#mama prissy……

[butchjolyne]

oh baby mine

[spurbleu]

rendezvous

ch.1 mother’s advice

[ johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!stripper!reader ]

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S. mother left you with very little aside from her cat, calloused advice, and a legacy at your local brothel.

warnings. shameless men, customers service industry, mentions of abuse

a/n: lore drop and y'alls first meeting :) again, slowburn so be patient

word count: ~3.2k

‧︎༚︎☉°︎༚︎‧︎༚︎✳︎☉︎︎°︎‧︎༚︎‧︎

“Only eva’ let the good lookin’ ones get dirty wich ya, darlin,”

your mama had said rather plainly one night as you fixed her tea, voice coarse under cigarette,

“no use ina ugly fuck.”

Strange, how the only good advice she had given you (alive, at least. plenty of lessons from her dead), was about sex. She’d never been gentle enough with your hair to elicit the idea she might be with her words (but being a daughter meant you hoped). So, when you buried her, outdated ramblings and boorish tongue, most of what you took with you was boneless.

You packed the vulgar with the rest of the house, strapping it to the back of your truck and hoping it would nestle in the tobacco-less walls of your new apartment (a different shade of yellow- little kinder- absent of bile). Or maybe the newer wooden floors, eroded under boot heel, sturdy still.

On arrival you discovered it had found a less subtle home. Must have been some twisted fate (a mother’s memory- hardly sweet), that your new apartment was neighbors with your town’s brothel.

Funny, how a broke, orphaned woman like yourself, sun bleached elbows and sore neck, was given an opportunity to finally test the merit of a mother’s advice.

The withering building paralleled one of her last gifts to you, a lingerie set. Old brick red, lace trim gauze between blocks. Thick straps bridging bralette to panties like the iron beams holding up a raunchy sign- Rendezvous.

Stench of sex fogged up greasy windows, drunk mumblings of wifeless (or, a more depressing thought, married) men on its porch, wearing crucifixes in bogus devotion. The oak beneath their leather was rusting by their print of dust and the grooves beneath a bottle of beer- sorrel glass broken at the foot of creaky stairs.

Recently, your old church pews found their way back to your mind. You pushed the last of your boxes through the door, knees blushing purple with guilt. No, you had decided upon arrival- you wouldn’t even look at the place.

Pig stye, you’d convinced yourself, whore house. You turned your nose to it all, prissy and ornery even as they whistled from the railings, red knuckles itching for your attention. Hasty for the day they’d see you in dusk light, starting your shift. Only for you to leave them, day after day, cockdumb and unsatisfied.

And you had been doing so well, too.

That was until you opened the envelope- your mother’s allowance. The one useful thing that the drunken, deceased mess of a women could’ve given your hopeless soul. Magnum Opus of her faulty motherhood, forgiven with just some fucking money.

But she was always more complicated than that, wasn’t she. Peaking from the back of the white fold was, indeed, that wonderful, faded green of cash- but in front of it was a depressing beige- capitalized by black ink.

Girl,

Leave this apartment to you, take care of the old thing. That brothel knows me likes me; they’ll give you a job. Make yourself some real money, use my looks, darling. Be good. without me

Much love,

Mother.

You tossed the note aside before your hungry fingers tore the dip of the paper apart- revealing, and you counted a dozen times to be sure, sixteen dollars.

Sixteen dollars is what you’re worth. Cheap cattle at a fair, squalid men drooling as your mother snickers. Your scrawny legs buckled under the weight of the gold bell- which, you’ve now discovered, costs more than you do.

You’d be angrier if you were surprised. But you weren’t. Hell, sixteen wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been- with the way her money was spent on dozens of those cancer packs a day, cig smoke stealing your wages one stick at a time.

You plucked up her note, reading between the pen’s blood to find anything else. Searching, like you had in her for decades, for a little more. A secret message between your fiber taught liaison, written in the tone she had used with you (old spice on dry meat) up until she couldn’t anymore. You could hear it now, reading the note to you, and suddenly you were five again, tugging at her shawl as sleep nipped the last pages of your Goodnight Tales.

You didn’t fail to notice the way she signed it, either. Mother. You had always opted for the simpler, casual name, ‘mama’. It felt truer to what she was, an apparition of a parent spared by a younger nostalgia- lacking the reliance, the respect, of an actual mother.

Yet another opinion where the both of you seemed to diverge.

No, of course you weren’t surprised.

But you were now extremely aware she had limited your options to the worst one. No southern shop, built on dirt and sweat, was going to take a labor virgin without a foot in the door. Which meant the only place desperate enough to take soft, vestal hands and good hair was that ratty brothel.

So, stubborn oxen halting actual progress, you watched the bar for a week.

Perched on a chair by the sill, the last bags of honey tea in your cup as you observed the lulls in its busy. That way, when you eventually forced your ass from the dips it made in the old seat, you’d walk to the door with as little shame as possible.

As you scurried across the street at dawn, sunrise made the old cobble appear prettier than it was. Light finding the gaps between stone, serenity’s veil cast over the Dutch Gables in early morning. The birth of day scared off the grimier patrons, leaving you in the barren womb to watch it’s first breath. You paused there, relishing the one time the small market looked…worth it.

Seconds after you slide through the saloon doors, barely given enough time to drink up the sandy lighting and timber walls, a voice calls from behind the bar.

“We’re closed.”

She’s a natural blonde, you can tell by her lighter roots. Freckles contour a round face under eye bags- and you even catch the subtle crease of crows’ feet next to her grey eyes- blemished and old. Her lips screwed into what you think might be a permanent frown- that is until you speak,

“I’m here to apply.”

and it turns into a snarl, skin pitching at the bridge of her nostril, “We ain’t hirin’.”

Your mother’s note comes back to you, and you loosen the resentment in your voice as you say her name. “I’m her daughter. ‘Said I- you’d let me work here.”

The wrinkle laxed, and her snarl came down to a thin neutral line. “Did she finally kick the bucket?”

You nodded, unsure how to feel when her lips curled. “Damn. Y’had a firecracker of a mother. Worked alongside ‘er iner prime. Solid woman,” her eyes ran up your shoulders, “terrible mother, I reckon.”

You swallowed- she grinned. Her hand beckoned you to the stools, and you took a seat, shaking her outstretched hand. “You got ‘er looks. You’ll do fine ‘ere. Names Francesca.” Her eye narrowed to slits, “Nobody calls me Franny. Its Francesca, or Miss- got it?”

You nodded, and she flashed you another glimpse of her yellow teeth.

“I’ll start ya at the bar. See ‘ow long ya last.”

-

Turns out, you lasted a lot longer than she thought you would.

Swatting advances away as you gave patrons bottles, but smart enough to never get mouthy. You caught more flies with honey anyhow- so as your boots became comfortable in the mop-clean lumber floors, you’d occasionally entertain some of them.

“You single, sweetheart?” Slurred from a regular as you filled his tab. Grisly looking fellow, got years on you. Too many to be talking.

“Enough to work here.” You slid him a drink with a smile. Syrup on a glass rather than salt. The spread of his lips was telling- he tasted it.

Boisterous laughter- too loud to want just liquor- “’nough to sit on an old man’s lap?”

No. Not enough that they thought they’d get lucky- but that was the trick, wasn’t it? Just barely easy enough to send them wily looks over your shoulder, cover the spite in your voice with flirts- onion layered by a blushing red skin- weak enough that it kept them hoping. But never truly easy, moving to the next customer before the last could lean for a fat kiss.

You rolled your eyes with your back turned to him, jaw clicking in thin patience.

“Not over here. That’s for the other rooms.”

His eyes followed your pointer finger, attention sinking its dull teeth into the cardinal doors.

You pretended not to mind your position as the face of the brothel rather than the body of it. Why would you anyway? You’re sure the girls back there would kill for an easy job like yours- given the chance to politely navigate around advances rather than being forced to feed them. You only had to serve the dry slacks- and watch them as they left soiled. You didn’t have to see- no, make- that filthy in-between.

Church taught you enough. Nothing but festering confessionals behind that door.

But goodness, could you be childish. Curious mind, insecure heart- all of you greedy. You were positive they made bushels more than you- and all for some more skin, done up hair and lidded eyes?

You could do that.

Bitter, confusing envy. Makes you mad when Francesca gave you a hard no after asking for a promotion- but sorry as you curl in thin sheets before dreamless slumber.

(Did your greed weigh more than morals? Did church and your father’s absence teach you that little? Nothing should be this existential- but maybe that’s why it’s uprooting. Forked road- giving up a part of you either way.

You hate to admit you buried something of your own with your mother’s body, but what you hate more is that it’ll take this decision to figure out just what it was. Your innocence- daughterhood and a sweet virtue, or your hearth- the fight to survive and earn. Living for a little vice.

You’d dream in saturation on these nights, colors crisper than they’ve ever been- even young. You were never sure why the colors were so bright.)

So here you are, another night drawn as a sloppy line under a bar, marking…3 months? Sunrise and sunset look so similar nowadays, and it made the silhouette of an hourglass harder to etch in the tan pages of your moleskin.  

However, it did give you more time to sketch out the pub.

The booths pulled the same wood of the wall forward in a curved seat, split by a table and cushioned by yellow pillows- filled with rice, those damn things must have been harder than the booths themselves.

Around them, dark oak tables and creaky chairs- makes any working man feel ten pounds heavier with the way they whine when sat on. A candle and 3 coasters in the center of every round table, beckoning more drinks as the day died. In fact- those wax sticks were everywhere along the tavern- even in a chandelier that dangled above the liquor shelf, occasionally dripping hot tears on the bar.

Just the kind of place you’d expect to see the men you do.

Seedy- dusting in the corner of your bar are built scrawny- diet of yeast and grass evident in the hollow of their back. Mouths they hide from their mothers, hands that hit harder than their fathers. But in the redness of their cheeks- bloated by the sun and the contents you served them- was a weakness.

Masculine insecurity that had them calling you a ‘pretty bitch’. A compliment, but derogatory enough their clam tongue wasn’t revealed under the folds of their shell. No pearl, no wealth- just a common, beached, animal.

“’nother round, for mah fellows, baby.”

You glanced up. Sullen face, grey beard- twisted lips that cracked under ale. He flashed crooked teeth, and you strained a smile, forcing the tired plump of your cheeks to spread. You slipped your journal beneath the bar, taking his cups and filling them until the clouds of foam kissed the rim.

He flipped a couple coins on the counter, and you slid them into your palm.

You sighed, running your tongue along the cast of your teeth. Late hours were so boring- never new- repetitive that even the loud, sudden laughter from that back corner didn’t phase you anymore.

There were no more surprises- because everyone was here.

Ned and his calloused farmer men. Not too much of a hassle, sat in the back and called you names- but let you work. Callum and his wallowing ass in the center tables, nursing his umpteenth glass of the evening ever since his wife left.

And Silas- sweet boy- young and excited to drink. He’s more often than not by himself, drunk silly as he draws. You liked him more than the rest- brother feeling about him. Kinder.

So, it surprises you when the bell rings, well into the night, and he walks in.

Brutish arms- hung by shoulders that nearly reach the door frame. The rest of him was just as big- military fed, you had to assume. Strong jaw, buzzed skull except for a well-trimmed bush down the center. He stood out like a sore thumb, the slender builds of farmer boys a third of the bull that stood in front of you.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, as you heard the laughter behind you hush and Callum’s wallowing come to a lull. He didn’t seem to mind- especially as he made his way to the bar- eyes and smile beguiling- and directed at you.

Now you weren’t easily charmed- but you knew a handsome man when you saw one. It’s the particular weight on their shoulders- making their feet come down heavier and gate smooth.

Nothing wrong with looking at them- just as long as you don’t get too comfortable. Just because they’re clams with nicer shells, maybe even a pearl between clean teeth, doesn’t mean they’re any less washed up.

“Welcome. What can I get’cha tonight.” You offered him the same smile you gave everyone.

“Aye. A pint ‘il do.”

The thick arches of gaelic in his voice caught you off guard. Deep timbers, pine rooted in his throat, leaves lime with humor. It pooled in the back of your mouth- an aftertaste you found yourself liking.

You filled his glass, rolling the shock off your shoulders. “We don’t get many scots ‘n here.”

He chuckled as you handed him a glass, blue eyes unwavering as he took a sip. “Nae? Though’ it’da be fool of ‘em.”

He pulled a genuine laugh out of you- the sound of sarcasm familiar- comforting. “What brings you here.”

“Work.” He said plainly- but the twitch on his knuckle told you he wanted you to ask more.

“Military?”

“What gave ye tha’ idea?”

You hummed, eyes running up his shoulders. You didn’t miss how they squared, conscious under your gaze. “You don’t look like a farmer. Too much of you.”

“Aye, ere’s neva too much of me, darl.”

You sucked in your bottom lip. Charmer.

“So, you are military, then?”

“Yes ma’am.”

You idled your hands with one of the many dirty glasses that blistered under old soap studs and dried foam. The rags bumpy fabric prickled your fingers- enough to keep them from trembling when he spoke.

“What branch of the military brings you out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Most of em.”

Your lips thin to an embarrassed line. Right, of course. “I…guess I’m really asking what branch you are.”

He took another swing of his beer, and you watched as he tipped his jaw back- revealing the catch of his throat as he swallowed. Must have been on purpose- show off.  “SAS. On leave, yer place looked tidy,” his eyes gave you a once over, “good tae see ’m right.”

Turning to set the glass down gave you an excuse to avoid his eyes. Demin blue but not casual, deep-set and sharp. Military grade, you could tell by the way they really saw. Accessing you, ran up the hunch of your spine and the click of your wrist- aiming to find spare bullets and threats.

He’d come up empty, though. No, not in you. All he’d find was the jump of your heart against your cervical.

“Mmm,” you offered, “Its cute, I’ll give it that much. Good for the drinks.”

He nodded, “’N maybe somethin more…”

These are the moments when your mother’s voice comes back to you. Thick spit, coarse hair- tangled and suffocating- your lungs sting almost as much as the red print on your cheek.

“Foolish child.”

Your back was turned, so you thought maybe you’d finally been tempting enough to something pretty. That the lilt in his voice, the gravel as it went an octave deeper, accent blooming under light o’s and rolled r’s- meant for your company.

That maybe, the looks you had been told were your only asset, had finally done some good.

You were left disappointed when you turned back around, cheeks a hopeful rose, when his eyes had left you. Instead, past your shoulder, to the red doors.

