day writes things

An incomplete list of ideas I’ve had for Whitestone during the time jump that I haven’t written in the last two weeks and won’t write before Thursday.

- Vex is weirded out by the voluntary separation from her brother, their first ever in their lives. She and Trinket disappear into the woods for a few days while she gets her balance back. 

- Tary sticks around Whitestone because Percy is helping him build Doty 2.0. They get overly involved in the whole process, and it compounds Vex’s feelings of weirdness and loneliness. This is how she ends up bonding with Cassandra.

- Vex finds out that Cassandra has never in her life traveled outside of Whitestone. She sends a message to Vax and Keyleth, and tells Percy “I’m taking your sister to Zephyra, you’re in charge for a few days, bye!” And Cassandra gets a few days to just be a young woman without any responsibility with the Ashari. 

- (Percy is utter shit at being in charge. He gains a bit of perspective on what his sister has been dealing with, and promises to come out of his workshop more often. No, really, he means it this time.)

- Percy actually does keep his word, and helps more with the day-to-day running of the city, but he also keeps himself occupied by helping plan/build Vex’s new house. 

- While Tary is there, the three of them (occasionally with Cassandra, Jarret, and/or Kynan in tow) frequent the town tavern quite often, where Vex and Percy regale the other two with the ridiculous and completely true tales of Vox Machina. Everyone else in the tavern eventually stops pretending they’re not listening, and the stories of Lord Percival and Lady Vex’ahlia and their friends become legendary in Whitestone, passed from person to person, with a lot of accusations of people making shit up because really, a SPHINX? 

- During one of their visits, Percy asks Keyleth to cast Speak With Animals for him. Because while he has no intention of asking Vax for anything resembling permission, he rather wants to know what Trinket would think about him marrying Vex. He has to laugh when Trinket is just confused that they’re not permanently mated already. “You belong to her, just like me,” Trinket says, and Percy really can’t argue with that.

On February 1st John wakes up to find that Sherlock’s half of the bed is empty, and on his pillow is a single lavender rose.  He smiles softly, picks it up, and presses his nose into the petals.

The following day John finds two of the same flower, their stems cut quite short, waiting for him in his favorite mug when he goes to make tea.  He doesn’t ask Sherlock about it yet, and Sherlock acts as if nothing is different.

On February 3rd there are three lavender roses waiting for John.  One is resting in his left shoe; another is tucked inside his jacket pocket; the third he finds on the doorknob when he’s on his way out.  He puts them on his desk at work and thinks about texting Sherlock for an explanation.  But he doesn’t.  Not yet.

Four roses find their way onto the mantlepiece.

Five are found nestled in John’s chair late in the evening on February 5th.

Six are discovered the following morning, wrapped neatly together with ribbon, in the refrigerator.  Still, neither of them say a word.

It isn’t until the 7th of February–when John finds seven lavender roses, cut from their stems, floating in a bowl of water on the kitchen table–that John’s curiosity gets the better of him.  He’s not much for computers, but he knows how to use google at least.  The results make his head feel light.

Eight roses decorate the sitting room in various spots.

Nine are placed into various beakers and tubes.

Ten litter the surface of the sofa all day on February 10th.  They avoid sitting there all day, but neither of them mentions it.

On February 11th there are eleven roses lining the doorframe of Baker Street.

The 12th brings a bouquet to John’s office where he switches them out for the three that have begun to wilt but that he was unwilling to remove.

Thirteen roses hang from the ceiling of their bedroom the following day.  John isn’t quite sure how Sherlock managed that without waking him, but he lays there for almost half an hour, just watching them sway back and forth.

John comes home from work on the 14th of February and finds lavender rose petals scattered up and down the seventeen steps of 221B.  If he had to guess he would say there were enough petals for fourteen roses.  His chest constricts, and he takes the steps slowly, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He expects to find Sherlock waiting for him, but when he reaches the top he finds the door to the sitting room closed, a note taped to it.  Sherlock’s untidy scrawl reads, You know where to find me.

