#imported lager

[beeradventurer]

Krombacher Hell | Krombacher Brauerei | Beer Review

[adultspicsandspirits]

Dos Equis

[gurugirl]

Truth or Dare | slumber party!h

Summary: Y/n's coworker, Harry, has never been to a slumber party so she decides to remedy that and give him a sleepover he'll never forget.

A/N: Based off this request. Thanks anon! I hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 6,752

Warning: smut

. . .

By her third glass of chardonnay, her stomach was feeling the acid from the wine but she was having such a good time talking to Harry from the operations department that she didn’t care. She’d have another before calling it a night. Just one more glass so she could sit with him a little longer and listen to him talk and watch as he ran his finger along the edge of his pint glass.

He was probably looking at her like he was because he was also three pints of lager in and he was kind so he was holding eye contact to be polite. Certainly, it wasn’t because he found her attractive (though she’d have welcomed that).

The company’s management meeting was long over and everyone else had gone home but Harry and Y/n stayed for another round. They rarely ever got to talk at the office. She’d always wanted to pick his brain about why he decided to move to the US and how, of all companies, he chose to work at Dunn Services.

Y/n laughed on cue as he mentioned something from his childhood with his sister having her friends over to stay the night. He grinned, a healthy row of teeth aimed at her before he looked down and laughed at himself, “In truth? I never did have a sleepover or anything like that.”

“Really? Surely you had friends…”

Harry nodded, “Oh yeah I had a lot of friends. But I never stayed over at anyone’s and they never came over to mine either. Just… I don’t know. Never happened.”

Placing her nearly empty glass down she turned and waved with a smile as the waitress walked by, “Can we get another round, please?”

“How are you getting home?” Harry asked when she faced him, crossing her leg over her knee toward him.

“Taxi. You?”

“Might walk. I’m not far from here.”

Nodding she placed her elbows on the table, “So, I think that you’ve missed out on an integral right of passage, having never had a slumber party. You should definitely remedy that at some point. I highly recommend a fun sleepover. In fact, if you need pointers on what to do during a sleepover, I’m your gal.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your go-to during a slumber party?” Harry teased before taking another sip of his beer.

“Well, I think there are like two main components. The first is entertainment and I’m always keen on a good movie, or a dumb one, either way… a movie for sure if I’m picking. Some people like to play board games or whatever, but I like to stuff myself into a pile of blankets and pillows and just lie, or drape,” she spoke using her arms to demonstrate herself draping into pillows. “Occasionally, if the mood is right, I’ll enjoy a little truth or dare.”

“Got it. A movie and maybe if the mood is right, truth or dare. And what’s the second component.”

Y/n crossed her fingers together and raised her brows as if she were about to say something very important, “Snacks. Beverages. Good ones. Usually just small bites but here’s my list…” She cleared her throat, “Buttered popcorn, and possibly potato chips. Definitely something chocolatey, and maybe something like a cookie or a snack cake. If not potato chips then tortilla chips and if it’s tortilla chips, salsa should also definitely be on the menu.”

Harry held back the laugh in his throat as he nodded, “Wow. Okay. What about like a burger or Chinese food? Would that be allowed?”

Y/n shrugged, “It’s your party. You can do what you want. I’m just telling you what I’d do and what would be a hit with your sleepover buddy.”

Harry breathed out a laugh. Y/n could tell he was getting bashful. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. She watched him for a few seconds before the waitress returned with their drinks.

A quick gulp of wine and she nudged at his shin with her shoe, “You wanna have a slumber party with me?”

Harry blinked and tilted his head, “What? You mean… Seriously?”

She shrugged, “Why not? Then next time someone asks if you’ve ever had a proper slumber party you can say that you have.”

He laughed loudly, his husky voice was like music to her ears. Pointing at her with his finger he grinned, “Now how I can argue with that? I mean,” he shook his head, a glint in his eye, “Every time someone asks me if I’ve been to a slumber party and I tell them I haven’t, it’s such a disappointment! The look on their faces when they realize my whole childhood was a sham…”

They both laughed, leaning in toward one another, tittering toward the edges of their stools.

Harry tilted his head, “Actually I think it sounds fun. You just name the day and I’ll be there.”

Y/n smiled at him. She knew it was crazy. Having a grown man at her place for a slumber party. Typically adults didn’t have those kinds of sleepovers – it was usually with the intent of something far more salacious. But she’d show him a good time, she thought, raising her glass toward his, “Deal.”

.                 .                 .

Y/n had her sofa bed pulled out and piled high with extra blankets and pillows. She had all her favorite snacks plus she ordered cheeseburgers and fries for the guest of the night. It was silly. Truly she hadn’t had a real slumber party in ages, but she couldn’t help but feel a little bit of excitement that she’d be hanging out with Harry all night. It was possible that her small crush on him was making her feel all giddy but she’d push down that feeling until he gave her any extenuating signals.

Because the truth was that they were both single, young adults and this was such an unlikely scenario. No one would look at this and say Oh how cute of these two grown adults hanging out in bed together for a sleepover. So innocent! No, she knew better. While maybe nothing would actually happen it certainly wouldn’t look innocent.

And of course, she did pick out the perfect pijama set. Something a little more flattering on her body but not too hey I really need to get laid tonight. It was a happy compromise. Cotton shorts and a button-up, matching short-sleeved top. This was just supposed to be a slumber party after all.

Right?

Besides, the little paper invitation she gave him on Monday morning told him to arrive in his sleepwear so she had to look the part. And not to toot her own horn but she made a very cute invitation just for him tucked into a pink envelope with a separate little response card that had space at the bottom for him to mark yes or no if he could come. It was a yes. Obviously.

When Harry finally arrived he was wearing a pair of grey sweats and a white t-shirt. And for some fucking bizarre reason he looked so much hotter than he did when he wore his well-fitted suits at work.

Because goddamn did his shirt somehow just hug his torso in all the right spots and it allowed her to take a good look at all tattoos on his arms that were normally hidden under brushed wool jackets or long-sleeved button-up shirts. She knew he had tattoos. She’d seen him roll up his sleeves a couple of times but she never wanted to be rude and stare for long.

And then the sweatpants, while loose in the legs, fit his waist and hips and…

“You okay?” Harry was still standing in the doorway with his backpack draped over his arm waiting to be invited in.

“Yeah, sorry. Not used to seeing you dressed down like this. Almost unrecognizable.”

Harry let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling as Y/n stepped aside to let him in, “Would you like to see my ID? Swear I’m the Harry Styles, the guy you invited over for chips, popcorn, and truth or dare. I’ve even got your invite somewhere in my bag…”

She breathed a laugh through her nose and watched him enter into her space, “Movies too. Oh, and I also ordered cheeseburgers. Remembered that you mentioned that.”

He seemed quite pleased with the burgers as she handed him the bag. She got those small ones, five to an order, “Thanks. Fries too, huh?” He reached into the bag and pulled out three crinkle-cut french fries then stuffed them into his mouth.

“So should we settle in and pick out a movie?” She gestured toward her couch.

Harry had seen the pull-out couch with heaps of pillows and blankets when he walked in. He knew that that would be where they’d be spending most of the evening. It was the glaring thing about the whole slumber party slash sleepover. That they’d be probably sleeping next to one another. As two young, healthy, attractive adults.

“Sure,” he nodded and waited for her to pick which side she was going to take before climbing in next to her, the thin mattress and metal frame giving way gently under his weight before he leaned back against a mountain of pillows, bag of burgers safe in his hands.

Y/n had a few video streaming services at the ready and they settled on a cheesy comedy from the late 90s before Y/n reached over to her coffee table and then lined up all the snacks between them.

They chatted a little, having both seen the movie already. Topics were anything from what their plans were for the rest of the weekend to what they’d eaten for lunch at work. And it was only a little awkward when they both reached into the bowl of M&M’s at the same time, fingers brushing together.

Harry moved his hand away, “Sorry. You go…”

Y/n grinned at him, scooping a handful of candy into her palm, and then sat up, adjusting her seating as she crossed her legs together, “Wanna do truth or dare? Pretend like we’re 15 again having a sleepover. Really get into the whole slumber party vibe, ya know?”

Harry dug out a few M&M’s and let out a chesty laugh, “If I’m 15 again we’re in big trouble.”

Y/n snorted a laugh, “Why? What do you mean?”

He shook his head, a wide grin on his face with deep set dimples carved into each cheek as he turned his head to look at her, “If this were happening when I was 15 I’d already be in the bathroom hyperventilating and probably trying to will away a boner after our hands touched in the M&M’s bowl.”

Y/n guffawed and threw her head back, nearly choking on her bite of chocolatey candies as Harry laughed with her. Honestly, it was the best icebreaker she could have asked for. Things had been kind of clunky between them up until that moment as they were still trying to navigate how to act around one another. And she knew he was teasing but the good belly laugh that she got from Harry’s story was exactly what they needed.

“Okay fine. We’ll just keep going about it as adults then. No fifteen-year-olds here tonight,” Y/n chuckled as she shoveled a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth.

Y/n kept her eyes on him as she chewed her mouthful, “So truth or dare?”

Harry cocked his head at her, “So the mood is right then? For truth or dare?”

Y/n’s brows furrowed, “The mood?”

“Yeah. You said it over drinks. Remember when you were telling me what the most important components are to a sleepover and you said you liked truth or dare if the mood was right.”

Nodding slowly, she thought back to what she’d said, “Yeah. I guess I did say that. And I mean… I think the mood’s right for a little truth or dare. Movie’s almost over and you just pretty much kicked us off with that truth.” A breathy laugh was pushed from her mouth.

She could tell Harry was mulling on another question as he bit the inside of his cheek, head tilting in agreement, “So that means it’s your turn. Truth or dare?”

Biting her lip as she pondered, she pressed her back into the soft pillows behind her, “Truth.”

Harry shifted to his side, long legs stretching the length of the mattress as he propped his head up in his hand, a pillow under his arm, “Have you ever kissed a co-worker before?”

Scoffing Y/n moved to her side, mimicking Harry’s position on her side, “No,” she grinned. It was true. She’d never once done anything with any of her coworkers. Having Harry over at her house was the closest she’d ever gotten to doing anything like that. “Now you. Truth or dare?”

His green eyes slid over her features, “Truth.”

She laughed to herself, trying to think of something funny, “How many stuffed animals do you own?”

Licking his lips he nodded, “Think maybe two? Gifts from my niece… Truth or dare?”

“Mmm… dare,” she giggled.

Harry lifted a brow, “Ahhh… feeling bold yeah? Okay… hmm…” He pursed his lips to the side as he considered the dare. “Read to me the last text you sent to anyone. And you have to show me to prove it was the last one. And it can’t be any texts you and me, cause that’s not fair.”

Y/n blinked. She wasn’t exactly sure what her last text was besides Harry. But she was slightly worried because if it was what she was thinking… lifting up her message app she scrolled down to the text thread below Harry’s and it was a text with her sister. Which was what she had been worried about. She gulped, hoping that the things she said about her “coworker” who was coming to stay with her weren’t the last things she and her sister texted about.

Puffing out a breath she covered up all the previous texts to show Harry the last text from her sister – God knows you need it. Sending you good vibes, sis ;)

Harry squinted as he looked at the message and pointed, “That’s to you. The dare was to show me the last text you sent to someone. Let’s see it…”

Feeling her neck heat up she angled the phone away from him and read what she’d sent her sister. And there was no mention of Harry but if he were even halfway decent at picking up clues he might be able to figure out what was being discussed prior.

She shook her head and looked up at him. She couldn’t believe she was about to show him what was on her screen. But a dare was a dare. What was the worst that could happen?

lol I doubt anything will happen but I wouldn’t turn him down. Got condoms just in case 😜 send all your good vibes my way

Harry’s brows squished together as he looked at the text and back to Y/n and then down again at the words on her screen. She saw his throat bob and she knew the look on his face. He fucking knew what that was. He had to know.

She had to look away. She pulled the phone down and killed the screen. The awkwardness between them thick and uncomfortable as she peeked back at him. The edge of his mouth was pulled upward in a smirk, “That’s to your sister?”

Nodding she blew out an exasperated breath, “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

Harry grinned as he positioned his knee closer to Y/n, his eyes still on hers, “Dare.”

Swallowing her embarrassment down the best she could she decided to ask him the same, “Now show me the last text you sent anyone besides me.”

Harry’s smartass grin told her all she needed to know. That his last text probably wasn’t nearly as risqué as hers.

And it wasn’t. Not even close.

You can have two pounds for free. I’ve got so many growing I can’t keep up. As long as you come to pick them up on Monday they’re yours.

“I have a bunch of zucchini growing in my garden,” Harry pulled the phone away and laid it down next to his hip. “Got a neighbor who wants some.”

Of course, his last text to anyone was about zucchini. Jesus, she was so far out of her depth.

He was still wearing that shit-eating grin as he said, “Truth or dare, Y/n?”

And the way he said her name, all slow and sexy-like had her insides heating up. Well, maybe she made up the sexy part but he was definitely teasing her. She could just feel it.

“Truth.”

She was sure she’d regret that. Truth or dare. It didn’t matter. She was still reeling from showing him her texts.

“Was that text about me?” Shit-eating grin in place as he asked. Fucker.

Y/n’s eyes grew wide dropping her mouth open in surprise. Of course, he was going to ask that. Of course!

“Oh come on, Harry…” she pleaded.

He lifted his brows and awarded her a larger grin with those cute indents scoring into his cheeks, “Them’s the rules, baby. You chose truth and now you have to be honest.”

