up her skirt

anonymous asked:

*shyly whispers* do u think u could do another Greek Mythology story~

“Your tapestries are so fine,” the merchant says in wonder, “that you must be blessed by the goddess Athena.”

Arachne tosses her head, braided hair falling over her shoulder like an obsidian waterfall, “What’s Athena got to do with it? My hands wove these, not hers.”

The merchant blanches and looks to the sky, as if expecting Zeus himself to smite them for blasphemy. Personally, she thinks the king of the gods has better thing to do with his time. “Ah,” he says weakly, “I suppose.”

He pays her for her wares and she leaves, almost immediately bumping into a hunched old woman with grey eyes. “Do you not owe Athena thanks for your talent?” she croaks, gnarled hands curled over a cane.

Arachne is not stupid, but she is foolish. They will tell tales of it. She looks into those grey eyes and declares, “Athena should thank me, since my talents earn her so much praise.”

She pushes past her and keeps walking, ignoring the goddess in humans skin as she disappears into the crowd.

They will tell tales of her hubris. They will all be true.

~

The next day she bumps into the same old woman at the market. Everything goes downhill from there.

“Know your place, mortal,” Athena says, grey eyes narrowed. There is a crowd around them, and Arachne could save herself, could walk away unscathed, and all she has to do is say her weaving is inferior to that of a goddess.

She will not lie.

“I do,” she says coolly, “and in this matter, it is above you.”

She is not honest as a virtue, but as a vice.

Athena challengers her to a weaving contest. She accepts.

~

Gods are not so hard to find, if you know where to look.

“It’s a volcano,” the baker repeats, looking down at her coins, as if he feels guilty for taking money from someone who’s clearly not all there.

She grabs her bag of sweet breads and adds it to her pack before swinging it over her shoulders, “Yes, I know. Half a day’s walk, you said?”

“A volcano,” he insists, as if she did not hear him perfectly well the first dozen times.

“Thank you for your help,” she says. He’s shaking his head at her, but she knows what she’s doing.

She walks. She grows hungry, but does not touch the bread she paid for, and walks some more. The sun’s begun to set by the time she makes it to the base of the volcano. It’s tall, impossibly large, and for a moment the promise of defeat threatens to overwhelm her.

But Arachne does not believe in defeat, in loss. They will tell tales of her hubris. Those tales will be true.

She ties a scarf around her braids then hikes her skirt up and ties the material so it falls only to her thighs. She fits work roughened hands into the divots of cooled magma and begins her slow ascent.

~

The muscles in her legs and arms shake, and her hunger pains are almost as distracting. Her once white dress is dirt smeared and torn and sweat makes her itch as it covers her body and drips down her back.

“What are you doing?”

Arachne turns her head and bites back a scream, looking into one giant eye. The cyclops holds easily to the volcano’s edges, even though her hands are torn and bleeding. She swallows and says, “I heard you like honeyed bread. Is it true?”

The creature tilts his head to the side, baring his long fanged teeth at her. She thinks he might be smiling. “You’ve been climbing for hours. What do you want?”

“Is it true?” she repeats, refusing to flinch.

“Yes,” he says, looking at her the same way the baker had, “it’s true.”

“There’s some sweet bread in my pack, baked this morning,” she says, “it should still be soft.”

His hands are big enough and strong enough that it could probably squeeze her head like a grape. Instead he gently undoes her pack and reaches inside. The honey buns look comically small in his large hands, and he swallows half of them in one bite. He licks his fingers clean when he’s done, and his smile is just as terrifying the second time around. “I am Brontes. Why are you climbing my master’s volcano?”

“I’m the weaver Arachne,” she takes a deep breath, “I need your master’s help.”

~

They tell tales of Hephaestus’s ugliness.

They are not true.

He’s got a broad, angular face and short brown hair. His eyes are like amber set into his face, and his arms are huge, and he’s rippling muscle from the waist up. He has legs only to his knees. From there down his legs are bronze gears and golden wire, replacements for the legs destroyed when Hera threw him from Mount Olympus.

“Had your look, girl?” he asks, voice rough like he’s always a moment away from breaking into a coughing fit.

“Yes,” she says, and doesn’t turn away, keeps looking.

His lips quirk up at the corners, so it was the right move. The heat is even more oppressive inside the volcano, and all around him cyclopses work, forging oddly shaped metal that she can’t hope to understand. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find me, girl. What do you want?”

She slides her pack off her shoulders and holds it out to the god, “I have a gift for your wife. I have woven her a cloak.”

He raises an eyebrow and doesn’t reach for the bag, “You believe something made with mortal hands could be worthy of the goddess of beauty?”

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“Yes.”

They will all be true.

With a gust of wind the oppressive heat of the volcano is swept away, leaving her chilled. In its place stands a woman – more than a woman. Aphrodite has skin like the copper of her husband’s machines and hair dark and thick and long. Her eyes are deepest, richest brown, piercing in their intelligence. People don’t tell tales of Aphrodite’s cleverness. That is because people are stupid.

“Let’s see it then,” she says, reaching inside the pack and pulling the cloak from its depths.

It unrolls beautifully. It’s made from the finest silks, and it shimmers in the light from the forges. The hem of the cloak is sea foam, speaking of Aphrodite’s beginning, and up along the cloak is intricate patterns it tells of her life, of her marriage and her worshippers and escapades, all with the detail of the most experienced artist and the reverence of her most devoted followers.

Her lips part in surprise and she slides it on, twirling like a child. “Gorgeous,” Hephaestus says, though Arachne knows he does not speak of the cloak. She doesn’t take offense.

The goddess smiles and Arachne’s heart pounds in her chest. She does her best to ignore it – Aphrodite is the goddess of love, after all. It is only expected. “Very well,” the goddess says, “you have my attention.”