And John does.  He’s back down the stairs and out the door in seconds, and for once it seems he’s got Sherlock’s luck on his side as a taxi rolls to a stop when he flings out his hand.

The lab at St. Bart’s hasn’t changed much since the day they met, and it’s a bit like walking into the past when John pushes the door open to find Sherlock waiting for him in the same exact spot he had been when John had first seen him.  Only this time John isn’t limping.  And this time Sherlock is holding a single lavender rose instead of a pipette, and his gaze is soft and warm as it settles on John.

“Knew you’d get it,” he says, his eyes crinkling with his smile.

John walks toward him, taking his time even though his heart is pounding.  It’s ridiculous, he thinks, because they’ve been together for months now.  “I’m smarter than I look,” he says, unable to keep from smiling in return.  He stops about a foot away, nodding toward the rose in Sherlock’s hand.  “Isn’t that cheating?”

Sherlock shakes his head.  “You see, but you do not observe,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  He steps closer, holding the flower up between them.  “There were only thirteen on the steps.  This is number fourteen.”

John steps closer and reaches out to touch the petals, letting his hand slip down until his fingers ghost over Sherlock’s.  “I looked it up, you know. Lavender rose.”

“I know,” Sherlock says, his smile widening.  “On the seventh.  I was surprised you held out for so long.”

John can’t help laughing.  “I’m not even going to ask how you knew.”  

He plucks the rose from Sherlock’s fingers and sets it gingerly on the counter beside them, removing the delicate barrier between them so that he can step into Sherlock’s space and draw him down for a soft, slow kiss.  Sherlock’s hands cup his face, his thumbs stroking along the sharp edges of his jaw, and John clings to fistfuls of Sherlock’s shirt at his waist.

When he pulls away it’s only enough so that he can speak, and his lips brush Sherlock’s with every word.  “Love at first sight,” he whispers, and he frees one hand to touch the petals of the lavender rose beside them.  “And you always said I was the romantic.”

Sherlock kisses him again, lingering for a long, sweet moment.  “I thought you should know the truth.  The whole of it.  How long I’ve loved you.”

Something in John’s chest aches, and he spends long, drawn-out moments pressing his lips to Sherlock’s, murmuring his I love yous into his mouth, hoping that it will be enough, that Sherlock will understand that he’s been loved since the moment John saw him in this very lab so many years ago.


Later that night–after Sherlock has led them home, after John has pressed him against the sheets, after countless kisses and touches and soft, pleading words–later, they sit together in front of the fire, half-clothed, legs tangled together, and press the single lavender rose in between the pages of a heavy book.  And when they’ve finished, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him back to bed.

The One with the Giant Poking Device

Characters - Dean x Reader

Summary - An awkward moment while sharing a bed leads to an interesting morning.

Word Count - 5864

Warnings - Swearing (duh), injury (very slight),smut, oral sex/face riding (female), fingering, unsafe sex (remember irl to wrap it before you tap it)

A\N - This was written for mine and Jill’s Hubba Bubba Birthday writing challenge. Thank you to @sis-tafics for reading through and encouraging me. And a special thank you to @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog for betaing. You ladies are the absolute best!

Tags at the bottom

Originally posted by jessica-bones-winchester


Long, calloused fingers grip you tightly, digging into your soft curves as his hands pull you flush against his body. The heat spreads, radiating from him to sink into your bones, flowing through you to settle heavily in your center. The strength in the arms wrapping around you, the firmness of his chest against your full breasts, the gentleness of his hands as they caress you, all of it makes your breath slow, your heart race. You can’t hold back the low whine in your throat when you feel his hardening length pressing against your lower belly. He dips his head to nuzzle into your neck, his warm breath fanning over you. He nudges your head back further, the scruff on his jaw a delicious burn on your skin. Soft sighs catch in your throat as his lips glide over you and you can feel his cock twitch against you in response.

