#like in a shaggy sort of cut

[punkitt-is-here]

Had to write a three-page screenplay script for a "Discovery" for class. Didn't have any further instructions. It's super off-the-cuff, but I wanted to share it. Happy pride <3

INT. COLLEGE DORM - NIGHT.

A college student sits at his desk, sketching. It's a one room apartment, and his roommate is sound asleep. He's sketching in the light of a single lamp, being quiet. The student, GABE (male, 19) is drawing a cartoon version of himself. He's studying outfits from a fashion catalogue, drawing himself in different ones. He bites the tip of his pencil, not feeling the piece he's working on. He rolls his chair back, reeling away from the desk. Gabe puts his hands in his hair, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. He lets out a long exhale. It's late.

After a moment, he rolls back to the desk. Tapping the pencil to his head, he flips through the pages. It's an unremarkable task, stopping on a random page. Oh, the women's fashion section. It has simple, practical outfits for girls, including a jean skirt. Gabe peers at it. Fuck it, it's late. He erases the pants of one of his drawings and pencils in a skirt instead.

He pauses.

He stares at it.

Something here is weird.

He goes to erase it, but once he does, he just draws it in again. This time with more care. More detail. He stares at it again.

Tears well up in his eyes.

GABE

(whispering)

…what the fuck?

Gabe, confused, touches his hand to his eye. He looks at the tear on his finger. Huh? He stares at the drawing again. He looks back at his roommate, sound asleep. He's having some sort of moment, but he has to be quiet. He frantically looks back at his sketchbook.

GABE

(whispering)

Uh…

A beat.

Gabe starts drawing himself again. In the women's fashion this time. It's like a whole different world. He's drawing like crazy. It's all flowing out of him. He draws another.

And another. Slowly, details start to adjust in his art.

Longer hair. Longer eyelashes. Daintier poses. More smiles.

He's got tears running down his face, but he's not wearing any emotion. He's not sure what to think.

CUT TO

An indeterminate amount of time later. Gabe stares at his notebook. It's full. It's lots of drawings of him.

As…well, he guesses as a girl. But he's not one. He flips through the book again, then turns towards the dark window his desk resides next to. He looks at himself. Patchy facial hair and a shaggy haircut.

CUT TO

INT. DORM HALLWAY - NIGHT

Gabe rushes down the hallway, looking frantic. He's carrying a bag.

INT. DORM BATHROOM - NIGHT

It's quiet inside the bathroom. No one else occupies the space. It's just him and his reflection. His reflection? Maybe their reflection. Her reflection? No, that's not right. Is it right? Gabe stares at himself intently. The whirring of a trimmer cuts through the silence. He brings it up to his facial hair, shearing away a week's worth of fuzz.

He looks at himself like it's not him in the mirror. He holds a hand up to his face, feeling it.

It's not enough. Not yet. He has to know.

He gets out his phone and starts typing.

HOW TO SHAVE FACIAL HAIR OFHG

He frantically types, misspelling. He backspaces like his life depends on it.

HOW TO SHAVE FACIAL HAIR OFF ALL

THE WAY

He quickly scans an article and then gets to work, pulling some miscellaneous bathroom supplies out of his bag. Shaving cream. A razor. Gifts for cleaning up at college. He wets his face. Applies the shaving cream. Does careful strokes down his cheeks and neck. Slowly, someone reveals themselves.

They lean down, splashing themselves with water. They look up, and it's a different person. She's completely shaved her facial hair off. Gabe hasn't seen herself like this since she was in freshman year of high school, before facial hair was even an option. She reaches up and touches her face, smooth to the touch. She stares, enamored. A moment. She grabs a towel and dries her face off, and then looks again. She's so…different. But that's her! That's Gabe! Is it Gabe? She doesn't know anymore. A close up to her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. Her neck. It's all so new. She starts laughing. She laughs, and tears well up in her eyes a little. She laughs some more. In moments, she's full on crying tears of joy. She doesn't know why. But she is! That's her!

CUT TO

INT. SECONDHAND - DAY

Gabe is at a clothing rack, searching for something. She looks around, a little embarrassed. She browses for a moment before finding what she wants. She passes by some more racks carefully, trying not to be too obvious. She slips into the changing room, then locks the door.

GABE

…okay.

Gabe unbuckles her belt. In a moment, she's wearing black leggings. She hikes them up, then unclips a gaudy skirt from the clothes-hanger. She stares at it, a little scared of it and what it represents. She bites her lip. She stretches it out and then steps in. She looks up at the mirror.

Oh shit, that's her! That's her!

Gabe is wearing a long, patterned skirt and a tee-shirt. The colors don't match at all, and the patterns don't either.

She looks a bit like a yard sale of a person. But it's her!

She spins around, watching the fabric flow out from her hips in a whirlwind of stripes and insignia. She laughs again.

This is her! This is her!

This is her!

[crushmeeren]

♡ Todoroki/Fem Reader

♡ Master List Link

⇢ Everyone involved in this fic is aged up/18+.

