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rip-quizilla · 10 months

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The Naughty Wench

Summary: You work as a barmaid at the raunchiest booth at the Renaissance Faire, and Eddie purchases a beer from you. He gets a little more than a "huzzah for the tipper" when he throws a fiver in the jar labeled "Thank you, Mistress". (Read: you talk dirty to Eddie while you pour beer down his throat) Based on this Tik Tok posted by @joyful_aura: https://www.tiktok.com/@joyful_aura/video/7244964514561543470

Word Count: 4.7k

Content Warnings: light degradation, dirty talk, sexual themes

Working the faire circuit was in one word… an experience.

Just last week you had been in Texas at Scarborough Faire, where it had been hot as balls underneath your layers of linen, lace and leather. The earlier months hadn’t been too bad, but there was one thing you’d learned about the southern states in your years of renaissance faire experience- when summer hits in the south, it hits hard. The moment you’d driven your van past the Indiana state line, you could have sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees on the spot.

Now here you were- all trussed up in your wench getup, tits pushed up high enough that they rested like two fleshy pillows right below your collarbones. The corset you’d chosen today wasn’t your most comfortable, but you looked damn good in it- milk chocolate brown with pale gold ribbons that laced up the front. The straps that ran over your shoulders provided some extra support, which you were grateful for with all of the movement your job required. Your skirts today were a warm shade of mustard yellow with a few mismatched patches sewn over holes and stains that had refused to come out over the years. Short sleeved blouses were a must, unless you wanted to pass out from heat stroke or have beer-soaked sleeves clinging to your forearms. Today yours was a pale cream color, with little puffed cap sleeves to cover your shoulders and a neckline that plunged below your corset, so the girls were front and center, ready to earn plenty of “huzzah for the tipper!”s.

Today was Sunday, and since this faire was weekends only, Sundays were basically Fridays as far as faire folk were concerned. As was tradition, you would all be going out for libations once the day was done, followed by a blissful night of sleeping late in your Volkswagen Westfalia.

You hadn’t known what to expect when you’d quit your job and joined the faire circuit, but every day you got to meet new people, play dress-up, and speak in a funny accent- which accent? You switched it up day to day. And the fact that you got paid to do that made it even better.

You loved your little renfaire life.

You stood with your hands on your hips inside the little wooden booth that served as your place of work for the next month’s worth of weekends. Every plastic cup was stacked in place, you had a fresh cleaning rag stuck into your apron, and patrons were already beginning to file into the fairgrounds. A pleasant breeze brought a smile to your face.

“Morning, love!” You turned to see your fellow barmaid, Ingrid, wiping her hands on her own apron after wringing out her own rag into a small bucket of soapy water. Her outfit today was- like most days- the polar opposite of yours. She looked more like a pirate wench while your color palette was more akin to what one might picture in a countryside tavern. Burgundy skirts and off-white petticoats swished around her black lace-up boots, and her black leather waist cincher showcased the smallest part of Ingrid’s middle. You gasped, acting scandalized by the bits of black lace from her bra that peeked over the neckline of her red blouse.

“Ingrid, what kind of place do you think we’re running here?” you tutted, smiling cheekily all the while. “This is a respectable establishment! People might start thinking we sell more than just the drinks here, you know.”

Ingrid cackled, hopping up to sit on the wooden counter behind her. “My dear, I have absolutely no clue what you could be talking about.” She shrugged, smirking behind a shared secret. “We do sell more than just the drinks.” You both giggled knowingly, continuing to complete all of the morning to-do’s around the bar.

Ingrid was right- drinks weren’t the only thing your bar was known for.

There were plenty of booths around the faire where patrons could purchase a drink, but only one where the barmaids would pour beer directly into their mouths while talking dirty to them- and The Naughty Wench just happened to be that booth.

Originally, the idea had been Ingrid’s- the two of you had been friends for a year now, meeting last year in this exact same spot at Indie Faire and working at what was then a run-of-the-mill beer booth. It was customary at any renaissance faire for bar wenches to proclaim “Huzzah for the tipper!” when presented with a tip of any kind, so neither of you was a stranger to putting on the theatrics when money was dropped into your tip jar. One day, however, Ingrid had put out not one, but two tip jars- one labeled ‘Thank You’, the other labeled ‘Thank You Mistress’. You had laughed at it at first. Then Ingrid started…changing the script.

A patron would chuckle to themselves, throwing a dollar into the Mistress jar, eyes going wide and cheeks flushing when Ingrid would smile and tell them they were “such a good boy.”

After a few more, she’d gotten even more creative. “Oh, you thought I only wanted money?” she would croon, holding the beer tauntingly out of their reach. “I want to hear you beg for it, say ‘please, mistress’,” When you’d heard it you’d been appalled, mouth opened wide in shock. You had already prepared yourself for the patron to yell in her face and demand their money back when you’d heard a shy, stuttering “P-please, mistress, can I have my beer?”

Throughout the day, Ingrid’s “Mistress” character only continued to amp up with every hour. At some point, you had joined in, repeating the sultry tones you’d been listening to Ingrid spout easily to strangers and even making up a few responses of your own.

“Only good boys get to drink at the faire, have you been a good boy?”

“You need to say please before you drink- good girl, you’re so very welcome.”

“Hands behind your back and open wide.”

Word about Ingrid’s sultry tipping strategy circulated quickly. Soon, more and more patrons were lining up at your booth ready to be degraded by pretty girls in tight corsets, and when you started pouring the beer into their mouths, tits pressed up higher on your chest while you leaned seductively over the bartop? People couldn’t get enough.

The success you’d both had with Ingrid’s brilliant idea had now landed you here- a booth that was dedicated to serving delicious beverages garnished with a splash of degradation.