Clearing her throat she sat up to her bottom and leaned forward so she didn’t have to look at him as she put her head in her hands and laughed in disbelief, “Jesus. Seriously?”

“Yep. Spill. Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. Fine. Yes. It was about you.”

Keeping her eyes on her lap she waited for a smug remark. Some kind of teasing reply but it was quiet. Slowly she turned to look back at him and he was still lying on his side, head in his palm as he watched her, his eyes fixed to hers.

She shrugged, “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

Harry flattened his lips and squinted at her before cocking his head, “Hold on… Really? That was about me?”

Sighing she rolled her eyes, “Yes. Sorry. I was… it was just funny… it was me joking around with my sister is all.”

He blinked and looked down at the space between them as he nodded, “Okay. I see. So you didn’t actually mean it?”

“Well… I guess… We were joking. Obviously, nothing has to happen. I would never expect that. I…” she breathed out exasperated.

“Obviously nothing has to happen. Did you want it to happen?” His pupils were pinned to hers again.

Opening her mouth she stopped herself for a moment. She knew her answer was yes but she didn’t want to come off like a creep. She hadn’t expected it and assumed it wouldn’t. But the truth remained; she hoped it would happen.

Deflating her posture she laid back to her side to face Harry, tucking a pillow into her chest, “The truth is that I think you’re attractive and I haven’t been with anyone in kind of a long time and… she knows that, my sister. So we were just… it was lighthearted but yeah I mean… without any expectations, cause I would never… I hope you know that. But I did think it would be nice.”

“Nice. Yeah. I agree. It would be nice. And just so you know,” he swung his head to look over his shoulder before looking back at her, “I brought condoms as well. You know… just in case.”

She was a bit stunned at that. Was he…

“Dare me to kiss you,” he grinned, irises dropping to her lips for a second before looking back into her eyes.

She laughed, “That’s not how the game works. The rules are you can’t–”

“Fuck the rules. Dare me to kiss you.”

Shaking her head with a wide smile stretched across her face she felt like her skin was pricking as her heartbeat picked up. She couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

Looking back into his eyes she inhaled deeply, “Fine. I dare you to kiss me.”

Harry’s smirk was unreal. The way he dragged his gaze over her face and down to her mouth was almost lewd, “Didn’t need to play truth or dare to get me to kiss you, Y/n,” he scooted in, grabbing the pillow she had tucked into her chest and tossing it away before he drew a hand up to her face, “You just needed to ask.”

She held her breath as he closed in slowly until it was as if all the tension in the room had popped and fizzled when his lips met hers.

He was so soft and gentle. Lips winding easily, carefully at first. And then she parted her lips more, kissing him back and letting her mouth press into his bottom lip before their tongues were meshed.

She moved her knee out to stabilize herself and knocked over the bowl of popcorn between them. Laughing into his mouth she gasped as she parted from him but he only reached for her again, placing his palm at the back of her head to pull her mouth back against his with a grunt from his chest as he pushed the bowl away and drove his arm underneath her side to keep her from getting too far.

Harry was softly moaning as his tongue worked its way into her mouth gently. It was clear he’d wanted to kiss her. That he liked it. And that notion made her head spin combined with the feel of his thumb traveling over her jaw. There was not going to be any stopping the momentum that had begun.

Well, except for when the bowl of M&M’s poured out against her leg. She had to push at him. As much as she would have loved to have kept making out, she would not have been able to enjoy melted chocolate on her legs or the bedsheets tucked around the mattress (think of the scrubbing she’d need to do!).

“Sorry,” she panted and looked down at the smashed pieces of popcorn and the chocolate candies strewn between them, “I’ve gotta pick this up. Our body heat will melt all these and it’s gonna be a big mess.”

Harry grinned, “Why don’t we just move this party to your bed for a little bit? Clean up later? The M&M’s won’t melt if we’re not laying on them.”

She laughed, already feeling overwhelmed and overheated from the kiss and now he was suggesting taking it to her bed? This was really happening, wasn’t it? She nodded and they both moved off the sofa sleeper to their feet, Harry following behind Y/n as she led him to her bedroom.

She already had her bedside lamp on. Bed made perfectly, everything tucked in and neat.

She turned to look at him and he stepped against her, palm splaying at her low back, “I dare you to get onto your bed and take your clothes off.”

A small laugh burst from her chest, “Oh, so now we’re just doing dares?”

He nodded, “Making up our own rules for this game. S’more fun this way.”

Letting go of her he watched as she stepped backward toward her bed and began to unbutton her nightshirt until it was shed from her body before she pushed her shorts down her legs. She was left in a pretty white bralette (something soft for bedtime) that stretched around her breasts and a pair of thin cotton panties that matched. She kneed up onto her bed and let her feet dangle off the edge and pointed, “Now I dare you to take off your clothes.”

He peeled his white t-shirt off, his hair mussing in the process. She watched with her lips parted at the gorgeous man stripping before her. Not only was he built exactly like what she dreamed of (tattoos, beefy, muscular, a touch soft, very masculine) but the boner tenting his sweats was hard not to home in on.

Harry stuck his fingers into the waistband and looked up at her, “M’not wearing any underwear, so be warned…”

She swallowed as the material lowered, belly button, happy trail, a bit of dark hair and then he pulled the stretchy waistband away from his body so his cock could push free and she was already clenching at just the sight as he removed his sweatpants, cock full and heavy between his strong thighs.

Jesus Christ.

Harry stepped forward, nudging himself between her knees and she leaned back to look up at him, “I dare you to take off the rest of this. Since I’m completely naked feels only fair.”

She bit her lip and looked down at his girthy dick. He was clearly not shy of his body, standing there like that, cock right in front of her. But why should he be shy when he looked like that?

Scooting back further into the bed she got up to her knees and pulled the bralette off first, feeling the heat of his gaze on her tits as she then slid her panties down her thighs. She wasn’t nearly as confident as Harry was as she quickly pulled at her top blanket and covered herself with a small laugh.

Harry stepped forward, one knee on the mattress before climbing in next to her, nosing at her cheek softly before his lips were connected to hers again. And she melted into him just like before. His mouth was magic or something because before she realized it, he’d pulled the blankets off her body and he had a big palm sliding up her thigh and over her hip, “Don’t cover up. So pretty. Knew you would be.”

She pushed her fingers into his thick wavey hair and felt her side hit the mattress as Harry pulled at her again, mouth still smeared against hers. He grabbed at her thigh, hitching it over his hip as he tucked in closer and it was warm and she could feel it. Feel him against her hip.

His giant hand smoothed against her bottom and up her spine until he was wrapping his long fingers around the back of her neck. Y/n nudged in closer, driving her hips forward until she was practically straddling him. So Harry took that as his cue to move to his back, taking her hips in his hands so she’d follow with him.

It had caught her off guard, the sudden change in position but her lips never stopped moving with his. Their kisses were wet and she could smell their saliva, and a touch of onion even from the burgers he’d eaten.

He guided her hips down, his thick cock hot under her thigh until she felt her pussy drag against warm skin at the base of his dick. A small gasp escaped her mouth as he pulled her up, letting her pussy glide up his length, “So wet already, Y/n…”

She was. It was embarrassing. Every inch of his shaft her pussy dragged against, coated him, wetted his skin. He kept pushing and pulling at her hips, using her slippery pussy like a soft wet toy he could run up and down his length.

Then she felt his fingers move around to her backside, digits sliding against her pussy as he licked into her mouth.

Gently she rolled against him and when she moved herself further down he pushed a fingertip inside, “Go on. Fuck yourself on my finger a little bit,” he whispered against her mouth.

He was filthy. She had no idea. He’d always been so sweet at work. So polite and respectful. But here he was reaching around her ass to get a finger inside of her cunt as she rubbed her pussy over his cock.

She panted into his mouth as she slid down around his finger, her clit smushed into his dick, slippery as she rolled up and down. But then he began to assist as he added another finger and began to fuck into her pussy, letting his digits curve into her the best he could from his angle. Slushy wet, she stopped moving her hips and parted from the kiss as she looked down at him. She could tell she was gushing all over his palm and probably his dick as she moaned.

“S’that feel good. You’re gettin’ my fingers all wet like it feels good.”

Nodding she gasped, “Yeah. Feels so good…”

Harry rutted up against her, his cock still pressed into her clit, and she panted, eyes still searing into his. She didn’t want to look away. She almost couldn’t believe he was in her bed fingering her like that.

“Your turn to dare me to do something. What do you want, Y/n?”

She moaned and closed her eyes. She was certain of what she wanted as she listened to the way his fingers gushed with each plunge into her.

“Fuck… dare you to… put on a condom.”

She popped her eyes open to peer down at him as he slid his fingers out of her, wiping her arousal on her ass, “They right here?” He moved his hand toward her bedside table, a knuckle tapping at the wood.

Climbing off of him she opened the drawer, “Yeah, a whole box. Hold on…”

Reaching over to pull out the condoms she felt Harry’s hands on her hips as he moved to sit up, then his lips were on her back, dotting warm kisses to her shoulder blades as she finally plucked a condom from the fresh box.

She watched him put the condom on and as expected, it didn’t cover his entire length. He was kind of a big guy. Well, maybe there was no kind of about it. Before today she had no idea he was packing like that. Though he always did come off as very confident and sure of himself.

She bit her lip as she watched him toss the wrapper away and then he kneed up to her, arm sliding to her back and carefully lowering her to the bed before spreading her legs apart as he fit himself there, sturdy thighs pushing against her soft ones.

“Gonna tell your sister her good vibes worked?” He smirked down at her, hands scouring her hips and tummy and then kneading softly at her tits.

Y/n laughed and reached a hand down to his knee before he pulled at her, making her thighs drape over his as he inched in closer.

“Hmm?” He was awfully teasing, she thought, grinning at her waiting for an answer.

“Probably,” she spit out in a laugh.  

Harry gripped at her thighs, lifting her a bit more to fit her bum over his bent knees and she wanted to scream in embarrassment when she realized he was inspecting her sodden vulva. She’d gotten herself all tidied up for him, should anything like this happen, so at least she had that going for her.

He smoothed his thumb through her pussylips, spreading them apart, and softly blew out a breath, “That is very pretty. Think we get him in there?”

She rolled her eyes as she watched him wrap his palm around his base and lay his fat cock over her mons, the condomed-tip reaching to her belly button, maybe further past, “Well, it’s made for it, so I’m pretty sure–”

“What… your pussy’s made to fit around my cock?” A cocky dimpled smirk gave way to a laugh.

“You know what I meant. It’s meant to… like…” she breathed out a laugh.

“Oh, I know… just fucking with you, Y/n.”

He gazed at her as he reared back, painting his cockhead through her labia, up and down, a soft bump into her clit before he repeated, spreading her soft lips apart as he watched the way his crown smeared her arousal between her creases.

When she moaned and wiggled her hips he pointed himself right at her little muscle, nudging softly forward, opening it up for himself. And she felt that first push, the way his tip fit into her, spreading apart and then stretching to accommodate his circumference.

“Oh god…” she breathed as he slipped in halfway and then pulled back.

“Almost there,” he panted as he kept his eyes on where they were connected, pushing and pulling back until she was swallowing him whole, his cock enveloped in her soft, warm pussy.

When he’d buried in whole, he moaned and watched her face twist up in ecstasy. Her lips were dropped open and her neck stretched long as she grasped onto the forearm of the hand he had gripping her waist.

Slowly he began to thrust, viscous liquid seeping from her pussy and sticking to his shaft. It was filthy. She was so wet that every time he bottomed out there was a splat and a plap sounding between them.

She let out a deep moan and her lips curled up, humid breath escaping her mouth as she felt him driving into her guts. He was taking it easy. Languidly fucking into her with wet claps every time he plunged in.

When her cunt was taking him easier and she was dripping down to her ass he moved in a little harder, faster. Angling himself over her, a palm down on the mattress so he could work into her with more gusto.

“Ah! Harry…” she squeaked at the stronger thrusts and clung onto his lats. He was panting, lips parted and pink, a curl falling over his forehead as he plowed into her splooshing pussy.

“Fuck you’re wet. Pussy is gushing, Y/n…”

Her brows pushed together as she gasped, her body knocked upward every time his hips met hers making her tits bounce. Harry didn’t know where to keep his focus. He loved watching his cock disappear into her hole but he kind of liked being right over her so he could see her face crinkle up every time he bottomed out and then her pretty breasts sway up and down. Or maybe he’d like to fuck her from behind, watch her ass jiggle as he pounded into her.

“Mmm… fuck that’s big!”

Harry groaned, “Yeah? Sure know how to sweet talk a man don’t you, pretty? S’hurt?”

She watched his face, a lusty grin, droopy eyelids as he continued muscling his way in deep.

She hissed when he bucked in, as if he was showing off just how deep he could push in and she coughed out, “Mmm… a little!”

Harry was going to lose his mind with her if she kept squeaking out moans and splatting around his cock like she was but he would be a gentleman and pull back a touch. Slowing down a little he sat up and moved his hand between them, smushing his thumb into her clit, which was so sticky wet even that swished and slid under the pad of his digit.

“Yessss…” she breathed out before murmuring on about how good it felt. “Oh fuck, that’s it. Oh god… please don’t stop… Harry, fuck, yes…”

The clit. The magical little nob that worked wonders as long as the man knew where to find it. Clearly, Harry knew right where it was. Knew how to circle over it, pressing against it just right. Knew how to fuck into her as well. Sliding his length through her vaginal walls, spreading her open, and grazing against her gummy little spot on the inside that had her buzzing and liquifying for him.