⇢ Warnings; cursing, making out, dirty talk, Shouto is a champ at eating pussy/ass, fingering, vaginal sex, Shouto is a little subby in this

♡ Authors Note; I had to complete the headcannons for my favorite three MHA boys sooner rather than later. I love Shouto, he deserves all the good things and a lot of hugs.

Shouto who comes off as cold, uninterested, a giant dick — but who is so sweet and so loving it makes your teeth ache. Who is the kind of person that writes down facts about you so he doesn’t forget — you accidentally stumbled upon the list in his notes app and promptly cried.

Shouto who never ceases to buy extra of what he’s eating so you can have some too, even if you weren’t hungry in the first place.

Shouto who doesn’t understand social cues very well. Who tilts his head adorably when he’s confused. Who wears a blank, spaced out expression on his face often when he’s unsure of what’s going on.

Shouto who lets you teach him how to read the room a bit easier, to understand body language and tone. Whose pretty smile could melt icy glaciers with its tender warmth. Who is so comfortable with you he makes all sorts of facial expression, which you take as a triumphant win.

Shouto who you met in high school but didn’t date until after graduation. Who you crossed paths with while battling a villain and you caught mid air as he was nose diving from the top of a building. Who was probably a bit delirious because he swears he saw you with a halo, because he “fell in love with an Angel that day.”

Shouto who loves to drink strawberry milk. Who has so many cartons cluttering the fridge in your home it drives you nuts. Who compulsively brings you a glass when he’s drinking some because he’s learned he can show you he loves you by sharing what enjoys. It’s so cute when you get a glass out of nowhere.

Shouto who decides to be a bit “rebellious” after he gets out of high school. Who decides to cut his hair shaggy and short. Who gets a nose ring, pierces his ears and acquires a tongue ring. Who is with you when you get your own body modifications, and often wears jewelry that reminds him of you.

Shouto who claims his absolute favorite thing in the world is to snuggle up with you on the couch. Especially when it’s raining and the two of you are wrapped up in a fluffy blanket burrito, watching movies and napping. If it turns X rated, well who can blame you?

Shouto who is a dry texter. We’re talking Sahara Desert dry. Who does still take the time to send you pictures of things you love while he’s out on patrol, especially of dogs that he encounters. Who gets so happy when you respond in kind, forming your own language with one another.

Shouto who tends to wear a streetwear style when he’s not working. Who likes to wear matching clothes with you. Who even bought you both a pair of matching underwear with your faces on them. You’re unable to resist, you’re technically sitting on his face all day… right??

Shouto who is terrible at almost every video game, but who can annihilate anyone at Mario Kart. You’re definitely not bitter about that. Funnily enough, the best part of game night when everyone is over is watching Bakugou lose his mind when Sho decimates repeatedly.

Shouto who has remained tight knit with Midoriya. Who considers the man as his brother by extension, and who you’ve grown close to as well. Who goes to the #1 hero for help planning you a surprise party by sending Midoriya a series of increasingly concerning emojis until he agrees.

Shouto who loves to eat peach gummy rings. Who you have, on more than one occasion, woken up to eating the candy at 2:00 am. Who offers you one, which you casually eat and go back to bed. Who memorizes your favorite candy and leaves it for you to find everywhere.

Shouto who has told you the story of how he got his burn scar. About his father, his brother and all the horrors of his past. Who opened up to you, willingly sharing a side of himself others don’t get the privilege to see.

Shouto who has taken you to meet his family, to meet his mother. Who added you to the group chat with all his siblings, which is unbelievably entertaining. Who tries to fit his face with more than one expression when he meets your parents, but you make sure he knows he’s perfect for you just the way he is.

Shouto who loves you unconditionally. Who is your soul mate, your best friend. Whose love for you has grown bigger than a California Redwood tree. Who becomes your husband, who you love more than life itself. You’d start a goddamn war for this man.

Shouto who enjoys kissing. Who loves to lazily make out with you. Whose cock starts twitching in his briefs when the kiss turns messy. Whose lips get slick and puffy as they press together consistently with yours. Who eagerly slips his tongue into your mouth, sucking on it and sinking his teeth into your bottom lip so roughly it stings.

Shouto who likes to spread you out on your back in bed, stripping you until your only in one of his large T-shirts. Who leers at you when he pushes it up your belly, gently letting it catch on your tits until he can watch them fall and bounce. Who makes you keep the shirt up around your collarbone when he sucks on your nipples.

Shouto who bites the skin on your sternum, plush lips tickling your belly as he makes his way to your pussy. Who grips the bottoms of your thighs and presses them backwards to your chest. Who stares at you with heavy lidded eyes as he licks from your pussy to your clit, making sure to swirl the cold metal of his tongue ring around it.

Shouto whose eyes flutter closed while he eats you out. Who makes you cry out when he sucks your clit, tongue ring passing over it with each methodical swipe of his tongue. Who praises you murmuring “your pussy is amazing angel, will you let me eat your ass? pretty please?”

Shouto who strips you both. Whose flushed cock stands full and heavy when you see it. Who flips you, yanking your ass in the air and shoving your face into the sheets. Who spanks you unforgivingly and grips the thick flesh of your ass to spread you open. Who chills his tongue ring even more and kitten licks at your rim until you want to scream.