Arachne swallows. Aphrodite’s attention is a heavy thing. “I have offended Athena,” she says, “She has challenged me to a weaving contest.”

Their faces somber. Hephaestus rubs the edge of a sleeve between his fingers and says, “Athena will lose such a contest, if judged fairly. She does not take loss well.”

“I know,” she says, “you are friendly with Hades, are you not?”

There are no tales of their friendship. But she’s staking her life on its existence, because why wouldn’t it exist – both of them even tempered, both shunned by Olympus, both happily married.

Gods hate being made to feel lesser. It is why they say Persephone was kidnapped, why they say Aphrodite cheats with Ares. It is why Athena will crush her when Arachne wins the weaving contest.

“Clever girl,” Hephaestus says, smiling.

Aphrodite stares at her reflection in a convenient piece of polished silver. Arachne assumes Hephaestus left if lying there for that express purpose. “Very well!” the goddess says, not looking at her, “when Athena sends you to the underworld, we will entrench upon our uncle for your release.” She turns on her heel and points a finger at her. Arachne blushes for no reason she can think of. “In return, you will weave me a gown, one equal to my own beauty.”

A gown as exquisite as the goddess of beauty. An impossible task.

They will tell tales of her hubris.

“I accept.”

They will all be true.

~

The contest goes as expected. Athena’s tapestry is lovely, but Arachne’s is lovelier.

The goddess’s face goes red in rage, and her grey eyes narrow. Arachne stands tall, ready to accept the death blow coming for her.

The blow comes.

Death does not.

~

She is an insect. Even if she can make it back to Hephaestus’s volcano, even if they can help her, they will not know it is her. She has no hope left, no course of action, she should just give up. But –

She doesn’t believe in defeat, in loss.

It was a terribly long journey on foot, that first time. It is even longer this time, although now she has eight legs instead of two. She makes it to the volcano, and creeps in between crevices, until she finds out a hollowed room, one with a sliver of sunlight and plenty of bugs to keep her fed.

Athena’s cruel joke of allowing her to weave will be her downfall. Her silk comes out a golden yellow color – it will look exquisite against Aphrodite’s copper skin.

~

It takes seven years for her to complete it. She hasn’t left this room in the volcano in all that time, and as soon as it’s done she scurries out back toward the village. She’s a large insect, but not that large.

She arrives just as the sun begins to rise, and leaves before the first rays have even touched the earth, her prize tied to her back with her own silk.

Arachne doesn’t return to her room. Instead she goes to the more popular parts of the volcano, hurries and runs around terrifying stomping feet until she finds who she’s looking for and scurries up his leg and onto his shoulder.

“Huh,” Brontes looks onto his shoulder and blinks. “What on earth are you?”

She cautiously skitters down his arm, waiting. He bends closer and lightly touches her back. “Is – is that a piece of a honey bun?”

She looks up at him, waiting. It’s her only chance, if he doesn’t remember, if he doesn’t understand –

His face slowly fills with a cautious kind of wonder. “Arachne?”  She jumps in place, being unable to nod, and Brontes cautiously cradles her in his massive hands, “We must find the Master immediately!”

She jumps down, landing in front of him and running forward. “Wait!” he calls, and she makes sure he’s running after her before skittering back to her corner of the cave. It’s almost too small for him to enter but he squeezes inside and breathes, “Oh.” He stares for several moments, and Arachne climbs her web and waits. Brontes shakes himself out of his reverie and uses his powerful wings to bellow, “MISTRESS APHRODITE!”

There’s that same breeze and she’s in the crevice with them, “What was so important, Brontes, that you had to yell?”

Arachne sees the exact moment that the goddess sees the gown, golden yellow and glimmering, made entirely of spider silk. “Beautiful,” she says, reaching out a hand to brush down the bodice. Her head then snaps up, “Brontes, where’s Arachne?”

She warms at that, that Aphrodite knew it was her weaving even though she hasn’t been seen in seven years.

They’ve told tales of her hubris.

They are all true.

Brontes points at the web, and Aphrodite steps over and holds out her hands. Arachne crawls onto the goddess’s palms. “Athena is more powerful than I am, I cannot undo her work,” she says, “but I know someone who can.”

Then they are in front of a river. A handsome young man stands there waiting with a boat. “Goddess Aphrodite,” he says, “we weren’t expecting you.”

“Thanatos,” she returns, “I need to see Persephone.”

The man’s face stays cool, and for a moment Arachne fears they will be refused and she will be stuck in this form forever. Then he smiles and says, “My lady is of course available for her favored niece.” He holds out a hand to help her onto the boat, “Please come with me.”

~

Arachne weaves a dress for Hades’s wife as a thank you, and returns to her volcano.

“I can take you somewhere else,” Aphrodite says, “you don’t have to hide here.”

Arachne pauses at her loom. She has lived in this volcano for seven years. It’s her home. “Would you like me to leave?” she asks instead.

Aphrodite scoffs, “Of course not! How could I dress myself without you here?” She’s wearing the spider silk dress Arachne spun for her, and she’s working on another for the goddess now. Aphrodite runs a gentle finger down Arachne’s cheek and for a moment she forgets to breathe. “You are the finest weaver to ever exist.”

She looks up at the goddess, “Then as the god of crafts and goddess of beautiful things, where else would I belong besides with you and Hephaestus?”

To declare your company equal to that of gods is the height of arrogance and blasphemy.

They tell tales of her hubris.

“An excellent point,” Aphrodite murmurs, and tucks a stray braid behind Arachne’s ear.

They are all true.

gods and monsters series part iii

Everyday I’m reminded of the beauty in the LGBTQ community.

I see it in the tear streaked faces of two young girls in the audience. Their hair is wild and their eyes electric and they kiss. They kiss with the unbridled syrup sweet passion you can only taste when you are young and in love.