You’d never seen what was actually behind them, Francesca made sure of that. You could only assume it was the collection of every mans desire painted pretty- shelves of toys, women in bright, expensive lingerie, red lips on rum ones. A childish image, really, but what else were you to do?

In a way, you were just as desperate to get behind those doors as every man here. Not necessarily in the same way- not to satisfy some sick desire, dig up a buried, old arousal that their poor wives didn’t anymore.

No, for you it was to satisfy your own insecurity. Hungry creature, eager to prove and ready to sweat. To be something- pretty, ugly, didn’t matter. As long as you had a place there, you’d be rich.

“Oh, yes,” you let your customer smile come back, editing the script you were given in your head, “pretty gals over there. If you wanted a-“

“Ye work tere?”

You choked on nothing. “What?”

“Do ye work ‘n ta brothel?”

Genuine curiosity. Maybe he was hiding something else behind thin lips, but the question came out too casual for its boldness that you wouldn’t’ve caught it. You found yourself unsure in your own body, standing stiff as your bones questioned whether to lean, sit, or run.

You chose none of the three, and instead you spoke.

“No.” Not yet. You wanted to add. He hummed, taking a last swig of his pint before placing the cup on the table with a…hefty tip. You opened your mouth to say something, but when your eyes met his you were quickly hushed.

Ripped denim, now razor blue. The yellow of the lights seemed to bring it out, and if you weren’t confident he had killed a man, you were now.

“Shame,” he said, standing, “Such a bloody waste.”

[nyxvamps]

Aphrodite Cabin:

Instead of being a life size barbie dreamhouse like it is described in the books, its very subtle, and natural, and soft

The outside is pink, but such a pale pink that it looks white unless the right light is hitting it.

There is natural ivy growing only each wall and onto the roof. It wraps around shutters and the frames of the doors.

It almost looks like a small manor. Looks like it should have been built on some far off hill that is surrounded by flower fields for miles.

The inside is very cozy and welcoming. The walls are a muted dark green and there are so many pictures, posters, mirrors, shelves, etc that you can barely see the paint.

There are bedrooms in the cabin. It looks normal on the outside but Mama wanted the best for her children so she did her magic on it and made it a lot bigger on the inside. There are bedrooms, four to a room, and the main room is more of a common room/lounge area.

There is a walk-in, expanding, closet where you put old clothes you don’t want anymore and other siblings can come and get some new clothes if they need them. (Other campers are welcome whenever invited. It happens more often than it should)

There are traditions that have spanned centuries.

There is an item from every sibling that has lived in that cabin somewhere on the walls. All of the pictures, posters, things on the shelves are placed there by a past sibling.

There is an ever growing stack of finished rubix cubes that each have a piece of tape with the time on it.

There’s a hook where, if your jewelry breaks in the cabin, you tie it off and hang it there. There is a necklace made of leather with a hundreds year old stone heart on the hook.

It’s gross, but there is a bowl where most of the family will put their tooth in if they lose it while at camp. We pretend that it’s a flower pot whenever others campers are there.

This is newer. At the beginning of every summer, everyone (if they feel comfortable) gets in front of the rest of the cabin and gives names, pronouns, and sexuality.

Bathrooms are co ed and there have been multiple times that someone had been late to an event because an impromptu fashion show happened in the bathroom

Unironically, there is a mirror in the cabin where, if you are feeling down, you go and say those cheesy affirmations to make you feel better about whatever was bothering you.

Mama actually charmed it to give the person in front of it a clearer mind and more confidence in themselves.

There is a goal, from the early 1800’s, to make the entire camp think that aphrodite kids are the weakest of the demigods.

The goal is to train up enough and bide our time so that we can destroy the entire camp at capture the flag.

Its sometimes opens up peoples eyes to how quickly people accept that all aphrodite kids are just pampered prissy rich kids.

etc.

[taylormarieee]

Crybaby JJ Maybank

Summary: Based on this lovely post by @princessbrunette creds to her for the inspo!

Word Count: 734

Pairing: Toxic!JJ x Fem!Crybaby!Reader

Warnings: Dom!JJ, Toxic!JJ, Jealous!JJ, Crybaby!Reader, JJ beating up some guy at a party, Reader being slightly angry, suggestive ending, honestly don't know if this is kinda toxic jj but hope y'all enjoy!

You were at a party that the pogues usually plan. The party's are alway killer and extremely fun. Kooks are here and other pougues from the island.

Sometimes even tourist come along to see what the hype is about. You were standing with John B handing out Keg drinks aka beer with a hint of wine for the prissy kooks.

"Take it or leave it Kook." You said staring at Topper with annoyance written all over your face. He grabs the cup from you and splashes a bit of beer on your dress. You flip him off and shout at him. You turn to get a napkin and you hear John B snicker next to you.

"What? It's not funny you asshole!" you say hitting John B playfully on the arm.

"Not gonna lie it's kinda funny." he says. You glare at him and he just laughs it off. "Ok it was a little funny." he says.

You pout at him before walking off. Your wandering around to find JJ when you see a friend of your from school that's in one of your classes.

"Justin? Heyyy! How are you?!" You yell at him over the music while running up to him to give him a hug. You don't have a lot of traction to run considering your on sand but you make it to him anyway.

You and Justin catch up for almost the entire night that you forgot that you were looking for JJ. What you don't notice is how JJ is staring at you from afar.

Laughing with the boy, hands resting on his arm for a couple seconds too long, even leaning into him a bit because your a little tipsy.

He's had enough when the guy wraps his arm around you. He storms over to Justin and grabs him by his collar.

"What ya doin' touching my girl hmm? My girl!" He yells before decking the guy right in his jaw.

"JJ! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!" You yell at him trying to pull JJ off of Justin.

"Leave him alone JJ! Justin are you ok?!" You yell once you successfully get him off of Justin and lift Justin up as well. You hand Justin over to someone much stronger than you and storm over to JJ.

"What the hell was that huh?" You yell at him. He grabs your arm and pulls you closer. "Your mine. Only mine. I don't think you understand the fucking meaning of you. are. mine." He enunciates.

Your eyes get teary as his grp on your arm start to hurt a bit. "I don't want you around other men that aren't Pope or John B... do you understand princess?" He says stern;y.

You shake your head yes but want to explain to him that he's just a friend. "But Jay.. he's just a friend from school! It's not that s-serious." You blab out as tears start to run down your face."

"You think I give a fuck about your tears baby. You hurt me. Makin me think you don't want me anymore, so you go and fuck around with other guys hmm? That's what we're doing now?" He says angrily.

Your full on crying now. Upset about what happened and then upset about making JJ feel that way.

"I-I'm sorry jay jay... i'll m-make it up to you I promise.. It's just he's my friend! W-Why did you have to hit him. He's my friend from school! Now he'll never talk to m-me again." You voice to him sadly.

He rolls his eyes as he clenches his jaw, 'What part of "your not allowed to have any guy friends" does this girl not understand' He thinks.

You sniffle and wipe your tears away. He lets your arm go and places his hand on the small of your back. "Mama... No more male friends, got it. Only Pope and John B ok? Do you understand me?" He says in the softest voice he can muster up as he is still fuming with anger.

"Mhm... yes.. I understand jj. Lemme make it up to y-you." You say still slightly sniffiling.

"Yea? Gonna make it up to papa J? such a good girl you little crybaby." He says.

It makes you pout but you follow him towards the car where your going to make it up to him. You owe him after all.

Taglist: @dustbunniess @princessbrunette and anyone else who wants to join!

[beannary]

HEY TLP AND RED ROVER TIED

prissy rich boy and deranged mad scientist forced to put aside big mama and baron draxum rivalry to win poll competition.png

Red Rover au belongs to @red-rover-au

Oh also @tmntseparatedaucompetition

[moroneur]

okok, hear me out on this rottmnt leo x reader au idea guys i swear:

Rottmnt separated au where Leo (named Kappa) was raised as the next battle nexus champion n owner (in case anything happens to big mama) by big mama and he had to fight (literally and figuratively) for familial affection and peace his whole life. Then theres Reader who was abandoned by her parents the moment they found out about her ability to see into the future via dreams (which isnt as straightforward as it sounds- her visions span across multiple alternate timelines and they vary in time making it hard to understand and navigate), so they gave their small child to big mama (human version) and lil yn is forced to become a servant bc her powers are ultimately useless.

small yn is basically forced by the other employees to serve Leo bc none of em wanted to. Yn is scared and shy at first but then they kinda become friends (She even names him Leonardo bc its a very characteristic throughout her dreams and she thought it suit him) eventhough he has to hide it in public and pretend he doesnt gaf about the human because the other yokai would make fun of him and call him weak n pick on them. They basically grow up side by side, developing extreme loyalty to each other.

He's prissy and picky and an arrogant brat and hes possessive and caring and would protect yn with his entire being. He had to fight Big Mama for her to stay and not get kicked on the streets, making Big Mama send Leo on field missions as a punishment, making him take Yn with him, purposefully making her dead weight, but he always came out on top.

throughout the years Yn became very introverted and showed her true self only to leo bc that was her one and only safe place. They go on outings in the hidden city and run from the bellboys tryna catch them when BM finds out they snuck out.

The other turtles are all scattered.

Donatello is with Draxum, YN and Leo being the only ones that even call him Donatello. (Drax calls him Purple bc he's horrendous with names). He used to be a full on turtle mutant but because of Draxum training him until he was drained n tired asf there was a lab accident, making him half cyborg. His shell is now replaced with a deadly metal 'shell', one of his eyes is artificial, and eventhough he's trained in multiple weapons, he prefers using technology and working on war weapons making Big Mama and Draxum collaborate. Whenever there's a meeting both BM and Draxum would take their sons with them as 'theyre the succesors and should be there for future reference' though Leo thinks Big Mama wants to have a good image and show Draxum off by dangling something that she took from him right in his face. Well, if Leo's going, that automatically means YN is coming with him; he wont let her out of her periphery, wont make snatching his pet away from him easy for Big Mama. They basically met at those meetings, though they usually sent the younger ones elsewhere while the adults spoke of veery important things. Donatello absolutely hated YN at first bc she was human so him n leo almost fought, but YN, being a little familiar with Donnie from her dreams, started asking Donatello questions to appease him, making Donnie tolerate her (theyre working on extending that tolerance to all of humanity). Leo and Donnie's and Yn's relationship is on thin ice, but it is getting better- they visit don when theyre in the hidden city and help him with gathering materials from the overworld bc Purple wasnt allowed lol Loser. (they snuck him out and showed him the wonders of human tech though, once or twice.) Leo got his mystic weapon from Baron Draxum as a gift (eventhough he actually didnt want to give it. Donnie convinced him to do so because Drax had a fight with Big Mama and 'giving a gift to her son would show your utmost apologies and mend your business partnership') a way to get back into good graces w Big Mama and Draxum. Just business.

Raph (or Beast) is with the Foot Clan. He was raised very lovingly (bc they were prepping him for the shredder armor), and reveres shredder as his god bc while his parents may have 'loved' him, he was at the end of the day, just a tool to help shredder's revival (everyone in the clan thought so about themselves, they were veery cult like). Leo only knows of them bc he spotted them breaking into a mall while he was 'shopping' gifts for YN :3. he found them hilarious so he watched on as they struggled to fit Beast through multiple doors in the mall. The guy was huge, bigger than he was supposed to be. wtf were they feeding him?? Leo ofc records it and shows it to YN and she can deduce the future from her dreams and the way things r going irl and goes like oh shit this is bad lol we're fucked if someone doesnt do anything abt this and leos like will it hurt you? yn: yes. yes leo it will. leo: oh okay dw then yn ill steal it from them hehe. so he trolls the foot clan whenever he can just for funsies (Leo is also slightly insane n arrogant, so being a little shit comes naturally to him). Whilst he was stalking the top execs he comes across a binding ritual for two or more people. He watched and listened as it was explained thru a book. He stole the ritual book and read through it himself, coming up with an idea himself.

He brings the book to YN and tells her he wants to souldbond with her. (their relationship is like: i belong to leo and only leo but we're not dating n vice versa... like kiss alr smh.) A soulbond is an irreversible binding contract between two people, which allows them to communicate their intent just by their thoughts and solidifying their involvement with each other. It can only be broken if one of them dies. Yn agrees and they make the soulbond without any regrets. No one knows about it but Donnie, whose eye had strong mystic receptors iy already. He saw the chains binding the 2 together and gagged the moment he found out what it meant LMAO.

Raphs fighting style are his body and tail only. hes a brute through and through, his older sister is Cass.

Mikey is with Splinter, who felt so guilty of being unable to save mikeys brothers he unintentionally started neglecting Mikey and developed depression. Mikey bless his soul has been doing his best to keep it together and bring his bros together. He doesnt succeed at it very much and only represses his emotions until he cant anymore, and when that happens lets say the city had a few buildings to fix. Mikey stole the Kusari fundo from Draxum, and its his main weapon.

April, who has Mayhem as her pet, is trying to become a journalist, so she's always at the fights, writing stuff down and then publishing them. Her main way of staying safe is Mayhem's portals lol. She's been saved multiple times by Yn begging leo to give her mercy lol. None of the turtles rlly interact w her.

YN is very shy and closed off. She can be very calculative and manipulative if dhe wants to, making her the perfect s/o for leo, who can analyse a situation and come up on top with the best outcome, as well as pull any information out of anyone, violently or not. He needs constant praise. Leo has a short fuse, and Yn is his perfect match, always calming the situation down before it could make leo explode; she knows all his triggers and tells and weaknesses, as does he for her since they yknow, grew up together.

TELL ME YOUR THOUGHTS PLEASE

[hotxcheeto]

Chloe as a mom hc’s pls 🤟🤟🤞🤞 I think the idea is cute

━ 𝐂𝐇𝐋𝐎𝐄 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) - Chloe Price x G/N!Reader

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - Cursing?, a lot of fluff y'all I just kept adding to it, slight angst in parts but nothing bad at all, alludes to pregnancy ig? i don't really know?