He watched her whine and squirm under him, loving how she was so into it. God that was an ego boost, “Like that, Y/n? Gonna come for me? Yeah?”

Her ears were already ringing when she lost herself, gripping around him and crying out as her orgasm washed through her tummy. Harry’s cock made her feel so full, so incredibly stuffed to the brim that it weighed her down and she could hardly move as he bulldozed into her, the pad of his thick thumb smushing fast circles over her throbbing nub.

Fucking her through it he gasped at how she spasmed and milked around him, her pussy trying to siphon his come right through his condom. But Harry wouldn’t come just yet. He had something to prove. Wanted to make a show of his prowess and give her something to tell her sister about.

So when she was finally calmed and her pussy wasn’t clamping around him like a vice grip he slid his hand under her head and kissed her gently, speaking low and soft against her lips, “Gonna have you flip over, okay? Just need a little more yeah?”

When he parted from the kiss she blinked up at him, fluttering lashes and out of breath, “You didn’t come?”

He shook his head, pulling himself out, gently before he placed his hands on her hips, “Not yet. I will soon, though. M’right on the edge. Won’t take me long.”

She rolled to her side as he lifted her hips and helped her get to her tummy. She felt his hands on her ass, squeezing and rubbing each meaty globe in his big palms. Then he was straddling her thighs as he spread her gently and she felt him push his thick tip back into her pussy, sharp and hot. It was tighter, felt a lot fuller like that as he began driving in deep and then pulling out to his tip, before plowing back into the hilt.

His moans grew louder and, even he could admit, sounded quite whiny, pathetic. He was shaking as he watched his dick spread her in half, her soft ass jiggling as he smacked into her, skin patting, his cock leaking precum steadily into his condom.

He hissed when it felt too good. His balls squeezing and his fat dick throbbing inside of her. He thrusted forward, landing a palm down next to her shoulder, his chest pressed into her back as he rutted himself in, tucking his cock through her insides and puffed out a hot groan into her ear, “Fuck you feel good. Gonna make me come, baby…”

She moaned and nodded, “Come for me, Harry…”

He might have held out for another thirty seconds, possibly a minute longer but her breathy words, all sultry and pleading had him pumping into his condom in an instant. He gargled on a moan and squeezed his eyes closed as he buried in and stilled his hips, ass flexing so he could push in further if it were possible.

Y/n felt him crushing her back as he collapsed over her, panted breaths in her ear, cock still throbbing in the aftermath of his orgasm.

She didn’t mind it. Liked his weight on her like that. Enjoyed the way he seemed just as fucked out as she was. She could even feel his heart pounding in his chest against her back.

With a moan, she turned her head and nuzzled her face into her blanket with her eyes closed. She’d fall asleep that way if he couldn’t get up. It was quite warm and comforting. Like a weighted blanket draped over her body. And maybe she did doze off for a bit because when she opened her eyes she felt him moving off of her before he crashed down next to her, the springs in her mattress bouncing under him.

Pushing herself to lie on her side she ran a hand over his chest and he turned to look at her, a dopey smile on his flushed face, “So this is what happens at slumber parties, huh? I’ve really missed out all these years.”

She giggled and nodded into her pillow, “Yep. They’re just like big orgies really. Normally there are more than just two people. It’s how I lost my virginity.”

Harry sputtered a laugh, “Really?”

Y/n couldn’t help but to cackle loudly and roll to her back, the biggest grin on her face, “No, silly. I was teasing.”

He slid a hand over her tummy, “So this isn’t what happens at slumber parties, then?” She could hear the cheeky smile in his voice.

She turned her head to look at him, “Well, not usually. But I think we made our own rules for this one today.”

“Yeah? Well, I have to give it to you. You throw a hell of a party. I’m certain this is gonna go down as the best sleepover in history.”

. . .

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[syoddeye]

under the table

gaz x f!reader x price. ~2k words. +18 only. What is this? Who knows. Just wanted to write a little smut. Very loosely based off this. tags: dubcon, manipulation, semi-public fingering

Ten months into your marriage, you give into Kyle’s pestering. No, perhaps that’s an uncharitable way to phrase it. You finally accept one of his many invitations to meet his commanding officer, his Captain. 

(Though, is there any other way to describe Kyle’s incessant requests? When he asks repeatedly over breakfast or on dates, or when he drapes himself over your back mid-fuck, slowing to a teasing grind in an effort to make you change your mind? Think you’d like him, babe, like him almost as much as–)

You tell him it’s weird to bring up his boss while he’s inside you, but he just laughs and wipes the sweat off your brow.

“He’s important to me. He saw my potential. Just like you.” And how can you refuse when he puts it like that?

You tell him one evening after dinner, drying the dishes as he washes. Ceramic meets steel in a clatter as he drops a plate to cage you into the countertop, pressing kisses to your neck. You can feel his big, pleased smile against your skin, the chorus of thank yous. He barely remembers to turn the sink handle before he drags you off to bed, dishes half done.

It’s only drinks at the pub around the corner, and you don’t know why Kyle’s stressing and fussing over your outfit. Not every day does your husband pick your outfit, so you play along. You perch on the end of the bed to judge the dresses he presents and laugh at the fact that he thinks you’re pulling on three-inch heels for a place with tacky floors.

Kyle relishes that you must lean on him the whole way to the pub, the impractical shoes seemingly bent on catching every crack in the walk. His grip around your waist tightens the moment you cross the threshold, his grin a sly crescent.

He settles you into a booth in the corner, stepping away to buy your drinks. Beneath the table, you tug at the hem of the dress he convinced you to wear. It’s a classic black number, short, one of his favorites, and a bit much for your surroundings. But the fact that he pulled it out tells you the end of the evening will be good for you, that you’ll be duly rewarded for finally agreeing to meet his Captain.

A man appears at the table, eyes giving your top half an unabashedly appreciative once-over. Your mouth falls open as he slides onto the curved bench, stammering out a protest.

“Excuse me, I’m–my husband is at the bar, I’m flattered, but I’m–“

“Easy, love, just wanted a moment alone. Get a look at you.” The deep timbre of his voice is practically a purr, his mouth an amused line beneath an imperial beard.

Your brow pinches in annoyance. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, not with the pretty ring on your hand. You make a point to lay it on the table. “I’m not here on display, so if you’d please fuck off–“

“Captain Price,” Kyle chirps, a pint in each hand. “See you’ve met the missus.”

A hand pinches your knee, and it’s not attached to your husband.

“I did. Spirited, like you said.” The hand retracts as Captain Price exits the booth, exchanging a look with Kyle you don’t quite understand. “Back in a tick.”

You watch the broad-shouldered man head for a drink, then glare at your husband. “‘Spirited’?”

“Aren’t you?” Kyle chuckles, sidling up until his leg is flush with yours. He pushes the lager to the space in front of you and slings his arm over the back of the booth. “Did he scare you, babe? He can be a bit friendly, but he’s harmless.”

You sincerely doubt it. ‘Friendly’ is a loaded word. It’s how you describe Kyle and his hands’ bad habit of wandering. Ask him, and he’ll say he’s simply smitten and proud to have such a cute thing for a wife. Like it is now, his arm practically lives across your shoulders or around your waist when you’re out and about until his hand ‘gets cold’ or ‘lonely’, and he slots it between your legs or rests it on the swell of your ass. ‘Friendly’ is not something you want his boss to be.

Cordial. Polite. ‘Friendly’ in the way bosses are supposed to be, detached and unassuming. 

The older man scoots in close, muttering something about the noise, effectively sandwiching you between him and Kyle. You retreat into your husband’s side as their conversation kicks off, catching up after weeks of leave. A few names you recognize from Kyle’s stories sprinkle in, giving you minimal context. You drink your beer and nod when appropriate, but otherwise, you people-watch. Though, you don’t watch the right people.

Over your head, behind your back, Kyle stares at his Captain, gaze darting down every so often to how the fabric of your dress pulls taut over your sides. The sliver of lace from your brassiere peeking out underneath a dress strap. He watches a man he trusts with his life openly examine his wife’s profile, effortlessly carrying on the conversation without meeting Kyle’s eyes once. 

“Have we bored you to tears, love?” 

You lift your head, pressing against Kyle, when Price plants his forearm on the table to lean closer. “Not at all. I don’t mind listening, Captain.”

“Told you to call me ‘John’.”

“Sorry,” You apologize. “John.”

John hums, musing. “So she can listen.”

The mild condescension leaves a taste in your mouth, but Kyle squeezes your shoulder, soothing.

“She is, sir.” 

John’s gaze is heavy, dropping to your mouth to your cleavage in one swoop before excusing himself to buy the next around.

“Kyle,” You turn, finding him staring at the back of John’s head. “Can we leave soon? I don’t feel well,” you lie, shifting in your seat.

“Really?” His eyes snap down, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You sure? You haven’t even finished your first.”

“Please,” you glance sidelong at John. I–We can skip to the good part at home.” Usually, the offer works. It gets him on his feet quickly, tugging you to the car or along the walk within seconds. But he hesitates, mirroring your quick look at John.

“One more drink,” Kyle insists, tugging you back into place and forcing you to face forward. His breath hits your neck as he dips his head to whisper into your ear. “Think you can handle it? Be good for me?”

The tone of his voice makes you consciously aware of your nipples protruding through the thin material of your bra, instantly rising to attention at the sheer promise behind his words. Without thinking, your knees press together, capturing his attention. You watch his tongue glide over his lip. Surely, he won’t. Not with his boss here.

His arm remains in place, and his free hand inches closer atop the table. 

“Kyle, don’t.”

“Don’t what, babe?” He smirks, looking away as John reclaims his spot.

“Miss anything?” 

“Not at all.”

While they return to their chat, you cannot disconnect as easily as before. Both men press against your sides despite the booth’s available space. Your heart thrums in your chest, ratcheted to a speed that makes you fidget. Twitch. Kyle’s honeyed words repeat in your head, and you subtly squirm, feeling the heat between your legs pulse.

You don’t notice Kyle’s hand slide off the table until his fingers cup your bare knee. You turn your head, lips parting, but he’s not looking at you. You swallow hard when he pulls, opening your legs. His name is on the tip of your tongue, confusion mixing with embarrassment, and it fizzles into a choked silence. Another hand, broader and more calloused, slips over your opposite thigh, searching.

The din of the pub meets the rush of blood in your ears. The edges of your vision blur, your thoughts static, and it isn’t until a finger drags up the gusset of your underwear that you come crashing into consciousness. You jerk, and two bodies of solid muscle keep you in place like bookends.

“Easy,” John purrs, repeating the movement, slower.

“Kyle–”

“It’s okay, babe,” He coos in your ear.

Your eyes fall to your lap, where Kyle’s hand wrenches your dress to your upper thighs, giving his Captain access. Indignation swirls, beating violently against your skull, a swell of shame racing with a rogue wave of want.

“We leave in a week, right? Cap could use a boost. Think you can send him off with something nice?”

“Kyle, I don’t–” Your breath hitches as a second finger joins the first in rubbing gentle circles, pressing into the dampening cotton. Your leg tries to reflexively close, and Kyle’s hand returns to your knee to stop it. Your hands, formerly weighed down by pure shock, reach for John’s forearm, sinking your nails into skin dusted in coarse hair.

“Babe–” Kyle starts sternly.

John tuts, unaffected by the angry marks you impress into his arm. “It’s alright, Gaz, I don’t mind. We’re just warming up, gettin’ used to the idea.” 

No, no, you are not getting used to the idea. You’re not. You’re not letting him, Kyle’s boss, John, touch you like this in a pub where anyone could see if they stare too long. Any second, you’re going to yell. Tear Kyle a new one. Then John’s fingers deftly slide your underwear out of the way, and instead of a scream, a squeak pushes out as a finger pushes in. Kyle’s hand lifts from your shoulder to guide your face toward his for a kiss.

John’s finger dips in, teasing, and you hear him groan while Kyle’s tongue licks into your mouth, keeping you fixed to him until you need air. You suck it in through short pants, eyes glazed over with a cloud of lust. You’re stupefied and trembling, inhaling sharply when the finger sinks to the webbing and curls. 

“How is she?” Kyle asks, pressing kisses to your temple as your chin dips to your chest.

“Warm, fuckin’ soaked,” John chuckles at how it makes you clench.

Your eyes, half-lidded, stare into the shadowed valley between your open legs. The table blocks the dim lamp above, but the slick on John’s digit, as it withdraws, catches the light. The noise of the bar ought to drown it out, and perhaps it does, yet you hear the lurid, wet sound of his finger plunging in.

The men hold their breath as you go offline, mouth opening and shutting several times like a fish dying in too-shallow of a tidepool. The hand continues its work, stoking a heat you want to both smother and feed. 

“Kyle,” You try again, a breathier, whiny pitch to your whisper.

“I know, I know,” He kneads the fat of your thigh, knuckles bumping into his Captain’s. 

The men exchange a few words you can’t make out. Your foggy eyes lift to scan the bar, some lucidity begging you to at least check for an audience. In the corner, there’s nowhere for someone to linger or gawk to catch what’s happening beneath the table. In a distant corner of your mind, it occurs to you that Kyle must’ve planned this. 

A mounting pressure digs your fingertips into John’s arm harder and harder, which he responds to with a quicker, more insistent rhythm. Kyle’s hand grips your thigh, but there’s no need with how wide you spread them yourself. You bury your teeth into your lower lip, then slap a palm over your mouth. The heel of John’s palm grinds into your clit. 

“Lookit you,” John puffs into your ear. “Thought you weren’t on display?” 