Your first patron of the day- a young woman who looked ready to play a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream- stepped up to Ingrid, gazing up at her with a flutter of eyelashes as she ordered a can of beer and shyly dropped a one dollar bill into the jar labeled ‘Thank You, Mistress’. Ingrid smiled, asking “Do you know what that jar is for?” to which the fairy blushed and nodded, giggling.

“Mm-hm.”

Ingrid grinned flirtatiously, popped open the beer, and addressed the fairy, “Such tiny little hands you have, they’ll make my can look so huge…”

***

Eddie Munson was vibrating.

At least, he felt like he was. He could barely contain his enthusiasm as he looked around at every sword, every pair of elf ears, every corset- to his left, there was a booth selling handmade leather journals. To his right, a stage where a crowd had begun to gather to watch a group of bagpipe players. In front of him and behind him, a seemingly endless number of nerds who, like him, had found a place where being a weirdo was not mocked, not simply tolerated- but celebrated.

“I fucking love it here.” Eddie sighed.

Steve Harrington, whom Eddie was still a little astounded had been convinced to actually go to a renaissance faire, looked overwhelmed already. “I can’t believe there are this many grown adults who wanted to spend the last day of their weekend playing dress-up.”

“Playing dress-up and getting drunk.” Robin corrected. Unlike Harrington, she had thrown herself into the renfaire spirit completely, showing up in a tasteful pirate outfit that Eddie had a feeling was comprised mostly of oversized pieces she’d found in the men’s section of the thrift store, but she pulled it off. All she was missing were some real swords, which she had already announced she was on the hunt for today.

“I feel bad for people who are so out of touch with their inner child that they have to get drunk just to put on a costume.” Dustin said matter-of-factly, shooting Steve a judgemental look. Steve balked when he caught it, yapping at Dustin about growing up or the ridiculousness of how much quality costumes cost- something along those lines. Eddie wasn’t listening, he was too busy taking mental note of which booths he needed to come back to before they left; he knew if he ducked inside them now, he would blow all of his money on the first stall they saw, and he was determined to stretch his budget for the day as far as he could.

“Well I for one think we all look amazing, costume or no.” Robin said decisively. Eddie had to agree. He had spent weeks working on his own costume, digging through his and his friends’ closets to create an ensemble fit for a tiefling bard such as himself. He had fashioned himself a pair of red horns using one of Erica’s old headbands, toilet paper rolls, tin foil, paper mache and black paint. Now, they sat nestled securely among his brown mane of curls. The rest of his outfit had been easy- a blousy-looking shirt from Nancy’s closet that he’d rolled up around the elbows, one of Wayne’s old waistcoats from a suit that hadn’t seen the light of day since Eddie’s parents’ wedding, apparently, a pair of black pants that he’d tucked into his combat boots, and a plethora of accessories. Rings on every finger, every belt he owned slung over his waist or across his torso, one even looped twice around his thigh. Eddie had even gone the extra mile this morning and smudged some of Robin’s red lipstick (he was still amazed that Buckley owned lipstick) around his eyes as a nod to the fact that tieflings’ skin is normally red or blue. To finish off the look, he had even brought along his old acoustic guitar, which was slung over his back to mark him undeniably as a bard.

Eddie thought he looked pretty damn cool.

The rest of their party had also decked themselves out for the day, Robin with her pirate outfit, Dustin, Mike, Lucas and Will had done a fantastic job of transforming themselves into hobbits for the day. Max, Erica and El hadn’t been able to decide whether they wanted to dress as pirates or fairies- so they’d all chosen both. Now they looked happy as could be, skipping down the dirt path with fairy wings on their backs and plastic swords on their hips. That left Steve as the only normal-looking person in a sea of geeks.

Eddie chuckled to himself- for once in his life, Steve Harrington was the odd one out while Eddie Munson was effortlessly fitting in.

“First order of business is turkey legs.” Robin announced, eyes already darting in every direction in search of lunch as she wandered ahead.

Steve mumbled in agreement, along with something about finding something to drink so that he’ll survive the day. Just then, a trio of pretty young women in corsets caught his eye, immediately brightening his mood. He ran a hand through his hair, ready to say something undoubtedly Steve-y to them, when they beat him to the punch.

“Hi! Um, would you mind taking our picture?” One of them said, shoving a camera in his direction.

Steve, surprised but not altogether deterred, smiled and took the camera. “I’d be happy to, ladies.” However, he couldn’t hold back his shock when the girls all turned to the four teenage boys.

“You guys look like you came straight out of Lord of the Rings!” one of them exclaimed. “Best costumes I’ve seen all weekend, honestly.” The girls situated themselves between the blushing boys as they muttered different ‘thank you’s and complimented the girls’ outfits in turn.

Steve snapped the picture begrudgingly while Eddie slung an arm around his shoulders. “Looks like you’re losing your charm there, Harrington.” he smirked, earning an eye roll from Steve in turn.

“Yeah, yeah, piss off, Dante’s Inferno.”

“How have you read Dante but not Tolkien?”

Their bickering was cut short by corset girl retrieving the camera from Steve, then giving Eddie a shy, “I like your horns.”

Eddie turned his full attention to her with a toothy grin. “‘Preciate it, sweetheart.”

The girls waved goodbye with a thank you, erupting into giggles as they walked away. Steve shook his head in disbelief. “What world did I accidentally cross into where Munson has game and I have none?”

Eddie cackled maniacally, hopping onto a nearby picnic table and swinging his guitar to his front, strumming it a couple of times with a flourish of his hand.

“You’re in my kingdom now, King Steve!” Eddie plucked the strings of his instrument jauntily, unable to contain his glee. “Here, it pays to be a freak.”

Strum-strum-strum.

Eddie threw a fist in the air. “Huzzah!”

To his surprise, his call was echoed by several patrons and vendors, erupting in a hearty “Huzzah!” from all around him.

Accepted. Celebrated. Eddie felt at home.

That’s when Robin came bounding up from behind him, two turkey legs in hand. “Okay, I know where we’re going next.” She sounded excited.

