very insightful,) Idia’s partner has a meltdown (understandably) and starts throwing things, including a glass of water that was brought to them after they had a bit of a cry in the shower (stay hydrated, everyone.) The glass, still with the water in it, sails across the room and clocks Idia right in his pretty face, ideally breaking his nose. While it’d be understandable to assume that Idia would be mad enough to hit his partner with a jolt of electricity that would bring them to their knees, Idia is sensible enough to understand that this is a display of some form of hysterical emotions that his partner has been bottling up until this point. Therefore, instead of electrocuting his partner, he just starts complaining, more loudly than usual. It is not peculiar for his voice to rise in volume but not in inflection, we hear this in game, but imagine that just a bit louder and more whiny.

“Wow, and here I thought you were an adult. I can’t believe you can’t even control your emotions.”

“My nose hurts. No, don’t apologize. It’s your fault anyway. I don’t even want to know what you’d do if you were really mad.”

“If you want to make it up to me, you could- don’t make that face. Whatever, I knew you weren’t being serious. Whatever. Just ask Ortho to get me an ice pack and go sit somewhere away from me. It's fine. It's fine!”

[asteraceae-blue]

Irrlicht: Chapter 1

Published on AO3

Authored by AsteraceaeBlue (Helianthus-exilis)

For @miabicicletta with decadent 1980s Dana Scully vibes and love

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Down the dry gullies of the mountain stream

I calmly wend my way

Every river will reach the sea

Every sorrow, too, will reach its grave

~ Franz Schubert

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Martha’s Vineyard, 1983

Saturday, June 25th, 7:15PM

Crimson droplets stained the chipped white porcelain of the sink, turning pink as they were caught up in the swirl of the water cascading from the rusty faucet. She watched the mini whirlpool of color disappear down the drain. It would have been mesmerizing, beautiful even, if she didn’t know exactly what it meant. If it wasn’t so fucking sad. Watching part of her life skip away down the drain, her heart pounded out a rhythm that seemed to match the thud of the bass from the band playing on the other side of the bathroom door. Some local group, busting out covers of Creedence Clearwater and Van Morrison, amongst others. 

When the pointillism of blood finally stopped, she reached over to the paper towel dispenser and grabbed a few, running them under the water before pressing the wad to her nose, wiping away the evidence of her frailty. Her hands trembled and the towels were rough and smelled like damp cardboard. She shoved the balled up mess into the garbage can next to the sink and washed her hands. She looked in the mirror; a little pink, like she’d only blown her nose. That’s all anyone else would see or think.

Dana Scully reached behind her back and tightened the strings of the black waitressing apron wrapped around her waist, smoothing out the front and adjusting the black tee shirt with Gill’s Grill, Steak & Seafood printed in white. A giant harpoon underscored the words, driving home the nautical theme, as though every restaurant on the Vineyard didn’t have something to do with boats and fish and shells. She was just happy the dark color hid so much when it came to stains. She redid her ponytail, taming fluffy copper flyaways, pinched her cheeks to pop some color back into them, and turned to push her way out the door.

The sound of the band hit her full force, jolting her back to the present. A small crowd had gathered in front of the stage at the far end of the bar, swaying with pints of beer to “Bad Moon Rising.”

It was about as close as the Transatlantic set got to Woodstock.

When her roommate from Maryland offered to set her up with a summer job on the Vineyard, Dana was hesitant. She pictured a lot of boat shoes and Jackie Kennedy types and wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand it. Luckily, Gill’s had a nice balance of the upper crust and the working man who supplied them with their main courses. The latter tended to be bar flies; fishermen who were after a cold beer at the end of a long day of sun and fighting fishing nets. Having grown up in San Diego Navy housing and Annapolis Harbor, Dana had a soft spot for the salty workers. She felt better with them around.

She caught Erica’s eye from across the dining room as her roommate finished taking drink orders from her table. Waiting by the drink station, Dana fiddled with straws and neatened stacks of soda cups that didn’t need neatening.