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ? - Yeah/Nope

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - i love babies sm.. also ty for the request!!

first things first, i don't ever see her actually choosing to mother

but if you have a kid? and she likes you? she also likes your kid

chloe probably meets you later in life, she's matured ( kinda) and explored places she's always wanted and finally she comes across you and that thing.. the little gremlin that's attached to your hip with big eyes and a grand smile

step-father chloe y'all ( nah jk... unless )

she is childish herself and lowkey selfish which is why she for sure questions her parental abilities and never wanted kids young or even at all when she thought about, but you just sprung up and how could she deny herself yours, hers and that little ankle biters happiness

but she's for sure the fun parent, the one that will let your child stay up passed bedtime and eat so much ice cream while watching R rated movies and promising not to tell you

and then you get home, catch them and suddenly everybody getting a time out

including her and probably the cat too

she probably has very loose parenting as well, her main ideas is if there's nothing to rebel against, what's the point in doing the bad stuff?

meaning she is just a very open parent in the sense that she doesn't hide the word from her kids or shelter them, she's honest and let's them choose their own path in life with her soft guidance

and she's just open in general about her opinions on things

you ask? she'll answer, same goes for the little one who has all the questions in the world and she's sure to answer

even if it's 'are unicorns real?'

they sure fucking are kid, and so are leprechauns

speaking of which, her imagination is unreal

remember how she'd play pirates with max? oh yeah, grab your eyepatch, you're in for a long ride with this one

her playtime with baby has lore, bullet point, highlighted text and a few video essays and a whole lot of story telling they have to explain to you

then you have your toddler clapping at you to keep up and chloe trying to throw you into her world of sparkles and sea monsters and you just wanted to know what they wanted for dinner

she's so cool to all of your child's friends as well, she's the cool parent with different colored hair and tats that totally have those prissy moms side eyeing her hard and don't give a single damn

lets them do what they want at your house because they're safe and that's what matters at the end of the day, even if they're getting up to shit in their rooms

if your child wants colored hair she'll get them those fake hair clip ins and temporary die just so they can look more like her and oh my god it's adorable

also the fake tattoos you get at like grocery stores or dollar stores in those machines? your kid will always compare them to mama chloe's or yours if you have tattoos

shows them off and tells people she's matching with her mama

has great bedtime stories

big cuddler too, she's a clinger

when your child is still a baby she just loves to hold them and i mean LOVES too, the baby don't even care about being held chloe just don't wanna put them down

doesn't believe in baby talk

she speaks to her baby like they a grown man and that's it there's not another way

she be talking to it like it understands her while it just stares and drools while giggling because chloe is a very animated and entertaining talker, even you catch yourself listening aimlessly

she loves being and parenting though, even the stresses

sometimes though she feels like she's gonna fail at it but you just have to give her the slight reminder and that she's her fathers and mothers daughter, and they were both was a wonderful people and parents

joyce adores your child, whether you had them before or after chloe, she's in love and spoils them as much as she possibly can

chloe even jokes that joyce loves the kid more than her

which may or may not be true

max also loves them so much, loves taking pictures which actually helps capture a lot of memories free of you freaking out to grab your phone, she never posts them or anything, she actually gives them to most times to keep in the baby book

everybody loves the small human okay

chloe saves so much money up to give you and them the best holdiays ever and birthdays, even if you're struggling with money, she makes it all worth while

handy man of the house as well, will fix toys and put together cribs and bedframes well into the night while you're passed out with your body pillow and noise machine my man

she loves taking care of her family, that's all

but chloe most of all, is both scared and enamored that your little human thinks you and her are the entire world, and she doesn't plan on making that world fall apart like it did for her when her dad passed

yeah, that's not happening

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟓   ❛ 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚 ❜   |   NAKAWE PALACE, DEC. 1990

❧  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

   ❛  Priscila’s career had taken her all over the world before she retired to Uspana. Here, she was just Prissy again—or, in the papers, Princess P. Mending her relationship with Beatriz had been uneven; it remained incomplete to this day. Reconnecting with her sister’s children, adults as they were, was itself in some cases painstaking and in others a pleasure. With Safya, it had been easy. She even suspected Beatriz resented what closeness they cultivated. It wasn’t, of course, because she and her daughter were ever distant. No, it was more simple than that: Beatriz was a possessive creature. That it was her little sister taking something of hers (on shopping trips, to the beach, for a late-night movie in a theater they rented out just to sit in the middle in their pajamas) made it worse. “Mama understands me,” Safya had told Prissy once. “She loves me. Sometimes I don’t know if she likes me.” This had made her laugh, and Safya fell into nervous chuckles in response. Finally, Prissy nodded heartily, replying, “We’re the same in that way, Safy.”

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

❧ alfonso’s death will happen in part iv of the main story, a million years from now, but here’s a taste of beatriz being destroyed by it :^) additionally, no real prose today. having a remarkably bad one. maybe next week. [insert me shrugging so hard i dislocate both of my shoulders]

TRANSCRIPT:

{Miscellaneous cooking noises}

[P] Have you tried the cookies?

[L] What? I, uh … No.

[P] I told Olalla they wouldn’t help—on the telephone, while she was baking—but she was in a frenzy. No stopping her.

[L] I can’t …It’s …They were mama’s—

[P] Her favorites, I know.

[P] Not a bittersweet reminder yet. Just bitter

[L] {Sighs.}

[L] I didn’t know you were here already.

[P] Birdie always pretends I’m not. I decided to let her this time.

[L] It doesn’t feel very good.

[P] What, is that how you feel? Ignored?

[L] I waited all morning for her. She walked right past me ... I just don’t know what to do with myself.

[P] Of course. It feels like the end of the world.

[P] You know, that isn’t fully a bad thing. The People wouldn’t exist if the world had not ended—and ended, and ended, and ended. We’re destroyed, and we become something new to survive. 

[P] The last time this happened ... Mama, I would think. That destroyed me. For Birdie, this is worse. This is like when papa died. 

[L] I just thought we would be together. Now, her and me. She hasn’t even looked at me since we saw mama at the marina. 

[P] You’re not getting any comfort from her, Nora. You know that. 

[P] You don’t need to beg her for it either. You have an entire family that will comfort you. I’m here. Your grandfather. The rest of them. Just let things run their course.

[L] I know that. It just ... doesn’t make it hurt any less.

[P] It rarely does.

[P] Now, how about some coffee? That’s what everyone comes in here for.

[L] Sal’s self-serve station. That is what I wanted, before … 

[P] We’ll skip the cookies and save our appetites for dinner.

[christopher-bryant]

Clarisse: Whats the matter, Prissy? Miss your mommy?

Percy: Well, yes actually. I do miss my mom.

Clarisse: You're taking the fun out of this by not being upset at me mocking you for being a mama's boy.

Percy: You're trying to make fun of me for loving and missing my saint of a mother?

Clarisse: You're making me angry so I'm just going to kick your ass instead.

Percy: You're better off doing that.

[elvisabutler]

gravity

summary: once upon a time there was elvis, priscilla and you. nowadays there is elvis. there is priscilla. and there is you. priscilla has always been good at talking you into things and you miss them both. he's missed the two of you. fandom: austin butler | elvis 2022 | elvis presley pairing: austin butler elvis x olivia dejonge priscilla x female reader rating: m word count: 3232 not even remotely talking about it. it happened alright? warnings: sex toys. threesomes. talk of linda thompson and ginger alden. older/later elvis described/implied. sugar baby/sugar mama and daddy dynamic. reader is called sugar exclusively. mild dom/sub. masturbation ( m ). p in v sex ( implied, referenced ). i think that might be everything, christ y'all i don't know it's almost 11PM. author's note: welcome to day 22 of kinktober, sex toys with austin elvis and olivia priscilla. consider this a spiritual successor to gunmetal and the two bondage threesomes i did for my 500 follower celebration. also this truly is supposed to be austin elvis and olivia priscilla but the problem with me picking this point is that i have way too much wiggle room to err this mildly on real elvis. i am so sorry anon i truly do owe you a redo on this. also mild suggestion, listen to gravity by sara bareilles while reading this for extra vibes.

Priscilla could always talk you into things that Elvis couldn't. She had realized this long before he did, a fact that through the years you had found yourself incredibly thankful for on more than one occasion. Her requests were simple- perhaps a consequence of being on the receiving end of Elvis's off the wall requests- and it makes easy to tell her yes. Even after the three of you were not an- item- a threesome- you don't know the name for what the three of you were- you'd still jump if your former sugar mama asked. She knew never to ask you about Elvis because as much as she hurt from their divorce she still was able to be his friend, be with him in ways you couldn't. It was normal for his ex wife to visit him, to see him at a tour date or at the International.

They had Lisa, it made sense for them to be on good terms, to keep in far more contact that you and him to keep in contact. You were only someone to Elvis and Priscilla. The Memphis Mafia knew you, of course, no one was around Graceland or around the Elvis's rooms at the International without seeing him with "the best girls a man could ask for" on his arms. They knew you but much like an actual mafia, they weren't about to spill the beans and let everyone else know the secret. That secret that Elvis Presley, the boy who got everyone up in arms with his gyrations in the 50s and became a family man in the 60s had been carrying on with his wife and their girlfriend since the 60s only to break up with her the same time he divorced his wife. Priscilla gets a mink coat, Elvis gets a Rolls Royce and you get nothing but regret and a friendship with one of your exes.

Priscilla knows that the anniversary of when you were on the bus and she came across you is coming up, the time she considers when you all started this. She also knows that she's going to make her usual trip to visit Elvis around that time. She's worried about him, truly, this feels different than when they divorced. This feels different than the year after. This feels different than that moment when he took her offer of going to rest and didn't. Linda's gone and he's got Ginger now, but it's still- she's worried. It's that worry that prompts her to call you, call you so that she has company on this adventure.

"Sugar." She uses a name she hasn't used in over two years to talk to you, to ensnare you into this plan. "I know you haven't seen him since I left and you left but I think he could use the company. He-"

You cut her off. "Misses me? Prissy- He's moved on, I've moved on, you two can keep doing whatever it is you two do, that's- you're his ex-wife. I'm not."

Priscilla frowns on her end of the phone call and sighs. "You might as well have been, Sugar, I am not hanging up the phone until you agree to come. You were my- You were our sugar and look at the calendar."

There's a pause on your end as you glance at the calendar by your phone. You know this date like the back of your hand, you had a date with a bottle of wine for this date. When you finally speak your voice is barely above a whisper. "I'll come."

Elvis has put on weight, that's the unfortunate first conclusion you make when you see him in the doorway of the room. You could have sworn he had a tour date or two around this time and so you had been prepared to have this be a meeting at a hotel room. At a neutral ground that didn't have so many memories it threatened to choke you. Then again- maybe this was better. Priscilla had already told you that these meeting with Elvis always seemed to turn sexual, not that she ever meant for them to, but it just happened. You find that it doesn't fill you with dread like you thought it would. In fact, a part of you feels excited, you have a boyfriend but the way you felt between Elvis and Priscilla and their attention- that's a feeling you've yet to experience again.

Elvis doesn't notice you at first, focusing on Priscilla with a grin that lights up his face and arms open for a hug. "'Cilla. Thought you were gonna be too busy for me? Thought I was gonna have t' spend today by myself."

"Fire eyes, you know I wouldn't do that to you. I didn't do it to you last year, did I?" She slides into his waiting arms, allowing him to engulf her in a hug she craved so much in the last bit of their marriage but he willingly gave after their divorce.

"Ya didn't. Kept me company and let me-" He trails off, noticing you standing behind Priscilla finally looking better than he swears you did all those years ago when he found you on a movie set. "Sugar."

You bite your lip to keep yourself from tearing up, your eyes drifting up and down his form. He's still the same man you fell in love with as a naive 19 year old, just older, more worn by time just like you were and like Priscilla was. You understand why Priscilla is worried, you've kept up with the tabloids and somehow seeing it in person- puts it in perspective. Maybe it's just that he's becoming more comfortable with himself, maybe he's embracing his age, but you see how he winces a little when moving toward you, and hear a noise coming from his knee. Life is catching up to him too fast.

His arms envelop you in a hug that reminds you of every hug you've ever gotten from him. It's overwhelming how he invades your senses and you're reminded just how much he overpowers you even when you're not like Priscilla. Your body sags against his as you wrap your arms around him and you swear you feel a tension in him disintegrate as you hold him close. "You ain't a dream, are ya? 'Cilla doesn't let me take sleepin' meds when she's here, and my dreams- they get a little funny, Sugar."

You shake your head against his chest, refusing to pull away as he holds you tighter at the answer. "Good. I- That's good, come- no wonder she told me to bring all this stuff in here. Thought she was up ta somethin'."

That finally has you pulling away and raising an eyebrow. "What did she have you bring into the room, Elvis?" Your eyes shift to Priscilla. "What do you have planned?"

Elvis pulls both of you into the room, shutting the door behind him and gestures to the bed where you see a Hitachi Magic Wand, well two of them and a few dildos. Your eyes then dart to the video recorder and you groan. "Priscilla Ann Beaulieu, you got me here under false pretenses, I'm not-"

"Sugar." Elvis's voice rumbles behind you and you have to stop your knees from buckling underneath you. Elvis's arm wraps around your torso as you sway just a little, holding you steady. "Don't talk back to 'Cilla."

He feels warm, like a furnace that threatens to burn everyone around him. It's been so long since you've had him, had Priscilla like this that you allow yourself a moment to inhale the scent of him. The trace of a cigar, the sweet hint of Pepsi and the unique smell of his sweat. It's then that you lean back a little, allowing Elvis to just hold you against him as Priscilla moves in front of you and cups your breasts.

"She was right, E. I didn't warn her you might want to video tape this." Priscilla murmurs, placing a kiss against your neck, as you loll it back against Elvis's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sugar, I didn't- I wanted you to come. I wanted him to see both of us again." She looks up at him and sees him just breathing slowly against you, his chest rising and falling in his robe. She's reminded of how much she loved- and still probably loves this man. His grip loosens on you under Priscilla's gaze.

"I wanted t' see ya." He admits, his breath ghosting against your ear as he leans his head down just a bit. "Ya know how she gets, all determined when she thinks it'll do everyone some good."

The meaning of his words isn't lost on you, it's him acknowledging that Priscilla- Priscilla with her maybe healthy relationship outside of this got out the best. He's a close second with two other relationships under his belt but you- you got the short end of the stick by running off. Priscilla and him maybe shouldn't be as close as they still are as exes- Lisa or not- but it does them some good. Priscilla seems a little happier and relaxed when she calls you after a visit and you know some of Elvis's best shows lately have happened after Priscilla saw him.

"She missed us." The three of you. "Not just you."

"She's ain't the only one." His hand moves down to your pants, cupping your mound just slightly. "You miss me?"