I see it in the wrinkled hands of a man fastening a jacket he designed himself. He laughs and tells me if I care to hear it, he’ll tell me about the years he spent in the Lower East Side designing clothes for drag queens. The hours he’d lay on the floor and laugh while they sang and sauntered and how they looked 20 feet tall like gods among men towering in their heels through the wooden apartment floors. How they’d tackle every stair of a 6 floor walk up apartment in their stilettos and strip off the jackets he’d make them; leaving them safe on an arm chair.

I hear it on the dance floor, and the radio. Beats and movements curated and designed and popularized by gay clubs across the world, many like Pulse, in Florida. When the DJs knew they’d struck a hit once the bodies gyrated, and sweat, and interlocked across the floor.

I feel it in the swing of the songs that dominate my favorite playlists, all of them in some way spun from the spider web of the Blues; the music genre that laid the foundation for modern rock, hip hop, and pop. Lady lovin’ Ma Rainey sang the sorrows of her heart with such soul that moved across sound waves for generations since.

I see it in the smile of a young trans woman in the mirror of a department store on Melrose Ave. She runs her hands along the fabric of her dress and gives a half hearted twirl. Her friends cheer and whistle and laugh and she picks up speed. Her skirt goes round and round and she spins with vigor and with intention. She lands dizzy and stumbling in the lap of her friend and tells the salesperson with a grin “I’ll take it!”

I read it in the lines of my favorite authors. Men and women who knew pain unlike any other. Who felt the lightning strike through their bodies every night they slept away from their lovers. How it infiltrated to their fingertips and formed words and poems no one could birth without knowing the pain of being split in two. Ripped apart like thick alabaster pages and bleeding like ink from a quill.

I feel it to my core in memories of the first time I kissed a girl. It trembles in my nervous lips. I see it in her shiny red hair and it burst forth from every freckle across her nose. I smell it in the humid air fogging up the windows of a cabin in the woods. And it rustles through our soft breath shimmering through the kind of quiet you can only catch in the forest.

And so I shout it. As loud as I can. In my lyrics. In my art. In a rainbow flag waving across thousands of pixels across my stage. I shout it in the faces of the oppressors and I shout it hand in hand with both my beautiful young fans, and the queer folk that I look up to everyday.

Our beauty is in every corner of the world. In the fabric of our past. In the glimmer of our vibrant future. We are beautiful. And I am so in love with everything you are and everything you have ever been. This is my love letter to you.

- Halsey’s love letter to the LGBTQ community

MOSQUITO: BZZZOH FUCK YES!!!!!!

MOSQUITO: YOU KNOW HOW, LIKE, A FEW DAYS AGO??? WHEN I MADE THIS BLOG????

MOSQUITO: I SAID ONE OF THE PRIME, MOST PRECISE REASONS I MADE THIS BLOG WAS TO RATE MY FRIEND’S LOOKS????????

MOSQUITO: This is the REAL reason for this blog.

MOSQUITO: Oh fuck I don’t even know if I could top any ask after this holy shit.

MOSQUITO: This is my time, bzzt…

MOSQUITO: Even if it’s between my super hero friends and not my normal alter ego’s friends that you’ve already seen on this blog haha wait fuck hmm.

MOSQUITO:

MOSQUITO: BBBZzzzzzZTANYWAYS,


#5: TUPPERWARE

MOSQUITO: He actually has a nice butt, but his outfit just trashes the whole thing.

MOSQUITO: Skin tight pants suits those buns well, though.

MOSQUITO: His parents keep him well fed, and that always calls for a juicy booty.

MOSQUITO: 7/10. Respectable.


#4: MYSTERION

MOSQUITO: You can never tell because his cape is always covering it, but the guy’s rockin a beauty booty.

MOSQUITO: I wonder if he knows?

MOSQUITO: I wonder if he knows I’ve looked at it?

MOSQUITO: Hey fellas is it gay to look at another man’s ass, zzt?

MOSQUITO: Hmm.

MOSQUITO: Anyways, he’s also a good 7/10 in my books.


#3: WONDER TWEEK

MOSQUITO: Okay so normally you can’t ever tell, because he wears really baggy pants that don’t fit him at all.

MOSQUITO: But when he’s in his costume, he’s wearing the same kinds of pants that Super Craig does.

MOSQUITO: To match, or something gay like that.

MOSQUITO: Super Craig has an unfortunate ass haha what an idiot shit loser.

MOSQUITO: But Wonder Tweek???? When you can see it?

MOSQUITO: Choice. A perfect gay ass.

MOSQUITO: I almost want to touch it, but I don’t need another reason for Wonder Tweek to kick my ass bzbbzhzt,.

MOSQUITO: 8/10 very nicegood.

MOSQUITO: …Bzzzzthis is getting sorta gay we need more chick heros.


#2: CALL GIRL (AKA CHICK HERO)

MOSQUITO: Okay so I know she wears a skirt and you can’t see it at all but trust me.

MOSQUITO: I’ve seen it during recess, during lunch time…

MOSQUITO: Toolshed is a lucky dude.

MOSQUITO: IF HE WERE STILL DATING HER OHHHHHH SLAMDUNKED FUCKING DESTROYED HA!!!

MOSQUITO: …m

MOSQUITO: Maybe I can get with that…???

MOSQUITO: Oh heckums but then Toolshed might kick my ass.

MOSQUITO:

MOSQUITO: Also as much as I wanna, I’m not gonna lift her skirt up she’d kick my ass even harder than Wonder Tweek OR Toolshed.

MOSQUITO: 9/10 good job tho.

MOSQUITO: Call Girl more like Booty Call Girl hahaha nice @ self.


