What are your boundaries in regards to blog interaction and age? I love your fics but I don’t want to cross anything.
oh boy. okay, so.
first of all, thank you for asking!
second of all, this is a big answer. and one that i should have probably answered a while ago, when i was creating the blog.
So 1) I am an adult. Not everything on this blog is going to be sfw.
2) I have been around here since young. Maybe too young. You know how it is.
What I want most of all is for young people to be safe. I think it's maybe better to hang around here than it is to be some of the places I went when I was younger, where "consent" wasn't a word I ever heard and lees were mostly barely-legal women being treated like pieces of meat. That's not somewhere I'd want anyone who's exploring to go.
What I think makes the most sense to me, is anything I put on here that isn't safe for work, or that is otherwise iffy; things like dubcon (dubious consent) or gifs of real people, I'll tag clearly so you can block it. I don't know what the tag will be yet; but you'll know it when you see it. I'd be most comfortable if kids didn't reblog that stuff from me. I know I can't stop you from looking at it, but don't let me know if you do.
When it comes to interacting with me directly, what I'd prefer is that younger folks* not speak to me in any way you wouldn't speak to an older sibling. Does that sound fair?
(*This isn't just minors. The stage I'm in right now, what I consider "kids" is starting to stretch out to encompass up to 19 or 20 too. It's not that I think you're stupid or incapable, any of you, but there is so much you don't know yet, or are just starting to learn.)
Mostly, be safe. Be mindful of your own comfort and your own boundaries. If it's too much, don't be afraid to take a step or 20 back.
You know, when you think about it, it’s really remarkable that Michael Shelley hasn’t gotten himself killed yet.
“Give me the book, you idiot, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“No, I—I know there’s a statement around here somewhere, it’s exactly like Mrs. Anthony’s. It mentions the book.”
Gerry rolls his eyes. “I can’t burn it if it’s in your hand.”
“Burn it?” Michael yelps, wheeling to stare with enormous blue eyes. God, his eyelashes are, like. A mile long.
“It’s dangerous.”
“It’s just a book—and besides, you can’t burn it in the archives—”
“Relax, I take ‘em out to the courtyard.” Michael hesitates, squinting suspiciously, and Gerry sighs. “Gertrude wants me to.”
“Oh… ok.” Bring the old biddy into it. Works every time. “Well, let me just get a cross-reference, so I can add it to the notes…” Michael rifles through a few files before snapping the drawer closed, muttering under his breath. “Before you fucking burn the book…”
Ah. So Gertrude’s little assistant’s got an attitude. Interesting. Well, unlucky for him, Gerry’s patience is rapidly wearing thin.
“Give,” he says—maybe more of a whine, really—attempting to reach under Michael’s arm to swipe the book.
Michael flinches, dancing out of his grasp. “Just a second, God.” He reaches for another drawer, and Gerry spies his opening.
Quick as anything, he jabs Michael in the ribs with one hand, reaching to snatch the cursed tome with the other—but Michael yelps, his arms snapping to wrap around his torso and almost crushing the book with the force of his flinch. “Don’t!”
Christ, they don’t have time for this. “Come on, Michael—”
He reaches again, but this time Michael’s defensive, twisting and curling around the book. He can barely keep his feet underneath him. “Don’t, Gerard, I’m ticklish—”
Well. That’s something.
Gerry feels a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really?”
Michael’s eyes widen. “Oh—no, hang on—”
He’s cut off with a squeak as Gerry lunges, pushing them both up against the cool metal of the filing system. One of Michael’s lanky arms nearly knocks a stack of files over in his flailing attempt to dodge, but he seems not to be coordinated enough to manage even that. If Gertrude were here, she would certainly have a few words about blatant disregard for archives property—which is one of Gerry’s favorite hobbies.
But Gertrude isn’t here, and therefore in no position to protect her poor, hot archival assistant as he’s shoved into something resembling a standing position, vulnerable ribs just centimeters from the tips of Gerry’s fingers.