You come, whimpering behind your hand, squeezing John’s finger in a vise.

Somewhere in the bar, a glass breaks, and a chorus of drunken voices boo. Two fingers slip out of your heat and pat the ruined cotton against your sopping cunt.

Outside, the temperature dropped considerably, not that you’d feel it with your husband’s arm over your shoulders and his Captain’s hooked around your waist.

The world’s fuzzy, their words clear.

“She’s a good girl, Gaz.”

“You ought to apply, sir. You might get lucky.”

“Why would I do that, when we’ve got her?”

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Ed and Stede would absolutely be that couple with a billion little codes for when they need out of a situation.

At a social situation and they're getting tired? Stede's probably been watching for it because Ed's been getting quiet and clingy, but then Ed'll pop his head up from where he's been hiding his face in Stede's neck and mumble something tangentially related to what they were talking about, "yeah, yeah, beer's really good here, Stede and I had this orange lager a few months ago," and Stede's been looking for oranges because that's their code word, and he's able to make a timely excuse so none of their friends are any the wiser. They get to go home and cuddle and recharge.

They're in public and meet up with an old friend of Ed's, Stede's already on edge because Ed's smile doesn't look quiet right, Ed takes his hand and squeezes it three times and Stede knows it's time to talk about a very important appointment they're going to miss if they don't leave right now immediately.

Stede's on the phone with a distant family member or old business contact looking for his father, Ed's listening in because Stede's voice is getting overly polite and that's never a good sign. Stede slips in a "oh, isn't that down by the coast, there's a lighthouse there" and Ed starts loudly going "hey baaaaabe can you come in here??? That mole is baaaack and I need you to look at it" so Stede can hang up the phone.

Just giving each other the agency to choose when it's time to leave and helping them get out. Ed's felt so forced to do things he doesn't want to do for so long; Stede's used to having no one in his corner. But with their powers combined? They can finally leave situations they don't want to be in.

[panelshowsource]

Shove something up your nose and you don't like it? Pointless activity. Shove something up your nose and you do like it? That's even worse. Suddenly, you know, a lager's too dry without a little of the self-importance powder. So there I am, all ready to be holier-than-thou and prim and proper — and people can see it coming and no one's ever offered >:(

[dduane]

The post-lunchtime crowd at The Porterhouse Temple Bar, Parliament Street, Dublin.

(sigh) This was once the secondary-flagship pub of a small-town enterprise that wanted to challenge Big Irish Beer with microbrew and a wide palette of imported beers—and did so, successfully, for a couple/few decades: a frequent thorn in “Uncle Arthur’s” butt, especially when they won the Best Stout in the World award out from under Guinness a couple of times.

They expanded into the UK and other markets, and their home pubs had a broad selection of foreign beers. (Early on, if you brought them a cool new one, your next drink after that was free.) But COVID hit them hard, and their center-city locations—one of which had the Best People-Watching Window in Dublin—have now for survival’s sake been turned into concrete-lined post-millennial drinking dens or small-plate joints.

And how long will this place last? (sigh)

[insert woman-shakes-fist-at-cloud.jpg] Dammit.

…Anyway: here is @petermorwood’s Schlenkerle Helles, a lager from a German brewery based in Bamberg that’s known for making a rightfully famous smoked beer.

[hannahssimblr]

Jen and Hazel return to the table with a bottle of wine with condensation on it and four glasses from the china cabinet. I have that feeling again like I am pretending to be somebody I am not as I yank the cork out of the bottle and pour some for each of us. I don’t really know how much wine goes into a normal glass, I realise, as I have only ever had it straight from the bottle or whichever cup was available, when measures didn’t seem like an important thing.  

“Not so much,” Hazel giggles, covering her glass with her hand, “It goes to my head very easily, you see, I’ve only been drinking since February.”

I assume that’s when she turned eighteen, and I find it interesting, actually, to encounter a person who waited, actually waited until the law said she could drink. Hazel is not like the rest of us, we who necked cans of lager at thirteen and said ludicrous, performative things like “Oh I’m sick of drinking, I feel like I’ve done enough of it,” by sixteen. I ponder too, as I sit back and swish the liquid around in its stemmed vessel whether my new, adult life will have a lot of new things like dinner parties and wine from proper glasses. The thought alone makes me feel strange and unprepared.

Over our food, Hazel shares an anecdote about one of her uncles who crashed his motorbike and survived. She’s a very unusual sort of person, and the way she speaks, by delivering shocking or disgusting details is as though she has no notion of the impact they might have upon us while eating, but still, I like her, and I can see why Jen does too. There must be something freeing about being her, like it has never once occurred to her to consider another person's opinion of her, and it’s the kind of thing you might hope would rub off on you after being around her for long enough.

Jen gazes adoringly at her the entire time, hanging on her every word with a full, untouched plate in front of her and I think that it’s also funny that Hazel seems entirely oblivious to Jen’s feelings, blatantly on her sleeve. Jen and I are made of the same things. She would say that there is some cosmic reason, written by the stars or the planets, but we can never disguise our emotion. Always pining, forever yearning for something or someone-

“Why do you put so much sauce on everything?” Michelle says, out of nowhere. 

“I dunno? I just like sauce.”

Jen is irritated that we have interrupted Hazel’s flow, “Jude always piles sauce onto things, I don’t think it’s a big deal.”

“Yeah but it’s so much, I'm just a bit disgusted looking at it, especially while listening to this story about Hazel’s uncle's injuries.”

A glob of red sauce and mayonnaise drops out of the bottom of my burger and I scoop it from the plate with my finger, “You shouldn’t look then.”

She scoffs, and there is a brief but uncomfortable pause at the table that I ignore in favour of turning my face away and watching Goose instead. Goose who is mesmerised by a little brown bird that has landed just outside the window. He paws hungrily at the window with paws pink like jelly beans and opens his mouth in a silent mew of frustration. 

“I’m going inside for a minute,” I announce, though Hazel is now in the middle of the most shocking and gruesome part of her story, where her uncle's wound turns septic or something, and has to pause again for me, but I have developed a keen sense for when it’s time to take space from Michelle and let her get over whatever specific thing about me that is bothering her at any given moment. I slip away and carefully let myself inside the dining room, blocking Goose with my legs as I do. 

“Hello, Goosey, do you mind if I hang out with you for a minute?” 

He chirps and blinks his big, dopey eyes, and I take it as a sign that he’s cool with it, and I let him weave around my ankles as I scratch his head with two fingers. I feel a surge of affection, maybe even sympathy for him and his weird little face, stroking his fuzzy chest now as he flips over onto his back with four legs in the air like a dog.  

We had a cat back in Albuquerque, Soda Popinski, named for a character from Mike Tyson’s Punch Out, an NES game that my cousin Justin got addicted to when he was nine. Justin was fourteen when I was born, and Soda Popinski was around for much, much longer. She was a big, surly tabby who lay in the sun for ninety percent of her day and sometimes ate the flies that buzzed around the terrace door, if she could be bothered. The other ten percent was spent hunting, us specifically, hiding behind corners to lunge at us, or tricking us into rubbing her belly so that she could grate ten inches of skin from our forearms for being so thick. Everyone in the house discussed Soda in tones that suggested she was pure evil from birth, but in an affectionate way, because it’s not as though we were ever going to get rid of her. She was as part of the house as the screws that held its frame together, and the idea of not having her terrorising us was almost sad.

I don’t think she hated us, it was simply her nature to be a bit savage, and I imagined that she was nastier to other creatures than she was to our family. Sometimes she’d leap in through the bathroom window when it was open, usually conveniently while someone was in the bath, with a dead bird or mouse in her chops, proudly dropping it on the edge of the tub in a pool of its own blood as if she were paying her rent, and I suppose it was some shade of love. 

She went missing the year I moved away. Aunt Maureen told me during our weekly phone call, and gently suggested that some older cats go away to hide when they were ready to die. I was crushed knowing that the house I had grown up in would never feel exactly the same ever again.

When I cried over Soda Popinski I cried over everything, all of it, the change and the unfamiliarity, all of the upheaval that I wasn't ready for, but that was the only time I let myself do it in front of anyone. I told my mom it was just because of the cat. She believed me and stopped asking.

I scoop Goose into my arms and carry him into the kitchen so that he can keep me company while I forage a can of 7-Up from the fridge, something I feel I’d prefer to be drinking than the wine that remains as not-very-nice as it’s always been, despite being served correctly in an adult glass. I sip it in peace on the kitchen island for a while as the kitten climbs all over me like he thinks I’m a tree, eventually resting where my neck and back curves and purrs there, his vibrations rumbling through to my chest. 

We enjoy several minutes of blissful solitude before there is a tap on the window. 

“Jude!” Jen is waving at me, “What are you doing in there? Come back out, and will you bring another bottle of wine when you do?”

I shoot her a thumbs up and carefully lift Goose onto the floor, then pull something at random from the wine rack. He’s at my ankles the whole way to the door. “You like me, don’t you? You’re infatuated with me.” I say to him, as though it isn’t total projection. 

“God, no, Jude,” Michelle starts the moment I open the door, “it was the wine from the fridge. Not that one.”

I glance at the bottle, “We can't just have this one?”

“No, because it’s the wrong one.”

“Isn't wine just wine, though?”

She uses the slow, impatient voice on me that teachers used to when they thought I was being stupid on purpose, “That one is red wine, we’ve not been drinking red wine we’ve been drinking white, and also, it’s not even the one that I bought for-”

“Goose!” Hazel shrieks and I almost drop the bottle onto the patio. The kitten is a grey blur as he makes a dash for the bushes.  This moment, far too late, is when I realise I have left the door ajar. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[stoportotouch]

For science : what are the operas with the highest kill count?

uhh depends on your metric i guess. if you're just talking Characters In General i suppose it would be dialogues des carmelites, where at least fifteen characters of various levels of plot importance are beheaded at the end. if you mean implied deaths i think meyerbeer's les huguenots would have to be up there with the huguenots in question being a combination of named and chorus characters.

also in the "some named and some chorus characters" department is la forza del destino... maybe. all of the chorus and minor bit roles save for carlo, alvaro, leonora, melitone, and padre guardiano might die at the end of the wallensteins lager scene but they also might not. it's all up to interpretation with that one. but also carlo, leonora, and carlo and leonora's dad all definitely do die. sometimes alvaro dies too and sometimes he doesn't.

also gotterdammerung. obviously. which has a death toll of All The Gods And Also The Concept Of Gods. (i think, in the case of the latter? i am not too big on wagner.)

[2baddiesfanfics]

From Liyue With Love

Pairing: Beidou x Ningguang

Tags: Birthday, Valentine's Day, Birthday Sex, Presents, Scissoring, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering

Summary:

Beidou has always been more partial to Valentine's Day than the other event that happens to fall on the same date. Ningguang wants to change that. In the end, they discover they've both got the best gifts either of them could hope for.

Read on Ao3

The chain of the gold necklace shimmered as Beidou held it up to the light of the mid-day Liyue sun. She’d stopped at Mingxing Jewelry to pick up the Valentine’s Day gift she had special ordered for the Tianquan who held her heart. Over the years she had imported many ores and gems one could only find from the furthest reaches of Sumeru to the deepest seas of Fontaine just for Xingxi’s store.

“Is it to your liking, captain? I admit, I took a few liberties with the instructions you left me,” Xingxi stated hesitantly.

Beidou ran her thumb across the small heart-shaped pendant, the cold stones chilling her skin. The two halves glistened in their respective signature colors - amethyst for her electro, citrine for Ningguang’s geo.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “Thanks, Xingxi! Knew I could count on you.”

The shopkeeper smiled gently. “I’m so happy to hear it.”

Beidou plopped a sizable sack of mora on the counter but was taken aback when Xingxi pushed it toward her.

“Captain, I appreciate that you think so highly of my handiwork, but I fear this is far too much. Half of that is more than enough. Consider it a birthday discount,” she replied with a wink.

She blinked, unsure of how to respond. If she didn’t have Ningguang in her life, today would be like any other. Commemorating Valentine’s Day was fun for many reasons. Beidou relished any chance she could get to show the Tianquan what she meant to her. The other yearly occurrence that happened to be on the same day…she had never seen a reason to celebrate.

Beidou swallowed back the dark emotions that threatened to burst forth. “Gee… thanks, Xingxi. Wait a second…how did you know it was my-“

The shopkeeper let out a chuckle. “Captain…how could I not? It’s all Lady Ningguang has been talking about for days.”

With a blush spreading across her face, Beidou nodded her head in gratitude and started the lengthy trek to the Jade Chamber.

“Captain Beidou! It’s so nice to see you here,” Baishi said suspiciously loud. She had greeted her right before the doors to Ningguang’s office, which Beidou found unusual.

“Uh, yeah, you too, Baishi. Is the Tianquan in?”

The secretary looked nervously over her shoulder. “Um…she’s a little-“ A loud crash came from the other side of the door, and Beidou looked ready to rush in.

“Ning? Are you okay in there?”

A swirl of platinum blonde hair appeared in the doorway. “Yes, captain, everything is quite alright. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some…business to wrap up. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

Beidou cocked an eyebrow. “You sure you’re good?”

Ningguang stared daggers at her. “Do you mean to insinuate I don’t know what I’m doing, captain?”

She held up her hands in defense. “Not at all. Continue,” she said with a smug smirk.

After passing the time chatting with Baishi, Beidou was relieved to hear Ningguang’s voice echo through the double doors once more.

“You may enter now. Baishi, please let Baiwen and Baixiao know you are all free to go home for the evening.” After a quick “goodnight,” the woman left to find her coworkers.