#1: THE HUMAN KITE

MOSQUITO: Okay, so this one is just unfair.

MOSQUITO: If I was in this list, I’d still be #2 compared to this butt.

MOSQUITO: As a ladies man, I frequent the ladie’s hangouts.

MOSQUITO: Yknow to pick up on chicks or whatever.

MOSQUITO: But then THIS guy at school comes walking by, totally unaware that all the girls are staring and talking about HIS butt!

MOSQUITO: What about mine!!!

MOSQUITO: Ugh, buzz buzz!

MOSQUITO: He has a wonderful ass and his suit does NOT help!

MOSQUITO: Fuck you 10/10!

3

whenever i can’t draw i always default to these losers in a shoujo-manga au.

The one where Y/N loves Harry’s mouth, and he loves eating her out. 

i.

She was frustrated.

All day, her mind had been tortured with thoughts of him that did exceedingly well to get her panties wet, and heart hammering against her chest. Starting from when she woke up alone this morning, she’d felt a need for him. He’d left early because of meetings, and she had to go to work. She was slightly grumpy and frustrated that she didn’t get to have him that morning. Carried a pouty lip to work with her. The thoughts followed her—haunted her—she felt like. She couldn’t focus her mind on anything else - mental images of Harry’s mouth grazing her neck while his fingers worked on her clit, or how dark his eyes would get when he stared up at her with his tongue licking stripes all over her heat, distracting her from everything she had to get done.

So, when she gets home, she’s quick to run to him and press her lips against his soft ones. God, she loves his lips, they’re so good. 

Keep reading

RFA+Saeran+V Reacting to MC cosplaying as them

If you want to see something specific, feel free to send a request!


Zen:

  • You wear black pants, a nice black sweater, and of course a white cardigan that resembles his famous white coat
  • You meet up with him, expecting him to react right away
  • For someone who is supposedly into himself, he actually doesn’t even notice.
  • He’s literally wearing the same outfit
  • You take a bunch of selfies (just like he does) and post them on the chat
  • You recite some of his lines throughout the day
  • He finally grabs your shoulders and says “Are you okay? What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”
  • You smirk “Whoa now. Careful, or you’ll awaken the BEAST™”
  • He stares for a long second before cracking up laughing
  • He’s so happy you dressed like him
  • His turn to take a bunch of selfies with you

Yoosung:

  • You dress in a striped shirt and a classic blue hoodie
  • You even have his signature hairpin
  • You put on a video game headset
  • When you see him, you yell into the (unplugged) speakers some of his usual phrases while playing LOLOL
  • He notices right away cutie
  • He’s so happy
  • You can be that kind of couple that has matching outfits
  • His dream come true!
  • After this, he also buys you guys matching LOLOL shirts

Jaehee:

  • You show up in her business suit, skirt, glasses and all
  • Instead of a clipboard, you have a framed photo of Zen under your arm
  • She knows you by now
  • She knows exactly what you’re doing
  • She doesn’t humor you at all
  • Although, there is a picture of you that appears in the chatroom later

Jumin:

  • Okay, so you couldn’t be as subtle with him
  • You show up in a three-piece business suit and a stuffed animal cat resembling Elizabeth the 3rd
  • As expected, he doesn’t react
  • Instead, he walks up to you and fixes your tie like you usually do for him
  • He pets the stuffed animal
  • “Oh, my beautiful princess also has a twin.”
  • He kisses the top of its head
  • He leaves mentioning he’s making you pancakes
  • He says, “Jumin loves his pancakes fluffy, so I’ll make it that way.”
  • You’re more confused than he is
  • You don’t see him laughing in the kitchen


Seven:

  • You have the red shirt, the head phones, the cross necklaces, the hoodie, and of course the glasses
  • You show up at his door with an Arabic dictionary and Honey Buddha Chips in your hands
  • He opens the door, looks you up and down, and sighs
  • “Finally a chance to love myself.”
  • You throw the bag of chips at him

Saeran:

  • With Seven’s help, you raid his closet
  • You find his classic, argyle sweater and tanktop combination
  • He does a double take at first
  • “Is that mine?” 
  • You laugh and explain
  • “Take it off.”
  • You weren’t expecting that
  • He forces you to change because he wanted to wear that sweater today
  • Gives you one of his other sweaters though

V:

  • You dress up with a nice blazer and a camera around your neck
  • When you see him for coffee, he’s acting suspiciously normal
  • He’s chatting away in a normal conversation like nothing is wrong
  • It’s not until you decide to add sunglasses to your little costume do you realize your mistake
  • *Stares into the camera like the office*
  • He smiles at you “You went quiet. What’s wrong?”
  • “I think I’m gonna change before dinner…” 

They spent another day together aboard the ship, listening to the whisper of the ocean and the sweetness of each other’s heartbeats.

Before they left, Victor slid gloves onto Yuuri’s hands and dressed him in pants and a loose-fitted long sleeve shirt, despite the cute pout which had been directed at him the entire time. He’d brushed Yuuri’s hair down around his ears and kissed the tip of his nose.

If rumors of sirens were spreading along the shores, they did not need Yuuri’s markings standing out.

In the harbor town, Yuuri released his command and shuffled his feet when they met with members of the crew. Partially because he was not fond of wearing boots and was irritated with them, partially to show his embarrassment as he actually muttered an apology for kicking them off board. Minami pouted more at seeing that all of Yuuri’s marks were covered up, but kept him mouth blessedly shut.

Yuuri abandoned them all the moment he saw a flash of red hair coming down the main street. He rushed to greet Mila, who was walking straight-backed and tall, guided by a dark-haired and olive-skinned girl. She laughed off his deep bows of remorse and lifted up the layers of her skirts, proudly showing off her new leg. It was carved expertly of a lightwood, heeled and patterned with cresting, crashing waves. A few feathers bordered the curve just under her knee. “Don’t worry, Yuuri. Your lover’s footing the bill,” she winked to emphasize her joke, “plus it’s already impressing all the pretty girls in town.”