And, bless his heart, he’s giggling already.
“You can’t,” Michael protests, squirming. He’s a slippery thing, rail-thin under the jumper. The book might be bigger around than he is. “You won’t—Gertrude—”
“Gertrude,” Gerry interrupts, “told me to burn that book you’re holding. Hand. It. Over.”
Michael gives him a look like he might have forgotten he was holding the book at all, shivery, bubbling laughter spilling out of him almost compulsively. Gerry wonders absently whether it’s dread or anticipation. Probably both.
Still, his skinny arms wrap protectively around the thick leather. “Just let me—the files—”
Stubborn. Fingernails, the matte black paint already chipping off, swipe down the seam of Michael’s jumper, just over his ribs. Michael jumps, letting out a noise almost like a squeak before his jaw snaps shut.
And. Well. Who could pass that up.
Gerry grins, pinching at the bottom of Michael’s ribcage and carefully avoiding getting a braid to the face as Michael attempts to twist out of his grasp. His laughter has only gotten louder with the introduction of actual tickling, a scrunched-up smile stretching across his face despite his best efforts.
It’s not like Gerry hasn’t heard him laugh before. It’s one of the things that first made him suspicious that Michael wasn’t cut out for the job; who giggles in the fucking Magnus Institute? Still, this laugh is even wilder than his usual one—frantic and borderline hysterical, just from a few pokes to the ribs.
Gerry smirks. This will be adorably easy.
“Give me the book, Michael,” he says calmly, punctuating his words with a couple of prods to his side, where the edge of his jumper had ridden up. Michael curls in on himself, clutching the book to his chest protectively. At this point, he’s either the most single-mindedly devoted archival assistant Gerry’s ever seen, or the most stupid.
Definitely the most ticklish.
“I c—” Michael snorts. A few curls fall across his nose where they’ve come loose from his braid. “I cahahan’t, please—”
“Your funeral,” sighs Gerry, wiggling a fingertip into Michael’s stomach.
Michael folds, forehead landing on Gerry’s shoulder as he shakes apart with giggles. The book almost slips from his grasp, but he manages to catch it, maneuvering the thick paper to attempt to block the tickling fingers. There’s a spot about an inch below his ribcage on the left side that is very susceptible to pinching, and Gerry sets into a rhythm there, driving Michael’s gasping, wheezing laughter steadily higher in pitch.
It’s not—Well. It’s not not cute.
“I swear,” says Gerry, reaching around and skimming his thumb over the curve of Michael’s shoulder blade, “you’re probably the giggliest person I’ve ever met.” His head tips in contemplation, and a smirk curls over his face. “That’s not saying much, I suppose.”
“I’m not—I’m not—eeeheheha!” A fingertip curls over Michael’s spine, slow and devilish, and it’s almost impressive how far his back bends trying to get away from it. “I d-don’t know what you’re tahahalking about!”
Gerry raises one eyebrow. “Don’t you?” A poke to his stomach. Another pinch at his ribcage. “What’s this, then?”
“Gerry,” Michael gasps, “I cahan’t, I can’t—”
“Give me the book, then.” Gerry hopes he sounds sufficiently bored. Wouldn’t do to let Gertrude’s little pet know—er, think he was harboring any fondness.
Michael’s cheeks are pink with mirth, and his braided curls are rapidly becoming a rat’s nest with the frantic tossing of his head. Gerry pinches the top of his hip, just once, and he jolts, letting out a string of high, keening giggles.
Oh, that’s adorable.
Another pinch, then a proper squeeze, and finally, finally, the book tumbles from the assistant’s fingers and comes to rest with an unceremonious thump. Instantly, the tickling is gone from Michael’s sides, and Gerry is scooping the book up before he can so much as think to react.
“Took you fucking long enough.”
Michael gasps, sinking halfway to the floor in a meager attempt to brace himself against the filing system. “Th-the research, the, ah. The files—”
“Mhm,” Gerry smirks. The tips of his fingers drum along the spine of the book, and the way Michael’s eyes follow the movement is hilarious. It’s almost too easy.