A hum is the only answer you trust yourself to give him, the only answer that feels right in the moment as you start to feel overwhelmed just being sandwiched in between your favorite people on the planet- your former lovers- your former everything. You register the three of you moving to the bed, Priscilla first letting herself plop down and pulling you down to sit next to her before you find both of you looking up at Elvis. It's reminiscent of so many other times you both were like this that you can't help the way your body involuntarily shudders at the memory.

"I ain't-" Elvis pauses, moving to cup your cheek with one hand. "I ain't fucking ya tonight. Goddamn if I don't wanna, but 've had a rough week. 'Cilla knows I can't-" He looks away, looking like he's younger than his years for a moment. "It's not- I can't do it every night. And 'm sorry you caught me on a bad night."

His apology forces you out of your minor stupor before you shake your head asking the question that's been on your mind since you saw everything on the bed. "Then what are you doing, Elvis?"

Priscilla answers before he does, grabbing one of the wands and turning it on, allowing you to feel the vibrations through your shirt as she runs it across your chest. "It's what I'm doing. What we're doing. The toys are for us to play with while he watches."

You notice that Elvis has moved to behind the camera and untied his robe, allowing you to see just how his body has changed. It's like your eyes are drawn to him just like they've always been, cataloging every stretch mark, every bit of skin that wasn't there before- or didn't look like that before the divorce and everything in between. His chest hair is the last thing you dwell on and it's then that he clears his throat. "I know I'm not the same-"

You cut him off, knowing where this is headed and you can feel Priscilla frowning. "There isn't anyone in this room who is, Da- Elvis." Daddy almost slipped off your tongue and you have to pause to collect yourself. "'Cilla has her marks, I've got some and maybe I'll get some others to match hers soon enough."

Elvis's eyes narrow at the implication before he purses his lips. "You'll let me see them?"

A no is on the tip of your tongue but he looks like- you want to give him a chance here, you want to make him happy. So you lie. "Of course."

His lips quirk into a smile as he moves to turn on the camera only to stop short. "Can I tape this, Sugar? You don't have t' say yes but I miss you both somethin' fierce and Ginger- she- she knows how I am."

You should tell him no, you should tell him that it makes you uncomfortable to know he'll have something like that of you and Priscilla but you don't. You remember that Elvis made sure to file the divorce papers to protect a woman he should hate, a woman who left him. You remember how many times he had to talk to a newspaper to keep you and him and Priscilla out of the gossip pages. You remember all these things and wonder why you should worry. "Yeah. It'll be like those photos, remember?"

His answering groan and the way you swear you see his cock swell makes you grin before you feel Priscilla's hands moving toward your shirt to unbutton it.

It takes time for you and Priscilla to undress, Elvis needing only to pull open his robe as he sank into the chair facing you two. His eyes watch you both, watch how your hands move to pull down bra straps and unbutton pants. You're wearing stockings under those pants and both he and Priscilla groan as she kisses your leg, pulling them down ever so slowly. When you're both finally undressed you toy with the wand in your hand, debating where you'd like to start with Priscilla as she focuses the vibrating effect on your chest. You feel your arousal flood you, cursing the fact that Priscilla knows you enjoy your nipples played with as you finally decide that her clit is the object of your desire, it's the thing you'll bring her down with. You're not prepared for the amount of wetness that greets you, causing the vibrations to be mildly muffled as you hear it. She keens just slightly, grinding on the toy just a little as you hear the telltale sign of Elvis's hand pumping his cock. You wonder if he has lube.

"You like this, don't you? Like seeing me and Cilla like this?" You ask as Priscila slides the toy down to your clit, earning a yelp from you and a hiss of her name. "'Cilla."

"Of course he likes it, Sugar. Don't you see him playing with his cock? See his thumb brushing the head. I know he wishes he could fuck you." She murmurs, before kissing you, pulling your lip in between her teeth and watching Elvis growl watching you both.

"Don't need to tease like that. Should have he fuck you with that dildo, Cilla. Not as big as me but t'll do fine, won't it?" His words have your cunt clenching as it faces him and the camera. "Or maybe you need to fuck our Sugar. Always such a hungry woman. Needed both of us t' satisfy her, didn't ya?"

If your eyes shut at that, shut at the memories that come flooding back of how well the two of them used you, no one comments on it instead choosing to watch as you grind yourself on the toy Priscilla has teasing your clit chasing some relief. "Please, please, let me come, please."

You shouldn't be pleading already, you think you've lasted longer before but maybe you're out of practice, maybe the fact that you haven't been with them for so long has you begging for a release you've needed for over two years. Maybe three, you've lost count at this point, not wanting to dwell on it. You hear Elvis's laugh as it vibrates in your skull.

"Ya've missed this, haven't ya? We've missed you-" He starts, his hand pumping faster and faster, wanting to show you how you've made him come faster than he has in a while. "Both my best girls. My favorite girls. Still my sugar. Still my girl."

Priscilla doesn't react to the praise as much as you do, knowing it's directed more toward you and she can't help but tease your entrance with a dildo while she whispers in your ear. "Our sugar. Come like you would for old times sake. Please? For me? Be my good girl? Be the girl who wrangled Elvis with me? Be my girl who we still both love so much?"

You come with a shout as Priscilla presses in the dildo, your orgasm dripping onto the sheets despite the object that could try and hold it back. You watch Elvis groan his own release onto the carpet and into his hands as your cunt continues to flutter around the toy. You want to clean it up like old times sake before you release Priscilla still needs to come, you had dropped her toy in the haze of your own orgasm and the only thing you find is one of the dildos you two hadn't touched. You take a moment to make sure he's looking at you before you allow yourself to use it to enter her, making sure the camera's view isn't obstructed. "Next time you want this just ask me, I'll give it to you, you're still my Sugar Mama, Cilla."

She whimpers at you, pulling you down for a kiss as you hear Elvis's pleased noises coming from the chair. You think it's a growl but you can't quite tell. All you know is that you've missed hearing it, missed feeling like you're going to explode from the love the two of them have for you and for each other. You don't know when Elvis got up from the chair but you feel his fingers as they pull out the toy only to replace them with his fingers. "Come on, Cilla, give Sugar what she wants from you. I'll let you taste her on my fingers afterward."

That does it for her as she arches just a bit off the bed, clenching around the dildo and grabbing for your hand, for your anything she can to steady herself. She finds both his hand and yours grabbing at them both before she opens her eyes and stares at you both, breathing heavily as she does. Elvis removes his fingers from you and puts them in Priscilla's mouth, as her hand just moves to stroke his stomach, something you find he doesn't seem to mind. It looks like it relaxes him. When his fingers leave her mouth with a pop, she smiles at you. "Taste as good as I remember, Sugar."

Later on that night, after Elvis had filled the tape full of the pair of you, you find yourself cuddled against him with Priscilla on the other side, tracing shapes on his torso as he cupped your own stomach. You're tired, all three of you are tired and it shows in how Elvis's words are slurred when he speaks against your hair, thinking you're asleep.

"You're still m' sugar. Just like 'Cilla is still m' girl. Wanted you to be m' sugar until ya got sick of me." He grip tightens on you. "Don't leave me just yet. Wait until the mornin'. Wait until we're all up. Don't make me wake up all alone."

You don't.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 "𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐧" 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲) ✯ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Jake and Emmaline have a heated discussion. You ride on his handlebars to Silver Spring and affectionately call him piss-pants. Things get heated after that--up against a tree. ✯ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.9K ✯ 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✯ 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞'𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞 #𝟏 ✯ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐓𝐗 𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟖

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” 

Jake blinks, swallowing hard. He feels like she’s gonna make something come loose. 

“No,” he answers, trying to keep his voice from sounding as shaky as his hands feel. “No, I’m bein’ serious. Serious as a heart attack.”

 Fuck--he knows it’s stupid when he says it. He has to stifle a grimace. But he said it already, it’s sitting in the sweltering air between him and Emmaline. He’s gonna have to live with it.

“You’re breakin’ up with me?” Emmaline asks for the third time. 

Jake nods. For the third time. 

She scoffs--it’s a sound loud enough for him to hear over the sprinklers on her lawn, loud enough for him to hear over the smooth jazz her mama has playing in the kitchen as she pretends not to listen to their conversation. He’s praying that her mama stays in the kitchen and doesn't try to interrupt this--he knows he would lose his nerve if her mama came out or, God forbid, her daddy. 

Emmaline even looks pretty when she’s pissed off, which she is right now; her glossy lips are pursed so tightly that it’s turning them the shade of a pale primrose, her thin eyebrows are furrowed deeply, her cheeks are red as little apples, her honey hair is curtaining her pointed face elegantly. She’s not even sweating, which stupefies Jake because it’s about a million degrees outside, and she hasn’t moved from her spot on the porch’s sofa. She’s just narrowing her blue eyes at him with her arms crossed, the dictionary-definition of pissed off. 

“You don’t wanna do that,” Emmaline says decidedly, the edge in her voice enough to make Jake’s brows shoot up. “Like, you really, really don’t wanna do that.”

He sighs and this seems to piss her off even more. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ sigh at me when I’m tellin’ you what’s good for you,” she says with all the authority of her mama. 

He contains another sigh--just barely. But he’s so very tired of going in circles with her. 

“Why not?” His voice is pitched now--he’s so very close to snapping at her, which he’s made a very distinct point not to in the past. But she’s pressing on that special nerve of his, the one his sisters practically stomp on.  

He’s been here for an hour. He rode his bike over and asked to sit with her. Her mama brought them iced tea and left the backdoor cracked slyly (he noticed anyway) and left them on the wicker furniture on their screened-in porch. Jake knew that if he went inside, if Emmaline tangled with her mama about Jake going to her bedroom (and eventually got her way like she always did), then they would have sex. And he doesn’t want to do that. He feels bad, in a strange way, about being unfaithful to Emmaline. Not bad enough to tell her and not bad enough to not stick by you--but bad enough that he doesn’t want to give Emmaline the wrong idea by having sex with her again. 

He’s had two glasses of iced tea and he’s sweating through his t-shirt and she just won’t take no for an answer. 

Really, they’re just chasing their own tails now. And he’s tired--he woke up early to head to the Carolina’s to hay and water the horses. He lunged a few of the mustangs and shoveled some shit--all before noon. And now this prissy, pretty girl won’t let him break up with her. 

Emmaline stares at him like he should know exactly what she means. It makes his throat thick with annoyance, makes saliva pool beneath his tongue. He can almost feel that something ugly is about to come out of that pretty mouth--so much so that his fists are already clenching. 

“You really think you’re gonna get anyone better?” 

There it is. 

It feels like she’s just shot Jake and, in a way, she has. She’s hit him right where it hurts. His chest is suddenly hot and achy and he knows that it isn’t just from the stuffy air in here or the fact that he wants to go home and sleep. It isn’t guilt that he feels anymore for touching you when he was still with Emma. No, he doesn’t feel bad about that anymore. Not when Emma is smirking up at him the way she is, twirling her hair around her finger.  

Already there was that unspoken strangeness in their relationship. He lived in a double-wide with his mama and sisters; her brother went off to college four years ago and left the Odette’s in a house with four extra bedrooms. She’s going to Arkansas to party with no scholarship; he’s going to Austin to play baseball on a full ride. She doesn’t have to work; he does if he wants to have hot water. To put it plainly: he’s poor and she’s not. She’s actually the furthest from poor that someone can get. He knows it--she knows it. And now she’s smearing it across his ruddy cheeks like he’s a rodeo clown and his financial standing is a custard pie.

“Whatcha mean by that, Emma?” Jake asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

Maybe he’s a glutton for pain. Or maybe he knows that there is a loathsome beast gurgling inside of him and he wants the justification to release it.  

She leans forward, shrugging with her brow perched. She takes a long drink of her sweet tea, seemingly basking in the glow of his anger. She makes a long ahh sound before setting the glass back down and smiling softly at him.  

“Jake,” she says, tutting very condescendingly, “don’t make me say it. You’re Jim Bean and I’m Johnnie Walker. I’m silk and you’re cotton. You pickin’ up what I’m layin’ down, baby?” 

She’s relishing in this sudden anger that’s permeating the air around Jake. She’s never been able to raise his hackles before--and she’s certainly tried. This is the first time she’s successfully gotten under his skin and it feels good.

“Spell it out for me,” Jake all but spits through clenched teeth. 

He can feel his pulse behind his eyelids.

Emma adjusts herself; adjusts that little denim skirt that sits so low on her hips, snaps the spaghetti straps of her tank, lets her platform flip-flops fall to the deck so she can curl her legs around herself. She’s pissed, honestly--like really pissed. She doesn’t want to break up with Jake, not at all. But even just knowing that she’s struck a nerve in him makes her feel better, more comfortable. She delights in making him feel this way.    

“Baby,” she says softly, tilting her head, “you’re a mutt. Trailer trash. You and yours.” 

Emmaline knows that Jake practically worships his mama--she’s called him mama’s boy here and there, which is the closest she’s come to getting under his skin. She doesn’t understand why; the woman looks like she’s lived a thousand lives, each one more difficult than the last. But she knows that she’s done it now--she can tell. Calling him and his mama white trash. 

Jake’s vision goes white for a moment--white with utter and complete rage. For a moment, he’s afraid that he’s going to break the glass in his hands. He’s afraid that he’s going to set fire to the outdoor pillows with just the temperature of his skin. 

So he stands up, lets the glass slide out of his hand and shatter on the wooden planks below him. A few pieces of glass embed themselves in his leg but he doesn’t pay it any mind--he just grits his teeth, lets his nostrils flare, lets that ugliness crawl up his chest. 

Emmaline startles at the noise, blinking in surprise and looking up at Jake with her brows knit. He looms over her, suddenly bigger than she remembers him being, and full to the brim of an unpleasantness she’s never seen before. 

“You’re a stuck-up bitch,” Jake spits, his voice low and lethal. “And I only kept you around to fuck you. That’s why everyone does, Emma. You know--they call you butter. Wanna know why, honey? Cause you’re easy to spread. Hell, you’re just easy. Took no time at all for you to let a mutt into your snatch, now, did it?” 

He’s kept her nickname from her since they’ve been together, even going so far as to rough up a few of the other baseball boys who called her that in his presence. He knows that it hurts her--that prissy little thing that pretends to be her daddy’s little princess but sucked his dick in the dugout a few weeks ago. 