Yuuri still flittered around her, signing his apologies and pointing at other ships in the harbor, offering to sink them for her. She only laughed harder.

Chris threw an arm around the captain’s shoulder and clasped on, giving it a purposeful squeeze. “So, how was mating season? Worth almost dying for?”

Victor tore his eyes away from Yuuri, smiling as Mila introduced a silent Yuuri to the nurse that was at her side. He met Chris’s eyes straight on and adopted the most serious of expressions.

“I’m going to lay so many eggs.”

you’ve heard of losers club high school hcs, now get ready for

losers club shitty british secondary school hcs

oh boy here we go

- the losers club on a duke of edinburgh expedition. that is all
- the uniforms. dear god the uniforms. richie and bev are constantly in detention for breaking the dress code and it’s how they became best friends. bev customised hers with badges and embroidery and rolls her skirt up way past the knees to defy sexist uniform codes. she’s always stopped in the hall by the pedantic deputy head who seems to be employed for the sole purpose of telling girls off for having short skirts. richie wears his tie way too short and always has his shirt untucked and his top two buttons undone. his blazer is also mysteriously at home 24/7
- stan and ben have this really intense, passive-aggressive war to become head boy. stan eventually gets the role and ben has to deal with being deputy
- whenever someone does something stupid in lessons the whole classroom erupts with ‘waaaaayyyy!’ this is usually led by richie.
- the school is in a really crappy part of town and at lunchtime the losers go to tesco to get food and sit in the park affectionately known as ‘druggy park’
- in year 8 they tried to fit eddie into a locker and that’s how he broke his arm
-they all refer to each other as their surnames, and the teachers as their first names
-richie once drew a dick on the board in his form room with permanent marker by accident so mike turned it into a tree
-eddie’s always in the nurse’s office, to the point where they’re so close she sometimes gives him lifts to and from school
- mike’s a really talented photographer and wins all the local competitions. his pieces are on display boards all over the school
- in terms of clubs, richie runs the school radio and is into drama, bev runs textiles support sessions for the younger years with a few of her classmates and is also on the debate team with stan and ben, eddie is a peer mentor for students struggling with mental health issues and is also involved with art club, bill is on the rugby team as well as writing articles and short stories for the school newsletter, stan is friends with the headteacher bc he attends chess club which the headteacher runs and he also helps the younger years with maths, ben is a student library assistant and mike goes to gardening club. he’s really proud of the carrots they’re growing behind the science block.
-stan and bill get the same bus. there was nowhere else for stan to sit on the first day of year 7 and that’s how he and bill became best friends
- the school has wild parties in the name of charity. at one, richie got so drunk and gave eddie so many hickeys he had to be taken to the er by his mum as she thought he had a skin disease. it didn’t help that he was super hungover either so he looked like death warmed up. needless to say it’s ‘the story’ of the night and the talk of the whole school (including teachers- they join in with the students’ conversations about the parties in class) for like a month
- they have a sleepover at mike’s and he unashamedly owns ‘angus, thongs and perfect snogging’. they all agree it’s a british classic
-eddie went through a sherlock phase in year 10 that threatened to become a superwholock phase. it was a dark time for everyone. 
-the whole squad get a cheeky nando’s
-richie and eddie make out in the common room and stan’s head boy office during frees. richie’s given eddie hickeys in there too. stan is disgusted when he finds out. there’s also a hidden path next to the train tracks that they go to if either of those places are occupied
-bill is hailed as a god by the younger students. they say ‘yes then big bill’ and high five him when they walk past him
- richie is known as the archbishop of banterbury throughout the school. what an icon
- on the last day of sixth form they all hit the local ‘spoons and make the most of the 2 for £12 pitchers by buying like 10
-mike’s dark secret is that he was on an episode of ‘dick and dom in da bungalow’ once. he’s vowed to take it to the grave. richie broadcasts this to the whole school via the radio as soon as he finds out.


bonus round for things that actually happened during my experience in secondary school:

- there’s a weed scandal in like year 9. somehow a wildly untrue rumour about stan hiding weed in his locker is being spread round the school
- beverly hides the clocks in her form room in the ceiling. her tutor buys a new clock. it goes in the ceiling. her tutor buys another clock. into the ceiling it goes. you get the idea. soon staplers and whiteboard pens start making their way up there
- richie and eddie make a meme gallery. it’s taken down in time for open day but some of the teachers genuinely think it brightens up theirs and the students’ days
- the losers are in the same teaching group in year 7. their pe class has to do chair dancing to hey big spender (it’s best not to ask) and it becomes a recurring joke for them throughout the years
-richie had a house party where stan got drunk for the first time and ended up chundering in his sink the next morning


add more if you like!

i. domesticity

I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.

ii. vicinity

Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.

iii. mobilization

I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.

iv. unearthliness

My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.

—  this pain lasts in every location
Handsy (Jughead x Reader)

Prompt: Jughead imagine where reader and him go out to pop’s with the gang and juggie feels a little handsy especially with your skirt so pretty along your things (thigh touchinnn) ;)

A/N: It’s short and probably not what you had in mind xxx

Warnings: Jughead clearly can’t keep his hands to himself. Kevin being a little shit and ruins the moment.

Masterlist

Handsy (Jughead x Reader)

You laugh at Kevin’s expression.

“Oh Kev…” Ronnie shakes her head as Betty lets out a giggle and leans into Ronnie’s shoulder.

“No But Seriously. How the hell did she do it?” Kev asks, completely lost in fascination.

The girls start to explain the story again and you feel it.

His warm hand slips onto your knee.