Well, enough fucking with him. “Thank you,” Gerry teases, pulling his lighter out of his pocket, “for your generous donation to Gerard Keay’s bona fide Leitner disposal service.”
Michael huffs, brushing a curl out of his eyes. “That one’s not even a Leitner.”
“Same difference.” Gerry shrugs, turning on his heel to leave before Michael’s even collected himself. It’s cause he’s eager to burn the book, he tells himself, and not because he wants to leave on the mental image of Gertrude’s cute little assistant still red-faced and giggling quietly on the floor.
Definitely not that.
“And don’t keep books from me again,” he shoots over his shoulder, “or I won’t go so easy on you.”
He’s only half-certain that the squeak he hears as he leaves is the archives door clicking closed.
who are your fave CR characters, out of curiosity?
oh god, who isn't.
my all time favourite cr character is probably (almost certainly) laerryn coramar seelie, disaster architect who causes the apocalypse. and i've never watched vox machina so at least those guys are safe from the running. i WANT to say "whichever of the mighty nein is in front of my eyes at the current moment" but i'm going to narrow that down to caleb and caduceus. i also want to say "whichever of bells hells is in front of my eyes at the current moment" but i'm going to narrow that down to orym and.... laudna. and dorian. my beloved.
“Alright, bye now,” she says, and they don’t move. “What?”
“Uhh,” Ashton says, and she steps closer.
“What?” she says again. “Something you wanna tell me?”
There’s this interesting thing happening around his cheeks, something faintly glittery. She thinks he’s blushing, maybe. “Uh, I was gonna—I wanted—”
“C’mon, spit it out.” She pokes them in the belly like a toy that won’t work, and they twitch. She does it again and they fold a little bit.
“Fuck—Wait,” they say, but they’re starting to smile and it’s so lovely. She redoubles her efforts instead, advancing when they back up, and she’s rewarded with a bunch of soft stifled little noises that they make while curling up. They’re clearly exerting a lot of self-control to keep their hands to themselves. It’s cute. “Marwa,” they say, a little desperate.
“I’ll stop when you tell me what you want,” she says, tickling in earnest here and there—a pinch at his side, a scribble at his ribs. A couple snickers start to leak out. She has the home field advantage here, and takes advantage of it to back him into a wall. “C'mon, it can’t be that hard, can it?”
“Okay, okay,” Ashton says, a little breathless and shivery, and the shimmery blush from earlier is painted all the way down their collarbones. They grab her hands then, but it’s almost surprisingly gentle. She doesn’t try to pull her hands away. “I was going to—We’re doing—Arts and crafts, we’re making masks and shit, and I wanted to see if you were interested, alright?”
He looks away, but doesn’t let go of her hands. She wonders if he remembers he’s holding them.
“Uh.” It takes him a second to not be completely empty behind the eyes, which is sort of gratifying. She wants to trace the veins of gold along his cheekbone. “This weekend.”
“Mm,” She disentangles herself and flounces back behind the counter, then puts her elbows on it and leans forward. “I’ll think about it.”
“Alright, bye now,” she says, and they don’t move. “What?”
“Uhh,” Ashton says, and she steps closer.
“What?” she says again. “Something you wanna tell me?”
There’s this interesting thing happening around his cheeks, something faintly glittery. She thinks he’s blushing, maybe. “Uh, I was gonna—I wanted—”
“C’mon, spit it out.” She pokes them in the belly like a toy that won’t work, and they twitch. She does it again and they fold a little bit.
“Fuck—Wait,” they say, but they’re starting to smile and it’s so lovely. She redoubles her efforts instead, advancing when they back up, and she’s rewarded with a bunch of soft stifled little noises that they make while curling up. They’re clearly exerting a lot of self-control to keep their hands to themselves. It’s cute. “Marwa,” they say, a little desperate.