Steve took one of the turkey legs from her hand, eager to get something in his stomach. “And where is that, Robin?”

She grinned largely, immediately launching into a retelling of a conversation she had had with another patron while waiting in line for the turkey legs, going on several tangents about how surprised she was that the line was short, how the patron had been dressed like a viking and actually had viking tattoos all up and down his arm, how she wasn’t sure how accurate they were but they sure looked cool-

“Robin!” Steve interjected impatiently.

“Right! Sorry! Basically one of the bars has wenches that talk dirty if you give them a tip, and I want to see that in action.”

Steve and Eddie’s eyes grew wide. Steve, hilariously, started to check behind him for the kids as if they were still too young and innocent to be talking about such things even though they were all about to graduate high school already. To his relief, they had all wandered into a booth selling leather goods.

Eddie responded before Steve could. His lips had curled into a mischievous smile, “Buckley,” he crooned, gesturing for her to lead the way. “I’m gonna need you to tell me more about these wenches.”

***

By noon, the line for your booth was easily at least ten people long and stayed that way no matter how many beers you’d poured. Luckily for the two of you, not every patron at the faire was seeking you out just for the bonus content. Most of them just wanted a drink, which you couldn’t fault them for. After all, nothing went with a summer day quite like a cold, bubbly beverage.

“Hey,” Ingrid’s voice caught your attention as you took a brief moment to wipe down the drain under the tap while the line had gone briefly shorter. “Remember that conversation we had where I called you out on having a type?”

You laughed, nodding your head. “Yes, I think I do. Why?”

“Tell me what that type was again?”

You sighed, tucking your rag back into your apron and patting your hands dry at your sides. “Let’s see, I think I remember you said long hair was involved-”

“Long dark hair, specifically.”

“-long dark hair, right.” you remedied. You busied yourself with fixing the next patrons’ drink orders as the discussion proceeded. “Tattoos were mentioned, and I think you said something about makeup?”

“You always get all swoony around men wearing eyeliner or some kind of eye makeup. Always. Without fail.”

“Yeah, yeah okay…” you rolled your eyes. She was right, but you hated that you were apparently so obvious about it.

“I would like to make an educated guess about another thing I think belongs on that list.” Finally turning to face Ingrid, you cocked your head, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Okay, I’ll bite- what else do you think belongs on that list?”

Ingrid grinned, looking pointedly at something over your shoulder. “I think you’re into guys who play guitar.”

You blanched- damn. That had been true since high school, how did she-

You spun around to see whatever Ingrid was focused on behind you, and felt your knees get weak when you found it. There was a man- in his twenties, from the looks of it- dressed as a tiefling bard with a guitar slung over his shoulder. It was true, from looks alone he checked all of your boxes. The long curly hair, the red makeup around his eyes, the tattoos that showed on his forearms…

“You okay over there, or did my business partner go brain dead for a second?” You heard Ingrid’s smirk before you saw it. She laughed at you good-naturedly when you faintly swatted at her with your cleaning rag. “It looks like they’re headed this way, you take him and I’ll take his blonde pirate friend.”

You took another look at the man- trying not to be obvious about the fact that you were looking- and noticed this time that he was traveling with two others: the aforementioned blonde pirate and a normal-looking guy who, admittedly, had very nice hair. They did seem to be headed your way; you quickly took a moment to turn around and top off the canteen that hung from the leather belt at your waist with some cold water. You quickly took a sip before turning around to face the counter, and when you did, there he was.

“Hi, uh-” his eyes were downcast, hands digging into his pockets for cash. “-can you break a twenty?” Pulling a crumpled bill from a money clip, his gaze met yours under an apologetic brow. Big brown eyes, framed with blood-red smudges- he pulled it off. Tremendously.

You didn’t have to force your service industry smile- it came naturally for him. “With pleasure, noble bard.” You propped your forearms on the wooden bartop, hoping your cleavage was looking particularly stunning at the angle from which he was gazing up at you. “And what sort of beverage might you be craving on this fine day?”

“That’s right, wrap your lips around my tip and drink me down, beautiful-”

Before he could answer, the two of you were both more than a little distracted by Ingrid’s filthy monologue. She held a freshly opened can of beer to the blonde pirate girl’s lips, and you were very impressed with how easily the girl was able to obey the instructions that Ingrid gave every customer who tossed a tip into the Mistress jar- hands behind your back, mouth open, chin up, eyes on me. You and the dark-haired tiefling were both entranced by the sight before you: Ingrid, with the endless stream of dirty words that tumbled from her mouth as she poured bubbly, golden brew down the throat of the tall blonde pirate.

“-keep that pretty mouth open you little minx, and look up at me as i finish down your throat. Yes, that’s a good girl, and swallow.” Ingrid pulled the can away from her lips with a smile, gazing proudly down at the pirate who sputtered out a soft cough after breathing down some much-needed oxygen. “Good job, darling.” Ingrid crooned.

The regularly-dressed guy standing behind her stared with wide eyes, and you couldn’t quite tell if he was appalled or impressed. “Oh…my god, Robin!” he guffawed.

“I’ll.. aha, um-” You refocused your attention to the bard standing before you, a natural blush now creeping into his cheeks beneath the red makeup on his temples. “-I’ll have what she’s having, please.” He nodded to his friend- Robin, apparently.

You smiled knowingly, taking the twenty from his hands and ignoring the rush you felt when your fingertips brushed his. You made his change, handing him a few fives and ones before giving the Mistress jar a gentle tap. You finished opening his beer just in time to see him toss a five into the jar- a generous tip, since the beer only cost $3.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling at him appreciatively. “Huzzah for the tipper.” you purred, opting to make the phrase just for him instead of yelling it obnoxiously for all to hear. After all, you were about to be plenty obnoxious already.