Shouto who shoves two fingers in your pussy without warning. Who curls and thrusts them as he sucks on your rim until you cum so hard you see stars. Who pulls away from you, stroking himself for relief and speaks with a wrecked voice pleading “I want to put my cock in you so badly, can I please princess?”

Shouto who is aware you’re a pillow princess, but has hearts in his eyes, cheeks flushing bubblegum pink when you tell him you’ll ride him for a bit. Who props his back up against the headboard with a couple pillows, allowing you to flip around so your back faces him. Who holds your wrists behind your back as you ride him, letting out delicate and whiny moans while you make his toes curl.

Shouto who spreads you with his free hand, eyes glued as his cock disappears into your pussy while you bounce in his lap. Whose dick throbs, breathing hitching when you throw your head back and you moan “fuck Shouto, your cock is so good, you’re gonna make me cum!”

Shouto who reaches his limit, pushing you off his cock and onto your back whispering filthy praise in your ear. Who grips his shaft, teasing your clit with the tip before slipping his dick all the way back inside with one fluid roll of his hips.

Shouto who bends you in half, hooking your knees over his shoulders and folding you into a mating press. Who fucks you roughly, hips curling up with the intention to bully your g-spot. Who makes sure you feel each drag of his cock, coaxing you into cumming with a handful of strokes. Who gets you to cum over and over, little water balloons of warm pleasure popping and coursing through you.

Shouto who produces low moans when your pussy squeezes his cock. Who desperately pleads with you to cum one more time because he can’t hold on for much longer.

Shouto who makes you feel dizzy as you chase your pleasure once more while folded as a pretzel. Who cums instantly when your sweet cries hit his ears, praising and encouraging him all at once. Who pushes into the hilt, grinding against you as he bursts at the seams, panting to catch his breath.

Shouto who giggles with you as he untangles your limbs. Who flops down beside you, lacing your fingers together as you enjoy the leftover bliss.

Shouto who eventually gets up to clean you both. Who finds the shirt you were previously wearing and some clean panties for you to wear. Who pulls you into a hug, murmuring how much he loves you, planting kisses all over your face. Shouto who then goes to the kitchen and brings you a glass of strawberry milk.

[nereidprinc3ss]

Happy 2k babe! I have a request for fluffy Spencer smut based on the song "touch tank" by Quinnie! (the song gives me like golden retriever vibes so maybe you could put something about reader playing with his hair in there? I don't know I'm having later seasons fluffy hair Spencer brainrot and I never make requests, obviously feel free to ignore or change things if this is too specific! <3)

hi angel babe!!! i love this song!! and i too am always having later seasons fluffy haired spencer brainrot!! i wrote this super quick, please let me know if its any good, ILY!!! xo

warnings/tags: fem!reader, softdom!spence, sub reader, fingering, oral f receiving, sorta kinda overstimulation, implicit consent, praise n stuff, not proofread, written at 9 pm on a tuesday night, so fluffy

18+ (smut)

-------------------------------

Spencer is clearly almost asleep on the couch next to you. That’s one of many things you find endlessly fascinating and charming about him—his ability to fall asleep anywhere at any time within minutes. 

So you probably shouldn’t speak. But the stakes are low; it’s barely 7:30 in the evening. 

“Spence?” You whisper. His eyes don’t open, but his thumb goes back to making little passes where it’s settled over your hip. 

“Hm?”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

He smiles, slight but beautiful—yet his eyes remain stubbornly closed. 

“Why not?” 

“’Cause I want you to be awake.” 

“Then you can’t keep playing with my hair like that.”

You pout as if he can see you.

“But I like playing with your hair.”

Spencer hums, and you can tell you’re losing him again as you continue carding your hand through stupidly soft locks. 

“One or the other. You can’t have both.”

“I love you both, though,” you complain. “I don’t know who to pick.”

The grin has been steadily fading from his relaxed face but it flickers back to life for a moment. 

“I’m getting a haircut tomorrow. That should make it easier for you.”

“What?”

It’s the genuine horror in your voice that finally gets him to open his eyes. A little line appears between his brows as he regards you with bleary eyes. 

“What what?”

“You didn’t consult me!”

The momentarily tensed muscles in his face relax and he rolls his eyes affectionately before craning his neck to kiss your forehead. 

“I’m not in the habit of requesting your approval before I make choices like that.”

“Spencer, please don’t cut your hair,” you beg, genuinely distraught. “You can’t. It’s so so pretty.”

“It’s too long, baby. I don’t want to grow it out again.”

“You don’t have to grow it out! Just don’t get it any shorter! It’s perfect how it is,” you insist. Spencer narrows his eyes as you plead with him. But you stand firm in your position. His hair is sort of shaggy, sure—too long to be considered cropped and too short to be considered long. It’s like a beautiful curly halo and it’s perfect playing-with length. “I’m serious. I’m asking you to not cut it short, please. This is what I want for my birthday.”