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Seventeen things you have to learn for yourself
as a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Pansexual
or otherwise Queer youth
by the time you are seventeen.

One is that the first Pride was a riot
I don’t mean that it was full of laughter, or that it was some grand party
where everyone spiraled up to dance among the stars
because the only glittering that night
was broken glass on cobblestones.
The first Pride was a riot
on the backstreets of New York
and they never tell us
that night
we won.
The only protest
in a decade full of turmoil
where the cops had to hide out in the bar they raided
and run from shouting rioters
who fought to reclaim the only patch of ground they had ever claimed as theirs
the first Pride was a riot,

and two, around the same time it took place
it was a debated topic in the gay community
whether or not they should say
that they weren’t mentally ill

which, three, homosexuality was removed
from the American Psychiatric Association’s list of mental illnesses
in 1974
congratulations
all it took was a vote to declare that, whoops, we were never mentally ill

except, four, there are still teenagers being tortured today
in what some dare blaspheme as “therapy”
used to destroy their self-identity
in the hopes of making them normal.
except, four, the queer community still carries overwhelmingly high rates for poverty and homelessness and depression.

Did you know that, five,
over half the children forced into conversion therapy
commit suicide?

And six, that lesbians
were regarded as “hangers-on”
of the movement
by much of the gay community
before the AIDS crisis?

Because it turns out, seven can wear a rainbow on your shirt
and still be a bigot.
There are people who stick rainbows in their ears
or wear them on their fingers
or slap them across their cheeks in badges of defiance
and will still hate you for the color of your skin
or the size of your thighs
or your gender
or the way you like to kiss two or more genders
or none of the above.
Don’t ask me why this happens
it just does
I think it might be that we’ve all been taught to hate ourselves
for so damn long
that we don’t understand what to do
in a space with no hate.
Or maybe it’s that the space seems too small, because

eight, there are people who will tell you that you are not enough
that you do not reach the magical benchmark of “gay enough” to pass through the gate even
especially
when you are some flavor of the rainbow other than straight-out gay.
eight, this is bullshit
eight, those people are bullshit.
eight, you are enough.
eight, there is always enough room.

nine, there is no overarching “homosexual agenda”
sorry
we’re all kind of flailing along in here trying to figure out some way to make it work
when most of us have nothing in common
except that society looked at us in different ways and decided we didn’t fit
so we could all go be misfits together
under one big rainbow flag

but just so you know, ten, there are plenty of other flags
there is one for you, I promise

and eleven, misfits may not all need the same things
but we need to stick together, especially in a world where

twelve—refer to point seven—there are lesbians who hate other lesbians
for having the audacity to be born in a body
that everyone looked at and saw “boy”
which brings me to

thirteen, there is so much to understand.

fourteen, you need to understand
because we need to stick together
and to stick together we do not have to be the same but we do have to understand
and it will be hard because
you were probably thrown into this world with no warning because

fifteen, being queer is not genetic and we are not unique among minorities
in that we collect our heritage through broken bits of history and research in a world constantly working to make those misfit bits go away
but we are unique in that when we try to prove our legacy
we can be laughed down
or re-erased
or flat out ignored
but I swear to you
you have a history as old as Alexander the Great
as beautiful as Sappho
as dignified as Abraham Lincoln
and as proud as Eleanor Roosevelt.

But even with that behind us
sixteen,
they have always watched us die.
because even though the bystander effect is bullshit, sixteen
Kitty Genovese was a lesbian, sixteen
Ronald Reagan is a mass murderer, sixteen
our children, your brothers and sisters and  siblings of all stripes and all colors and sexualities and genders are being murdered
through neglect
and rejection
and hate.

Sixteen, there is an entire generation of gay and bisexual men
missing from history
because the government chose to do nothing
when they were dying by the thousands.
sixteen, we died from the disease and died from going back into the closet and died for staying there and died for coming out,
sixteen, they laughed at us because they believed god was punishing us for daring to love,
sixteen, ashes of your forerunners rest on the lawn of the White House because
SIXTEEN, THEY HAVE ALWAYS WATCHED US DIE.