And Jake knows that he shouldn’t be saying any of this at all. He knows that he shouldn’t be talking to a lady this way, not even Emmaline Odette, especially not at her house where he knows her daddy keeps his guns. He shouldn’t be pointing at her with his eyes narrowed to slits, he shouldn’t be letting little bits of his warm saliva fling onto her side-swept bangs. He shouldn’t be making her eyes well with tears right now. He shouldn’t be making her lower lip tremble. He shouldn’t be full of fire right now the way he is. He should have just left--yes, he should have. But here is--doing everything his mama would tell him not to.

This happens to him sometimes. Sometimes he gets so mad, can feel the rage sitting inside him like hot oil ready to bubble over, and he says things that he knows will hurt. It’s like he’s inspecting an apple and when he finds that ugly little bruise, he pushes down hard enough to break the skin. 

His mama always tells him that it’s the only time he’s like his daddy.   

“Get off my porch,” Emma suddenly says very quietly. “Get the fuck off my porch!” 

Jake doesn’t waste another moment. He’s gone before her mama can come out on the porch and ask if Jake wants another glass of iced tea. He doesn’t even mind that there’s blood dripping down his legs. 

You’re not like his mama. When he picks you up from Dairy N Berries, which is nestled between a shoe cobbler and a dog groomer’s, you point to the blood on his legs with a grimace. You don’t move to tend to the little wounds, don’t move to ask him if he’s okay. His mama would be fussing over him, floundering for bandaids and slapping him on the back of the head in tandem. 

“Yuck! You’re bleedin’,” you tell him, stirring the mostly-melted cup of strawberry ice cream you stole for him. “Cat-fight?” 

“Hey to you, too,” Jake says flatly. 

Jake’s still trying to calm down. His heart is still hammering and his tongue is still thick with anger and his legs hurt and his bones are aching from riding his bike so furiously from the Odette’s to you. 

But here you are, squinting under the blistering sun, dressed in the ugliest hot-pink collared shirt and dirtiest pair of tennis shoes he’s ever seen. Your hair is wild, even though you would consider it pulled back right now, and your eyes are tried.

“What happened to your leg?” You haven’t moved from your spot against the building. 

“Broken glass,” he says with a shrug, nodding for you to hop on his handlebars. “C’mon, Filly.”

“Why’d you roll around in broken glass?” You ask, biting your lip when he doesn’t even smile at you. 

You look at him for a moment, realizing that he’s pissed off right now. You don’t often see him pissed, really. Annoyed, sure. Hell, even mad. But this is different--his cheeks are so red and his eyes are so glassy. Something has rattled him.  

“For Christ’s sake, can’t you just get on the damn bike?” He asks, totally exasperated. 

You furrow your brows, crossing your arms. You don’t like to be spoken to like that. You get that from your daddy, who’s started bar fights over the tone someone’s used with him. You’ve never been one to sit back and let people talk to you like this.  

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” you scoff at him. But you don’t move. “What’s your problem, mustang?”   

This is what you do. You’re a pusher. You push him, even when you know he’s upset. It’s what your daddy always does when your mama is upset, what you’ve witnessed from a young age. You can’t help it--even if it wasn’t what you’ve seen your entire life, it’s just your nature. It’s in your bones to pick and press.  

And Jake doesn’t like to be pushed, doesn’t like it at all, but he’s more careful with you than he is with most people. Even as angry as he is right now, even as badly as his throat aches right now, he knows that he won’t explode on you. No, he can’t--he won’t. He’ll save it for when Harper or Callie says something real rotten to him, which will probably not be long from now. 

“Well, right now, you’re my problem!” Jake says. Sweat is starting to pour down his back and you haven’t moved closer to him. “Damn stubborn thing.” 

Now you’re biting a smile. He’s still mad, but just watching you chew that little grin makes something settle in his chest. 

He leans back on his back, sighing, squinting in the heat. 

“You aren’t gonna get on this bike unless I tell you what’s wrong, huh?” 

You nod, taking a bite of his ice cream, cocking your hip. 

“Yup,” you tell him. 

He looks up at the endless blue sky, the one that is housing the relentless sun. And he takes a few breaths, watching the clouds drift ahead and over the black cherry trees. He looks at the decrepit rooftops of all the crumbling stores. He looks out across the cracked pavement and all the wonky sidewalks. All the mangy dogs and the cigarette-smoking figures feeding change into crooked meters. He’s trying to steady his rapid breathing and he can feel your eyes on him.  

You just watch him from your spot, wishing you weren’t in jeans, wishing you were already in the spring. He looks very beautiful under the sky--it’s just something that he is. It’s intrinsic to him. He has a thick Adam’s apple and precious stubble in patches across his sharp jaw and cheeks. He has those pretty aspen-colored eyes that are coated with thick lashes and that blonde hair that gets lighter beneath the summer sun. Sometimes you get choked up just looking at him; he used to be a little kid with grubby hands and a plush belly and a red ring around his mouth. And now he’s so big--so handsome. 

It’s moments like this, this strange quiet one where he’s upset and you’re pushing and you two still haven’t talked about what happened the night of graduation, that the reality of life dawns on you. This is your final summer together in Silverkeep. Come August, he’s going to be a college boy and you’re going to be staying here. You’re going to be lucky if he visits on the weekends and even then, you’ll both be at the mercy of the bus schedule. You probably won’t be able to make any of his baseball games and he’s gonna fall in love with a pretty girl and you’re going to be working at this stupid fucking ice cream shop until you die. 

“I broke up with her,” Jake tells you. 

You nearly choke, broken out of your thoughts so suddenly that there’s a lump in your throat. 

“You did?” You ask. 

It isn’t necessarily that you disbelieved him--Jake doesn’t lie to you. It’s just that you didn’t think he’d want to, didn’t think he’d made up his mind fully about it. Since he hadn’t spoken a word to you about what happened, you thought maybe he just wanted to forget about it.

Jake nods. 

He watches your eyes as you blink at him, your shoulder suddenly pinching. You hold tightly to that cup of strawberry goop and just look at him. 

“Isn’t that what…” he starts, not brave enough to finish. There’s a lump in his throat now. 

Isn’t that what you wanted?

You just look back at him, throat suddenly thick with saliva. 

“Did you do it just cause you thought I wanted you to?” 

Jake shakes his head. 

“No,” he says. 

Somewhere down the street, an old truck engine sputters and continues moseying on down the road. They’re playing their radio loud enough for Jake to make out Should I Stay Or Should I Go by The Clash. 

“Okay,” you answer. 

You feel suddenly naked right now. This feels entirely too vulnerable of a conversation to be happening right here in the middle of town. You wish that he would just talk to you about it--about graduation night. 

“Well, a deal’s a deal,” Jake says after a moment, nodding towards his handlebars. “Hop on the bus, Gus.” 

You ride all the way to Silver Springs on his handlebars, letting your hair flutter in the warm breeze. You’re good at balancing yourself and Jake is good at bracing your weight as he pedals. You’ve been doing this for so long that you don’t even hold on anymore--you focus more on spooning melted ice cream into his mouth, which he accepts with only a slight grimace.

“So, Emma threw glass at you?” You ask with a teasing smile. 

Jake rolls his eyes, chuckling despite himself, inhaling all that citrus on your skin. You two are only a few minutes away from the spring, weaving between mailboxes and lawn ornaments. 

“Nah,” he answers. “Dropped a glass and it got me, I guess.” 

The blood is still dripping down his calves and over his tennis shoes. 

“Gnarly,” you answer, taking another bite of strawberry soup. “She piss you off?” 

Jake just nods, lips pursed. 

“Yeah,” is all he responds. 

It’s making his knuckles white just thinking about what she said. Trailer trash. She called him trailer trash. A mutt. 

Bitch. 

Hyde’s truck is jackknifed at the head of the path you’ve all beaten over time. It’s empty and unlocked, more rust than metal and more junk than trunk. You throw the empty ice cream cup into the bed of his truck and it falls over a dirty blue tarp. 

“Bullseye!” You call, kicking your legs up in glee. 

With every little rock his tire is going over, with every sharp turn that makes you lean back into him, he’s feeling better. All that rage, all that hot oil, is fading into the background as you two near the water. 

“Done bein’ a piss pants now?” You ask him as he parks the bike near a desert willow, letting you off on a pile of the tree’s fallen pink flowers. 

Jake laughs softly, pressing his kickstand into place. 

“You’re the worst person to be around when you’re mad,” he tells you, a smile tugging at his lips as you stretch yourself out and reach towards the tree tops. A sliver of your skin peeks out from your collared shirt, a piece of skin he’d love to touch. “Such a pusher.” 

You shrug. 

“And yet, y’always come runnin’ back, don’t you?” 

It’s a short walk from where the two of you park the bike to the water. It’s almost entirely green, lush black cherry trees and desert willows growing in abundance. They create a canopy above so the sunlight breaks through their leaves in thick cylinders of yellow, kissing your hair and skin. 

You’re walking beside Jake, your shoulder bumping into him, thinking about graduation night. He’s been so radio silent about it that you’ve almost started to doubt that it happened. Maybe you dreamed it--you were drunk. Really, though, it’s eating you alive. You just want to be frank with him--you want him to tell it to you straight. 

Jake is thinking about graduation night, too. He wants to say something. But even more than that, he wants you to say something. He wants you to tell him that you want to do that again and again, that you want to do more than just that. 

“We should talk about it,” you finally say. 

You’ve always been braver than him.

His ginger pace stutters and falters. You take a few more steps, the Kentucky blue grass thick under the beaten soles of your shoes, before you notice that he’s stopped. It really isn’t in your nature to be bashful--especially not around Jake--but when you see his parted lips and half-lidded eyes, you flush. 

“You know,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “When you…fingered me.” 

Jake would cringe if any other girl said this to him. It sounds so brash, so juvenile. But it’s you--his best friend, the girl he’s utterly and completely in love with. 

So he nods, biting his lower lip, not moving from his spot. He wants to have this conversation away from Ruth and Hyde--doesn’t even wanna chance them hearing it. 

“Okay,” Jake says, nodding. And because he’s only eighteen and because he’s chalk-full of hormones and because it’s been eating him alive, he asks, “Did you like it?” 

You find yourself nodding before you can stop yourself. You press the toe of your show against a stone and don’t let your gaze drop from his. 

“What did it mean?” He asks. 

You bite your lip. 

“That’s what I was gonna ask you,” you tell him. 

It’s quiet for a beat. If you strain, if you let the cicadas and the calling cowbirds and the bullfrogs fade, you can hear Ruth and Hyde just down yonder, splashing in the spring. You can even hear the shitty little radio that Hyde brings with him, the one that hardly ever gets service. But right now it’s playing I’ll Fly Away by Gillian Welch. 

Jake swallows hard. His heart is almost racing. He wants to be honest with you--he wants to tell you how in love with you he’s been for the majority of his life. But he knows he can’t do that right now--he can’t risk losing you and your friendship. 

But he knows he has to be honest a little bit. 

“I wanna do it again,” he says. 

You swallow hard now, biting your lip. Suddenly, there’s a pulse in your belly, one that you know only he can lessen. But you don’t move closer to him and he doesn’t move closer to you.

Jake watches a bead of sweat roll down your forehead and onto the collar of your shirt--he’d like to catch it on his tongue, like to have the salt of your skin in his mouth. 

“Me too,” you finally say. 

He swallows thickly. He can’t believe this is happening. 

“When?” He asks. 

You’re nervous suddenly--the kind of nervous you get when you’re about to dive head-first into something you’ve never done before. And you’ve never come close to telling Jake how you ache for him, how much you’ve thought about his fingers pressed against you. 

“Whenever you want,” you answer, your voice thin. 

Another beat passes. Jake’s holding his hands on his hips now, letting his eyes wash over you. You’ve got ice cream on your hands and he’s got blood on his shoes. You’re dirty and so is he. Mutts. Maybe that is what you are. But it doesn’t seem so bad now, no, not when you’re blinking those pretty eyes at him. 

“And what would happen if I kissed you?” 

“I don’t know,” you answer. Your heart is racing. But you’ve never been one to back away, never been one to hang your head and leave. “Let’s find out.” 

Now he moves. He walks slowly across the uncut grass, stepping on anthills and twigs, and makes his way over to you. You’re frozen, completely unmoving with your hands limp at your sides. 

And when he’s close enough to you for him to smell you, that familiar sweet scent, his skin gooses. You can smell him, too--all that sweat drying on his skin, all that anger thick in the pits of his body. Warmth is flooding your core, your chest, your throat. 

Jake’s been waiting a long time to do this. He kind of can’t believe it’s happening right now. He can’t believe he’s this close to you and he’s going to press his lips against yours. But before he does that, he lets his hand rest on your belly. And you don’t flinch, you don’t move away; you let him. 

He pushes you with an un-carefulness and you stumble backwards into the thick trunk of a willow tree, your head knocking into the bark. And Jake encases you with his body, suddenly so much stronger and bigger than you remember him ever being. He holds your waist, feels each of your ribs beneath his splayed fingers, and lets his other hand brace his weight against the tree. 

“What’s it gonna mean if we kiss?” He asks. He isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

You shake your head in a small way, cautiously bringing your hands to rest on his waist. You’ve touched him here dozens of times before, all throughout your life, but it’s only now that you’re feeling the plane of sinewy muscles that are hiding just beneath his faded tee.

“Nothin’,” you tell him because you think that’s what he wants to hear. 

He recovers quickly--just a little pinch between his brows. 

“Good,” he responds because he thinks that’s what you want to hear. 

You’re nearing each other now, the bark of the tree digging into the flesh of his palm and the back of your head. All the heat of the day fades into the background when his body is this close to you--a personal heater.

“You ever kissed a boy with tongue before?” He asks you. 

He’s not trying to sound like all those other desperate boys, not trying to talk you through everything like you’re an idiot. But the guilt he felt from being rough with you the first time he touched your cunt is enough to make him be overly-cautious. 

“No,” you whisper. 

He nods. 

And then you lean in for a kiss--the both of you, like you’re in total sync. Just before your quivering lips touch his parted ones, just before you let yourself get lost in the scent of his sweat and the feel of his hips against yours, your forehead presses into his with a slight thunk.

Somewhere in the heat of the moment, you two miscalculated where your lips were.  

Heat floods your cheeks and a smile bites at your lips, but you don’t open your eyes except for a crack. Jake is smiling down at you, too, eyebrows pulled together.

“C’mon,” Jake whispers, “let’s try that again.” 

So you do, still smiling, feeling suddenly less serious about this whole kiss thing. 