“I’ll stop when you tell me what you want,” she says, tickling in earnest here and there—a pinch at his side, a scribble at his ribs. A couple snickers start to leak out. She has the home field advantage here, and takes advantage of it to back him into a wall. “C'mon, it can’t be that hard, can it?”
“Okay, okay,” Ashton says, a little breathless and shivery, and the shimmery blush from earlier is painted all the way down their collarbones. They grab her hands then, but it’s almost surprisingly gentle. She doesn’t try to pull her hands away. “I was going to—We’re doing—Arts and crafts, we’re making masks and shit, and I wanted to see if you were interested, alright?”
He looks away, but doesn’t let go of her hands. She wonders if he remembers he’s holding them.
“Uh.” It takes him a second to not be completely empty behind the eyes, which is sort of gratifying. She wants to trace the veins of gold along his cheekbone. “This weekend.”
“Mm,” She disentangles herself and flounces back behind the counter, then puts her elbows on it and leans forward. “I’ll think about it.”
Do you take snippets from ghostwriters, by any chance?
Yeah sure!
I don't check my inbox very much so I have no idea how long this has been in here, sorry! But feel free to send it if you haven't fully moved on emotionally from this moment :)
because Let Cas Let Himself Be Happy 2k19 (words: 620)
—
There is much to love about his relationship with Dean, but Castiel thinks this might be one of his favorite things.
Castiel is nestled into the corner between the back and arm of the couch, comfortably dressed and comfortably warm, with Dean’s back pressed to his chest. There’s a faint scent of clean laundry, a gentle cast of lamplight, a low burble of television volume.
Dean is also writhing and clawing at Castiel’s hands.
“No no no, oh god, please! Ah– haha!”
Castiel has been tickling him for a few moments now. There are divots between his ribs where Castiel’s fingers can easily gain purchase. It’s a satisfying game to find just the right angle in the right spot to turn Dean into a mess of laughter.
Dean’s socked heels kick out, skidding and drumming on the couch cushions. “Cas!” he laughs – and that alone puts this moment into Castiel’s top five. Dean smiling around his name, calling it in a fit of mirth, punctuating it with a snort of laughter, kindles a resounding joy deep in Castiel’s chest.
Castiel hums, nests his lips in the crook of Dean’s neck, nuzzles the tip of his nose behind Dean’s ear. The softness of the skin there is a siren call to Castiel’s mouth, while the solid ribcage beneath his hands demands to be traced, caressed, titillated. He really doesn’t care if those two things seem at odds. Dean laughs beautifully when fingers dance on his body, and he moans deliciously when biting kisses are forged along his neck. Castiel finds both sounds delightful; even moreso when they intertwine. He bites down.
Dean’s laughter sputters into a groan. He arcs back into Castiel at the second bite, the third that tracks along his nape. His hips twist between Castiel’s thighs as he tries to push himself closer – then he squirms again with a breathless laugh.
“Wait! Fuck! Eh-heh, ha!”
Castiel smiles against Dean’s neck while his hands crawl low on Dean’s stomach. There’s a slight plushness, there beneath his navel, where Castiel loves to scrub through the directional hairs as a teasing prelude to dipping his fingers into Dean’s waistband. Tickling there, however, makes Dean curl adorably. It also brings him as close to giggling as Castiel has ever heard him. One of these times, Castiel wants to try doing that while he’s got Dean engulfed in his mouth, just to hear what kinds of sounds he’d make. But for tonight, Castiel spiders his fingertips there with no other added distractions and lets his heart swell with the sound of warm-bright laughter.
When Castiel gentles his touch and sweeps the pads of his fingers just inside the elastic of Dean’s boxers, Dean moans again. Castiel can feel against his cheek how the hinge of Dean’s jaw slackens. Playing with Dean’s body is a predictable game, but no less enjoyable for it. Drowning him in the conflict between squirming closer and further away is intensely satisfying for reasons Castiel hasn’t yet pinned down – but pinning down his lover makes up for it. Castiel tightens his arm around Dean’s chest.