You nodded flirtatiously to direct his attention above you. “See those shackles up there, love?”

His eyes, shining with anticipation and the best kind of nerves, flicked up to what you were referring to- dangling from the wood above the bartop were a pair of metal handles that hung by black-painted chains. They were similar to an actual shackle, but it was obvious that they were there to hold, not imprison. The bard looked back down to you, returning your flirting gaze.

“I do.” he smirked.

You narrowed your eyes on him playfully. “I’m going to need you to reach up and take hold of them-” He did as he was told, and you admired how his blousy sleeves fell further down to his biceps, showcasing the way his ink stretched over lean muscles. “-oh good boy, you look so good stretched out for me like that. Hold tight now, darling.”

You had to hold back a chuckle at how quickly his flirty eye contact and smirk turned to a pure deer-in-the-headlights expression when you’d called him a good boy. You had an inkling that this guy wasn’t used to being told what to do in this particular way.

Leaning forward until your cleavage was practically up against his nose, you nodded at him sweetly. “Open that pretty pink mouth for me darling- yes, that’s right, lips around my hole and suck-” Once the can was to his lips, you began pouring a steady stream down his throat. His big doe eyes didn’t know where to look, torn between your eyes and your tits that looked just about ready to pop out of your corset. The rest of the words that tumbled from your mouth were less spoken and more so moaned while you gazed down at this gorgeous little tiefling who- for the next few moments- was completely at your mercy.

“-take it, yes, good boy, take me deep into your throat as you look up at me with those pretty brown eyes. Oh my goodness, you’re so obedient! I love it when a big strong man lets himself be this pretty and stretched out for me as he suckles on my little hole. No, don’t look away, my eyes are up here you wretched little thing- yes, that’s right, oh I only wish I could hear all the pretty noises you make when you take me down deep like this. Yes, you’re going to finish me, aren’t you? Oh yes, you’re going to finish me using that dirty little mouth-” Nearing the end of the can, you poured the last drop down his throat. “-yes, oh that’s a good boy, swallow every drop of me, good job love.”

He sputtered a final swallow, red-faced and breathing deep after chugging an entire can of beer. His eyes were still wide, but now there was also the way he looked at you- like he would do pretty much anything you ever told him to do at the drop of a hat.

Letting go of the shackles above your head, he managed to catch his breath before checking behind him to make sure he didn’t have a long line of waiting customers. No line had formed, but his blush had deepened when he saw his friends both watching him with smirks that said they were never going to let him live this down.

“Shit,” he chuckled looking up at you, his personality taking on a slightly more devil-may-care sort of attitude now. “I-uh- I think I blacked out, you might have to say all that again, I didn’t catch it the first time.”

You laughed, easily shirking the domineering attitude that you exuded for the job and relaxing into what felt natural- soft, sweet, and flirty- with this guy, at least. “Tell you what,” you said, coyly. You weren’t normally one to invite strangers out for drinks, but Ingrid had been right about one thing- this guy was definitely your type. “When the faire closes today, I’ll be at a bar called The Honeybee about ten minutes from here. If I happen to see you there,” you shrugged, and you didn’t miss how his eyes immediately flicked down to your cleavage as the motion made you bounce. “-then we can say all kinds of things to each other.”

The facial expression on the bard changed in an instant, his expression shifting from innocent and eager to knowing and darkly tempting. “Tell me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “Are you always as demanding as you were just now, or was that just an act?”

You knew what he was asking, and part of you wanted to tell him that he’ll have to show up at The Honeybee if he wants to find out, but something in you also wanted him to know the answer to that question- wanted him to know so many things about you it made your head spin.

“I can go either way and have a great time regardless.” you replied, smiling sweet as a spoonful of honey, and the devilish grin that he gave you in return took the breath from your lungs.

“Perfect.” he practically growled, “What’s your name?”

You told him, and the way he repeated it on his lips had you pressing your thighs tightly together. “And your name is?”

“Eddie.” he smiled.

You grinned in return. “Eddie.” you repeated. His name tasted like whiskey and cinnamon on your tongue. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

To your surprise, Eddie laughed raucously, hopping back a few paces. “Oh, on the contrary, fair barmaid!” With a flourish, he swung his guitar from his back to his front, strumming a few chords in rapid succession and plucking them in a melody that showed a level of skill that you hadn’t been expecting. After a moment of music, he stopped short and looked up at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Mark my words, my love- you’ll see me again before tonight and you will- without a doubt- hear me before you see me.”

You let out a surprised laugh, fingers flying up to your mouth to block an obnoxious guffaw from escaping your lips. That only spurred Eddie on more. He made a sort of swatting motion with his hand, gesturing toward your own hand at your mouth. “Away, thou evil hand! How dare ye venture to hide the sweetest of smiles that does bloom on a flower such as this?” He plucked away at his instrument dramatically, as if doing so were a declaration of war. You couldn’t help but humor him, grabbing the offending hand with your other one and firmly clasping both in your lap.

Eddie smiled, still strumming his guitar. “Aye, and stay away! For there are far better things for pretty hands to do than hide even prettier faces.” He waggled his eyebrows up and down as he began to walk away with his friends.

Your jaw dropped as you let out a good natured scoff. “And what would the noble bard suggest I do with my pretty hands?” you knew that you practically yelled it, and it caused a few other guests to glance your way questioningly; you didn’t care, it certainly wasn’t the strangest thing you’d said today.