Beidou swiftly entered the room and was caught completely off guard by the sight before her. Ningguang had donned a dark blue strapless dress that sparkled like moonlight on the ocean’s surface.

A quiet “wow” was the most she could manage. Her attention was quickly directed to the table behind her, however. It had been set for dinner, complete with a tall glass of Beidou’s favorite lager imported from Inazuma. The scent of flash-fried filet, her favorite dish, wafted through the room, making her stomach growl.

“Baobei…did you…did you cook all this?”

Ningguang glided over to her side. “I may have asked Chef Mao’s girl to walk me through some things, but yes,” she answered as she took Beidou’s hand in hers. “Happy birthday, my love.”

Beidou felt the room spin around her. The weight of such careful planning hit her in full force.

“What’s wrong? Is it not to your liking?”

She hadn’t realized tears had started to drip down her cheeks.

“No! Archons…no. I love it. It’s just…I’m not used to this. I’ve always associated my birthday with wishing I hadn’t been born.”

Ningguang’s grip on her hand tightened. “How could you say that, Beidou?”

The captain wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I mean…Valentine’s Day is much more important, don’t ya think? I’d rather celebrate love than a curse like me.”

A look of intense sorrow came over Ningguang. She leaned her forehead on Beidou’s, forcing her to make eye contact. “You are not a curse, dear heart. Those villagers were ignoramuses who believed in mumbo-jumbo bullshit. Please. Let’s celebrate you tonight, hmm? I can think of no one more deserving,” she said as she took her by the hand and led her to the table.

“Well, one thing’s for sure. I’m not about to let this go to waste. Thank you so much, baobei.”

Ningguang smiled at the return of her signature sense of humor. The women sat down and thoroughly enjoyed every last bite as they chatted about their respective weeks.

“Whew. I couldn’t eat another bite! My compliments to the chef. You sure you don’t want to join my crew and cook for all of us?”

Slightly buzzed on her own glass or three of wine, Ningguang let out a hearty laugh. “Oh please. It was one dish! But I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Chugging the rest of her beer, Beidou let out a satisfied sigh. “Shame there’s no dessert, though. Could really go for something sweet after this.” She shifted her hooded gaze to lock eyes with the Tianquan. Ningguang had been with her long enough to recognize this was a different kind of hunger.

“Who said I didn’t have something prepared for your sweet tooth?” She replied seductively as she got up to get closer to her. “Did you honestly think this was all I got you?” Ningguang hiked her dress up as she positioned herself to straddle her lover’s lap. Beidou’s eyes drifted to the garter straps peeking out from under the fabric and had to control herself from ripping them off with her teeth.

“You mean there’s a feast after the feast?” She asked, lips already wandering across her chest and up her neck.

“Hmmm…it’s prepared. You just have to devour it,” Ningguang half-moaned.

“Then don’t mind if I do,” Beidou said as she grabbed the back of her thighs and lifted her effortlessly. Their mouths locked as the Tianquan wrapped her arms around her neck for support. The captain knew the way to the private sleeping quarters of Ningguang’s office like the back of her hand and carefully navigated around the stacks of scrolls that always seemed to inevitably accumulate.

Once she made it to the bed, she set her down and crawled on top of her, continuing to show her gratitude by attending to every inch of her body. Her dress was far too beautiful to remove, so she worked around whatever skin was left uncovered.

She was delectable in so many ways, and Beidou couldn’t help but repay her kindness in the only way she knew would come close. As she situated herself between her thighs, she shifted the fabric of her dress up to her hips to provide her with enough access.

Ningguang could only let out contented sighs and groans as the captain took her time savoring and teasing her. Beidou kissed her inner thigh, causing her to spread herself wider in anticipation. Whether this was a gift for Beidou or Ningguang, neither of them cared. They were lost in each other. Finally, the captain moved the crotch of the Tianquan’s panties to the side and tasted the unique but familiar flavor of her arousal.

“Archons…Beidou, your tongue feels so good…”

“Louder for me, baby. Let me hear how good I make you feel,” she commanded before swiveling it inside of her. The buck of Ningguang’s hips drove her deeper and caused her to moan. She held them down as she continued the practiced movements she knew would make her come undone. Desperate for connection, the Tianquan covered Beidou’s hands with her own.

“Fuck…Beidou…yessssss…” Between the captain’s muffled grunts and her own mewls of pleasure, Ningguang came with a shudder.

Beidou plopped onto her side next to where Ningguang lay on the bed dizzy on alcohol and her orgasm. The Tianquan rolled to face her and softly stroked the captain’s face with her well-manicured fingers.

“Well, that was just lovely. But I do believe I need to exchange a gift of my own. For without you being born today, I would not have a love worth celebrating. The archons gave me my heart on the most romantic day of the year.” Ningguang leaned in and kissed her with a passion unmatched.

The Tianquan tasted the salty tang of Beidou’s tears. To this day the captain still wasn’t used to this poetic tenderness. Sure, she and Ningguang had been together for a while, but she wasn’t usually this romantic. Beidou placed her hands on her waist and pulled her closer.

Their tongues clashed as hands roamed, divesting one another of any remaining clothing until their body heat was the only thing keeping them warm. Ningguang grabbed Beidou’s leg and placed it on her hip as she moved her hand between the two of them to her drenched core.

“What you lack in words your body certainly makes up for,” she teased as she ran her thumb across Beidou’s clit. The captain jolted in response to the stimulation.

“Ning…” She quietly breathed into her ear sending goosebumps down the Tianquan’s spine.

Collecting her arousal, she easily inserted two fingers into her. Moving them in and out, she slowly stroked her thumb across her sensitive bud in time with her movements. She continued her ministrations as she kissed down Beidou’s neck and across her chest. The captain’s flushed face and high-pitched moaning of her name alerted her she was close. Ningguang sped up her thrusts and crashed her mouth against her lover’s as she spasmed around her.

The two women held each other tightly reveling in the happiness and love they shared.

“Oh! Before I forget…” Beidou quickly hopped off the bed to fish around in the pocket of the bag she had brought with her. Producing a small wooden box, she placed it in Ningguang’s outstretched hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baobei. A treasure for my treasure.”

Ningguang rolled her eyes endearingly at the terrible pun. Turning her gaze back toward what she now held in her palm, she pried it open and gasped when she saw the contents.

“B-Beidou…this…this is gorgeous!” She gasped. Instinctively she turned around and pulled her hair back so the captain could do the honors. The necklace was surprisingly light considering the weight of the emotion it held. “I love it and will cherish it forever,” she exclaimed as she took her face in her hands. “Just like you.”

Beidou beamed at her girlfriend’s excitement. “I’m glad. I only brought Xingxi the materials. She was the one who worked her magic.”

Ningguang whipped around to her side table and immediately pulled out her own gift. Beidou couldn’t help but giggle at the ornate packaging that was so very…Ningguang.

“Now, you’ll have to let me know if this isn’t to your tastes. It’s nowhere near as ornate as what you’ve gifted me, but I hope you’ll still enjoy it,” she warned as Beidou began to carefully pull the paper away. Soon, it was revealed to be a beautiful photo album. Pictures of memorable moments decorated each page.

Beidou standing by the Alcor, newly purchased with help from Ningguang. Their first lantern rite together. The time Beidou took Ningguang on a trip to Inazuma to meet the sly fox of a light novel publisher she knew she’d want to do business with. A snapshot of the both of them deep in thought pondering over a chessboard. The rest of the photos started to blur through eyes glistening once again with unshed tears.

“I had that lovely little photographer from The Steambird help me restore some of the old photographs I had lying around. I figured it might help if you had something to look at when you were away on longer voyages.”

“Ning…I don’t have words. This is…this is incredible. And perfect. Just like you.”

The Tianquan smiled mischievously. “And…you haven’t gotten to the end yet. Go ahead and turn a few more pages,” she teased. Beidou did as she was told and was greeted by insanely risqué shots of Ningguang in barely-there lingerie…as well as some with her in nothing at all. She snapped the album shut quickly, her face turning red.

“Holy shit. I’m going to need to go another round after that.”

Beidou crawled on her hands and knees toward Ningguang, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer. She wrapped her legs around Beidou’s waist, their mouths clashing once again.

Their cores aligned, they were both reduced to a moaning mess as their bodies shook with need for one another.

“Baobei,” Beidou groaned between kisses, “You’re the…best gift…I could ever hope to…receive.”

The Tianquan wrapped her arms around her, yanking her closer for added pressure. Beidou moved her hips in time with Ningguang’s, their now over-stimulated buds sliding against one another ferociously.

The sound of ragged breathing, sighs of pleasure, and the gentle rattle of a necklace chain swirled in a symphony throughout the room. The captain slid a hand between them, adding additional sensation to Ningguang’s clit.

“Come with me, love,” Beidou whispered as she held her tightly. The two women once again found release, their movements slowing as their orgasms came to a dull throb.

Ningguang clasped the pendant she now wore around her neck. “Beidou, you’ll have to tell me - what does it feel like to be the richest woman in Teyvat?”

Beidou propped herself up on her elbow as she cocked a curious eyebrow at the woman she loved. “Why, Lady Tianquan…whatever do you mean?”

“Mora is easy to come by. But you own something truly priceless - my heart.”

“Now that,” Beidou said as she placed a kiss on her forehead, “is the best birthday gift I will ever receive.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Paper Doll 1

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including noncon, violence, stalking, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A patron at your family's bar becomes an overly devoted regular.

Characters: Steve Rogers (in this fic, Steve did not get the serum but still served in the war), short! Plus size reader.

Note: you ask me wtf I'm doing and idk either.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Fairy Godmother loves Bonnie Tyler. Take care. 💖

The old bar in Brooklyn is akin to those taverns found on every corner in England. At least, your father always said so. His fond memories of home hung on the decades-old walls above the wobbly wooden tables and splintering chairs with their worn seats.

The glasses fog with the years of use, the few wine glasses left are neglected as there is no cabernet or sauvignon to be served. The tapped ales and lagers fill your coffers well enough and the imported bottles are hardly worth the overhead. Your brother insists it is no place for the wine-drinking folk anyhow.

Lionel seems so sure in everything he says but you know he's not as clever as he thinks. Business is different, it cannot depend on chance. Your father worked hard to keep the place above the surface, but in the hands of your brother, it's been set adrift amid the chaos of the borough.

That night sees a similarly squalid crowd, counting coins for another pint as you try not to tap your toe, clutching the round tray against your middle. The man's greasy black hair hangs in messy curls down his face as he gives a drunken lean. You warned your brother he shouldn't be served anymore but Lionel doesn't listen. Once again.

The man hands you the nickels and dimes and you return a smile. There's a scar across his cheek, your mind wanders with the possibilities. The war left many marks on the people, those you see and those you can't. You notice more and more as the fractured veterans shuffle in more and more often.

As you turn to fetch his lager, you feel a squeeze through your skirt. It's clumsy but painful and makes you wince. You give a squeak as you turn back to the man and swing your tray at his head. He leers with a crooked smirk as he dips out of the way, nearly toppling his chair.

"Gimme another and I'll give ya a nice tip," he slurs.

"Get out! Go!" You holler as you throw the coins at him, "before I fetch my brother."

"Your brother? What's that worm gonna do--"

The chair falls back beneath his teetering weight as a hand tips it off its feet. The oily drunkard rolls over his own head and sprawls on his stomach. Another man, one you didn't notice before, steps between you and the lecher.

"She said go, so go," his voice is deeper than his build would suggest. He's short, nearly as short as you, and slender. Your own hips are at least twice the width of his, likely more.

"What're you gonna do about it," the man sits up as his head wobbles on his neck, "she ain't want you neither, you cockroach."

"Get up and leave," the stranger warns again as he crosses his thin arms.

The man on the floor scoffs and climbs to his feet unsteadily, glaring down his adversary. The small man is unfazed by the foot between their heights.

"Don't make me say it a third time," he warns.

"What? Ya think ya tough, huh?"

"I don't like bullies," the stranger snarls and his hand balls to a fist, "so walk ou--"

He staggers back as a tipsy punch snaps across his jaw and sends his hat flying. It only catches him off balance for a moment before he leaps at the other man. You watch, awestruck by the confrontation, a murmur all around as others take notice.

The smaller man gets a jab in of his own as he throws his weight into him. His opponent is drunk enough for it to have affect. The tangle up in each other as they grapple, the skinny man's arm snaking around the other's neck as he forces him to bend at the waist.

"Oi!" Lionel's voice rises as the swinging doors of the kitchen send a guest through the room, "what's all this?"

He storms over and grabs the larger man, tearing him away from the smaller. They part roughly, both stumbling from the force of the intervention.

"Dammit, you know there's no fighting!" Lionel snarls at you.

"Li, please, I..."

"Both of ya, out," he barks.

"Wait, wait," you wave him away from the smaller man, huffing as he daps his bloody nose with his knuckles, "just him."

You point to the olive-skinned man with the droopy eyes.

"Eh?"

"He was..." you glance over at the stranger, "helping. That dolt groped me so I told him to go and he wouldn't."

"Hm," Lionel sneers but doesn't argue, "right, then, buddy, you get out of here."

He drags away the man by his scruff as you grip your tray and peek once more at the kind stranger. You can't help but be thankful. He's more out of his league than you are but took up immediately.

"Thank you, you didn't have to do all that," you say.

"Why wouldn't I? You're a lady, tryna do your job," he shakes his head as if clearing away cobwebs, "any good man would do the same."

