"I tend to throw loads of stuff in a bag, then lose it because the kids’ stuff takes precedence. I spent our last holiday wearing the same pair of shorts all week, and I quite liked that. Holidays for me are about dropping anchor somewhere completely new and not being on show.“
GUESS WHO FINDS OUT WHO THEY GOT CASTED AS TODAY?!?!
Anyway, this is a mix between two requests! Sorry if it’s not exactly what either of you wanted, but I hope you enjoy anyway!
Request: Could you do a flirty/handsy race!!!! He’s my absolute favorite And I wish you would write a fic where race Higgins flirts with the girlsie reader constantly and she gets so tired of it and just kisses him, to which he just sits there totally stunned
Plot: Race is always flirting with Y/N, and one day she has enough of being ‘just friends’.
Characters: Race, Reader, Shoes (my OC)
Warnings: Foul language, shit writing
Everyone knew Race and Romeo were the biggest flirts in the Manhattan Lodging House. So when Race started flirting with you, it was no surprise. And it was fun with all the cheesy pick-up lines and long glances. What was so surprising about it, was that you became the only person he flirted with. It was strange, seeing as the boy could seduce a tree. And soon cheesy pick-up lines turned into lingering touches, arms around the shoulder or the waist.
It drove you insane.
Who did he think he was? With his handsome face, his boyish grin, his messy greasy hair, always smelling like a mix of cigar smoke and newspapers? Who did he think he was making you fall in love with him?
It didn’t help that practically all the boys in the lodging house knew of your not-so-little crush on the flirt. Or that they had also noticed his lack of interest in other girls. It seemed every other hour someone would ask if he made a move. Or if you made a move. And there was the new term everyone used for you - “Race’s goirl”.
“Hey look, it’s Race’s goirl.”
“Hey, don’t get close Buttons, she’s Race’s goirl. He might get jealous.”
“And how is Race’s goirl doing?”
This drove you further into your down spiral of insanity. It was almost as if they were taunting you. It was as if they knew how badly you wanted their words to be true. But they could never be true. Right? Your selling partner, Shoes, didn’t seem to think so.
“How’s it feel, being Race’s goirl?” She asked out of nowhere. You roll your eyes, wiping sweat away from your forehead using your sleeve. Shoes stood proudly beside you, her hair tucked neatly beneath her cap. She always figured pretending to be a guy would help sell more papers.
“I’ll tell yah when I know.” You grumble. You raise a paper above your head, shouting the first obscene story that popped into your head. An older, balding man tosses you a dime before rushing off with the paper. “Thank yah kindly.” You say, though you’re positive he can’t hear you.
“What’re you two talkin’ about ova here?” With no warning, two lanky arms wrap around your waist. “Is it me?” Race breaths this into your ear, and you can feel your heart beat faster.
“You’s wish, Higgins.” Shoes says, sending you a discreet wink. “Shouldn’t you be sellin’ with Romeo?” She takes another paper out of her bag, waving it through the air with a shout of nonsense. Race moves so he’s standing beside you, an arm still around your waist.
“Why sell when I’s got betta things ta do?” He wiggles his eyebrows at you, using his free hand to take his cigar out of his mouth. “After all, gettin’ ta see this beautiful face is worth any ammount’a papes I got.” He taps you on the nose with a grin.
“Awe, look, she’s turnin’ pink!” Shoes teased, howling with laughter. You turn your head down, adjusting your cap to hide your face.
“You ain’t got money if you don’t sell papes, and if you don’t ‘ave money, you don’t get food, and if you don’t get food, you don’t live.” You argue, slapping his chest lightly.
“Awe, you’s care about me and mah well-bein’?” Race grins at you boyishly, adjusting his cap on his head. “I’m touched.” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “But don’t you worry ‘bout me angel, I’s already sold all my papes.”
“Well,if you ain’t here ta help,” Shoes cut in,waving a newspaper in Race’s face. “Go home. You’s can flirt with your goirl later.” Shoes is shoving him away before either of you can say anything. When he disappears around the corner, you openly glare at Shoes.
“I’m not his goirl.” You tell her firmly.
“Not yet.” She winks before waving another paper in the air. “Extry, extry, woman run over by car in critical condition!”
You sat on your bad that night,reading through one of the unsold papers Blink had brought back to the lodging house,when a not-so-mysterious weight was added to your bed.
“Race.” You greet him shortly, trying to fight back a smile.
“Afternoon, angel.” Race paced his head on your shoulder, glaring at the paper in your hand. “Anythin’ excitin’?”
“Not really.” You sigh. “I can’t understand most of them big words. I’ve ‘ad to skip three stories already ‘cuz I couldn’t read them.” You set the paper in your lap. “How do you do it? Read, I mean.”
“Well,” Race scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh, learned to read when I was young. ‘For I became a newsie.” He laughed. “Maybe one day I can teach yah!” He grinned. You smiled back, nodding.
“Yeah… I’d like that.” Your eyes scanned the paper again, not noticing the way he stared, taking in your beauty.