But you almost gasp when his lips come down on yours. It’s surreal, really, when you realize that you’re kissing Jake and he’s kissing you and you’re pinned up against a tree by the bones of his hips. And his lips are warm and wet and he tastes like strawberry and sweat.

His fingers dig into your waist and you shrink beneath his palm, your heart racing, your brain pulsing. 

Jake’s holding on tight to you--he knows that. But he’s afraid that this is fleeting. He doesn’t want it to be fleeting. This is what he’s been waiting for his entire life and here you are, beneath his lips, so soft and sweet. 

When he licks your bottom lip, you almost giggle. It tickles--but it feels good. And you part your lips, trying not to let your brows furrow. But then his tongue is in your mouth and you think you can taste how angry he was earlier. You can taste every bit of his mouth and he can taste yours and suddenly, you’re gripping his shirt and pulling him closer to you. Fuck--he’s always wondered what it would feel like to be pulled closer to you like this. 

He groans--it’s a sound that vibrates the both of you, a sound that makes the warmth in your core suddenly pool.

And before he can stop himself, his hands are inching under your shirt and raising to your chest. You don’t stop him, don’t want to stop him. You’re dizzy from his spit in your mouth and your body against his. 

His hands come down over your breasts and this time, you moan. He drinks that sound in, squeezes the flesh of your breast, licks your top lip, groans. Blood is rushing to his cock and he knows that blood must be rushing to your core, too. Your nipples are hard beneath his palms and he can fucking tell that you’re wearing that tired yellow bra; he can feel the underwire poking out. 

“Don’t stop,” you mutter against his lips, face entirely flushed. 

You’re scared that when you open your eyes, you’re suddenly going to be back in reality. And you just want to stay here in his heat, here beneath his hands, here against his lips. 

“I won’t,” he mumbles back. It’s a promise--one he knows he’s going to keep. 

If someone were to happen upon the two of you right now, a stranger, they would never know that you and Jake have ever been anything but lovers. You’re holding onto him so tight that your knuckles are wide and he’s kissing you so hard that it’s making his head hurt. It’s desperate and frank and achingly, achingly honest. If you two were brave enough, if you two were older than you are now, maybe you’d both admit that this isn’t just a kiss. You’d admit that this doesn’t mean nothing. 

But you’re eighteen and he’s eighteen and he doesn’t want things to get muddled and you’re afraid of him leaving. So you don’t tell each other the truth. You just keep kissing. 

Jake, still pinching your nipples and drinking in those sounds falling from your parted lips, presses wet and sloppy kisses all across your freckled cheeks and down your neck. You fumble with the two little buttons at your collar and he doesn’t stop his assault on your throat--that makes you glad. 

Really, you only reveal a tiny few inches of your chest, but Jake devours it anyway. He will do anything to be closer to you, anything to have more skin to kiss, anything to breathe that hot breath onto. 

You’re panting now, aching for him. Your mind is fogged with delirium. 

His cock is pressing against your core now, hard and straining against his blue jeans. You’re too nervous to reach down and touch it--you don’t really know what you’re doing--but you decide that you like the way it feels against you. 

You’re the one that unbuttons your jeans and he takes the hint, letting his lips linger on a spot on your collarbone as he wriggles his fingers against the band of your underwear, wedding his hand between your skin and denim. 

It’s all happening so fast, just like it did the first time. Except now there is no Emmaline to think about and you’re only thirty yards away from your friends and you’re so sick with want that you might have a fever. 

Neither of you say a word when his fingers come down in your folds. It takes everything in your power not to moan--one loud enough to echo off the trees--and you shudder against him. It’s still a new feeling, those rough fingers parting your wetness, pressing near your clit. 

Jake is swallowing his own moans, too, pressing his forehead against yours. You’re so wet--so wet and all the two of you have done is kiss. That’s all--just kiss and you’re soaking him, wetting his fingers to his knuckles. And you’re gasping against his mouth, gripping him so hard. He likes the feeling of your fingers around him, relishes in the way your hips are twitching like they don’t know where to go. 

“Good?” He asks breathlessly, swallowing hard when you sharply nod. 

He swirls his fingers in your wetness, wishing that you weren’t wearing jeans, wishing that you were in his bed and naked, wishing that he could tell you how much his chest hurts when he looks at you. 

It’s only a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity--an eternity spent in another lifetime--when his fingers suddenly halt at the sound of a twig snapping. Both of you gasp, detangling yourselves from each other, buttoning pants and tucking things away. 

Nothing’s there, of course. It was probably a squirrel or something. 

But now the two of you are standing there in silence. Your shirt is mussed and his is wrinkled from your grip. Your cheeks are flushed and his forehead is dotted with perspiration. You’re wet, soaking through your underwear, and the zipper of your jeans is crooked. Jake is still straining very obviously against his jeans and it’s uncomfortable--he has to adjust himself as he lets his weight fall on his left foot. 

When you meet each other’s gazes, all those words and sounds and touches lost between the two of you, you start to laugh. You can’t help it--it’s not even that anything is funny. It’s just that it felt so good and he was so close to you and you kissed and now the both of you are horny and your friends are waiting on you. 

Jake watches that gap appear and suddenly he’s smiling, too. His legs are itchy with flakes of dried blood, the blood that hasn’t melted off from his sweat. He’s still panting and his fingers are stained with your arousal and he wants, more than anything, to keep going. 

“Hey,” he whispers because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“Hi,” you return, smiling. 

But then you’re biting your lip, zipping your jeans. 

“Wanna swim?” 

He nods after a beat. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

And the two of you walk silently to the water, your shoulders resting comfortable against each other’s. He wipes his fingers against his shirt and you take deep breaths. It’s a comfortable silence, one that’s punctuated with Rocket Man by Elton John crackling over Hyde’s radio.

You kick your leg up, letting your tennis shoe come down over the seat of Jake’s pants. He gasps, laughing. And then he kicks you right back. Things are okay, things are good. You both know it won’t be the last time you do that. 

“Well, look who finally decided to show up?” Ruth calls from her spot on her floaty in the middle of the muddy spring. She pushes her little sunglasses to the top of her head and flips you and Jake the bird. “We’ve been waitin’ forever!” 

“Yeah, what kept y’all?” Hyde asks, lounging against the grassy banks. Mud is staining the soles of his feet and his plaid underwear is wet. 

You shrug, already unbuttoning your jeans and letting them pool at your ankles before taking your shirt off, too. 

“Nothin’,” you answer, looking back at Jake. “Mustang was bein’ a piss-pants.” 

He bites his lip when you effectively strip and are left in just your bra and panties. He had been right--you are wearing that tired bra, the yellow one with the busted underwire. You’re wearing a pair of blue panties--old ones with a tear in the seam, but that doesn't matter to Jake. You look fucking perfect right now, your lips swollen from his own, a little quake still in your thighs that he know he inspired. 

You dip your toe in the water; it’s cool, cooler than you expected it to be. It makes the knot in your belly untie and wave in the hot breeze. 

Hyde’s looking up at Jake with a perched brow, not that Jake notices. He’s too busy letting his eyes rake over your form, too busy watching every single crease and fold and hill and valley of your body move with you. 

“Piss-pants?” Hyde calls to Jake. 

Jake finally looks down, his brows furrowed. 

“What happened to your legs?” Hyde points to the little cuts. 

“He rolled around in broken glass,” you interrupt, not turning to look at Jake over your shoulder. You’re in the water just to your ankles, trying to ease yourself in. 

“Why’d you go and do a dumb fuckin’ thing like that?” Ruth calls. 

She’s a brash girl--which is the polar opposite of how she acts around her daddy, who’s a sheriff’s deputy. She reserves all her wisecracks and curses and insults for her best friends in the world: you, Jake, and (begrudgingly) Hyde.

“I was in a rare mood, I guess,” Jake calls to Ruth with a grin. 

Ruth shakes her head in disapproval. 

“Filly, you got your flask?” Ruth asks with a tentative smile. Smiling looks unnatural on her; she doesn’t look unfriendly or ugly, but she looks like she’s forcing something. She looks like she’s pushing the limit. 

“Yup,” you answer, letting the sunlight kiss your cheeks as you tip your face towards the canopy of trees above you.

“Can you spare some whiskey for a poor soul?” Ruth asks, holding her hands in a pleading gesture.

You nod, bending down and reaching for the flask in the back pocket of your jeans. 

It’s the prettiest thing you own, a gift from your father that he scrimped for to secretly slip you on your sixteenth birthday--that’s when everyone starts drinking in Silverkeep, anyway. It’s a turquoise color, adorned with glitter and little images of bursting stars. There’s a frilly F engraved on the front of it: F for his Filly.

“You gonna get drunk and puke in Rusty again?” Hyde calls to Ruth, perching a brow. 

She gives him the bird, too and barely catches the flask. 

“Like that’s the worst thing that truck’s seen,” Jake laughs. 

He’s still watching you as he takes his clothes off. You’re acting remarkably normal for what just happened between the both of you. He’s glad. Things feel good. Things feel really good. 

Ruth takes a swig from your flask, grunting and groaning her way through the aftertaste. She may hang around with the lot of you, but she won't succumb to drinking the spring water the way y’all do--she draws the line there. 

“How’s it taste, honey?” You call to Ruth, giggling. 

Ruth sends you a prominent thumbs down, her round face still pulled into a grimace. 

“Fuckin’ awful,” she says. “What the fuck is this? Lighter fluid?” 

“Everclear,” you tell her with a shrug. 

It’s what your daddy keeps at the back of the liquor cabinet, not exactly inviting you to drink it but not stopping you either. 

“Well, it’s fuckin’ awful,” Ruth sighs, tucking the flask against her float. 

“Ruth Gabriel, you’re so grumpy today,” you laugh, letting the water kiss up to your knees now. You’re pretending like you can’t feel Jake’s eyes on you. “What’s the occasion?” 

Ruth pushes her sunglasses back over her head as Jake steps over Hyde’s pale form and beside you. He’s close enough that your elbows are touching--it makes you warm all over. 

“Born this way,” Ruth answers, letting her hands dip in the water. “Can’t be helped.”

“You’re too pretty to be so damn mean all the time,” Hyde says--strictly to get under Ruth’s skin. 

“I’ll wring you out like a washrag, stringbean,” Ruth promises, her voice even. 

Hyde holds his hand over his heart, heaving a sigh and making his bird-chest puff out. 

“She really loves me, don’t she?” 

You roll your eyes. Ruth and Hyde are always going back and forth like this. 

“Waitin’ on an invitation?” Ruth asks the two of you. 

You shake your head, squishing the mud under your toes and watching a few water-gliders slink across the rippling water. 

Silver Spring is the only place in Silverkeep that could be considered nice objectively. It’s uncharacteristically pretty for this part of Texas--the kind of pretty that almost makes you feel guilty, like if you touched the Mona Lisa or sneezed on The Thinker. Maybe because it is so beautiful--that sticky, guilt-inducing kind of beautiful--that no one ventures down this way. You, Jake, Ruth, and Hyde are almost always alone here, save for a few reckless middle schoolers that are easy to scare away and some drifters who mind their own.

The black cherry trees and American sycamores are thick here, sprawling across the hills and thinning only when the St. Augustine grass rolls to a sudden stop at the edge of the spring. There are patches of thistles and black-eyed Susan’s spanning across all this fertile land--it always smells sweet here. 

Jagged, brown rocks climb out of the green water and up the hillside--there’s a lip where you sometimes jump off. There’s a pipe, a big ugly and dirty thing, that acts as some sort of man made waterfall. Rock rose plants are starting to cover the pipe now--it’s been here for a long time. 

The water never gets very warm--there’s too much shade. But on days like today, days when the only solace is being neck-deep in a bath of ice, that’s mighty fine. The spring is not very deep, either--only nine feet at the very center. Hyde was the one that figured it out, diving into the murky water with a measly stick as his measurement gauge.

“M’comin’ to get my flask,” you promise Ruth, finally submerging yourself in the cool water. 

It feels like being dunked in ice--but you relish in the feeling. You were already running hot your entire shift at Dairy N Berries, but then Jake had gone and made you burn with a desperate fever only a few minutes ago. And he’s right behind you now, treading the water, staying beside you. 

When he knows no one can see it, when he knows that the water is too murky and you’re too far away from Ruth and Hyde both, he nudges you softly. It’s just a little thing, just something against your hip in the water. If Ruth and Hyde did see it, they wouldn’t even bat an eye. You and Jake have always been all over each other--everyone at school thought you were a couple, anyway. But he wants this to be a private touch, one only you can feel, one only the two of you know about. 

You all stay in the spring until late that night, despite Jake having to be up so early to get to the Carolina farm. You’re all mildly tipsy, passing around the putrid alcohol in your flask, laying out on the banks in the mud to dry off. You’re nestled into Jake’s side, which isn’t unusual, and he’s humming softly.

“Where’s Misty?” Hyde asks, coughing softly when he pulls the flask from his mouth and passes it back to you.  

Night has moved in completely now--there’s hardly any light now except for the puny fire Ruth started, which she only knows how to do from her one and only summer at Girl Scouts camp. It’s not warm enough to keep any of you warm, but you refuse to put that ugly pink shirt back on. 

“In my room, I hope,” Jake answers, wrapping his arm around your shoulders when he notices that your lower lip is trembling with cold. 

“Should’ve brought her,” you tell him, moving to lay your head on his shoulder.

And this isn’t a new touch, either; but both of your hearts race just the same anyway. 

“Would’ve been you or her,” Jake breathes, “and I chose you.” 

Your heart squeezes.

“Such a gentleman,” Ruth sneers, stoking the fire with a stick she found. “Chose you over an inanimate object.” 

Jake glances up at the stars breaking through the tree branches. He at least likes that about Silverkeep--he can always see the stars so clearly. 

“Reckon I’d choose her over any inanimate object,” Jake sighs. “I’m just such a romantic.” 

“Emma ain’t gonna like that,” Hyde laughs, judging Jake. 

You tense up. You glance at Jake’s face, which has pinched suddenly. But then he shrugs. 

“Won’t have to worry about her anymore,” Jake says with a shrug. 

Hyde and Ruth lean in, mouths parted. 

“Y’all done?” 

Jake nods. 

“Since when?” Ruth asks.

“This afternoon,” Jake answers, scratching his scabs as if just the mention of Emma makes them itch. 

“Well, hot-damn,” Hyde says, raking a hand through his stringy red hair. “Thought she’d be worth keepin’ around for the summer.” 