Eddie’s cackle rang out through the air like electricity during a storm, and your heart did a little backflip when he spun around once before facing you one last time before he was out of your line of sight. “Oh, my lady-” he called, smiling unabashedly, “-I humbly suggest you find the biggest can you have, think of me-” and then the motherfucker winked, “-and use your imagination.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #renaissance faire #naughty wench #rip-quizilla

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madebypointlesswords · 1 year

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The knights at 3am feat. Leon the Long Suffering

Leon: please stop Gwaine, twerking on his bed: Come good sir Leon! Shaketh thou bossom! Elyan, dancing in his boxers: Alexandria play "thy wenches are not loyal" Lancelot, pointing to Gwaine's legs: Thou witch shall not revealeth thine ankles! Conceal thine ankles, wench! Gwaine, curstying: I belongeth to the cobblestone pathways good sir! Leon, under his blanket: We literally have patrol tomorrow Percival, jumping on his bed: but sir, it is hot wench summer! Elyan, shaking his hips: Mine hips do not bear false witness! Leon, crying: can we go to sleep? Please?

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bakedbakermom · 6 months

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can you tell use more stories of what it was like waiting/watching the x files when it was on air?>:)

i was late to the fandom - i stumbled across the episode Humbug during the hiatus between s6-s7 and was HOOKED. i was also, unfortunately, 13 at the time, and not allowed to use the internet nearly as much as i wanted. so i can't tell you about what the fandom was like before 1999.

HOWEVER i can tell you that the end of s7 was a nail biter, and the summer between 7 and 8 was filled with an unprecedented surge in fanfic as we all tried to imagine what season 8 would bring. (i wrote one that i may return to at some point, it was very apocalyptic.) there were a LOT of angry fans when robert patrick was announced as joining the cast, to the point where many of us felt like scully hitting him with water in Within was meant to be a catharsis for US.

what i miss most about those days, however, is how creative and connected the fandom was. there were web hosts out there like angelfire and geocities where anyone could make their own completely free website about whatever they wanted, with a simple wysiwyg interface (what you see is what you get, aka drag and drop) so even the most tech-illiterate among us could make something cool - and if you knew html (or had lissaexplains bookmarked) you could make something truly spectacular.

there would be surges of new fic and fanart after every episode (some more than others lol). you would find screencaps and videos on napster from those who had better tech than you. being 13 with a strict 10pm bedtime and no computer of my own, i couldn't hop on the forums after the episode like i wanted; instead i'd have to wait until monday afternoon after school to catch up on all the hot goss and new content, and i had NO irl friends who watched the show until high school (literally day one a girl named jenn spotted xf art on my binder and we were friends immediately). so you can imagine that by the time 3:00 rolled around i was positively VIBRATING with the need to talk about it.

there was one official forum and dozens of fan-made offshoots (walter's wenches, for example, started as a sub-board on the main forum and then became its own group) that felt like small towns. you could follow individuals or threads and get notifications for posts and updates. this was before social media, so it was all as anonymous as you wanted it to be.

i met several penpals on the official board that i stayed in touch with for years after the series ended and the board was shut down. one of them was a collector of xf memorabilia up in canada from whom i was able to buy several tapes of hard-to-find episodes (if you missed one, you had to hope for a rerun or a marathon) and merch (xf barbies my beloved) as well as extras like interviews and music videos and the celebrity deathmatch segment etc.

i miss late 90s/early 00s fandom so much.

youtube

also i was in catholic school and learned more about sex through fic than my school's pitiful sex ed would ever begin to touch on (did you know the penis goes in the vagina? because they never said that. did you know women can orgasm? because they never said that. etc)

#txf meta #fandom lore #fandom culture #txf fandom

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triviareads · 8 months

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Ever since I was mildly horrified that Colin Firth is a fancast for Lisa Kleypas's Lord Westcliff (by Lisa herself which.... come on, you need to pick someone who is not hot and yet inexplicably super attractive because of his "vitality" or whatever, Lisa), I've come to realize people actually liken Westcliff to Mr. Darcy, and even call It Happened One Autumn a 'spicy" version of Pride and Prejudice which.... well, we won't get into that particular suggestion, buuuuut I do think likening Darcy to Westcliff is kind of a disservice to both characters (and calling it "spicy" Pride and Prejudice is a disservice to both texts).

For all that Westcliff is shown as this perfect paragon of aristocratic virtue, he's honestly.... kind of not. Apart from him and Darcy sharing a sense of duty and a degree of aristocratic snobbery (which, tbh, most aristocrats or gentlemen would have at the time), they really aren't all that similar personality-wise

Do I think the narrative about Darcy being a brooding borderline douchebag was pushed by by fans post-1995 Pride and Prejudice? Maybe. To a degree. But let's be real here, Westcliff comes way closer to being a dbag than Darcy ever does, particularly his hot-and-cold behavior with Lillian (the time he calls her an easy target for St. Vincent and then immediately pounces on her and fingers her in his butterfly garden comes to mind). Darcy's behavior towards Lizzy is fairly consistent; it's just, they both misinterpret one another's actions until the proposal makes everything clear. That's not to say they don't change their attitudes afterwards, but there was always civility at the least.

And I don't think Darcy is a super broody type, but he is definitely shy around people he doesn't know (awkward too), and seems like the type to socialize with a few close friends (like I'm convinced his only confidantes are Bingley, and then his own cousin Col. Fitzwilliam). Westcliff on the other hand displays no qualms about socializing in large groups, in fact, he seems to command a lot of attention in large group settings like balls and the big house parties he hosts (routinely, based on Secrets of a Summer Night, where he's described as an accomplished host).

I know it's hard to compare a text with on-page sex to a text that is much older and has no point of comparison, but there was this detail in Secrets of a Summer Night that stood out to me:

This is veering into headcanon territory but the more generous headcanon I have regarding Darcy's premarital sex life is largely "widows" and "older women" and that too... I imagine it's a limited number (otherwise, he's a virgin. or partially a virgin; that's my favorite). What I'd never think Darcy would do is "join in" with any village wenches in Lambton (a combination of his shyness and upper-class snobbery about socializing with the lower classes for fun). Nor do I think he'd he exhibitionist enough to do things with paramours at parties where friends could see him. Interestingly, in IHOA, Livia comments that Westcliff has had a few discreet affairs and nothing more, but between a secluded sister and a friend who routinely goes around town with him, I believe Simon Hunt lol; that being said Westcliff is deffo more of a society affair type than a sex worker/courtesan mistress type. To be clear, this isn't me judging Westcliff for having sex with a lot of women, it's just, again, for all that he outwardly behaves in a proper fashion, he really isn't, and has relatively relaxed views on propriety, even as he judges Lillian for her lack of it at first.