“Your birthday’s not even—”

“Pretty please with a cherry on top? I love your hair so much and I love you more but I just really don’t want you to cut it, please—”

He’s laughing when he silences you with a soft kiss, and you melt, sighing against him as his hand slides up and down the back of your thigh. When he knows you’ve been sufficiently soothed, he pulls away, still smiling. 

“Oh my god, baby—are you about to cry?”

“Stop!” you whine, burying your face into a throw pillow and screwing your eyes shut. Your nose crinkles up with embarrassment. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and though he’s no longer outright laughing, traces of humor still color his lowered voice as he kisses all over the side of your face.  “I had no idea you felt that way. I didn’t realize I’d be causing you so much emotional distress if I cut my hair.”

You sniffle away any unfortunate emotional reactions and turn your head back to him. He’s ducked down slightly, still peppering kisses over your jaw and neck, and you lace your fingers through the contentious hair. 

“Obviously I’m not the boss of you. If it makes you uncomfortable I want you to cut it. But I really like it how it is.”

He hums against your throat and the vibrations send a chill down your spine. You arch against him unconsciously. 

“You are definitely the boss of me. I don’t know anyone else who I like receiving orders from so much.”

“Hotch,” you whisper, and you can feel Spencer’s teeth against your neck as he smiles and presses another loving kiss to the sensitive spot above your collarbone. 

“Not the kind of orders I was talking about. And I don’t particularly care what Hotch thinks of my hair, honey.” He kisses tenderly until he earns a tiny whimper from you—which sates him enough to raise his head until you’re eye-level again. His hand, however, has other plans—it creeps south, slipping under the waistband of your pajama pants. “What if we compromise? I just get it trimmed so it doesn’t keep getting in my eyes when I have a loaded gun in my hands, yeah?” You nod dutifully, looping your arms around his neck as his fingers dip beneath your underwear. When you don’t reply verbally, he prompts meaningfully, “okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, voice small as you look into his searching eyes. 

For a few moments, when he finally pushes his fingers against your clit and begins rubbing with slow, gentle strokes, his eyes are everywhere on your face—then they focus back on your eyes, watching with that habitually intense interest permeated with a sense of devotion—like he wants to see exactly what pleasure looks like reflected in your irises. Like he could see through them to your brain and watch your dopamine transmitters working overtime. A soft moan escapes through parted lips, which seems to spur Spencer on. He drags more arousal over your aching bud and openly chuckles at your airy sigh of pleasure, unable to resist from giving you a short kiss. 

“Feels good?”

“Mhm,” you breathe. 

“Mhm,” he agrees, kissing you again just as quickly before pulling back to study your face once more. “Pretty girl.”

“You’re pretty,” you insist, with what little brain power is available to you as you rake one hand through his hair. He smiles, eyes pinging between your own and your mouth like he can’t decide where to look.  

“I’m pretty?” he asks, speaking over another quiet, yet unabashed moan. You nod, hips bucking slightly off the couch cushion as he speed up the motion of his hand. The grin widens and his soft amber eyes soften further. “You’re so sweet.”

You give him a moan he can’t ignore and he takes it as a signal to slip two fingers into you, sighing in what sounds like relief just as your breath catches. The way he seems to feel your pleasure will never get less erotic. Once he’d explained it—something to do with mirror neurons—but whatever the reason, watching the way his arousal rises with yours is exhilarating. 

A squeaking sound is expelled from your lungs and your whole body tenses, propelling you maybe an inch upward involuntarily. 

His lips part the same as yours—but only allowing another dry laugh to pass between them. 

“Relax. I’ll come to you.”

You hum as he leans down and kisses you back into the pillow—a proper kiss, this time, lips parted and the tip of his tongue grazing yours—all the while, still pumping his fingers much deeper than your own could ever manage. Each moan and gasp he allows you to release freely, only barely parting from your lips every few seconds to let you breathe and make your noises. When his fingers begin pumping faster, and you can hear it, you whine, knees clamping shut as the small of your back jumps away from the couch. 

“Fuck,” you pant against his lips. 

“Need you to keep your legs open, baby,” Spencer reminds you gently, giving you a peck and a moment to relax as his hand stills. 

“I don’t think I can,” you admit shyly, still wriggling. “Um, can you—can you use your mouth, please?”

Your boyfriend chuckles again and your cheeks get warmer. Momentarily you allow yourself to be grateful that his face is pressed too close to your own for him to be really be looking at you. 

“You still have to keep your legs apart for that.”

“I know. It’s easier when—when you’re not inside.”

The smile in Spencer’s voice when he replies gives you butterflies as if he’s not knuckle deep in you already. 

“I bet you think that’s true.”

“It is!” you whine. 

“You’ve never had your thighs wrapped around your head so tightly your ears pop, have you?”

“That did not happen.”

“Only once,” Spencer reassures you. “And I happen to like your thighs. So no harm done. Go lie down on the bed.”

You let out a small chirp as he withdraws his fingers from you and your waistband snaps back into place against your skin. 

“Where are you going?” you ask suspiciously, once you’re on semi-steady feet and watching him rise from the couch too. At once he kisses your forehead and grabs your ass—the contrast is dizzying. 