Erica walked up to her, grabbing a tray from the pile and loading up cups with Pepsi and water.

“Thanks,” Dana said, helping her fill the drinks.

“Hey, no problem,” Erica assured her. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah. I think I just, um, ate something that didn’t agree with me.”

“Okay,” Erica said, looking at her sideways. “If you need to go back to the house, you can. I can cover you.”

“No, no,” Dana insisted, shaking her head. “I’m fine now.”

“M’kay,” Erica said with a smile. She hoisted the tray of drinks onto one hand and winked. “I got this. You can get their food. I’m predicting cheeseburgers cooked to a hockey puck and fish and chips they’ll think is too fishy.”

Dana smiled and watched her walk back to the table, her blonde perm barely contained in a braid. Bright and athletic, Erica was at Maryland on a volleyball scholarship and majoring in history. She had an inherent discipline that reminded Dana of her father. It was a good presence to have as she navigated the chaos of physics and pre-med. It kept her going in some of her hardest moments, when she was ready to say it was all too much. Erica would be there, waiting to tell her a ridiculous story from practice, or drag her out for a jog, or remind her that college degrees last longer than boyfriends (wink wink). Even if she had no idea what, exactly, Dana was struggling with, she was there to help keep the faith.

Dana took a quick breath and pulled her order pad from her apron pocket.

Sure enough, the fish and chips tasted too fishy.

An hour and a half later, she scraped the uneaten clumps of the dinner into the trash in the bustling kitchen, wondering how anyone could waste so much food. Her parents would never have put up with it, still didn’t put up with it even though three of their four children were grown and out of the house. Granted, the punishment had shifted from smacked bottoms to looks of judgment, but the implications were equally strong - you don’t take basic comforts for granted.

Apparently, her fellow waitress Janie was having the same struggle with her own customers that night. The tall brunette stormed into the kitchen holding a plate brimming with a juicy steak, baked potato, and vegetable medley.

“Sonny!” she fumed, tossing the plate onto the busy window. “Table three claims they asked for medium and they have their panties in a twist that this is not medium. It’s too pink.”

The middle aged line cook who’d been at the helm of Gill’s kitchen for the better part of a decade loomed over the pass-through and looked like he was about to spit onto the dinner. He placed a beefy hand on the edge of the porcelain and spun it around to glare at the steak.

“It’s fucking perfect,” he snarled, chewing on a toothpick that was only a placeholder for the cigarette that was waiting for him on his break. “You wanna ask them to come back here and show me how to cook a fucking medium steak?”

“You want I should do that?” Janie snapped back, hand going to her cocked hip. “Just toss it under the goddamn broiler for thirty seconds, send it to hell, if they burn their mouth they won’t complain anymore.”

Sonny grabbed the edge of the plate and turned towards the line with a look that could murder. She was the only one in the entire place who could talk to Sonny like that and not end up in the dumpster out back. Janie huffed loudly and crossed her arms as she collapsed against the wall.

“I can’t believe I took this job again this year,” she griped, snapping bubble gum between her teeth, talking to no one in particular. Dana listened out of courtesy more than anything as she finished clearing her dishes before adding them to the busser’s tub. “One more year. One more goddamn year and I’ll be done with cosmetology and then I’m done with these idiots.”

Whether she was referring to customers or coworkers, Dana wasn’t sure and she didn’t find out. Erica opened the back door, returning from her garbage run, a smile on her face. She clocked Janie immediately.

“Hey Janie!” she called out, eyebrows raised with a twinkle in her eye. “Spooky’s back!”

“Shit, really?” Janie panicked, suddenly checking her bustline and her hair.

Dana watched her with confusion.

“Who’s Spooky?” she asked.

“Local boy,” Erica told her as she meandered over, leaning on the wall next to Janie. “Janie’s had a crush on him since they were kids. But then, she’s had a crush on every boy on this island since she was a kid.”

Janie elbowed her.

“He’s a fucking catch,” she insisted.

“You just like anyone who comes with a little drama.”