In his second proposal to Elizabeth, Darcy basically said he understands that "no means no", while Westcliff..... does not quite understand that.

Ways Westcliff is similar to Darcy:

They both are brought to their knees by women who initially don't fit within their notion of a "right" spouse. But that's such a broad trope, as is the fact that they both "save" their heroines in some sense.

There's a decent amount of language in P&P describing Darcy as a a fair-minded master and "liberal"; while I don't know enough to speculate on his actual politics (though I have read some pieces that suggest he might be, based on, among other things, the real-life figure Jane Austen may have named him after, the Earl Fitzwilliam), what we do know is that he's liberal in the sense of being a very involved master at his estate, liberal with money where his estate and tenants are involved. Basically, he's not stodgy and backwards, just like Westcliff is when it comes to his estate and tenants. Kleypas takes Westcliff's liberal attitudes a step further by aligning him with progressive causes and progressive politicians.

Look, both Westcliff and Darcy are classist to a degree; both initially balk at marrying women with connections to trade, but ultimately, they a) go ahead with marrying them anyway and b) we know they like to associate with people in trade in other ways. For example, Darcy and Bingley are good friends in the way that Westcliff and Simon Hunt are friends. Plus, we know Darcy gets on really well with Elizabeth's Aunt and Uncle Gardner (who are in trade), to the point that they're frequent visitors at Pemberley after their marriage. Basically, their snobbery is not universal.

Westcliff and Darcy are good to their siblings but even here, the actual sibling relationships are different. Westcliff is closer in age to both his sisters so their relationship is (mostly) noninterfering (tbh Westcliff exercises remarkable forbearance when McKenna returns) and Westcliff is less high-handed than I imagine Darcy is with Georgiana who, based on their age gap, likely regards him as a second father of sorts.

#lisa kleypas #pride and prejudice #mr. darcy #jane austen #historical romance #romance novels

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maybege · 2 years

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Okay here i am to request either 99 or 126 (or both if you’re feeling it lol) with your Excon!Paz 😳😏

I am desperate to see more of him omg

Heat Waves #1

Summary: Paz fixes your sink.

Pairing: neighbour!ex con!Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 3.2k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, fingering (f receiving), handjob, dirty talk, comeplay,

Prompts: #99 “I love the way you look with my fingers inside you.” #126 “Y-you're not … w-wearing anything under that are you?”

Thank you so much for sending in prompts, Aeryn! This was super exciting and very inspiring to write and I hope you will like it, there will even be a small part 2 based on another prompt I received for excon!Paz! As always, let me know what you think in a comment or reblog!

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

Paz was pretty sure that there had never been a summer as hot as this one.

The heat wave was stretching on for days now and while he was glad that he had gotten to switch to the day shift in construction, the sudden weather change meant that more often than not he got dizzy from the relentless sun and no amount of water would be enough to quench his thirst.

When he was not on site hammering and building away, he had started to share grocery duty for Mary with you because he would rather get a heat stroke than see the elderly woman trying to move up four flights of stairs in this heat. He had even gotten her portable AC unit to work again and the homemade lemonade she had rewarded him with had run down his throat like scotch after a bad day. (Only rhetorically, of course, he still had his parole conditions to adhere to.)

Now, though, he was just glad to have made the track up the stairs that seemed to get longer with ever step he took. The sun was hitting his apartment in the late day so the first order of business was to take off his shirt as soon as he stepped foot into his home. Rubbing the fabric over his face to get rid of most of the dust, he blindly reached for the kitchen sink, the sound of flowing water already cooling him down before he got his hands under it.

But the true highlight of the day came in form of you knocking on his door that evening, dressed in nothing but the flimsiest sundress he had ever seen.

“I know it’s late and you just came home from work and I – but the – and the –“ you sniffled and he immediately grew alarmed.

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching out to put his hand on your shoulder. It was still somewhat cold from the water and he watched how goosebumps raised on your skin. “What’s going on? Whatever it is, I can help.”

Hell, he’d go and violate all of his parole rules if it meant helping you.

“My sink is still broken,” you muttered, shifting into his touch and his heart skipped a beat.

“But I thought Mr Johnson wanted to come by this morning and fix it?” he frowned, remembering the conversation you had and how happy you had been to share the good news with him. And how happy he had been that you wanted to share it with him.

“He didn’t,” you shrugged, “And I already took the day of work and I can’t miss another shift and I thought, maybe, you could …?”

“I’ll take a look at it,” he said before you could continue and before he could think any better. He just really wanted to spend time with you and, honestly, he could hardly believe his luck that you went to him of all people.

It was still way too hot, though, and he only noticed that he wasn’t wearing a shirt when he stepped into the hallway. But you didn’t seem to mind, already opening your door, and he shrugged. If you didn’t mind, he didn’t mind.

The offending cabinet was already opened, a plastic bucket and a single wench looking lost on your wooden flooring. “Okay,” he murmured, rubbing his palms over his jeans-clad thighs, “Let’s see.”

He sat down, shuffling his head into the open space.

“Thank you, Paz,” you murmured, sitting down next to him, your thigh brushing against his. Was that intentional? Certainly, in a heat like this, touching like this had to be voluntary. “Truly,” you continued quietly, “Thank you so much.”

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” his hand landed on your thigh by accident, really, but he grew quiet when he felt the soft silk under his fingertips.

He heard your breath hitch and forced himself to drag his hand away, inwardly cursing at how much he yearned for you and your touch.