“To wash my hands,” he says, popping the fingers that were just in you into his mouth like a preliminary clean up. “Go,” he urges, jutting his chin in the direction of the bedroom door. You hang from him just a second longer, biting back a smile, before tearing yourself away and only half-skipping to the bedroom. 

Only a moment or two after you flop joyfully down on the mattress, he appears in the doorway again, immediately noticing the way you’re practically vibrating with excitement and unable to hide your grin as he approaches. It seems the smile is contagious—he’s sporting one of his own as he climbs over you. 

“You’re adorable,” he murmurs toothily, kissing you once and then speaking again, “I love you so much.”

It’s exactly the kind of thing that makes you feel all soft and shy and giddy and speechless—even as he gives you one more parting kiss and then is sitting up to slide your pants off. 

Maybe even especially then. 

The sweetness dissipates only a little, still hanging thick in the air as you kick your bottoms off, and he leans back down, pushing your shirt over your chest and pressing kisses to your ribs and down your tummy. He doesn’t waste much time, only taking one brief detour to suck a mark and sink his teeth into your inner thigh until your breath catches loud enough to appease him. Then it’s all easy—his cool fingertips trailing up and down the backs of your thighs as he kisses all over and around your core. Intimacy with Spencer is definitely a spectrum, and while you can always feel the depth of his love for you in every touch, right now it’s so tangible, so potent you can feel it in your teeth. 

You coo when one of the kisses finally sticks, lacing your fingers through the hair you love so much and pushing it out of the way as he laps gently at you. He looks as beautiful as always in the golden hour light as it filters through the window, but you’ve always thought he’s just that extra bit prettier when he’s eating you out. 

Visually you’re entranced—it’s only when he begins easing you into the deep end with the flicking of his tongue that your brow knits and you gasp. 

“Spencer,” you whisper, and it melds into a louder gasp. “Baby.”

He hums into you, reaching around your thigh to grab one of your wrists. You allow him to drag your hand from his hair and intertwine your fingers, his hand on top of yours, pressing them against your stomach where he sweeps his thumb back and forth over your knuckles.

The display of tenderness only makes you ache deeper in your belly, singing in airy, open-mouthed praise for him with a moan you know he would describe as pretty. Spencer says things like that often. He always talks about you like you’re an art form. When it comes to talking about touching you, he’s especially poetic. 

When he begins to suckle, your moans get a little more explicit. 

But he likes those ones just fine, too.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, though it’s a little choked, as you writhe just slightly against him. “That’s so good—oh my god.”

The hand that’s not holding yours rapidly changes position—pressing your thigh to the side with his elbow while he slips his fingers inside you once more. 

At that, you really do choke, your body attempting to sit bolt upright but set off balance by the way your hips buck. You moan, loud, lilting, head still lifted to watch as he begins fucking you with his fingers. Your fingers brush through his hair several times before you’re anchoring your hand in it and falling back. 

“Wh—please, baby, I can’t—”

But you can, and you both know it. You always do this; your body sends you signs that you’re over-indulging and fights to escape the stimuli and Spencer has learned to recognize your false flags for what they are. His hand speeds up along with his tongue and you cry out again, fighting to keep your legs open and your hips on the bed as every nerve in your body seems to light up neon. 

“Oh—Spencer I’m gonna come,” you warn, all high pitched and synthesized into one word. He simply hums a long mhm in acknowledgment, and decides at that moment to brush his fingers over that spot inside of you which proves to be exactly the right button to trigger your detonation. 

You can’t help the way you twist then as your orgasm washes you out—jaw dropped as your final keen starts loud, sputters into silence, and melts into an exhausted whine as your hips wind down. Spencer (wisely) adjusts his position, letting go of your hand only so he can sit up as your thighs clamp shut hard. But he’s still pumping his fingers as you writhe, his own mouth hanging open and groaning as you mewl. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, ready to beg him to stop—but as usual, he knows your body better than you do. An orgasm that you had thought was on its way out gets a second life and you can’t even breathe as you feel it so deep within you, pinpointed to one spot of focus, that you have to curl in on yourself, keeling onto your side because it’s simply too intense. 

Either your vision goes black or your eyes are simply closed—regardless, time ceases for an unquantifiable moment, and you come to with Spencer rubbing your back and murmuring your name. 

“What did I do to you?” he laughs, not unkindly.  

Your back arches as mild aftershocks trickle through your system. 

“I don’t know,” you slur. “Dark magic.”

He allows himself to be pulled on top of you once more, and you tangle your hands in his hair again. 

“But you’re okay?” he murmurs, using his dry hand to play with your hair and brush over your cheek. 

“Mhm,” you nod, eyes fluttering shut once more. Then you laugh, sudden and unexpected to both of you. “I think. That was intense. I felt that one in my soul.”

You smile as he exhales a laugh against your skin. 

“Okay,” Spencer sighs after you catch your breath, bumping his nose against yours before sitting up—this time, not allowing you to pull him back down. “I need to take a shower. You should come with me.”

“Five more minutes,” you mumble. He raises his eyebrows. 