You nod and scrunch your lips as you watch him. Blood trickles down over his lips as his right hand shakes, knuckles split from his ill-judged punch. You fidget as Lionel marches back behind the bar muttering.

"Can I... get you a beer?" You ask, "on the house."

His pale blue eyes meet yours. His skin is sallow, almost sickly, but he gives a bright smile.

"Sure, miss, thank you, but I don't mind paying," he bends to retrieve his hat from the floor.

"Please, I owe you," you say as he rights the chair and sits, placing his hat on the table before tidying his hair. He looks ridiculous as blood still trickles down unstemmed.

You leave him and go to the bar. Lionel shoots you a look as you set down your tray and fill a glass.

"Pip squeak over there's got a lot of nerve," he utters.

"He was sticking up for me, and where were you?" You hiss back.

"Working," he puffs, "don't. Not right now."

"Me?" You shake your head, "sure."

You go to grab a fresh cloth from the folded stack on the shelf and round the bar. You place the pint on the table and clutch the linen in your hand.

"Um, can I... clean you up a bit? You got..." You point to your nose.

"You don't mind?" He says.

"Not much business tonight," you peer around at the few locals slumped over their foamy cups, "I never had no one but Lionel fight for me and he's more likely to give me a talkin' to."

"Here," he stands as you go to grab the chair, pulling it out before you can, "please."

He's definitely a gentleman. You thank him and sit before he resumes his seat. He pulls close to you, paying little heed to the pint. You unfold the cloth as you hover at the edge of the chair.

"Tilt your head back," you instruct as you reach for his chin.

"Yes, miss," he obeys and you hold his sharp jaw as you wipe his nose clean, "so Lionel, that your husband?"

"Oh, oh, no," you chuckle, "brother. Pa left us this place."

"Ah," his lips twitches as his golden lashes flick, "reminds me of England."

"England?" You wonder as you press the cloth more firmly to his flowing nose, "you might wanna hold that there, you're bleeding pretty bad."

"Isn't the worst I've had," he puts his hand beneath yours as he takes the cloth and you slowly draw away, brushing his hand. He squeezes the linen around his nose and speaks nasally. "When I went for training we spent some time in England. There were a few bars there like this, same kinds of rats too. I swear, you run into the same types all over."

"You were in the war?" You wonder.

He frowns, "sure was. Why? I know I don't look like a typical soldier but I made it back."

"No, I don't mean that, it's just... I hate to assume either way," you cross one leg over the other, "you must've been a good soldier. You're so brave."

"Nothing brave about doing the right thing," he stops and turns his head as he snorts, "sorry, always happens when it bleeds."

"No I'm sorry, you shouldn't have done that for me."

"I'd do it again," he grins, lowering the cloth as the blood slows, "thanks for the pint."

He shifts and pulls out his wallet. He fumbles around his swollen knuckles as you watch him wiggle out a bill.

"I told you, it's on the house," you say as you stand, "speaking of, I should be back to work."

"It's a tip, not for the drink," he holds it out, "buy yourself something pretty."

"Really, I can't--"

He folds the bill and slips it into your apron pocket. You watch him, dumbfounded.

"You can," he sits back and pushes his reddened knuckles against the cool glass and sighs, "just one thing, can I get your name?"

"Oh," your brows rise as dig your toe into the hardwood, eking out your name.

"I'm Steve," he returns as he grips the pint and lifts it, sipping from it slowly before placing it back down, "maybe I'll see ya around."

"Maybe," you shrug as Lionel closes the register harshly, "I should go, work to do."

"Miss," he nods courteously, "don't work too hard."

[churchobones]

DWC Day 2: Suppress

<<PREV || NEXT>>

Thil paused his mad scribbling on the bar napkin. “Whoa, hang on–” he fixed Bruce with a wild eyed stare. “First of all, he called her a what?” A moment of silence was begged when the next round of Great Sea lagers arrived, a long draught taken before he continued:  “--And second of all, you called her your what?” “Not important.  Jus’ keep your eyes–” “--ears?” “--on the story. So anyway, I’m strippin’ clothes and Zelion had enough–” “Imagine!” Thil snorted a laugh. “Shut up and listen–”

It began with a sharp chill in the air, sapping heat until a thin layer of frost coated each stained glass window. Torches snuffed, plunging combatants in darkness, save where Elune’s red-dressed glow swayed on the ballroom floor.

That was when he saw it: there was no telltale glint of steel in the darkness. The twelve soldiers brandished sheathed blades and wooden bucklers painted with a black and gold castle turret-- the Mournvalor family crest.

A woody, earthy smell filled the air, like oak but sweeter. Rowanwood.

“The worgen’s weakness. It melts through fur and flesh alike.”

The sounds of transformation were indistinguishable from a man being torn limb from limb. Joints cracked and formed anew, sinew and muscles crawling like spiders across a web to claim their length. Corded muscles launched the newly formed monster, not at Zelion, but in a wide arch over his head to vanish among the shadows on the wall.

“Beast,” Zelion spat derisively.

Hairs stood on the back of a soldier’s exposed neck. The shadow descended from the wall and teeth sank between vertebrae, puncturing with airy ease. Armor clattered as the soldier collapsed.

Steam rose from the blood pooled on the pinewood floor; pale, ghastly wisps draining life into the chilled air.

“One wrong move and I was dead.”

“Protect his lordship!” barked the commander; he of the greatest courage. An old soldier, past his prime but keen of mind, took up Zelion’s right flank, golden eyes wild.

The rest fell in line like herded cattle, their terror barely suppressed.

The soldier’s wooden blade howled madly in the dark. It was all he could do to keep snapping teeth and rending claws from his throat as the wolfman’s weight bore down on his shield, smoke rising from a boiling palm.

The wild swing singed fur off the monster's arm, forcing Bruce to retreat back to the cover of the moonless shadows.

“Truth is, I was just stalling. I think Zelion knew that.”

“Disappointing,” Zelion tutted.  “You’re all quivering at a single dog.”

The lord’s small fist clenched the air like he caught the tails of balloons.

The old soldier froze abruptly, his blade dropping to the floor. Necrotic magic coalesced just above his heart. A cry died, strangled in his throat.

 Zelion’s fingers squeezed and one by one, a steady series of pops echoed within each golden cuirass.  One by one his men collapsed around his feet.  Blood oozed from the chinks in their armor.  Blood and something worse.

Something black and fetid.

The stench of rotten meat and withered fruit was immediate and overwhelming.

“I had to strike. But what I didn't realize at the time was... each one of them had a Mournstone implanted in them–” 

A final lunge from the shadows. A flash of teeth in a silent snarl, slavering for Zelion’s delicate throat.

“--just as I did.”

Bruce’s breath no longer came out in hot puffs; frost coated his lungs as his death sentence in his chest thrummed.

It twisted under his skin in mirror to Zelion's dainty wrist, as though he had a safe dial pinched between thumb and forefinger.

A pustule burst. A wave of nausea drove the worgen to the ground. Astral energy dimmed, leaving his eyes cold, gray and unfocused.

The commander rose to his feet, eyes reignited with lichfire.

Zelion’s fingers sprang open. Bruce sucked in a desperate breath as the necromancer disappeared down the hallway, leaving a simple command in his wake: “Kill him.”

"But the Fury of Goldrinn is fiercest when protecting the ones you love."

Skeletal hands clawed at Bruce, dragging him down among corpses and flesh sloughed from bone in rivers of pitch.

@daily-writing-challenge

[jamiesfootball]

jamie could have the eliot scene where he tries to go talk to his dad and his dad doesn't answer, and it could be like james just got out of prison and jamie wants to go see if they can Fix Things between them now that jamie's life at least isn't so violent anymore and maybe he can help james get on track on the outside so he won't end up back in and and and

and james doesn't answer because he blames jamie for him getting caught in the first place, and jamie tells him about hacking through the door, and he doesn't answer that either but he throws something at the door and jamie flinches back all the way off the porch. and then he just goes home.

and roy's like how did it go? and jamie says it went the best it could have.

Eeeeeeeeeeee ok ok ok but. but. Here's the thing. Jamie's dad is very Nate's-dad-coded to me. So in my mind I had it going more along the lines of The Three-Card Monte job.

Like this:

Even from the street Roy could hear the laughter spilling out of the Crown and Anchor, and after a long day of reconnaissance it called like a reward in waiting.

Roy didn't mind doing legwork for a con- in fact he appreciated Ted's insistence that the team dot their t's and mind their p's and whatever else he wanted them to inflict on the rest of the alphabet. Better prep made for a safer job. Roy had worked for enough men who'd sacrifice the time upfront if it meant getting to the next score faster; he respected that Ted wasn't one of them.

As their feet sloshed through the snow, Jamie kept a running commentary on the dirt he'd dug up in the breakroom. While he'd waited for his crawlers to skim the server (which to hear him tell it, was so laughably out of date that buying something on the company's Wi-Fi ran a bigger risk than riding passenger in Colin's Fiat), he'd learned from Jeanine who'd heard from Alan that Erik-with-a-'k' Davies was the one who'd decided to pass on Jim-from-R&D's project proposal after quarterlies came in low.

Thank fuck Roy'd never had a real job. He didn't know how people put up with it. He'd rather stab his eyes out than pretend to care about breakroom gossip.

But that wouldn't stop him from doing his job. He dutifully noted all the names - Jeanine, Alan, Jim, Erik-with-a-'k' - knowing that even the smallest details could mean the difference between making a cover or blowing the con.

"Can't believe I had to use a photocopier to make copies of the building schematics," Jamie complained for the umpteenth time. He stood back to let Roy open the door for him, despite the fact that it was Roy who was carrying his duffel full of tech. "In this day and age, a company worth billions should really consider digitizing-"

Six things happened at once. Years of experience gave Roy the particular skill to parse the components of a situation in order of importance.

The most concerning, the domino that set the rest in motion, was how Jamie's body froze, a fear response where he'd been at ease a second ago.

Instinct had Roy stepping in front of him, an arm slung protectively over his chest to hide, block, or push him away, whatever was called for.

His eyes hit all the exits: no one blocking the kitchen or alley, and the door behind them remained clear.

Identify the people of interest in the room, the other potential targets he might need to shield: Keeley and Rebecca at the bar, their heads thrown back in laughter. Colin, pleasantly bored or bored-ly pleasant, pouring out a lager for an older bloke.

Assess the older bloke; the only other other person sitting at the bar. Grey slicked back hair and a receding hairline. Steel-toed boots, worn through and poorly kept, so not an actual laborer. Clean, new denim and a mass market coat. An unspoiled duffel bag on the seat next to him. Fresh out of prison, then.

Either hearing the door swing open or feeling the cold breeze that gusted in behind them, the older man turned to look over his shoulder. Head-on he seemed younger than lines on his face implied, and his cheeks flushed ruddy with drink. He grinned (Manchester dental work), and under the guard of Roy's arm, Jamie flinched.

"Well, well, well. Look who's decided to show himself." The old bloke chuckled; it didn't reach his eyes. "If it ain't my own flesh and blood."

[thekimspoblog]

Best Westworld Park?

A: Original Cowboy Flavor. The setting of Season 1, including towns like Sweetwater, Pariah, Los Mudas, and Escalante, along with important laboratories like the CR4DL and the Forge. Roughly based on the North American West, 1864.

B: Shogun World: A plot cul de sac that Maeve and friends get stuck in during Season 2. Based on Japan's Edo period. (1603-1868).

C: The Raj. It's definitely trying to say something about colonialism, even moreso than the other parks. Whether it's succeeding is another issue. Based off an Indian safari experience between 1865 and 1986.

D: War World. A Simulation created by Serac for Maeve in Season 3. Based on Italy in WWII. Where she and Lee finally have their two minutes of romance.

E: The "Real" World. A Cyberpunk metropolis on both sides of the Pacific, in the not-too-distant future of 2050.

F: Fantasy World: Based on the European Medieval period, this park has been cut for costs after Dolores's revolution. The dragon has been auctioned off, piece by piece.

G: Temperance. A new park opened by William in Season 4, based on the Prohibition Era, and the works of Ernest Hemmingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

H: Greco-Roman World: A fan theory based on the existence of such a park in the original 1973 film. Considering the hosts are lager than life figures with cities of their own now, it would be interesting is all I'm saying.

[yaminerua]

Thankful again for the fact I decided to smush yesterday's and today's prompts together. It took longer to throw together than planned;;

As always, prompts are by @a-literal-toaster-wtf

Today's and yesterday's were Movie and Sleep.

Lister wishes Rimmer would put the textbooks down for once and just watch some garbage with him.

Words: 5825

****

Rimmer didn’t appreciate distractions even at the best of times. He liked to appear busy, studious, focused – anything to avoid looking like the alternative.

It was something he had done for years, mostly just to give off an air of motivated enthusiasm for his work in the slim hopes that some generous superior with a good eye for talent would notice and decide to throw him a bone and give him a promotion. It had never actually worked out that way, though, and with Red Dwarf largely empty these days, with all but one of its original crew complement dead and gone, his once lowly status as a Second Technician now rendered him, laughably, the highest rank on the ship, so who he thought he was still trying to impress or convince with maintaining this act was anyone’s guess. Perhaps it was just force of habit.

Rimmer was consistent, hard-wired into his old routines and patterns so completely that even in spite of it all being a futile and worthless endeavour in the grand scheme of things, he still insisted on trying to pass the smegging Astro-Navigation exam. When he wasn’t patrolling the ship bossing skutters around and generally making a royal nuisance of himself by nit-picking and complaining about every minor thing, he was holed up in the bunk room with a revision textbook on his lap and a stony look of concentration on his face.