“Sorry,” he murmured, trying to reach the wrench, “Could you, uh …”

Without a word, you sat up next to him, leaning over in the tight space to look at the pipe. The wrench landed on his chest and his eyes landed on your cleavage, glued to the shimmering skin and the way your tits were basically swinging in his face.

He gulped, trying to turn his head away but also trying to keep the pipe in his view.

“It should be here, right?” you asked him, looking back and when he saw where you had pointed, he could not help but chuckle.

Where the confidence in him came from to wrap his hand around yours, he did not know. But Paz was not the kind of man to look a gift horse in the mouth. “It’s here,” he explained, gently guiding your hand to the spot he was talking about.

“Oh,” you giggled, your eyes shining as you looked at him in the darkness under the counter. It was so hot and you were so close and your eyes were on his chest and he felt himself puff up, wanting to impress you even more.

He knew that his time locked away had left his marks on his body, either in forms of tattoos or scars or the way his hands were rough from work still. And even when he knew that you did no mind it – at least not anymore – he found himself a little self-conscious, not used to a woman he fancied checking him out like this.

“Let me get you something to drink,” you murmured, your hand brushing over his thigh again and stars at this point his cock was already twitching in his pants.

He could hear you clattering around. “You are very nimble,” you commented innocently, “With how big your hands are.”

“Yeah that’s not the only thing my fingers are good for,” he muttered under his breath, hoping that you had not heard him because his thoughts had strayed into territory that certainly wasn’t family appropriate at the moment but all his thoughts disappeared when he looked up at you.

You stepped next to him and the hem of your dress swinging with the movement, and his eyes were glued to the soft skin of your thighs until he realized that you –

Fuck.

He averted his eyes immediately, feeling the blood rush into his ears and … other places. Shit, you were not wearing any panties and you looked fucking enticing. This was what he had dreamt about for weeks now, your body offered to him on a silver platter and all he wanted to do was to sit up, slip his head under your dress and –

“Everything okay?” you asked him, shuffling even closer and he clenched his jaw, his cock straining in his pants as he thought about it would feel to have you underneath him. Or on top of him. He really wasn’t picky.

“Y-you're not, uh, w-wearing anything under that, are you?” he stuttered out.

You did not say anything for a moment and the awkward silence was killing him. He shuffled back, finally sitting up and setting the tool to the side. “Sink should work now,” he said, standing up and not meeting your eyes and hoping to whatever entity there might be that you did not notice the considerable bulge in his jeans and that this did not ruin everything you had.

“I am so sorry,” you brought out.

“No, I am sorry,” he replied, making his way to your door, “I shouldn’t have looked and it is your home and you should wear whatever makes you feel comfortable and –“

“But I did not want to make you uncomfortable,” you said instead and he hated that even now you were worried about him. He turned back to you, very aware of how your eyes lingered on his chest before dipping to his crotch and he swallowed.

“No apologies necessary,” he said, burying his hands in his pockets, “I don’t mind, I mean not that I – you – you, uh, you look very pretty, is all. I should, I should probably go, I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Paz,” your voice held him back and your fingers were playing with the dangerously thin strap of your sundress, “Do you really not mind?”

He thought he was dreaming.

He gulped.

He shook his head.

The small smile on your lips was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, closely followed by the view of your bare body as you let your dress fall to the floor. Through your closed blinds, the air seemed warm and heavy and golden but he could not care less. Not when he could see the slopes of your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, how your hips formed into your thighs and how you looked so fucking confident and vulnerable at the same time. “Could you help me with this too?”

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he hissed, taking a large step forward and framing your face with his hands, “You’re so pretty.”

Your giggle was music in his ears as your hands found their way to the back of his neck, “You’re pretty too, Paz.”

He shook his head, looking down at you, the tip of his nose brushing over yours. “Not as pretty as you,” he murmured, “Sweetheart, you’re – you’re truly something else.”

Your back arched, your tits brushing against his chest and he felt how your nipples pebbled. His lips brushed over your jaw, “Let me kiss you, love?”

“You can do whatever you want with me,” you breathed against him, your fingertips running through the short hairs at the back of his neck and he growled.

That was exactly what he wanted to hear.

You had spent countless nights and days imagining and daydreaming about what it would feel like to finally kiss Paz.

But nothing could even come close to the actual feeling of his lips against yours. Kissing Paz was soft and careful but the more you reciprocated, the bolder he became and that only turned you on more.

There was something thrumming just underneath his skin and you were sure that any moment he would be brave enough to show you what he wanted. And how much he wanted you. Because, stars, you wanted him more than anything for over weeks now.

His big hands were cupping your cheeks, his thumbs rubbing over your cheekbones, and your body was rubbing against him so deliciously. It was so hot, you did not notice your nudity all that much except when it came to his hands wandering over your back to cupping your ass, pulling you against him. His legs shifted, his thigh pressing between yours and you gasped against his lips.

“Is this okay?” he asked against you, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, “Tell me if – if something’s not okay, yeah?”

You giggled, hooking your fingers through the belt loops of his jeans before stepping away a little, “I promise I will, now come to bed.”

Paz’s eyes slid over your body, a full swagger returning to his movements as he followed you to lay down on your mattress. The bedding had been pushed to the side during these tropical nights but you could bear the heat if it meant feeling Paz’s bare skin against yours.

Your legs fell open, making space for him between your thighs and when the denim rubbed against your clit, you arched against him. Even through the layer separating you, you could feel how hard he was and when he ground his hips against yours, you moaned.

“I want to touch you,” he murmured, his lips landing on your jaw and you tilted your head back, giving him all the access he could ever want, “Do you want that too? Do you want me to touch you?”

“Stars, yes,” you breathed, feeling your slick making even the rough texture of his jeans become slippery, making it easier and easier for you to hump against him, “Please touch me, Paz.”