“But this is your last chance to wash my hair before it’s a whole inch shorter tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you laugh, but it turns deadly serious very quickly. “Spencer, I am not letting you cut a whole inch off your hair. I need that inch.”

“For what?” He snorts. 

You smile big, glad he didn’t see your joke coming for once. 

“Handles! Duh!”

[lovebugism]

could I request maybe shy!reader trying to play dnd with eddie but she's suuuuuuper nervous and confused and internally panicking about him not liking her anymore if she can't get into it?? Or if you wanna change it up please do!! love you!!

love you! hope you like it! — you get insecure about not liking d&d when a girl joins hellfire (shy!fem!r, hurt/comfort ish, established relationship, 1.4k)

The Hellfire room is void of the boyish bodies that usually fill it. The abandoned classroom, turned freak sanctuary, is now littered with pieces the rogues, clerics, and bards left behind — in half-empty soda cans and crumbled-up bags of potato chips.

While Eddie packs up his binder, filled to the brim with miscellaneous papers, you wander around the long table with a trashcan in hand. The wild-haired boy squints when you chuck Dustin’s crushed Pepsi in the bin. “You don’t have to do that, you know?”

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “I don’t mind.”

Eddie huffs through his nose, feeling too exhausted now to argue. He slides his binder into his bag and watches you rake Gareth’s chip crumbs into the trashcan. The urge to stop you becomes unignorable then. 

“Okay, well, you know what? I mind—” the boy retorts, striding the very short distance to you and snatching the bin from your grip. He smiles a crooked grin and continues in a fantastical accent. “—‘Cause the Dungeon Master’s queen shouldn’t have to clean up after a bunch of lowborns, alright?”

You roll your eyes with a subdued giggle. “Someone’s gotta do it, Eds,” you insist as you reach for the plastic container he took. You exhale sharply when he hides it further behind him, pulling it further out of your way. “I wanna be of some use around here!”

Eddie’s face twists. “Don’t say that.”

You cower beneath his stare. “Well… It’s not like I actually play or anything. I just kinda… sit around… And watch you guys do everything…”

“Well, why would you play?” he laughs. “You don’t even like D&D.”

Something in the way he says it makes you ache. You’ve always felt distantly horrible about it — failing to take interest in something he holds so close to his heart. Hearing him reiterate that fact twists the knife lodged in your chest.

“That doesn’t bother you?” you wonder, impossibly shy. “That I don’t play?”

Eddie shrugs and sits the bin down again. “Why would that bother me?” he scoffs.

“I don’t know… ‘Cause you like it. And it’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world.”

“Well… Maybe not my favorite thing,” he croons with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Your nose scrunches in disdain. His laughter fills the empty room as his ringed hands spread warm along your sides. “I just feel bad,” you confess, gaze averted to the scuffed tile beneath your feet. “You know, that I can’t get into or whatever.”

Eddie meets your subtle pout with an unbothered grin. “There’s nothing to feel bad about. People like different things, babe. That’s life,” he assures you, squeezing softly at your sides. “I mean, it’s no different than me hating The Smiths, right? I still let you play their cassettes in the van, and you still sit in on all my campaigns— and that, sweetheart, is the meaning of true love…”

Unswayed, you jerk softly back when he leans down to kiss you. You frown up at him with your arms crossed between your bodies. “But Rory loves D&D. And she’s super pretty…”

Aurora Edwards was the newest edition to the Hellfire gang. She goes by Rory for short, though, ‘cause she’s cool like that and everything. Her dyed blonde hair is as wild as Eddie’s, cut into a makeshift mullet that sits sort of shaggy on her head — intentionally messy in a way only she can pull off. 

She likes cool music and cool clothes and cool hobbies — because everything she does seems to have some sort of subverted flair to it. She’s smart and she’s nerdy and she’s beautiful. None of which seem fair. You’ve been stirring with feelings of inadequacy since you met her. 

And Eddie doesn’t seem to get any of it. His brows furrow at your words, like none of them have any sort of meaning to him.

“She’s way more your type than I am,” you blurt.

A laugh sputters from his plush mouth. “You think my love for you is contingent on some stupid game?” he chuckles.

The way he says it makes you shrink. You feel sort of stupid about it now. “I don’t know…”

“Well, then, I have done a very shit job of being your boyfriend.”

Your chest stings. “No, you haven’t, Eddie—”

“Mm,” he hums, half playful, as he tilts his pretty head to his shoulder. “I have, though. ‘Cause if you think some other girl liking Dungeons and Dragons is gonna make me love you any less, then I have done something horribly, horribly wrong.”

You bite back a smile at his words, pursing your lips to the side of your mouth until the beam becomes impossible to ignore.

“‘Cause you’re kinda stuck with me, turns out,” the boy continues. “Unfortunately for you.”

“Unfortunately?” you echo with a scoff.

“Yeah. ‘Cause if some other schmuck comes around who likes listening to The Smiths and sitting in the sunshine, he’s gonna have to go through me.”

You breathe sharply through your nose in place of a laugh. “I don’t want another guy, Eds…” you confess, going shy all over again.

His nose scrunches as he plays coy. “Even if he doesn’t smoke?” he wonders in a sheepish murmur.