At times like these, he absolutely did not want to be disturbed.

At times like these, of course, Lister always seemed to decide to do just that.

Plopping himself down unceremoniously on the sleeping quarters’ couch, a pack of Leopard Lager under one arm and an armful of snacks under the other, Lister let out a grunt as he made himself comfortable while Rimmer closed his eyes beside him and took a long, forcefully restrained breath in through the nose, his mouth drawn together in a tight, thin line.

“Lister,” he said, as evenly as he could through gritted teeth. “I am busy.”

Lister spared him a quick glance in acknowledgement, muttered something in response that was probably along the lines of ‘I know,’ and then reached for the television remote and as soon as he did that, all hopes of restraint were reduced to ashes in the wake of incandescent, nostril-flaring irritation.

“Which means I do not want to be disturbed!” Rimmer snapped, swiping a hand out to try to snatch the remote from his hands and missing as Lister held it just out of reach. “Some of us on board this ship have more important things to do than watch trash and eat garbage!”

To that Lister merely offered a shrug and defiantly switched on the television. “It’s a big ship, Rimmer,” he said, flicking open the first can of lager and taking a swig. “You don’t need to watch with me.”

“But I was here first! You—” He cut himself off, aggravated, slammed the textbook on his lap shut with a sharp crack and then he stood up, shook his head in defeated frustration and strode swiftly, rigidly out of the room to leave Lister to his nonsense.

He didn’t need to deal with this.

That was how things usually went whenever Lister decided he wanted to watch something. It didn’t matter how long Rimmer had been sitting there, quietly jotting down notes and reading and re-reading paragraphs that didn’t make any sense the second, third, or fifteenth time round. Once the impulse hit, he was more than happy to indulge it. It just so happened that that usually resulted in bursting Rimmer’s study bubble but, frankly, he didn’t really have it in him to feel all that guilty about it. Keeping him from putting himself through more disappointment at studying for and failing yet another exam was probably, in some way, good for him.

In truth he wasn’t actually trying to irritate Rimmer. That just happened to be a common side-effect (as it was towards most things Lister did). Most of the time he just wanted to put something mind-numbing on to distract himself from the otherwise soul-crushing loneliness of being the last living human in deep space, or something soppy and melodramatic to make him feel something. Rimmer was free to sit and watch with him if he ever bothered to put the smegging book down and loosen up a bit. In fact it would maybe be nice to have the company for a change.

Even if it was Rimmer.

Of course, Rimmer never tended to stick around to give anything of that sort a chance. Whenever it became patently clear that Lister was about to disrupt his peace and quiet and destroy what little threads of focus he had managed to string together he was usually quick to vacate the premises and leave him to it.

Usually.

Little by little, though, that had gradually started to change.

Dropping heavily down onto the sofa again one night, the jarring motion causing Rimmer to drag an involuntary ragged line of ink straight across his neat, copperplate notes, Lister fully expected him to erupt into the usual fit of rage and storm off but instead he watched, surprised, out of the corner of his eye as all he did was huff a long-suffering sigh and flip the ruined page over to a fresh one. He made no attempt to stand up.

Lister raised a curious eyebrow but didn’t draw attention to this subtle deviation from the norm. Instead, he flicked the screen on and reached for the remote and, ah, there it was, the irritated click of the tongue, the settling down of the pen. Surely, he would get up to leave now.

Rimmer leaned forwards instead, reaching for something on the desk in front of him and holding it out purposefully in front of Lister, clearly indicating for him to take it.

Lister blinked, bemused, at what was quite plainly a set of headphones and turned to stare questioningly into Rimmer’s frowning face.

“If you’re going to insist on watching garbage at least have the consideration to wear these so I don’t have to have my brain melted by any of it,” Rimmer explained haughtily, noticing his confusion and shaking the headphones impatiently.

Lister took hold of them slowly, turning them over in his hands, and raised a curious eyebrow.

“What, you’re not gonna storm off in a huff this time, Rimsy?” he asked, one side of his mouth quirking upwards in a lop-sided, impish smile.

Returning his hands to his lap, Rimmer picked up the notepad and pen again and clicked it.

“I was here first and, until you came along, quite comfortable,” he went on, ignoring the teasing tone Lister had used. “I shouldn’t have to sacrifice comfort and concentration just because you decide you want to watch Attack of the Scantily Clad Killer Zombie Beach Babes 2.”

“Hey now, that one was actually pretty decent!” Lister cried, only somewhat defensive, a playful twinkle in his eye. “You should really give it a try some time.”

“I’ll pass, thank you, Listy,” Rimmer said icily, turning the textbook balanced on the arm of the couch to a new chapter and readying his pen to begin taking notes. “Now be quiet and let me focus.”

Lister rolled his eyes and gave the headphones in his hands a reluctant, disdainful look. He didn’t really want to have to wear them but whatever. If he had to, he had to.

Plugging them in, he slipped them over his ears and reclined back on the couch, lifting his legs to rest his boots on the desk below the screen, an action he suspected would infuriate Rimmer greatly. He could imagine him tutting away disapprovingly beside him but with the headphones fitted snugly over his ears he wouldn’t have heard it if he had. Maybe these weren’t such a bad idea after all.

It started to become something of a familiar routine after that. Every now and then whenever Lister would sit himself down with his drinks and snacks ready to indulge in an evening of mindless visual entertainment, Rimmer would wordlessly hold out the headphones towards him without so much as even a single glance up from his notes. Lister would pull a face but put them on obediently and the two of them would pass the evening in relative silence, seated at opposite ends of their shared couch, less than a metre away but otherwise worlds apart.

It didn’t exactly make for a riveting interpersonal interaction but in some ways it was a step up from complete and total avoidance of each other’s company. It may be the best compromise it could hope to be. Lister got his movie, Rimmer got to, generally, revise in peace – if what counted for peace meant still having to endure Lister snivelling miserably into a cushion at mushy scenes and flinching every time he heard him laugh or utter the occasional word of commentary a little louder than necessary because the headphones were muffling the volume of his own voice in his ears.

For what it was it was fine – good, even – but Lister always felt, secretly, that it could probably still be better.

Shooting a sideways glance at Rimmer as the current mind-numbing program of the evening dragged on through a slow stretch, Lister found himself surprised to find that his bunk mate’s eyes weren’t glued to the textbook at all, but rather were peering up, transfixed, at the screen, brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and intrigue. Without any kind of context, he was evidently baffled by what he was seeing but somehow it had piqued his interest enough to hold his attention.

A small smile bloomed across Lister’s face as he reached as subtly as he could for the remote and pressed the option to enable subtitles.

Rimmer’s response was immediate. The moment he realised he’d been caught, that Lister had noticed, his expression crumpled and he bowed his head low, shoulders squaring defensively, the line of his jaw set in a taut, tense grimace. The knuckles of his right hand were rapidly growing white with how tightly he was gripping the pen and his brows were knitted together in a mortified scowl as he glared intensely, furiously, down at what Lister could now see was an empty notebook.

The tips of Rimmer’s ears were starting to grow pink and the knowing smile of amusement on Lister’s face only continued to grow.

He slipped the headphones back off his ears and let them rest loosely hooked around his neck. “If you wanted to watch you should’ve said somethin’,” he said and Rimmer’s nostrils flared in indignation as he straightened up to fix Lister with an affronted glare.

“I wasn’t watching,” he lied.

Lister’s eyes twinkled as his smile widened further. Rimmer wasn’t fooling anyone. “You were,” he said, drawing out the vowel.

“I wasn’t!”

“Rimmer, I saw you—”

“What you saw was a brief glance up just to see whatever garbage you were filling your head with tonight, Lister!” Rimmer cut in caustically, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the screen for added measure. “That does not amount to the same thing as actually watching.”

Lister rolled his eyes. Trust Rimmer to bicker over semantics instead of just admitting something had caught his eye. “Okay, man,” he said resignedly, sarcastically, slipping the headphones back up over his ears. “Whatever you say. Go back to your empty notes.”

Whatever biting remark Rimmer might have shot back at him, it was muffled mercifully by the headphones and bounced off him completely unacknowledged. He could feel the dark scowl being leveraged at him out of the corner of his eye but paid it no mind and simply popped open a pack of salty snacks and proceeded to stuff them unglamorously into his mouth all at once, crunching them loudly in a deliberate attempt to rankle Rimmer further.

For a good long while after that he could positively feel the undiluted scorn radiating out from him even from the other side of the couch but he held his resolve and didn’t risk shooting another glance at him until enough time had passed that he didn’t seem likely to be paying him any attention anymore. When he did, however, it was to find – much to his surprise and silent amusement – that Rimmer had once again ended up captivated by the film. His head was still lowered, angled intently towards the textbook in his lap, his pen resting poised over the crisp, pristine paper of his notebook, but his eyes were most definitely locked on the screen, following the subtitles Lister had deliberately decided to leave enabled.

A smug, triumphant little smirk pulled up the corners of Lister’s mouth but this time he didn’t say anything. If Rimmer was too embarrassed to admit to being at least somewhat interested in what was going on in the movie that was his own problem but Lister wasn’t going to ridicule him too much for it. If he wanted to feign studying as a cover up for occasionally glancing up at the action, so be it. Lister would leave the subtitles on for him just in case.

As it happened, Rimmer was far more interested in Lister’s bizarre movie collection than he was comfortable letting on. Ever since that first night that he had caught him taking a peek, he had noticed it happening more and more, especially now that he kept the subtitles on by default these days. It was actually becoming quite frequent.

If he were to ask, Rimmer would probably make some lame excuse about the flashing screen distracting him from his note-taking and then retreat stubbornly back to the pretence of giving a single smeg about what any of the technical jargon in his textbooks actually meant. He might as well have still been trying to learn Esperanto with how little he understood any of it… As far as Lister was concerned, it didn’t really seem like all that much fun, certainly not an enjoyable way to spend any significant amount of time.

More and more lately he found himself trying and failing to find a way to broach the subject of Rimmer’s obvious curiosity and to put forth the suggestion of just giving it a go, having him set aside the textbooks and notepads he hid behind and inviting him to just sit and watch some godawful trash together with him – even if all he would end up doing is criticising every last plot point for its entire duration. Maybe poking fun at it could even be a bit of fun in and of itself.

Regardless, he couldn’t come up with a single way to go about it that wouldn’t result in Rimmer getting his hackles raised over nothing and flying into an overly-defensive rant about how he had absolutely no interest whatsoever in doing anything of the sort.

In the end, he gave it up as a bad job and decided to just leave things as they were, settling down carefully on the sofa as had become a habit and leaning forwards automatically to reach for the headphones.

“Wait,” Rimmer said suddenly, pausing him mid-stretch.

He was very deliberately not looking at him, gaze fixed on some complex looking diagram that spanned across two pages of his textbook. He looked a little awkward, a little sheepish, and Lister didn’t know what to make of it. “Yeah?” he pressed, waiting to hear what Rimmer wanted to say.

Rimmer swallowed thickly, jaw tense, the fingers of his right hand flexing as they adjusted their grip on the pen. “It’s fine,” he said quietly, inclining his head towards the screen. “If you keep the sound low, it’s fine.”

Lister blinked at him, stunned, as though he’d just grown a second head. He wasn’t really sure he’d heard him right. “What?”

Rimmer huffed, aggravated, and shrugged stiffly, rigidly, as though he was having great difficulty shaking off some inexplicable tension he was holding in his shoulders. “I’m saying you can leave the sound on for once,” he snapped irritably, abruptly and then, realising he hadn’t intended to come off so harsh, dialled it back down at bit, and added, “If you keep it at a reasonable volume.”

Lister felt the tug of a knowing smile on his features again. Rimsy wasn’t slick. Not in the slightest.

“Just admit you wanna watch it with me.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Rimmer sniffed, indignant, clicking his pen anxiously. “I’m simply making a compromise. You don’t need to take it.”

“Because you want to watch and hear what’s happening,” Lister pressed on, smile stretching broadly from ear to ear now. “C’mon, Rimmer, don’t be such a stick in the mud about it.”

“I can rescind the offer, you know,” Rimmer replied icily, still refusing to look up and meet Lister’s gaze. “It makes no difference to me.”

Lister huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes but the smile remained affixed upon his face as he powered up the screen and popped on his latest cinematic crime against humanity and let it play out quietly into the otherwise tranquil silence of the bunk room. He didn’t need to look over to see that Rimmer was looking up at the screen along with him.

They were sitting a little closer together than usual, Lister noticed somewhat belatedly, Rimmer’s form in the periphery of his vision looming larger and less out of reach than he was used to. If he concentrated hard enough he could even sense the subtle heat that radiated out from his hard-light projection, comfortingly warm, almost human.

Cracking open a can of lager, he took a hearty swig and relaxed back into the aging softness of the bunk room’s well-used couch, stretching his legs out just enough that his right knee could ever-so-slightly graze Rimmer’s left.

He expected him to jerk it away skittishly at the contact but for whatever reason he didn’t, instead pretending not to have noticed, his long slender fingers focused intently on gliding his pen in broad, controlled strokes, recreating the diagram from the textbook in his notebook, line for line.

Lister watched him for a while as the opening titles of the movie seemed to take forever to get to the point and then, when the first gunshots of actual action sounded out, he finally tore his gaze away and started paying attention again.

It was some mafia movie he was watching tonight, an obscure cult classic of sorts even if the plot was a tad generic and contrived. Lister had seen it before and had generally enjoyed it for the action scenes and the steamy romance that left little to the imagination. He rather hoped he’d get to see the face Rimmer would pull when it reached that point. It would surely be a sight to see.