You give your boyfriend a glance only to see him staring at his laptop.

Shaking your head, you turn back to the girls.

Keep reading

2

Full-body piece for @alannah-corvaine – Lannah is honestly such a gorgeous character, and she gave me free reign to play with the outfit design; I had so much fun fiddling with the skirt and getting to use a couple of textures I had sitting around.

Thank you so much for commissioning me!

The Fourth Musketeer (Part 3)

Originally posted by bettytail

Part one here    Part two here

Requests: I love part 1 and 2 of The Fourth Musketeer!! Are you going to make a part 3?

Part 3 pls? For the four musketeers I’m really loving it.

WHERE IS FOURTH MUSKETEER PART 3 IM DYING TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

Ahhhhhhhhh, The fourth Musketeer series is sooooo good 😍😍 I can’t wait for part 3 😭💕

I need part 3 of 4m please

OMFG I NEED A PART 3 OF THE 4 MUSKETEERS !.!! Its SOO AMAZING

OMG I just read the second part of the Fourth Musketeer. It’s amazing!!! I already want more! Love your work darling ❤❤

More fourth musketeer please god 💖🙏

Part 3 of the Four Musketeers PLEASE, it’s so freaking good. It makes me feel all the feels and I’m in love with your writing

Pairing: Archie x Reader

Description: Unplanned reunions never end well.

Warnings: I cried while writing this

Word count: 1,536

A/N: just a reminder to all, if you want to be added to my taglist please ask in my ask box! anywho wowow buckle your seatbelts for the emotional roller coaster that is part 3!! enjoy!!


(Y/N) obliviously stood at the counter in Pop’s, unaware of three sets of unwavering eyes staring at her.

“Should we… say something?” Betty suggested, but she didn’t shift her gaze from (Y/N).

“I don’t know,” Veronica breathed.  "I probably shouldn’t since she has no idea who I am.“

"I’ll do it,” Jughead stated.  Before Veronica or Betty could acknowledge what he said, Jughead had stood up and began to walk towards (Y/N).  The two girls shared a tentative glance.  "Long time no see, (Y/N),“ Jughead said from behind her.  She whirled around.

"Jughead,” she acknowledged him, her lips forming an awkward smile.  "It’s… nice to see you.“

"God it’s been so long,” Jughead sighed, stepping closer to (Y/N).  She tried to inconspicuously edge away.

“Yeah,” she nodded and pursed her lips.  Jughead was taken aback by her cold behavior.

“Does anyone else know you’re here?” he questioned.  (Y/N) shook her head.

“Nope,” she answered simply, “just you.”

“And Betty,” Jughead added, gesturing back to where Veronica and Betty were sitting.  When they noticed (Y/N) was looking at them, they smiled and waved. (Y/N)’s focus turned back to Jughead.

“Who’s that with her?” she asked.

“Veronica,” he explained, “she moved here at the beginning of the year.”

“That’s nice,” another awkward smile formed on her lips.  Suddenly, a waiter brought out a bag of food.  (Y/N) grabbed the bag and quickly paid.  "Well, I’ve gotta get going. It’s been nice seeing you again, Jughead.“  She started to exit the diner, but Jughead quickly snatched her wrist.

"Wait!” he said, earning a questioning look from her.  "What about Archie?“

"What about Archie?” (Y/N) innocently repeated.  Jughead rolled his eyes.

“You know,” he responded, “are you going to tell him you’re back?”

“Why should I?” (Y/N) scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he’s fucking smitten with you and has been heartbroken for the past two years.  And if I’m not mistaken, you were pretty smitten yourself before you moved.” (Y/N) bit her lip as she shook her head.

“If he loved me, he would’ve called,” she rolled her eyes.

“What happened to you?” Jughead asked, scanning her face.  (Y/N) snapped her wrist out of his grip.

“Nothing happened, Jughead.”

“There’s another thing,” he noted.  "Since when have you called me Jughead?“

"My food is getting cold,” she made up an excuse.

“Archie said you changed your number.”  The sentence knocked the wind out of (Y/N), so she stood in silence as she stared at Jughead.

“I changed it,” she finally admitted it. “But that was a few months after I left.”

“Why?” he inquired.

“Because he didn’t call me,” she sighed.  "Even when I called him, he wouldn’t answer.“  Jughead furrowed his eyebrows.  (Y/N) shook her head as she left the diner.

She called over her shoulder, "Don’t tell Archie I’m back.”


“She expects you to not tell him?” Veronica questioned the next day at school.  Jughead shrugged.

“But I get it, you know?” Betty responded.  “She wants to be the one to tell him she’s back, not have someone do it on her behalf.”

“If she tells him,” Veronica reminded her.

“Listen, just… don’t tell him, okay?” Jughead told Veronica.  “I told (Y/N) I wouldn’t, and I don’t want to upset her.  She seemed kinda off yesterday.”

“So she’s not normally like that?” Veronica questioned with a hint of sarcasm.  Jughead rolled his eyes.

“Not when I knew her.”


“Okay, so (Y/N)’s gotta have some flaws, right?” Veronica asked Archie as she sat across from him in the lounge.  He narrowed his eyes.

“What?” he confusedly mumbled.  “Why are you asking about (Y/N)?”

“Well, Archiekins,” Veronica bit her lip, “you’ve seemed more down ever since Jughead’s party.  I figured it was something having to do with (Y/N).  I’m asking you about her flaws because right now, it seems like you’re kind of glorifying her in your memories, you know?  Since she hasn’t been around, you only want to remember the good parts of her.”

“I don’t know,” Archie waved off her suggestion.  “I really don’t want to talk about her.”

“But you have to,” Veronica immediately replied.  “Betty, Jughead, and Kevin told me about her and how you absolutely refused to mention her after she moved.”