“Even if he doesn’t smoke.”

“Good,” he beams, pulling you into him by your belt loops. His breath fans over your jaw in a minty-nicotine concoction as he ducks his face closer to yours. “���Cause I don’t want anyone else, either, alright? Even if they are almost as good as me at D&D… Actually, it’s kinda a turn-off, now that I’m thinking about it…”

“Is it?”

“Yeah… ‘Cause, like, I love teaching you about it and everything.”

“Even when I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“Especially when you have no idea what I’m talking about,” he laughs, smiling so hard his cheeks speckle pink. “‘Cause you know how much I like it, so… You let me talk all the shit I want.”

“’S just because you’re so pretty when you talk about things you like,” you confess.

His face twists. “Am I?”

“Well, you’re pretty all the time, but…”

“You flatter me,” he huffs and pulls you closer. He smirks and goes quieter when he says, “And flattery goes a long way with me.”

“Does it?” you hum with a sunshine-coated giggle.

Eddie doesn’t answer you with words. He just presses his lips to your mouth and hopes you get the gist. His tongue swipes against yours, soft and sudden, as he guides you towards the table. You run into a rogue chair before he can get you on top of it. It screeches against the linoleum tile. 

With his face in your hands, you giggle against his mouth. His denim-clad knee slips between your thighs.

The door squeaks softly open then. Rory enters, swift and unthinking. You and Eddie pull apart — one looking much more horrified than the other — as the blonde girl stands frozen in the doorway. Drowning in her sweatshirt and baggy jeans, she points a lanky finger towards the table.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, voice gritty and deep. “I just left my girlfriend’s jacket here, and she doesn’t know I stole it, so… She’d definitely kill me if I forgot it.”

“That’s okay. Come in,” Eddie shrugs with a tightlipped smile, nodding his head in a silent invitation. When Rory plucks the coat from the back of her chair, he says, “Tell Jess I said hi, yeah?”

The girl scoffs as she heads back towards the door again, leaving just as quickly as she came. “She still hates you, you know that, right?” she laughs. ‘Cause Jess was a cheerleader — pretty and sometimes kind, but dreadfully conservative. Her uptight nature often clashed with Eddie’s much more chaotic one. 

“Well, tell her to get in line,” Eddie chuckles.

Before Rory leaves the room, she glances at the two of you over her shoulder. She winks with an eye smudged with black liner. “Have fun, you two,” she croons in a pretty voice before shutting the door behind her.

You stand, still and silent in place, wringing your anxious hands into a knot. Feeling like a total idiot, you refuse to meet Eddie’s gaze. You know he’s got a smug look on his face. You can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, “See? Not my type at all.”

[meimei-archives]

Wait cause I would love to see body party part 2 either there being sneaky behind closed doors when no one around or he wins a match and she’s has a surprise for him back in his hotel room

BODY PARTY PT2!:: rafe cameron

WARNING! :: professional!boxer!rafe, manager!reader, descriptions of; fighting, bleeding, and cleaning up injuries. (m&f!receiving )oral, fingering, choking,unprotected sex, slight strip tease, (munch!rafe)

SUMMARY!:: when Rafe gets offered a headliners match against the WBO champion, you decide to grace him with a surprise once your both back at his hotel room you managed to slip into it before bed.

A/N!:: wait I’m genuinely curious if I should make boxer!rafe into a mini series, like bringing him to meet your family for Christmas or something idk, but also, thank you for sending in this idea I love it and I’m sorry it took so long to answer!

You sort of had a reward system at this point. You and Rafe had been seeing each other for a few months now, he was now preparing for a fight that had been pretty hyped up in the press for a while now. They called it a dream match, two of the most talented brawlers within the lightweight division.

Rafe was on the rise for a past injury that set him back last year and now he’s back on the come up. He had taken his spot in the back of the line and had passed through opponent after opponent each fight, earning him his winning streak since his return. He buzzed with excitement taking on the baby face, the guy who was currently holding WBO title Rafe had held in the past and he was hungry for another run with it.

JJ Maybank was one of the hottest guys on the card, you had to consider yourself lucky to be in a main event with this guy. He was a sly dog, talked major shit, he could back it up with his hands, and that was another reason for Rafe to absolutely hate his guts, had it not been for the fact that JJ and Rafe grew up on the same little island of outer banks where they could never seem to mix well together.

You had talked to Rafe just before he was called to walk out to the ring, you find yourself sitting yet again front row this time you could see his family halfway down the row being blocked by Kelce and topper who sit nonchalantly next to your seat as the watch Rafe stand in his corner talking to his trainer and cut men as they retreat from the ring to the sidelines.

You don’t even spare a glance as JJ’s theme song hit for his walk out, the crowd having a mixed reaction, you keep your eyes glued to Rafe who almost like a magnet his eyes were pulled from the referee to you, a small smile finds his lips which earns one back from you. Mouthing the words ‘good luck’ and blowing an unnoticeable kiss to his which earns a grin from.