The crickets are singing now, right along with the bullfrogs and the owls. The fire is crackling minutely and you think that if you strain, you can hear the words Jake wants to say. 

“Nah,” Jake answers finally. “Not worth the trouble.” 

“Good riddance,” Ruth adds after a moment, crossing her arms. 

Jake cracks a smile, squeezing your arm softly. 

“That is exactly what my mama said, Ruth.” 

When you’re sitting on the bars of Jake’s handlebars again, his shirt over your body and your pink polo slung over his bare shoulder, you can’t help the smile on your lips. It’s been a good day. 

“What’re you smilin’ about?” Jake asks you, chin perched on your shoulder. 

“You, I guess,” you answer, sighing as the breeze tickles your nose. 

He swallows hard, his chest squeezing. 

“What about me?” He asks as he pedals past pastures lined with listless cows. 

The only thing lighting his path is the moon now. But he knows his way home--he could do this blindfolded. It’s muscle memory at this point, especially when you’re reclining against him. 

“Can’t I just smile about you?” You ask, biting your lip. 

A beat passes--gravel crunches beneath the bike’s tires.

The two of you are utterly alone now, in the thick of the country, just you and Jake and his bike and his shirt over your body. Your hair is dried now and his blood has mostly been washed off. The moon is bright and the stars are bright, too. It feels good out here--smells like sweetgrass. 

“I reckon you can do whatever you want,” Jake finally answers. 

But then he does it. He does it really without even thinking, like it’s muscle memory even though he’s never done it before. He takes his eyes off the path and presses his mouth against your shoulder, the one that’s covered by the oversized sleeve of his t-shirt. And you bask in the warmth for a moment before you turn to meet him. And he keeps peddling and you keep sitting on the handlebars and no one is watching where you’re going when you lean in and kiss again. 

He can feel the steering getting wonky, can feel that he needs to open his eyes, but your mouth is so wet and warm that it feels like taking a bath. He doesn’t want to stop kissing you. He really, really doesn’t. 

So he starts to brake, not accounting for the fact that you’re not holding on. Just as you’re about to call out that you aren’t holding on, just as you’re about to reach for purchase, Jake balls your shirt in his fist and tugs you back against him. Neither of you care about the awkward angle, neither of you care about anything but each other as you kiss in the moonlight. 

He’s hungry for you and you’re starving for him. 

“Gotta get home,” you pant against his mouth, not pulling away when he kisses you again. 

He’s holding the back of your head and you have your palm on his chest, over his racing heart. 

“Okay,” he mumbles back, but he doesn’t stop kissing you either. 

“You’ve gotta get up in a few hours,” you say breathlessly, letting your hand cup his cheek. 

He leans into your touch, groaning softly, holding you tighter. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. 

But neither of you pulls away.   

✯ 𝐚/𝐧: love these stupid idiots.

✯ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

✯ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

✯ 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

✯ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬:

@violetta-ximena

@hazyretina

@illicithallways

@chicomonks

@royalpurplehuskies

@widemiffyhappy

@djs8891

@shari_berri

@dempy

@ofxinnocence

@jmitxhieo

@callsign-cacti

@myfaveficrecs

✯ 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝/𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬, 𝐃𝐌 𝐦𝐞!

[irlcats-bracket]

Bracket 1 SEMIFINALS 2

PRISSY VERSUS TODD

PRISSY

If she's quiet she's either sleeping or somewhere she shouldn't be. Or Both. Openly favors submitter, tolerates others. Very autistic cat: anxious of bad noises, very picky eater, kneads with her right paw out for no reason, must walk a circle around the room before going somewhere, has Specific eating spots for mealtime, etc. She probably knows more English than she lets on. Disobeys authority when she's bored or hungry. Loves the outdoors but she needs her pretty pink harness or she'll run; her favorite activity is playing with grasshoppers. She's a little brat but you can't help but love her when she squeaks at you.

PROPAGANDA

As you can see, she likes tight spaces (it's the 'tism -u-). She has access to larger, roomier sleeping spaces, but she always gravitates to places where I can't understand how she could possibly be comfortable. That round thing in the top right pic? She sleeps on top of that for the night even though a whole leg falls over the side. We've debated getting her a bigger one, but I don't think she'd like it.

She is also a lover of people food; we tried not to get her used to it, but somewhere along the way she broke down our walls. Whenever I snack on cheese puffs on the couch, she's always gotta get up in my face to try to get some of that delicious cheese dust, going so far as to stick her big face in the bag right in front of me while I'm holding it. And if you've got salmon, she will go nuts. I think salmon is her favorite food with cheese as a close second. ...but she'll also beg for chicken nugget.

[Image description: a photo of OP sitting at the dining table over a plate of chicken strips and ketchup, OP on one side of the chair and holding a piece of bitten chicken and Prissy sitting on the other side of the chair with one paw on the table eyeing the bitten chicken strip. OP's face has been painted over with a black spot.]

As for speaking English, I've caught her saying Hello and Mama clear as day, and is working on pronouncing Outside and Water (I mean it, just from her tones and "syllables" of her meows, it's like she's trying to speak).

(fun fact "if she makes it to round 3" was said in round 3 poll. we are waiting!!)

TODD

This here. Right here. Is Todd. He is fat because? We don’t know, he gets fed normal amounts but he still manages to be fat. He is very soft and lovely. He has many many toes on each paw- the most submitter counted on one they believe was 12. He is the many-toe lad. The fat fellow. The lovey guy. The ultimate shedder (you would not BELIEVE how much this guy sheds. He creates an entire second cat DAILY!) Submitter hopes you like him, because they do :)

[blue-the-octoling]

Cleansing of the Weaver household

This is for everyone who wanted a Tim story. once again I am not good at writing so I’m sorry if it sucks. (Art at the end) cw description of death

“Come on! You said you’d race me!!” Caleb whines ever since Tom and their mother left Tim hasn’t left their shared room. When Caleb  banged on the door to his and Tom’s room and so rudely interrupted Tim’s reading… right when it was getting good too! “Dang it Caleb, go find someone else! I know Lillian would be happy to race you.” Tim says in his signature irritated tone that his siblings have become so accustomed to hearing. It made Caleb roll his eyes in annoyance and say with another few bangs on his brother’s door “oh come on! Lillian’s too slow! You’re the only one that can actually give’s me challenge!”

Tim groans setting his book page side down on his bed and get up not even worrying about his mask walking to the door and opens it. “Fine. I’ll race you this once.” Caleb can’t help but smile and let out a little laugh “that’s what you say every time. You’re a sore loser and you know it.” Tim lets out an over exaggerated gasp pretending to be hurt by Caleb’s teasing but knows it. He is a sore loser, “you have me all wrong!” He says in an over exaggerated prissy voice making Caleb laugh Tim soon following suit not being able to keep up this fake butt hurt act of his. His and Caleb’s laughter soon dies down and they go outside together so they can race. It’s about sundown when their mother returns Tim and Caleb thoroughly exhausted and out of breath from their many races.

When tim spots his mother he’s confused when he doesn’t see Tom… “mama, where’s Tom?” Tim asks walking up to their mother. “Where he belongs..” she simply answers before pushing past Tim and goes inside to presumably start dinner. Tim doesn’t know what she means but knows that his questions will only make her angry so he holds his tongue Caleb coming up to his side “hey… where’s Tom?”

Caleb asks being thoroughly confused himself. “I-I don’t know…” Tim says softly sounding more nervous than exhausted like before. The day goes on as normal their mother makes dinner and their father comes back from town but still no sign of Tom. “He’s… ok he probably is just out in the forest… he’ll come back for dinner…”Tim says softly sounding more nervous than exhausted like before. The day goes on as normal their mother makes dinner and their father comes back from town but still no sign of Tom. “He’s… ok he probably is just out in the forest… he’ll come back for dinner…” Tim says to himself the sun had set and the homestead was now shrouded in darkness his siblings already inside eating and he reluctantly joins them.

But an hour passes, then two, Tim goes out and looks for him against Benny’s warnings Tom comes before himself. He looked all over the homestead, staying outside for hours in search of Tom. Looking high and low checking each spot once… twice… three times over. When he returned home his sibling long since went to bed he finds his mother in their room…. She’s… SHES BURNING TOMS STUFF… “Mama! What.. what are you doing!? What happened to Tom? Where is he?” Tim yells at his mother his mother snapping back “what has to be done! If I want the lord to forgive my sins I must remove all traces of them. Cleanse them in fire. You devils will never see the light of day again and if I have to die to be forgiven then so be it.”

With that she lights the pile of Tim and Tom’s clothing, bedding and personal belongings on fire with the candle she used to light the way to her terrible mission. Tim drops to his knees finally realizing what happened to his brother, tears run down his face as he comes to terms with the fact that his bother is dead. Though it doesn’t last long as his sadness melts into pure anger as he stands to his feet, his knife now tightly clutched in his hand as he lunges at his mother, his knife plunging into her side as she’s knocked to the floor beside the pile of spreading flames. A loud shriek comes from her as she feels his knife be pulled from her flesh before harshly plunged in again, her hair and dress starting to catch ablaze, her screams continuing on and on as he stabs her not even realizing he himself is also catching ablaze. Tom was all he had… the only person who cared… not his mother nor his other siblings… “YOU WITCH. YOU DARE CALL US DEVILS WHEN YOU DO THIS  TO YOUR OWN CHILDREN…!”

He growls in pure distain and hatred, the flames spreading from his room to the rest of the house. His mother dead from blood loss he finally stops realizing his situation, the deep burning in his skin, he can barely breathe from the smoke. As the fire spreads more finally overtaking both him and the house completely. He screams with what little strength he has left clawing at his clothes, his skin, but especially his face feeling a hot liquid run out of his eye sockets. He can’t see… his lungs feel heavy and smothered and his skin feels like liquid. He can’t feel… he can’t… he passes out.

Outside Benny does a head count, one, two… Tim. Tom. They aren’t there. He holds out hope that they’re just in the woods together. For now making sure that Lillian and Caleb are ok. He couldn’t wake up their father, nor find their mother for now he only care about his siblings. Lillian stuck to his side in fear and Caleb doing the same. For now the only thing Benny can do is calm his siblings down and hold out hope that the other two are ok. 

Tim redesign everybody! This is the second one out of the five and this is how I interpret this character in an AU me and @kiw1-qu33r have made together! Next redesign/ story: Caleb (sneak peek)

It’s a beta design, don’t come for me because of the face I know it’s bad😭😭😭

[bubblepopsims]

" Oh baby... you need a pacifier for that big mouth of yours? here let mama shut you up.. ahahahah"

BAD GIRLS CLUB: DEL SOL CASTING CALL!!

Name: Carlee Daniels aka Ceys (pronounced like keys) "Because I got every key to shut your BS up, real quick." Lives: Windenburg The Fighter & The Real Girl Self-assured, High-maintance, evil, Active, Hot-Headed(brawler)Age: 28 years old Taurus, Scorpio, and Gemini. "Nothing goes unnoticed under my eyes." Sexuality: Bisexual Relationship status: Main bitch to the famous boxer in Windenburg "While I am also sleeping with your daddy and mommy" Seduction: 5 Physical Strength: 5 Mental Strength:3 Manipulation: 3 Anger management: 2 Carlee is the definition of "I don't give a fuck. Pull up outside if you're all big and bad." She has been like that since before she was born, growing up in a house full of older brothers, she learned quickly to not carry her feelings on her sleeve. There was no point of crying and whining about something when you could get it yourself. Her father and Mother are both hardworking High-income civilians. Houses in the hills, Vacation homes in all the exotic countries, theaters in the basement attached to the indoor pool. Yeah, Carlee lived and lived lavishly at that. but don't mistake her for a prissy stuck-up diva who relies on Daddy for his money. No Carlee was birthed into a family of you need to make your own money in order to earn a place at the table. Would you consider that insensitive? maybe but to Carlee this was the foundation of who she was today. A self-employed Owner of multiple thriving businesses at the age of 28. Hooking in one of the most famous Boxers in WIndenburg. He is ready to put a ring on her but Carlee ain't about the family right now, she is still in her Hustling era, with no time for relationships on her brain "You are my stress reliever, baby that's it, I don't have time for your needy shit, your insecure shit, your whinny shit, if I have more balls than you, get the fuck out of my face because I will WALK. ALL. OVER. YOU." Carlee Is the type to take on a challenge, easily overcome it, and move on to the next celebrating with a glass of champagne while laughing in the faces of the people that told her she couldn't. She will speak her mind freely hoping that someone will step up to her. Yet that day has yet to come. "I wish a bitch would. HA. My hands were registered, think on that" This brings us to her favorite pastime, Laughing in someone's face after they decided to throw a tantrum. "silly bitches, especially when they start yelling around and throwing their arms around ahhhh. what a fucking joke, I am the type that won't argue with you all day, because the second you make one wrong move... I am not afraid to get my hands dirty. don't let this pretty face fool you, baby, I am not for hair pulling and slaps on the ass, no ma'am I will hit you straight in your fake ass nose with your fake ass clothes." Production asked who Carlee was: Carlee is I"'m a classy, booshie, ratchet, sassy, moody, and nasty bitch. I own my own businesses, make my own money, and still spend yours. I know I am a bad bitch for 4 reasons, this face, this ass which is all real baby so are my double D girlies, my confidence, and the fact that nobody can tell me shit. None of these girls is above me, none of them will ever be above me. best believe that. These hoes can't tell me who I am, because I know who I am and I am a bad bitch, I don't need followers, boyfriends, girlfriends, and rich daddies to tell me that." Carlee smirks "But it is nice though. I don't even need to pay my bills because I got all my ducks in a row, knowing this pussy is pricey make it worth my time." I keep my rocks spotless And my hoes topless Take time try to figure out who da Lox is Fear no one Kick rhymes like Shoguns You scared to blow one Get robbed wit' your own gun If I don't respect you I'mma check you And if I don't kiss you I'mma peck you Right before I wet you I sneeze on tracks an' bless you I'm special 🎵🎶

(I hope I covered everything. @plumbewb)

[lya-dustin]

Cupid kills with arrows

Chapter 15

Gif by @merlinaddams

Taglist:@cljordan-imperium @mercedesdecorazon @darylandbethfanforever9

He has taken to calling her his queen since that nightmare.

As far as terms of endearment go, it’s not that bad.

Aemond gets a blush creeping up his pale and freckled neck when she calls him Star Eyes.