“It’s a coping method,” he defended himself.  She shook her head.

“It’s unhealthy.”

“Veronica, stop!” Archie yelled, exasperatedly throwing his hands up in the air.  “You know why I can’t tell you any of (Y/N)’s flaws?  Because I love her.  And when you love someone, when you truly love someone, their flaws aren’t something you notice.  Their flaws are just another cute quirk that you adore, and I love everything there is about (Y/N).”  A smile creeped onto Veronica’s face, causing Archie to twist his face into a puzzled expression.  “What?”

“You love her,” she grinned, but Archie remained confused. “You love her, Archiekins.  Not loved, love.”  Archie rolled his eyes, but it didn’t hide his growing smile. Veronica stood up, brushing down her pencil skirt.  “My job here is done.  Keep an eye on your phone, Archiekins.  I’m gonna send you a very important message soon.”


An extremely confused Archie walked into Pop’s, and he continued to double check the text that Veronica sent him:

Go to Pop’s tonight.  Trust me.

She said nothing about meeting her there, nor did she mention anything about what he was supposed to do at the diner.  He scanned the area, searching for a familiar face.  His eyes landed on a face that was more familiar than he expected.

“(Y/N)?” he whispered, staring at the girl sitting all alone in a booth.  She, having not heard Archie’s murmur, continued to stare at her phone. “(Y/N)!”  Archie said it louder this time, and (Y/N)’s head snapped up. Her eyes doubled in size as she stared at her old childhood friend.  Slowly, she stood up and began to walk towards Archie.

“Archie?” she asked, stepping closer to him with an unreadable expression on her face.  He grinned and nodded.

“Oh god, (Y/N), I thought I’d never see you again.  I thought that-” A sharp slap across his face interrupted him.  Archie’s mouth opened slightly ajar as he stared at (Y/N), subdued into shock.

“Fuck you, Archie,” she spat.  Archie noticed tears glimmering in her eyes.  “No calls, no texts, no emails, nothing!  Absolutely nothing!”

“(Y/N), I-”

“And you act like you’re the victim,” she interrupted him, refusing to grant him the chance to defend himself.  “You told Jughead and Betty that I changed my number?  And you didn’t mention that I called you countless times, only for you to never answer.”

“(Y/N), I’m sorry,” he apologized, slowly grabbing her hands.  She didn’t tear them away from his grip, but Archie could feel her muscles tense.  “You know why I didn’t answer your calls?  Because it hurt.  It hurt because I thought I’d never see you again, and I thought that if I heard your voice, it would just make the pain worse.  I thought that maybe if I didn’t talk to you, if I pretended like you never existed, then maybe I could move on.”

“You think it didn’t hurt me?” (Y/N) questioned, her voice cracking as she held back her tears.  “You think it didn’t hurt every time I called my best friend but never got an answer?  You think it didn’t hurt when I was alone with my parents in a big city with no one to turn to?  You think it didn’t hurt when I couldn’t call for help when I needed it?”  Her voice gradually raised as she spoke.  Archie released (Y/N)’s hands, and instead, he opted to cup her face.  He leaned in and did something he had been dying to do for the past four years: he kissed her.  Archie tried to pour every ounce of love he had for (Y/N) into the kiss, he tried to tell her the things he was unable to say.  However, (Y/N) pulled away.  She took a step away from Archie as she frowned at him, her tears finally stumbling down her face.

“Why did you do that?” she cried softly.

“Because I love you,” Archie desperately answered.  He attempted to reach out towards her and hold her in his arms, but (Y/N) stepped further away.  “I love you, and I have always loved you.  I never got the chance to tell you.”

“You can’t do that to me,” she tried to wipe away her tears, but they were flowing too quickly.  “You can’t just barge in here and confess your love after you completely ignored me!”

“I’m sorry, (Y/N), it was stupid and selfish of me, but-”

“But nothing!” she stopped his apology.  (Y/N) brushed past Archie as she began to storm out of the diner, but before she could exit, Archie grabbed her wrist, forcing her to turn around.

“One thing, (Y/N). Can you please just answer one question for me?” he begged.  (Y/N) pursed her lips but nodded.  “Do you love me?”

“Archie, you can’t just-”

“Please, (Y/N),” his voice was meek and desperate.  She sighed, but slowly nodded.

“Of course,” she whispered. She gently wriggled her hand out of his grasp and exited the diner, leaving a heartbroken Archie behind.

Part four here     Part five here

Keep reading

FP Jones x Reader "Craving something sweet"

Pairing: FP Jones x Reader (she’s legal, don’t worry 😂)

Summary: FP is craving something sweet

Warnings: Oral Sex

A/N: Sorry it’s short and it probably sucks! Just breaking the writers block away. Sorry if there is any mistakes, it’s almost 3AM and I’m tired af.

REQUESTS ARE OPENNN!

 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

______________

Riverdale wasn’t a town where tourist would come and take awkward and cringing pictures at touristy places. It was more like “we’re just passing by” kind of town. It self, the town looked old and full of danger, so many people just ignore the little town and head off to their destination without a memory of the lonely grey town.

Y/N Lodge was the oldest child in her family and was half way through getting her bachelors degree when her father had been arrested. She was forced to leave University only to move with her mother and young sister to the small town of Riverdale. Even though her mother left working in Pop’s, Y/N was left working in the dinner as she tried to get her life back. Twenty two years old and she was barely holding on to keep her head up.

Riverdale wasn’t as bad, the people were nice but the teenagers were the worst; especially the privileged kids.

Pop’s had left her working alone for the late shift. With Pop’s being open 24 hours, he had her almost every night working the late shifts. Which at first she was against with, but now she was getting used to it.