“Anythin’ for a pretty little angel like yous.” He flirted. You looked at him again. He was smiling that boyish smile, and he had that playful look in his eyes. You almost wanted to kiss him. But he was getting up before you could even move, tipping his hat off. “Well, I’s gotta go meet one of tha boys.” He winked. “I’ll see you’s later, angel.” And then, he was gone.
You and a couple of the guys were out to lunch a few days later. Race was standing close to you, an arm tossed lazily around your shoulder. He and Albert were laughing about something you didn’t understand, but they wouldn’t explain.
“You’re too innocent, angel.” Race smiled charmingly. You froze, staring at him. You weren’t offended by his words. Far from it, actually. But the way he was looking at you, and the way he spoke made you feel things you didn’t think you should be feeling for someone who’s ‘just a friend’.
“Race,” You murmur his name. As if some kind of miracle, Race removed the cigar from his mouth. Before he could say anything though, you grabbed him by his vest and pulled him towards you.
“Whoop! Told you!” Albert exclaimed moments after your lips met Race’s. The kiss only lasted a few moments, and when you pulled away Race stood there, open mouthed with wide eyes. You blushed, straightening out.
“Can I just say,” You laugh lightly, avoiding his eyes. “I… love when you call me angel.”
Summary:Starfire and Robin are officially an item, but what does that mean when the resident empath is stuck living between their respective bedrooms? Finding a new bunk buddy in Beast Boy was certainly not her first choice, and when she engages in a strange, night time activity, how long before the changeling notices what she’s up to?
The Titans were happy for Robin and Starfire.
It had been a long, long time coming, after all. The couple had been dancing around one another for as long as anyone could remember, neither ever bold enough to act on their genuine feelings for each other. Robin had been too thick headed, and Starfire apparently too subtle and unsure. So, when they had finally established their new, romantic relationship, every other Titan had been thrilled with the news.
That is, until their incessant romping sessions.
No one could blame them; something vague about teenagers, hormones, and pent up sexual frustration while living in close quarters. Not to mention, the bubbling sexual tension that had finally culminated into one hot, passionate affair after all those years. It was well earned, well deserved, and perfectly understandable that both the Titans leader and the alien beauty couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Once they’d tasted that forbidden fruit, it was near impossible to go back to anything else.
When the ‘sleepovers’ grew in frequency, and often throughout the wee hours of the early morning, the other Titans put up with it. They dealt with the lust filled cries, the sound of the creaking bedframe, of the steady banging against the thin walls while the mattress springs squeaked beneath their weight. It was all sweet in the beginning, and it was always nice to see the usually tense boy wonder unwind and relax after spending a relaxing evening with his girlfriend.
ding dong we need more cogsworth- can we have something with him and mrs. potts bonding over all of their dumb kids (lumiere, adam, chip, etc.)
ding dong yes yes yes we do
Mrs. Potts has let Chip go. It was a hard wrench, but it’s time for him to run with the other children again; there was one little girl down in the village who he was particular friends with, who he missed over the years of the curse. She has a book to show him. Mrs. Potts lets Chip run away, and stands with her hands folded, back against the columns of the palace.
She can feel the sun on her face again. Both the sun and the face are marvels too new for her to take in. She tries to rouse up her Yorkshire practicality—stiff upper lip, don’t cry like an old sentimental hen, feel the sun and hold it together—but she can’t. Her hands are trembling against her skirt.
Cogsworth comes up and stands beside her. He does it in the most ordinary fashion—as if he meandered over here by accident, and it is only coincidence that leaves him standing by the housekeeper—but Mrs. Potts knows he knows, and knows that he wants to stand with her. The two upright, English pillars of good sense, quivering like leaves in summer sun.
“Fine weather we’re having,” Cogsworth ventures.
“Oh, yes. I fancy it shan’t snow again for quite some time.”
She looks at him, and beams through a tear. There’s something caught in his monocle, and he glances away. Immediately distracted, though his voice still rumbles over a catch: “Unbelievable. Look at that fool.”
Lumiere is kissing Plumette for the eighteenth time in five minutes.
“Well, let them have their time.” Mrs. Potts spots Jean in the crowd. He is crying over another old friend. He will keep doing that for quite a while. “Plumette deserves some happy days.”
“I won’t deny that.” Cogsworth’s eyes blink; for a minute Mrs. Potts knows he is seeing little Plumette, twelve years old and all fresh-scrubbed innocence, and not the beaming woman in front of them. “And I suppose the candelabra deserves her. The only one worthy of her, if I’m not mistaken.”
She can’t resist a gentle nudge. “Do you still know the time, Mr. Cogsworth?”
“Do you still spew steam?” Cogsworth’s hands clutch his cane. She can tell that he is happy, and doesn’t know what to do with it. Should it be shouted down, like an unruly soldier? Should it be marshaled into attention, into diplomatic patter and inconsequential action?
Cogsworth makes up his mind.
“I could truly fancy some lemonade. Would you join me in the kitchen, Mrs. Potts?”
“Only if we can come back up to the sun afterward, Mr. Cogsworth.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.” Cogsworth heaves a sigh: and no clink or click of machinery joins it. “I fancy we shall be in the sun for quite some time.”