SEVENTEEN
you are allowed
to be angry.
You do not have to be one of the nice gays
or one of the nice trans people
or sweet or kind or educate the rest of the world in something less than a yell
you are allowed to be so furious it scalds your bones
at the way we are forgotten
and passed over
at the way, as soon as June becomes July
we are expected
to go back to dying in silence
and mourning our dead
and kissing all alone
when no one can be offended
at the sight of us.
You are allowed to be angry
and scream down the stars
to shatter like broken glass at your feet
because you know what?
The first Pride
was a riot.

—  October 11
Hit Me Like A Ray Of Sun

“Bitty. Holy fuck.”

Bitty’s eyes fly open.

Ransom is only an inch from his face.

“Wake up, Bits.”

Bitty groans and holds onto the blankets but Ransom gets a good grip on them and rips them all off at once.

“Justin Oluransi I swear if you don’t let me sleep I’m never making pie for you again. I mean it. I need my rest. I was up late studying.”

Ransom snorts.

“I was to studying.” He only talked to Jack for ten minutes. Fifteen tops. “And if you don’t let me sleep for the remaining 25 minutes that I am allowed I am taking every single piece of dessert that I make here and bringing it to the LAX house. You’re going to ruin it for everyone.”

“Jeeze,” Ransom says with a roll of his eyes. “So dramatic. Just like your boyfriend.”

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Sometimes I hate being trans. A lot of the time, actually. While everyone else is moving forward, you’re feel like you’re waiting, waiting, waiting. For the next GIC appointment. For hormones to show any effect. For surgery. For the next surgery. For forms and reports and assessments to be filled out.

These things take weeks, months, years. Whole parts of your life get eaten away on waiting lists for services that are already stretched to their limit. And all the time you want everything to stop - to right itself in some magical overnight miracle. You spend nights crying and asking ‘why me?’ Why am I the one who has to be stuck here? 

But you will get there. I promise you. Nobody knows patience like us trans folk. We have to be strong, mentally, emotionally and physically, because we are forced to be by our very nature. It’s something huge to bear and it’s okay if you’re not always okay. It isn’t fun, and it isn’t fair. And it’s okay to grieve - for being born with the wrong parts, or for all the times that your body restricted you in life - for the things you wish you had. Grieve if you need to. 

There is light and dark to everything in life. Being trans is no exception. Keep going. Wait and fight and grieve and celebrate and live - in the way that only we trans people know how. 

You’ll come out stronger in the end.

Prompt # 142

“Well that was overkill.”

“No. That was style. Something you clearly lack.”

I really want to write a fanfic where R2 just says, fuck this when Bail, obi-wan and Yoda plan to separate the twins. He then convinces C3P0 to help him kidnap the babies, reasoning that raising two children cant be that hard, humans do it all the time. 

They are like okay money wise because in this universe Anakin totally gave R2 his bank account info (which Padme made for him). R2 is a little confused about why there ends up being being so much money in it, seeing as he thinks Anakin is dead but ends up shrugging it off. So they just spend the next 10 years flying around the galaxy, raising the baby Skywalkers.

Luke totally spends at least one year speaking only in binary. Leia knows more languages then any one child should ever know. Both twins are highly offended by the existence of restraining bolts.

Then one year Vader has like a lackey like doing his taxes or something and the lackey is like “uh lord Vader do you know what these monthly withdraws from you bank account dating back ten years are about” and Vader is like what the fuck.

So Vader decides to go after who is committing Identity fraud reasoning that the only people who would have Anakin Skywalker’s bank info would be someone he wanted to track down anyway. Meanwhile poor Obi-wan has been trying to track the twins down for ten years, and is just so fucking tired.