The mysterious serpent watched Y/N from his truck as she was cleaning the table booths and getting everything spotless. One in the morning and clearly nobody else was going to barge in wanting onion rings or a milkshake at that hour.

The bell above the door rang as the serpent had decided to finally make his entrance to the empty dinner. At that moment, he watched her bending down to pick up the dirty rag that had fallen from her hold. “Empty house Lodge?” He spoke, as she turned around to face him. She knew he had been staring at her from his truck since he parked, but she got startled at the sound of his raspy voice so close to her.

“A burger with everything and a side of onion rings?” Y/N giggled, removing the pencil from the bun that was pulling away her long wavy black hair. She walked towards FB, but only to pass by him to take his order behind the counter.

“Actually, I just want a milkshake.” The loyal serpent customer smirked at her appearance. Her pastel yellow uniform hugged her curves perfectly as her messy hair fell below her breast.

“Getting tired of me and my burgers?” Usually, when Pop’s left her working the night shift, she was the one who always cooked after midnight.

“Your burgers are good, I’m just trying not to get fat.” He chuckled, his eyes landing on Y/N’s lips. She had her wooden yellow pencil between her lips as her teeth sank into the small pencil. Oh, how he would love to taste her. “And I would never get tired of you sweetheart.”

“You better not.” Y/N blushed, avoiding his intimidating eyes. “What flavor do you want?”

“What’s your favorite one?” FP asked. He always looked forward to spending his sleepless nights at Pop’s with Hiram Lodge’s oldest daughter. It was a dangerous path, and the venomous serpent wanted to take it.

“Probably the double chocolate with extra whip cream.” FP rolled his eyes at her playfully. Veronica and Y/N were quite different, but when it came to food, they were like the same person.

“I’ll have the mint chocolate mint with no whip cream and your favorite one please.” FP didn’t really have a sweet tooth for milkshakes, but he did have a sweet tooth for a certain Lodge.

“Damn, you must be having cravings tonight.” Y/N laughed, making her way towards the ice cream fridge. FP didn’t dare take his eyes off her as she prepared his order on the other side. His weekdays went from boring to having late night chats at Pop’s with his favorite waitress. FP had switched his routine from drinking every night, to spending his beer money on actual food while he spent time with the oldest Lodge daughter. He didn’t care the trouble that would come from flirting with Hiram’s daughter, but he couldn’t resist her innocent looks.

She was quieter than Veronica, she didn’t wear pearls on her neck and since she started working, her louboutin heels were replaced by simple white vans that matched her pastel uniform to perfection. “I thought you were more of a vanilla type of girl.”

“Baby, there’s nothing vanilla about me.” Y/N cockily smiled at the fired up serpent as she placed both milkshakes in front of him. Handing her a ten dollar bill, he grabbed both shakes and walked over to one of the many empty table booths.

“When you finish putting that in the register, sit with me.” He didn’t asked, but he ordered her with his raspy and demanding voice. Y/N insides twirled as she made her way to the booth after she had closed the register door. “Drink.” He demanded once again, sliding over the shake he had order, only for her.

“You didn’t have to buy me the shake.” She spoke up while she avoided his eyes in front of her. FB on the other hand, couldn’t keep his eyes off her. The predator in him wanted to pull her on his lap and taste her completely. He wanted to have her warm skin on his, he wanted to explore every inch of her.

“Your innocence is captivating, what are you doing to me Lodge?” Y/N’s glistening eyes landed on his own as she bit down her lip. She was feeling the fire in her increase as she watched him stared her down completely. “How can I control myself if you keep looking at me like that baby.” He groaned, his hand finding his way to his already messy hair.

“What if I don’t want you to control yourself?” FP didn’t waste a second more. He pulled himself off his side of the booth and rushed towards her side. Quickly, she wrapped her arms around his neck desperately as his hands found themselves running up her now exposed thighs. She pulled him into her, crashing her lips to his as his hands reached up to her ass and he pulled her on to his lap. Y/N slipped her own tongue between his lips, being the one to take charge.

There was nothing vanilla about Y/N Lodge, clearly. Her lips were now attached to his jawline and then following his neck, sucking on his sweet spot. “Y/N.” He moaned out, holding on to her tightly as she grinned her hips on his growing bulge. She was the one calling the shots, and even though FP enjoyed it; he wanted to hear her cries and moans desperately.

Gripping on her sides, he pushed her hard on the end of the booth as he nibbled his way up from her neck and on to her jawline. “You were right earlier, I was craving something sweet.” He whispered to her before going down to her now exposed breast leaving sloppy kisses on each one. “I’m craving you.” Y/N jumped a bit as his shivering fingertips ran across her thighs.

“FP.” She moaned, as he pushed her uniform skirt up to her stomach as he went down on her. He left soft kisses on her inner thighs, teasing her every second. Pulling her underwear off, he slipped one finger into her and quickly her hands gripped on his hair as he added his tongue to the mix. Y/N cried out of pleasure as his tongue fuck her like his life depended on it. Another shock hit her as he ran circles on her clit into the mixture. Y/N felt like she wasn’t even in her own body anymore; the pleasure was too good. He moaned as her thighs tightened their grip, sending vibrations into her.

“God FP.” She panted, as he kept pumping his fingers in and out of her as she rode out her high.

“After you get off your shift, my place.” He pulled up her underwear back up and fixed her skirt as Y/N tried to catch her breath still. FP smirked proudly as he watched her still overwhelmed from his touch.

“Good, because I need more of you.” She admitted, pulling him towards her and crashing her lips to his once again. She was the one now hungry for dominance, but that had to wait.

“I’ll be waiting for you.” He teased her, once he pulled away from her.

“Don’t have all the fun without me Jone.” Y/N laughed, as she watched him walk towards the door and his truck.

He knew what he was getting himself in to, but he didn’t care; he wanted her for himself.