“I don’t care what he comes with, only who,” Janie replied, innuendo dripping from her mouth. She hiked her black suede skirt up a few inches. “Where is he?”

“Where else? Lurking around the field out back with a flashlight.”

Janie hustled towards the backdoor without so much as a thank you.

“Hey, Jesus, at least take some trash out with you!” Erica called after her.

The door slammed shut. Dana looked at Erica.

“Spooky?” she said with a dubious expression.

“Fox Mulder. Can you believe his parents did that to him? I’d just about die if I had to walk around with a name like that.”

“What’s his deal?” Dana asked, unable to stay her curiosity.

“He’s kind of the local intrigue,” Erica said. “Family has money. Dad has some high level government job and there’s always black cars coming and going from the house. He just got back from college - England.”

Dana rolled her eyes. For a traveling Navy brat of a Captain, none of that impressed her all that much. 

“That’s it?” she said.

Erica glanced around, looking like she was making sure no one was listening, though it was unnecessary. The kitchen staff couldn't care less about their conversation. She leaned in a little.

“His kid sister was kidnapped when he was, like, thirteen. They never found her.”

Dana’s breath caught in her throat. Her hands tingled and she forced herself to breathe.

“Why, um, why do you call him Spooky?” she asked, desperately trying to sound casual.

Erica smiled.

“Ever seen The Twilight Zone?”

“Ladies, you gonna stand there and chit chat all night or you wanna serve people food at some point?” Sonny yelled from the line, shoving plates into the window. He slammed his palm on the bell. “Pickup!”

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Gill’s Grill, 10:23PM

After pocketing decent tips and finishing her side work as the last of the patrons drifted out the door, Dana said goodnight to everyone. She slipped out the side door, heading for her dusty hand-me-down Ford wagon. It was parked in the corner of the lot in front of a stand of bushes and overlooking a coastal meadow that dipped towards the ocean. Dana breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of salt air that she could practically taste, refreshing her mind after the inundation of stuffy kitchen fumes and dining room smoke. 

Circling around to the front of her car, she leaned against the hood and rested for a moment, taking the weight off her sneakered feet. 

Her legs ached, probably more than they should at the ripe age of nineteen.

Her mother hadn’t wanted her to work that summer. She was so worried about her health, insisting that the best thing for Dana to do was come home and rest between years of study. But Dana knew the financial strain her education was putting on the Captain, and with Charlie coming up right behind her for college she saw no choice other than to roll up her sleeves and earn some money. Besides, she was doing relatively well that summer. She had more energy. She barely knew she was sick most days, until the tingling began in the bridge of her nose. 

She stared out into the darkness, the lights from the parking lot providing a curtain of security as she listened to the sound of other workers getting into their cars and leaving for the night, the crickets singing in the grass of the meadow, and the radio playing Motown in the kitchen as the busboys finished their cleanup.

A beam of light caught her eye off in the distance. It bounced along, sweeping this way and that over the meadow, the trees and bushes, moving parallel to the parking lot. She realized it was a flashlight. The person holding it slowed and stopped not fifty feet from her, aiming the light down at a forty-five degree angle towards the ground. Squinting, relieved of the shifting beam of light, she could just make out the shadow of a person standing in the field of summer grass beyond the lot. As her eyes adjusted, the shadow sharpened to reveal a young man, tall and lanky. Brown shaggy hair spilled back as his face tipped up, his serious eyes staring upwards at the stars. The image made her sad in a way she couldn’t articulate. She looked away, feeling as though she’d intruded on an incredibly private moment.

Quietly, she pulled the keys out of her purse and pushed away from the hood of the car, walking towards the driver’s side. She gently opened the door, then paused, her hand stilling on the metal frame. Feeling horribly voyeuristic, she took one last look at the man standing in the dark, gazing upwards with a lost expression. For one fleeting second, she thought about going to him to see if she could help. But help with what? What could she possibly say? She didn’t even know him.

Dana slipped into the worn leather seat and started the car, keeping the headlights off until she’d turned the wagon in the opposite direction of Fox ‘Spooky’ Mulder.