He growled, his thumb and forefinger spanning from your chin over your jaw to your ear, his nose brushing over your throat while his lips dragged over your skin. His other hand cupped your right breast, his thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple.

“Fuck, you’re soft,” he mumbled against you, shuffling back up to kiss you. His lips moved over yours, again and again until you could hardly discern left from right or up from down. All you could feel was him.

You lifted your hips again, wanting more and more friction and the significantly large bulge in his jeans seemed to be just perfect for that.

Paz groaned, his hands snapping to your hips and you found yourself wishing that the way his fingers dug into you would leave bruises for you to remember this moment just like it was. Full of unrestrained passion and yearning.

Your pussy fluttered around nothing and you could feel another wave of wetness when his hand splayed over your inner thigh, pushing it to the side.

“Spread them for me,” he grunted, his eyes focussed on your folds, “Want to see how wet this pretty pussy is.”

“Just for you,” you smiled, biting your lip when you saw him sat back on his knees, palming his cock while his fingers wandered closer to the place where you needed him most.

“Just for me you say?” he grinned, slipping one finger inside you, “Must want my cock pretty bad, then.”

You gasped, his finger so much bigger than yours and your walls clenched. The wet sounds from your body did not embarrass you as they might have, not when Paz sat between your thighs like a god, worshipping you as one of them.

He pushed another finger inside you and you whined, your hand flying up to your mouth.

“I love the way you look with my fingers inside you,” he growled, crooking his fingers inside you, “Look at the way your pretty pussy just swallows them. You think it’ll wrap around my cock like that?”

You lifted back onto your elbows, chancing a glance down to where he was stroking you. If you had thought the knuckle tattoos attractive before, there was nothing that could describe how seeing them disappear inside you made you feel.

You whimpered, spreading your legs even more which gained you an approving hum from Paz. “Good girl,” he mumbled, shifting his weight so he was resting above you, one forearm keeping him from crushing you while his other hand moved inside you, building up a rhythm that made you feel –

“So good,” you gasped, your hips lifting off the sheets, bumping against his and , “Paz please, it’s – it’s so …” you trailed off into a moan.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his lips moving against your cheekbone while his thumb circled your clit, “Just let me stretch you out, you’re going to need it.”

If at all possible, his words seemed to make you even wetter and you clenched, feeling his fingers press against a spot you had not discovered before.

“You’re soaking me, love,” he whispered as if his words formed a dirty secret between you he was too excited to share, “Are my fingers making you feel this good? Are you that needy?”

You swallowed, your body too heavy with pleasure to really form words and Paz chuckled. He was clearly happy about the effect he had on you and his confidence only pushed you closer to the edge.

“Someone just needed some attention, didn’t she?” he teased you, “Did you just need a bit of attention by having your pussy filled?”

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

“I know,” he soothed you, “Words are hard when you’re so busy trying to come around my fingers. No worries, sweetheart, you don’t need to say anything. You just need to come for me, okay? Can you do that for me, pretty girl?”

You nodded eagerly, swallowing heavily as he flicked your clit, pleasure overtaking your mind one nerve end at a time. Until all you could feel was this all-consuming, never ending pleasure.

“There we go,” you could Paz hear through the mind fog, “Good girl.”

His fingers slowed their ministrations, gently helping you ride out the after-waves of your orgasms and you took a deep breath in. Paz was still perched over you, the corners of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly as he gazed at you.

“You’re very pretty,” he smiled, kissing you softly. The kiss brought him closer to you, his bare chest resting against yours and you gasped, feeling overstimulated, when you felt his bulge against your folds.

But no matter how boneless you felt, how sated, you could not ignore the fact that Paz hadn’t gotten to feel like that yet.

“Show me what you like,” you whispered, your chest still heaving from you trying to catch your breath. Paz looked at you in surprise, almost as if he didn’t believe the words that had left your mouth. There was a knot between his brows.

“I won’t last long,” he warned you, sounding a little unsure, “It’s been – been ages since someone touched me.”

Your heart broke for just a second, splitting into a thousand parts at the grief that you felt for him. Paz deserved to be touched, desired, loved, every single day. Then all the pieces melted together in the inside of your body as you saw him free his cock from the confines of his jeans.

“You’re huge!” you blurted out, eyes wide as you spotted drops of precome gathering at the tip of him. He was thick and long and looked – his cock looked heavy. And you could not wait to feel the weight of him in your palm.

“Uh, I wouldn’t say huge,” Paz said, sounding a bit bashful and you huffed. When you wrapped your hand around him, your fingertips just barely met. Paz hissed, his hips moving into your grasp.

“Huge sounds like the right word to me,” you teased, leaning up to press a kiss against his jaw. His stubble scratched your lips and the tip of your nose when you brushed it along his sharp jawline. Your bodies were slick with sweat, the heat of the day not lessening with the darkening of the sky. But for once, you did not mind. Not when you had Paz to focus on.

A big hand wrapped around yours, guiding you along his shaft in quick strokes and you watched in amazement the way his face shifted, how the hard line of his face grew so soft, his eyes fluttering closed with each pump of your hand.

“Fuck,” he hissed quietly, spilling his come all over your belly. His face fell against yours, hell, his whole body fell against yours, like the tension of the day had drained away all at once.

You bit your lip, trying to keep from smiling too widely as your fingers played with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. “Should – do you want to stay for dinner?”

Paz chuckled, the sound vibrating through his body and, in turn, through yours. He heaved himself up, smiling brightly, “I would love to, sweetheart.”

You had never noticed the crinkles on the corners of his eyes before, they made him seem even happier and you could not help but giggle.

He rolled to the side, the mess between your bellies cooling uncomfortably. “How about,” his hand took hold of yours, “How about we take a shower and then we get dinner from that Thai place down the road?”

“That sounds perfect.”

And it really was.

#maybege writes #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizsla x fem!reader #smut #neighbour!paz vibes

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