A date, or 'whatever'.

Oh hello anon. This isn’t NSFW, but hopefully it meets the criteria for fluff.

This is a Lyle/Ashley fic (Lashley?) Everything is a lie.

It starts raining. Abruptly, as if a switch has been hit somewhere.

Fat, heavy, droplets, that hit the New York sidewalk hard and bounce back with added interest.

Lyle swears, a couple of times, and then side steps into an overhanging doorway, trying to find her umbrella in her too full bag.

As she roots, the rain gets really intense, as if the rain has been personally offended by the city, in some way. And Lyle makes the choice to stay in the arched doorway, because she isn’t in a rush, and because the umbrella will probably only keep her top half dry, at best. Besides, this sort of intense rain only usually lasts ten minutes maximum. It’ll ease off soon.

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Lyle Friedman: “Wait. Shall we - are we supposed to write our own fan fic?”

Sarah Weichel: “No, no, no.”

Ashley Skidmore: “No, they do it.”

Lyle Friedman: “Oh. Yeah. ‘Cause they’re fans. I get it.”


SFW (A/N: that’s 'Safe For Work’, ergo you don’t end up having sex), 1.212 words. I’m sorry that I am not sorry at all. Cliché subject, I apologise. Here we go. The first ShleyFry Friedmore Skidman Lashley fan fiction. 


Language Of Love

It’s a particularly cold evening in New York as she leans against her bed’s headboard and carefully studies the screen of the Mac that’s resting on her lap. Five languages of love. Lyle had brought it up the other day and she had been convinced it was bullshit, because who the hell would even think of these dumb tests in the first place. She had laughed, of course she had, but Lyle had not joined her. Instead, she had muttered something about inconsiderate and narrow-minded and retreated to her own room, leaving her to sit at the kitchen table with a bowl of rice noodles and an enormous guilt.

Do you like notes of affirmation, or do you like to be hugged?

She glances at the opposite wall of her bedroom, contemplating which answer to pick. Surely there are no wrong answers on this thing. She shakes her head and ticks the first option, silently cursing Gary Chapman and his moronic test. There’s 29 more questions, and she already feels exasperated. It’s started to rain outside and she has somehow adapted to the glum mood. With another angry tap on the Mac’s track pad, she answers another question.

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anonymous asked:

Will you write more Lashley?

If it’s something people want to read, sure, why not!

The issue (and this is going to sound stupid) with writing Lashley for the time being, is that there’s not particularly much information about them online - which makes it a bit hard to write about them.

For example - you can’t find how old they are. Articles refer to them as ‘20-somethings’. No big deal, but that implies that you can no longer work with ‘younger/older’ in stories, because you simply don’t know. And I do like my fiction to be slightly accurate.

I’m sure that once they become more well-known, more information about them will surface. More people will write about them. I liked writing Language of Love, so I’ll probably continue to post something about them every now and then (The GIF game is definitely on, though. Expect quite some GIFs from their videos in the future - track HotMessGIF to keep up.).