Shooting a curious glance at him, he smiled when he noticed that Rimmer’s pen had stilled now that the plot was taking off in earnest, hazel eyes fixed critically but nonetheless fixedly on the action.

“What utter garbage is this, Lister? I’m not sure it’s doing your brain cells any good,” he said, nose wrinkling in disapproval.

“Hush, Rimmer, it’s a classic!” Lister said, and then he thought about it for a moment, frowned and shrugged as an afterthought. “Okay, yeah, so it’s a remake of a remake of a classic but it’s still sort of a classic.”

Rimmer didn’t look convinced, his face contorting into a regretful grimace at deciding to give Lister’s taste in cinema even the briefest consideration. “Whoever greenlit this should have been shot,” he muttered flatly.

Lister couldn’t resist. He nodded solemnly. “He was, actually. Twice. But not for this one.”

Rimmer’s eyes widened and he whipped his head round to stare in horrified disbelief at him. “Wait, really?” he cried, incredulous. He hadn’t actually meant it seriously.

Lister’s face split into a gerbil-like grin and he nudged a teasing elbow playfully into Rimmer’s side. “Nah, I’m just messin’ with you. He did get a lot of threats from people saying he’d ruined everything that was good about the original, though.”

Rimmer sneered at that. “Yes, I can imagine…”

This was weirdly comfortable. Exactly what Lister had hoped it would be. Rimmer seemed interested enough to watch the cinematic car-crash play out and quite content to sneer derisively at every overused, poorly executed plot point and offer more than just the occasional scathing bit of commentary and Lister was happy to indulge him, to explain the various threads of the story and how this adaptation paled in comparison to the original but brought something refreshing to the table as well.

Rimmer grimaced at that, believing Lister’s definition of ‘refreshing’ to mean disgustingly, uncharitably horny and Lister didn’t deny it. Instead he laughed guiltily and took a long hearty swig of another can of lager, sinking further into the easy back and forth of casual, harmless bickering, all the while his body was slowly starting to tilt to the side, drawn by the gravitational pull of warmth, until his shoulder brushed up against Rimmer’s and, incredibly, wasn’t immediately shaken off.

Rimmer eyed him suspiciously, turning his nose up at the stench of alcohol on his breath, but otherwise made no real effort to shrink away from him and Lister took that as a minor victory, relishing the little scrap of positive human connection, however small it was.

Eventually, as was inevitable whenever Lister had too many lagers and too much junk food, his energy began to flag and his eyelids started to succumb to the relentless pull of drowsiness. Distantly, he was still somewhat aware of the film and the point it was at, but in his drink-addled, sleep-hazed mind he was far more preoccupied with nestling as far as possible into that cosy, comforting warmth against his right side, leaning into it instinctively, willing it to envelope him completely. He’d forgotten, somewhere along the line, who that warmth belonged to.

Yielding to exhaustion, unable to fight it back any longer, he allowed his head to loll to the side, resting it against something solid enough to support him but soft and warm enough to be comfortable and as it shifted slightly against him he nuzzled his face against it, chased it as it tried momentarily to flee and as his breathing evened out into something deep and regular he let out one final deep, contented sigh and sank beneath the veil of sleep.

Rimmer, meanwhile, had gone stock still with shock the moment Lister’s head had touched his shoulder, a million different thoughts clamouring together all at once in his mind, rendering absolutely none of them clear enough to decipher. His whole body was as stiff as a board, every muscle clenched taut and tense, every nerve alight with a kind of strange, fluttery anxiety. In spite of every other impulse that told him he should move away, retreat to the relative safely of the other side of the couch, he instead remained frozen in place, unsure of the best course of action moving forward but oddly drawn to the sensation.

Lister was already snoring gently against his shoulder now, the aged lines of his face slackened with sleep. Somehow, up this close, Rimmer realised that although he was getting on in years and didn’t have nearly the same stamina as he had once had, Lister somehow still had the capacity to look just as young and fragile as he had looked almost thirty years ago when he had first found himself in this complicated situation. There he was, the last living human being in existence, still meandering his way languidly through whatever amounted to a life, leaning on one of the only things in the entire universe he had left to keep him company.

Rimmer’s artificial, hologramatic heart ached in his chest and he forced himself to look away, tearing his gaze towards the screen instead as what was supposedly intended to be a romantic sub-plot played out in all its mediocre glory. The years had clearly done something to him, softened his prickly, hardened edges and drained away most of his bite and somehow, miraculously, it had made him care, at least just a little bit, about the lonely heart beating ever onwards beside him, humanity’s last living, breathing bastion for compassion and soft-heartedness and love for all things mundane and imperfect.

He stayed like that for quite some time, immobilised by indecision, equal parts awkwardly uncomfortable and loathe to move lest the soft, welcoming warmth of Lister’s body pulling away exposed too much of the loneliness he himself tried so desperately to cover up and pretend didn’t exist.

Even though it was Lister of all people, there was something about being chosen to be a shoulder to lean against, about being reliable – trusted - enough to be used as something of a makeshift pillow, that made Rimmer feel some peculiar type of way.

Maybe it was the depressing fact that he couldn’t recall anyone ever doing it before – he couldn’t recall having ever been close enough to anyone for this kind of thing to have had any chance of happening in the first place.

In a strange way it showed how far the two of them had come since those first volatile, antagonistic days after finding themselves alone on the lifeless shell of Red Dwarf together. They had grown closer quite without realising it, without thinking that anything much had changed at all. Lister could lean on Rimmer’s shoulder and Rimmer would let him now. He didn’t quite know what to make of that.

He watched the rest of the movie in silence, acutely aware of the press of Lister’s body against him, and as the credits rolled and Lister continued to sleep on, he turned his attention back to the forgotten textbook to his right, using the peace and quiet to try to claw back a bit of academic focus. It was easier said than done with Lister’s breath, hot and damp, tickling his throat, the tight dark curls of his hair lightly grazing his cheek and rendering it damn-near impossible for him to pay any sort of attention to the words on the page.

He tried to write it off as simply Lister being something of a human radiator, but the proximity was beginning to make him feel quite hot. It was too close. They weren’t normally like this. He was almost certain the moment Lister woke up and realised what he’d done he would cringe in disgust at even the mere thought of falling asleep against someone like Rimmer, and boy was it strange to feel the sharp pang of disappointment at imagining that image. Maybe the stupid movie had destroyed some of his own brain cells after all…

After a while of sitting in silence with nothing but the hum and groan of the ship all around and the intermittent flickering of the JMC screensaver that had been playing on a loop since the film had ended, Lister finally, eventually began to shift, scrunching up his face and opening his mouth in a wide beer-breathed yawn that made Rimmer wish he could turn off the sense of smell on his nose.

Blinking bleary-eyed back into consciousness, Lister’s brain was slow to process his surroundings. He squinted groggily at the screen, dug the heel of his palm into his left eye and then brought it down to wipe at something cool and damp at the corner of his mouth.

It was only then as he lifted his head and registered the familiar blue of the material he had been leaning against that he remembered who it belonged to. “Oh, whoops,” he laughed gruffly, voice rough from sleep. “Drooled on you a bit there, sorry.”

Up this close his breath positively stank, a sensory abomination of cheap lager, curry flavoured snacks with an ashy hint of tobacco and Rimmer wrinkled his nose at the stench.

Inclining his head a fraction to look at him, he peered momentarily down to glance reproachfully at the little damp stain on his shoulder and then fixed him with a long-suffering look that wasn’t so much severe as it was resigned.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly, a little surprised with himself at finding that it wasn’t even a lie.

Lister blinked slowly, slightly out of sync. He was still slightly leaning against him, still pressing warm and soft and heavy into his side. It felt oddly like the two of them were encased in their own little pocket of warmth, cosy and safe, separated from the cold, unforgiving void of space all around them. It was comfortable in a way that Rimmer wasn’t used to.

Lister was looking at him strangely, his eyes still just a little unfocused, a little half-lidded like he was still partway lost in a dream state. His expression was soft, warm, the brown of his eyes deep and dark in the light of the bunk room, shimmering with something that looked almost fond and which made something strange flutter in Rimmer’s gut.

“Lister,” he said, as sternly as he could muster, but the usually sharpened, pointed edges of his voice came out a little rounder, a little more softly than he planned. “Go to bed.”

Lister took a moment to process, the gummed up gears of his brain straining to turn, but after a moment he nodded slightly, a little unsteadily and his mouth pulled upwards in a lazy, sleepy smile. “Yeah, ‘s probably for the best,” he slurred, the words rolling clumsily into one another as he struggled to co-ordinate himself to move.

He fixed Rimmer with that strange, dreamy-eyed look again, his thoughts entirely inscrutable. He looked a little like he was mulling something over, holding Rimmer’s gaze just a little bit too long, as though he’d forgotten he was supposed to be trying to get up.

Rimmer opened his mouth to begin to remind him but the words never made it out into open air, his lips finding themselves suddenly and startlingly preoccupied.

Lister’s lips were warm, soft and more than just a little clumsy, a little off-target, pressed as they were a little to the side of the thinly drawn line of Rimmer’s mouth.

They didn’t linger there long, probably little more than a few seconds, and yet, paradoxically, to Rimmer it felt simultaneously overwhelmingly too much and decidedly too little.

With a short, wet pluck, Lister pulled away and Rimmer cursed himself for the involuntary way his head moved forwards to chase him, to instinctively follow the warmth in spite of anything else his brain might scream at him for doing so.

He felt unmoored, untethered, uncertain if this was all some strange and concerning figment of his imagination. Or a prank. God, this could be a prank…

Lister’s expression blossomed into a goofy, sleep-dazed grin and Rimmer absolutely did not feel his stomach flip nervously in his gut watching his tongue dart out to swipe lazily over the lips that had just moments ago been pressed against his.

“Night,” Lister breathed, eyes twinkling, and then he finally peeled himself up and away from the couch, pushing off to his feet with a laboured grunt and as the cool air rushed in to fill the void formed by Lister’s absence Rimmer tried desperately to ignore it – to deny fervently to himself that he felt any sense of bereavement at the loss of warmth.

He watched, utterly dumbfounded, immobilised by the incomprehensible impossibility of the situation, as Lister staggered his way unsteadily towards the bunks, oblivious to the bombshell he had just detonated in Rimmer’s mind, utterly unaffected by the enormity of what he’d done. He just clambered with the same poorly-coordinated drunken difficulty as always up his stupid smegging ladder and onto the waiting comfort of his stupid curry-stained bed and left Rimmer to gape helplessly at him, scrambling desperately to recollect his thoughts and quiet the racing pulse thrumming away wildly in his chest.

“Wh—” Rimmer started, breathless, flabbergasted. “What—”

It took a moment, or rather it took several, but eventually the confusing, maddening swirl of emotions swimming in his head finally allowed him to co-ordinate himself enough to speak and when he did, it came out as a spluttering, flustered shout.

“What the smeg was that!?”

Lister scrunched up his face, peeling open his tired eyes to squint bemusedly in Rimmer’s direction. “Wha…?”

Rimmer’s nostrils flared. Oh, he wasn’t letting him get away with this. He wasn’t going to do this to him, to fall asleep on him and force him to feel some kind of something and then go ahead and do that and act as though it was nothing. No, they were addressing this now.

“You know what!” Rimmer cried, utterly furious at the fact he could positively feel the rosy red burn of the flush that now absolutely stained his cheeks. “Why did you do that?”

Lister let out an anguished groan and rolled over, half-burying his face in his pillow like a child trying to resist getting up. “Why did I do what? Rimmer, man, me head hurts. Can’t this wait til mornin’?”

“No, it absolutely cannot!! You can’t just do something like— like that and then just go to sleep! Do you have no sense of shame? Of tact? Of anything at all?”

Lister didn’t say anything, just made some muffled unintelligible noise and breathed in deeply and evenly where he lay.

Rimmer’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Lister, are you awake? Lister!”

There was no response, save for the incriminating sounds of snoring giving away what Rimmer suspected had happened and he prepared himself to yell, prepared himself to bellow right into Lister’s stupid smegging ear if he had to, but then at the last second he changed his mind and let out the breath as a long, world-weary huff and gave up. He wasn’t going to get any serious answers out of Lister tonight.

Maybe it had been an accident. Maybe he genuinely hadn’t even realised what he was doing. He’d been half-drunk and half-asleep at the time, after all. He might not have been able to see him clearly; might have somehow mistaken him for someone else.

Rimmer rubbed unconsciously, agitatedly at his chest and scowled at the confusing contradictory swell of emotions those thoughts dredged up. He lowered himself back down onto the couch, reached shakily for his Astro-Nav textbook and tried in vain to drag his attention away from the painful hammering of his heart and the nervous churning in his gut, tried not to think about why the thought that Lister could have confused him with someone else felt more disappointing than comforting.

For the next few hours he stared desperately at the same open page and never took in a single sentence.

[remelemmostmaraholdonlaksz]

Művészi fotósorozatom az utcán lerakott Ichnusakról

Ichnusa, the cult beer from Sardinia, has been an integral part of Sardinian culture and tradition for decades. Birra Ichnusa brewery was founded in Cagliari in 1912 and has since been producing the popular beer in various varieties. Particularly famous is the light lager beer that was named after the Sardinian name for the island.

The secret to the success of Ichnusa lies in the high-quality ingredients and meticulous production. The water comes from the clean mountain springs of Sardinia, the malt from Italy, and the yeast from Germany. The brewery uses traditional brewing methods without additives and places great importance on artisanal brewing.