Then both of them catch up with the group at the same time and shit goes down.

3

[immediately follows up a full-on illustration with a messy comic]

at least by spewing soda all over alim’s phone, marin no longer has to steal it in order to erase the incriminating evidence

“true reality s h o w” - Karolina Koryl

a little bit about Kevin Day who is also A Massive Loser:

  • feels the need to remind everyone that he’s left-handed 
    • brings out statistics about the pros of being a lefty
    • annoys the shit out of everyone when he constantly complains about hard it is to be left-handed
  • can get ready in the mornings in under 5 minutes to maximize sleeping in time
    • it’d be under 3 if he didn’t brush his teeth
  • holds secret funerals every time his racquet breaks
  • had the weirdest muscle gain/loss after Riko broke his hand
    • lost a ton of muscle on his left side and got built on his right because that’s the one he focused on training the most
  • likes to stand extra tall and look down on Neil when they’re arguing
  • wouldn’t have to eat quite so healthy if he wasn’t on track to giving himself alcohol poisoning
  • once tried to take revenge on Andrew by hiding his chocolate syrup in a higher cupboard
    • so. much. regret.
  • is super judgy about dollar store Exy racquets
    • tests the strings and handle quality as if it’s comparable to his own racquets and looks at them like they’re a disappointment anyways
    • honestly cried that one time Nicky switched out his racquets as a prank
    • (the Foxes couldn’t stop laughing)
    • (Wymack is not paid enough for this)
  • tries to convince Renee to donate to sports-initiative charities
  • went straight from yelling at a Fox to encouraging a six-year-old girl to follow her dreams and make Court
  • once called Abby “mom”
    • the kindest thing Abby could to was pretend she didn’t hear
    • but also sometimes Kevin would wonder what if
  • calls out misogynistic bullshit lightning quick
  • once watched the wrong History Channel while drunk and believed every single word
    • he won’t admit it to the other Foxes, but Kevin definitely thinks aliens built the Great Pyramids
  • does not have the keys for Andrew and Neil’s apartment but keeps banging on the door and leaving voicemails until they finally open the door only to find him carrying bags of fresh vegetables
    • tells them he should be charging their team for his time because Kevin is a fucking a s s h o l e
  • gets his first dog from the shelter and the poor guy’s malnourished and has a missing leg but Kevin skips out on practice to help him heal 
    • when the dog’s healthy and happy Kevin brings him to practices and they play a dangerous version of fetch with Exy balls flung around the court but both of them love it
  • goes to see Wymack at least once a month but spends the whole time complaining about his team’s quality
  • leaves Andrew and Neil angry voicemails after their games, no matter the score
    • leaves them angry voicemails after his own games
    • leaves them angry voicemails after Jean or Matt’s games
    • leaves incoherent fanboy screaming voicemails after Jeremy Knox’s games
    • (they won’t admit it, but Andrew and Neil definitely look forward to these as they’re absolutely hilarious)
  • is able to look at his racquet at the beginning of each game and think, I’m better than he ever was
    • is able to prove it to the world

Until Death Do Us Part

Kitten

Summary: Cas has finally come home after two weeks away, and he can’t wait to play with you. 

Pairing: Cas x reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: kitten!play, spanking, oral (male receiving), dirty talk

*nsfw gifs below the cut!!*

A/N: happy smut appreciation day :-)

You sat back on your heels on the bed, joy and arousal pumping through your veins at the sound of Cas’ voice making its way down the hall toward your room.

Castiel was finally back home.

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Beware the Ides of March

this isn’t the fic i intended to write today (or ever really) but it’s the fic that happened so

read on ao3

Bellamy doesn’t believe in any higher power, not really. He also doesn’t believe in fate, or coincidence, or any of those other things that people like to blame random happenings on.

But he will admit that if he did actually believe in any of those things, he would be fully convinced that they were laughing at his misfortune at this very minute which. Honestly, he would be too if not for the stab wound in his side. Stab wounds apparently make the whole laughing thing kind of difficult. Who’d’ve known.