She produced that nickname when they had been getting tipsy with an aged Dornish red and he’d been reciting the most irritating poems he could find in one of the books given to them as gifts.

Aemma had gotten bold enough to compose a very bad poem for him where she rhymed eye with sky and Vhagar to swagger.

He wrote it down, on the back cover of his poetry book, and both had forgotten about it until today when she wanted to cheer him up.

He’s been so tense, the stick up his arse back in its earlier place it seems.

They had been fine until that night at Cider Hall.

He had been puffing out his chest in pride hinting at having gotten her with child and seeing them shake in their boots when they saw the magnificent Dragon Queens they rode.

Then he had a night terror he wouldn’t speak about and suddenly he was acting as if they were waging war on anyone who didn’t see her as her mother’s heir.

Acting as if her mother was their enemy and Aemma too blind to see it.

“Something is bothering you.” She says as they eat a late supper together after making the good decision of turning down mama’s invitation to dine with them.

They had been home for less than a day, he was snapping at everyone for no apparent reason and worse calling her brothers ‘Strong Lads’ while they played ball with Joffrey in the gardens.

Joffrey didn’t even know he was a bastard yet. Her baby brother ran out of the garden in tears thanks to Aemond hinting he had two dead fathers.

“I am perfectly fine, sweet girl.” He said using her mother’s term of affection for her.

The words come out mocking her, making her sound like a prissy little princess who hides behind her mother’s skirts.

He had been as rigid as a board when they were welcomed home by them, cold and civil, and now he was scratching at her with these sharp claws of his.

“Aemond, do not scratch at me.” She warns from across the table in their new rooms.

“Have you ever considered that your mother may love your brothers more than you?” he asks again, not looking at her, as if he might say something else he refuses to voice.

“All parents have favorites; I know for a fact that your mother loves Aegon the least out of the four of you.” What the fuck has gotten into him? He was getting on her nerves with this sudden change. “I am very sure we will have favorites amongst our children, and it won’t be the same child.”

“Hypothetically, if Driftmark were to repeat itself and it was our child maimed for calling their cousins bastards, who would your mother defend?”

This was what the nightmare was about, it must be, it would not make sense if it weren’t.

Aemma is at a loss for words, frankly, she has no idea how this would go.

“Hypothetically, it would never happen because they would be raised not to give a shit about it, at least by me, and their cousins would be trueborn.” The princess said knowing the true answer.

Mother would defend her sons and grandsons because that is what any mother would do. She wouldn’t demand an eye for an eye, no one with a functioning brain would have asked for such high a price unless the assailant was their inferior.

And even then, only if done out of malice.

Alicent had been too busy waging war against her mother she forgot her reason there.

This had been an accident; Luke had been punished enough and everyone else as well.

“Aemma. You know that is not what I meant.” Her husband reminds her.

“Fine, she would likely take their side.” Once she says the words he wanted to hear, she cannot stop. Comes out like fucking vomit.

“To call them bastards is to remind all that the law for adultery in the royal family is to kill all including the children. I won’t be spared should it ever come to that because those who bring it up will say I am not trueborn either to suit their ambitions.

If I am not careful, someone will turn us against each other with the intention of having us kill each other so they can rush in with Aegon because gods forbid a woman inherits over a man.

My mother already fears that you will manipulate me into taking the sword hanging over my brothers’ head and swing it; your attitude today may as well confirm her worst fears.

So no, I don’t think my mother would choose me over my brothers, but I cannot fault her for that because I would do the same in her situation!

Is that what you wanted to hear, dear Aemond?!”

Aemma’s chest is heaving, and she feels angry enough to take it out on something or someone by the time she done.

So, she leaves, she isn’t sure where, she just needs to be out of there.

“Aemma.” And as he always did when they were children, he follows hot on her heels.

“Aemma!” He calls again as she bounds out of the room needing air and a moment away from him before she tells him Driftmark was as much his fault as it was her brothers and cousins.

Yes, he was the worst injured, but he had thrown the first insult and later picked up that rock.

It was as much his fault as it was her brothers and cousins.

“Aemma, where the fuck are you going?” He reaches out to her and takes her by the waist causing her to fight him like a madwoman.

“Anywhere, but here.” she answered somehow wiggling out of his hold. “I just need air.”

“Then let me go with you.” Aemond suggested feeling some guilt for causing her this emotional distress.

“I’d rather be alone.” The princess said knowing it hurts him more than it hurts her.

How do you apologize for making your wife voice fears she hid so deep even if he was surprised about them existing?

Mother was fond of saying how Rhaenyra would kill them to solidify her reign and apparently Rhaenyra had warned Aemma about him and his family wanting to do the same.

The two women were far too similar to each other, it was no wonder they became enemies.

When Aemond hears soft footfalls as he checked on Vhagar’s nest, he turns hoping to see his wife and being disappointed when it's his sister instead.

“I had assumed you would have been with Aemma, but I suppose it’s better she weren’t here.” Rhaenyra said quietly and yet her words still had the chilling effect of ice water running down his spine.

He felt like he was eleven again.

Small and weak, the butt of the joke and always at the mercy of anyone considered better than him.

“I will apologize to Joffrey later; I will say I misspoke and meant the Father and Ser Laenor.” The prince said quickly, wishing his hand hadn’t begun shaking as he remembered how Larys used hot pincers to take out the tongues of those who claimed mother had been father’s lover when Aemma Arryn still lived. “That should buy you enough time to figure out how to tell him the truth.”

“Thank you, I know after what happened in Driftmark I do not deserve such things form you, but you have my gratitude, little brother.” It is genuine and yet, Aemond fears her like a mouse fears a cat.

“I am not doing it for you, sister, Joffrey will already suffer enough when he learns his identity is based on a lie. He deserves a few more years of blissful ignorance.” Aemond swallowed his fear and banished the nightmares from his mind as they walked back into the Dragonpit.

Vhagar was too big for it, she preferred the beach near the caves making them walk back through the caves connecting them to Rhaenys’ Hill or take a carriage.

Rhaenyra seemed to have walked there, something he had not expected as she looked like she was about to pop.

“Thank you, anyways.” They settle for uneasy silence before Rhaenyra gets brave enough to say something else. “I am sorry for what happened that night. It was a terrible accident, and I shouldn’t have threatened violence for speaking the truth. As your sister, I should have never made you think for a second, I would willfully hurt you and instead ensured you had all the care and support you needed.”

He had not been expecting that.

What in the Seven Hells did Septa Teora do with these people?

Even mother wouldn’t apologize for trying to keep him from flying and training after he lost his eye thinking she was doing it for his well-being.

“As your goodmother I should not have assumed you were the type of man to use my daughter so cruelly.

And for that I apologize as well.”

Aemond tried not to stare as she says things, he was convinced he’d never hear in his lifetime.

He supposed his grandsire’s death had opened the path to true reconciliation.

“She told you what our quarrel was about?” he asks, and she nods sheepishly.

“Don’t hold it against her, she was quite angrily mending your shirts when I visited your rooms. She admitted to some things, and I filled in the blanks.

I have known her for seven and ten years, Aemond.” Rhaenyra doesn’t mention him not accepting her apology.

The loss of his eye and his loathing of her and her sons had defined quite a lot of him. It is a hell of a thing to move past.

He will forgive her eventually, he thinks.

Aemma can’t begrudge him that because he has accepted that it will take just as long for her to forgive his mother.

But he must ask, just to get it out of his mind and move past the thing that caused the first marital spat in his marriage.

“If Driftmark were to repeat itself, would you have done to your grandchild what you and father threatened to do?” he asks reminding himself a thing like that wouldn’t happen, that it was his fears talking.

His children would not be poisoned against their kin like mother had done believing they were the enemy.

The only enemy they had had been grandfather who would have killed them to get his wish: absolute power.

To show he was willing to make peace with them and prevent the war father and Helaena keep seeing in their dreams, he offers his sister his arm as they walked back into the caves.

“No, the children would be made to apologize for the accident, she or he would be treated with all the care needed, and the children punished accordingly.” Rhaenyra accepted his arm with a hopeful look so reminiscent of Aemma and Helaena. “We should have done that the first time around, none of us adults should have let our politics and animosity take over. I hope you can forgive me someday, little brother.”

“Perhaps I will.”

[narrative-driven-off-a-cliff]

First things first; neither my wife, my son, nor I am a BEAR, and please don't ask me how that stupid rumor shot up. Our case certainly isn't being helped by quaint little cabin situated in the woods on the outskirts of town, me and my son's large amounts of body hair, our love of huntin' and wearing the pelt coats my wonderful wife makes for me, or the fact that Ruth bit until 2nd grade. Luanne (who y'all might know better as mama bear) wants me to add that the folks tellin' our story might've changed the wording because a family of bears is easier to explain than a family of cannibals.

Second: WE AREN'T CANNIBALS. I can actually tell you where that rumour came from: a gaggle of prissy snobs whose birdy brain can't understand that not everybody who sees their churches' towering pillars wants to go to it. We went there once and were nearly blinded by the white. Jokes aside, the whole place looked at us like trash and made it clear that we stuck out like sore thumbs. Thankfully, we mingled with some of the kinder folks and got integrated into their church. It's nice to worship God with people who realize that sinners are His target audience. They warned us ahead o' time that the Townsfolk like to make silly little rumors about those who don't dance in their squares, but we had never expected them to stoop so low. We found it funny then; 'course, it's more of a pain now.

But enough ramblin' from this old coot. The point is, my family is hairy, my family is dirty, but my family is normal. And when normal people come home from church and find their house in shambles and see a little runt sleeping in their son's bed, they normally get a little angry. And it is normal to yell at said theif and chase her out of your house threatening to kill her if she ever comes back. It sounds harsh, but it's normal and justified. Plus, we had gotten little 'pranks' from some of the Townsfolk's little rats from time to time. Eggs on the doors, toilet paper in the trees, and yes, even a couple of break-ins. It's a rough life, but we know how to play the cards we're handed. And this little Goldilocks was dressed in her Sunday best just like the Townsfolk are. So what if she was dirtier than a sprinting pig? Our house is a dirty place, and as Ruth put it, "She looked like she didn't know what being dirty feels like."

We couldn't've known, really. But that doesn't make it any easier.

A week later, we hear a few timid taps on our door. Luanne opens it up, and lo and behold. It's the little golden girl again, even more of a mess than before and carrying a sad little basket of apples. Just before my wife is about to tell her off, though, she breaks into the world's most pitiful sobbing

"Please, ma'am," she barely choked it out in an accent thick like our own, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I really am, just please let me hide here for a bit, they're comin', they're comin', they're comin'-"

Enough of that senseless sputtering went by and we let the poor thing in, her eyes wider than a doe's as she shook in fear. Frankly, we were shocked ourselves. There was no way she could've been one of the Townsfolk with that accent, but we would've recognized her if she was one of our friends' kids. Was she from out of town? We even had those apples she brought as a peace offerin' and we knew they were picked from the Fangs' tree. Was she living off the land, just wanderin' around? And who was the They she seemed so scared of? We didn't know, so we just let her play with Ruth (they were about the same age) and told him to play nice.

A couple of minutes later, we heard a knock at the door. She stopped cold.

"Nononono, please," she whispered, and then bounded up the stairs.

"You better not hide in my room again!" Ruth pounded after her, but Luanne stopped him.

"Baby, don't you hurt her none," she said, "You don't know what that poor girl's gone through."

"But she robbed us-"

"Hate the sin, not the sinner. Week later, she comes into our house shakin' like a wet puppy. You were just like her that day Manny Smith locked you in Mrs. Hutchinson's closet. Don't you remember how you pummeled him to bits and then sobbed into my shirt for half an hour?"

Another knock.

Ruth grimaced at the memory. "I'll be kind, mama, I'll be kind."

"One more thing," Luanne gripped his shoulder like she wanted to squeeze her words in so hard they'd never leave, "If I shout 'you better run on down here,' like Aunt Patty does, tell her to climb out your window, got it?"

"Yes, mama."

"Good, you get going then." As Ruth pounded up the stairs 0, Luanne turned to me. "I don't trust this situation one bit, Carl."

"You think she done somethin' wrong?" I asked

"No. She's runnin' from something wrong."

Another knock came from whatever she was runnin' from. I opened the door and there stood two burly cops, all dressed in they pretty playtime uniforms.

"Good evening, Mr..." The one on the left, wearin' a red bandanna round his head, tapped a pen on a clipboard.

I shifted to the right and smiled. "Ah, come on, boys, you don't remember me?"

The boy on the right smiled sheepishly, a dimple showing on his right cheek, "Sorry, sir, we've gotten that from every person around these parts. We're new, sir."

"Ah, that makes sense," I nodded, "Carl Hooney."

"Y'all wanna come in for a bite to eat?" Luanne asked, "I'll put on a kettle. You boys must be tired from all that cop work you do."

Bandana shook his head, eager to get back on topic, " Sorry ma'am, but we're on a tight schedule."

"Yessir," Dimple shook his head real slow. "Tellin' everybody around 'bout a new burglar on the loose."

"10 year old girl, white skin, blue eyes, bout yay high," Bandana held a hand right below his hip, "Blonde hair, wearing a fancy white dress. Probably covered in mud and dirt from all the time spent travelling round these parts."

"No offense to you good folks, of course," Dimple elbowed his partner.

"None taken." Luanne replied.

"Her real name is Angelina Hannah Hauron, but she's apparently going by the name Goldilocks."

"Runaway from the inner city of Duron. You know how kids are, doing these odd things for attention. Only problem is she's gotten real good at runnin' away. I don't even think she knows she left her city."

"Must not be gettin' enough love from home," Luanne said.

"Exactly," Dimple smiled, "So if y'all get any wind of her, just call us, alright?" He gave me a business card with both their names. Johnny Dennison and Burt Blake, both officers of the Duron police force. "Has to be a private number 'cuz we're the ones specifically assigned to this case. Just makes things a little easier for everyone."

"We'll make sure to tell you everything you need to know," Luanne said.

The two nodded, thanked us, and walked away.

"I didn't know Duron had two new recruits," Luanne said.

"Yeah," I shifted to the left so anyone standing in the doorway could see my police uniform hanging on the wall, "Me neither."

We made our way into Ruth's room. He was showing off his grand collection of baseball cards. His guest was so entranced she hadn't even noticed us coming in until Ruth trailed off to silence. I walked towards the girl and kneeled down to her level.

"Need somewhere to stay, Goldilocks?"