“I adore you,” he murmurs into that soft spot under Dean’s earlobe.
Dean purrs a contented sound that only stutters a little at the ticklish twitching of his abdomen. “You’re a bastard,” he replies, but allows Castiel to turn his chin for a soft capture of lips.
The television’s muttering becomes rhythmic. Castiel breaks the kiss to rest his chin on Dean’s shoulder. He enjoys the warmth of him against his cheek as the brightly-lit ball on the screen descends slowly with the crowd’s countdown.
“Five, four, three,” Dean joins in. “Two, one… happy n-ah-ha!”
Castiel smilingly nips his ear as he tickles him again. “Happy new year, Dean.”
Sure, “tickle” and “tickling” are flustering words and all but nothing makes my stomach flutter more than the word “ticklish”. The first two words are describing an action or a feeling, it’s not really personal per se
but the word “ticklish” is an adjective of a person whose composure and resolve are completely disabled by being touched funny, therefore rendering them helpless with laughter. Like what the fuck that’s adorable! You can’t just throw that word around any old time as if it doesn’t describe humanity’s most innocent weakness
Idk how you feel about villain lers, but a horribly delicious thought occurred to me. Ler!Anna Ripley. Thoughts? 🎤
i might have to fuck around and write a fic
i am so sorry but i know nearly nothing about vox machina. everything i know about vox machina has been learnt through pop cultural osmosis and jokes made by the cast in later campaigns.
i remember somebody doing some really good fic about avantika; i can't remember who it was but if anyone does remember feel free to hop in!
That might be this post by @meltedhoneythighs, but I feel like there’s another somewhere with Avantika and one or two of the guys, but I can’t remember…
Idk how you feel about villain lers, but a horribly delicious thought occurred to me. Ler!Anna Ripley. Thoughts? 🎤
i might have to fuck around and write a fic
i am so sorry but i know nearly nothing about vox machina. everything i know about vox machina has been learnt through pop cultural osmosis and jokes made by the cast in later campaigns.
i remember somebody doing some really good fic about avantika; i can't remember who it was but if anyone does remember feel free to hop in!
“Ticklish here?” Loquatius murmurs, breaking away from the kiss with a wet sound—it must have been the tiniest of twitches, but he catches it, almost frustratingly attentive.
“No, it’s f—fine,” Laerryn tries to say, but another brush of his fingers draws a shivering laugh out of her before she can think to expect it. Loquatius grins.
“Oh?” There’s a little more purpose now to the way he ghosts his fingers over her ribs, a curl to his fingers and the scratch of nail here and there, and Laerryn tightens her hands together behind his neck against the urge to pull them down, suddenly certain that breaking away would be losing. “Are you sure about that? Seems ticklish to me.”
She lurches forward and presses her forehead against his. “Stop,” she huffs, and he makes a little considering hum of a noise.
“What’s the magic word?” he says, and a flare of rebellion rises in her chest.
“Fuck you,” she says.
“Mm, no, I don’t think that’s it,” Loquatius says, and then his fingers are skittering everywhere, maddeningly light, and she can’t help burying her face in his shoulder and dissolving into giggles. She feels more than hears his chuckle against her hair, and after a few seconds he draws back, one firm restraining arm around her waist.
“Do you have a safeword?” he asks.
His tone is placid, vaguely curious, but context renders an extra level of threat to the question. She pulls her head back and is immediately met by his free hand cupping the back of her head, gentle, fond.
“I don’t like that you’re asking me this now,” she says, bites the corners of her lips to keep a straight face against the anticipation.
“Do you?” he asks, a little firmer, patiently amused. She draws back, wriggling a little until he gives her the ease necessary to move her arms, and conjures a floating parchment and quill to the side off them.
“When the image drops,” she says, and Loquatius smiles with slightly sharper teeth and tackles her down onto the bed.
I rediscovered the word reference sheet via @wordstrings blog and it has changed my life. so many words that aren’t in my vocabulary and it’s making writing tickle scenes almost fun again