“Would you just hold still?” Clarke huffs as she tries to clean the wound.

“No.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And your bedside manner sucks, princess.”

She pinches the soft skin on the inside of his bicep and he yelps, glaring at her balefully.

It’s not like he wants to be here, sitting on the uncomfortable examination table in the ER, shirt off, and paper crinkling noisily beneath him each time he so much as breathes. No one ever wants to be in the ER, leaking blood all over the place because they were fucking stabbed in a mugging gone wrong, not even if the opportunity lends itself to a bout of truly morbid humour.

Just this morning he was telling his sophomores about the Ides of March and now here he is, living his own version of it. Again, he would be laughing except- stab wound.

Clarke is bent over his side, wisps of blonde hair escaping her braid and looking platinum in the harsh fluorescent hospital lighting. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she goes over the cut with antiseptic, and he hisses once more.

“That hurts,” he grunts, and then flinches again when she goes back in with another piece of gauze. Most of the bleeding has stopped, but there’s still a lazy trickle that she has to keep wiping up intermittently.

“Stab wounds tend to do that,” she deadpans.

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Magnus is one of the most powerful warlocks I’ve ever known.

Have you ever looked at Castle Byers? I mean, really looked at it? The amount of work that must have gone into building it… the attention to detail… the craftsmanship…it couldn’t have been the work of just one person.

Imagine, if you will, young(er) Will Byers looking through the woods around his house for that perfect place, a spot of refuge, a place where maybe he could hide…

Imagine him finding the perfect spot one day, a spot secluded and quiet, just the right distance from the house where he wasn’t so far away it was unfamiliar, yet far enough away that he felt sufficiently hidden.

Imagine Jonathan Byers coming home from middle school that day to find his mother on her fourth or fifth shaky cigarette, Lonnie absent as usual (most likely at the nearest bar), the tension of the blow-up he’d just barely missed still heavy in the air… and no Will.

Imagine Jonathan frantically searching the woods for his baby brother and finally finding him in that spot, dragging long heavy branches into a pile (if two could be called a pile), and struggling because each is longer than he is tall and also remarkably unwieldy.

Imagine Jonathan sighing in relief and quietly coming up alongside Will to help him drag the current branch next to the other two, softly asking what all this is for.

“I was thinking of making a fort,” Will mumbles with a shrug.

Imagine Joyce, just finishing her sixth cigarette, hearing loud clashing sounds coming from the backyard shed and hastily putting out her cigarette to rush out the back door. She finds her oldest boy rummaging through the shed, his arms overflowing with tarp, rope, and odd bits of plywood. He shyly tells her it’s for Will’s fort and after a pause, she tells him to wait while she runs inside to grab a few odds and ends.

Imagine the sun setting on the finished fort, all those branches (much more than three) held together with rope and shielded by tarps. Inside is a pile of Joyce’s odds and ends, blankets and pillows arranged into a bed, on which sit a tired Joyce, Jonathan, and Will, all relishing the silence of the woods as dusk begins to set in and the peace of one another’s company.

Mirror

Summary: You and Sam decided you need some reminding of who you belong to after a guy at a bar hits on you. 

Pairing: Sam x reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: an asshole guy at a bar, language, mirror!kink, spanking, hair pulling, oral (male receiving), dirty talk, nsfw gif below the cut!!

A/N: yay for fic 1 of smut appreciation day! look out for the dean x reader at 3pm EST and the cas x reader at 6pm EST!

ps this gif is sooooo Sam after a nice, thorough fucking ;-)

Originally posted by awkwardsamw

“I’ll go get us another round,” you smiled, kissing your boyfriend Sam on the cheek before scooting out of the booth and heading over to the bar.

You rested your elbows on the bar top, holding up 3 fingers to the bartender before looking around in boredom as you waited for you, Sam and Dean’s beers.

“Hey.”

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