As the announcer talks about the premise of the match your eyes stick to Rafe’s figure, glistening under the bright lights almost giving your surroundings a sterile look as a small sheen of sweat prickles his skin. The stubble of his mustache growing in as well as the shaggy hair growing in after months with his buzz cut, you can’t help but eye him more as your eyes trail down his body.

The firmness of his chest, his sculpted abs that satisfied every itch in your brain perfectly, and the small happy trail that travels from his navel past his shorts that makes you bite your bottom lip thinking about what’s hidden past them. Sometimes you felt like a perv for how much space you have saved in the corner of your brain with thoughts of Rafe.

Taken out of your thoughts by the ring of the bell and the ref allowing the open space be used to go at it. The sight of the two men crowding the ring with their gloved fists up makes your stomach churn. Rafe had trained so hard for this fight alone, and you doubt he would go down at all. He had the height advantage, knowing he lost a bit of weight to match the blondes weight class for this fight.

The two don’t even bat an eye as they refuse to tap gloves and start slugging their fists at each other, the dull and short lived ‘thunk!’ That follows with every blow makes your body tense and cower. They both were hard hitters, and even if those gloves were there to at least cushion the hits the sheer power behind both of their hits were not made for the receiving end to feel any types of good.

And for some reason as you study the way JJ frolics about the ring casually with no fret and sweat beginning to make his hair stick to his skin he looked as if he was caught off guard with how much Rafe could easily want more after being untangled by the referee or even being pushed against the ropes, Rafe was never the type to back off in a fight, his libido and persistence was not as matched on JJ’s end; who subsequently enough was already succumbing to a swollen eye and bruises patching up on his face and body.

You had all high hopes for Rafe although you need he doesn’t need hope, he looked equally spent within the first round and only a minute left on the clock for their first go, he was breathing heavily with a touch of annoyance on his face, because even with a mouth guard in JJ Maybank has officially found a way to talk shit through the thick rows of rubber that slightly gives him an impediment.

They throw continuous stiff shots at each other, with a mixture of water and sweat flying off of them with each explosive blow to their bodies. You were a big ball of anxiety the second his trainer turns in his seat directly in front of you and mumbles “you think you could step in for me and talk to him. I know you got some advice for him- he takes it the best from you” his words come out slightly foggy due to the loudness of the crowd around you. “Yeah, he looks like he needs a couple of words” you respond quickly as he helps you over the barricade and onto the concrete floor your heels scrape gently making you cringe.

As the time runs out his trainer gives you a gentle pat on the back and gives you hand into your designated corner where Rafe meets you with half concerned eyes. “What’s the matter?” He readers your expression as you put down the small stool they gave to you for him to sit. “Nothings wrong, just came to talk; you gotta keep your head up, this kid likes to keep his low so it’s easier to lay those punches when all he does is retract from the high right hooks you throw” you cup his chin and pour water into his mouth and over his shoulders cooling his skin.

“He keeps trying to lock up with me” he rolled his eyes making you laugh as you guide him to breath slowly and deeply, the cut men rubbing Vaseline on the cuts and bruises forming. “If anything resort to body shots, if he’s backing you into corners head shots, you have the height advantage so it takes nothing for you to swing low” you advice pouring water past his pouty lips as he spits the water into the small bucket a cut man held out.

“Deep breaths, aim low, don’t let him wrap around you, alright?” You say sternly with only a few seconds on the time for their break before they’re ordered to clear ring, you give his chin a gentle squeeze “good luck” you mumbled once more before leaving the ring and using the empty spot next Rafe’s trainer Mike who looks at you with hopeful eyes. “So…?” He asks making you smile “He knows what to do, I think because Rafe is used to bigger guys he doesn’t really know where to focus” you watch intently as they change up the foot work; JJ coming out the corner looking less fresh faced and more sluggish with every step.

Rafe’s shoulders roll back as he takes on his stance with his gloves and head up, and an intense look in his eyes, his energy non-stagnant as they center and throw hooks and blows at each other, and it wasn’t until Rafe had backed JJ into a corner and throwing hooks and jabs straight to his ribs that makes you wince and actually lock into Rafe’s actions.

JJ had his guard up blocking his face with his gloves, and once Rafe knocks one of his hands guarding his face he dropped a mean right hook almost stunning you as your whole body tenses seeing how the young blonde wobbles a bit. Rafe pulls himself away and letting JJ find his footing in the center. You could tell by his body language that the punch square in the face had pissed him off, the both of them carrying fire in their eyes as they square up once more in the center.

Your eyes widen and could barely keep up in real time with the flurries of punches they were exchanging, in the moment it felt like whoever stopped throwing first was ought to be knocked out cold by the end of it, yet the crowd cheers on and they all sat on the edge of their seats in suspense. It was when the bell had rung for the second round to end and teams to flood the ring you watch Rafe retreat to his corner, his skin red with blood gathering at his upper lip you rush up the steps into the ring before anyone else with water and tissue in hand Rafe sits in the all to familiar stool.

“Jesus, you two are going at it harder than people during a Black Friday sale” you joke trying to lighten the mood, Rafe’s eyes don’t leave the opposite corner as his jaw ticks and tighten against his guards you cup his face making his eye look at you sharply before they soften looks up at you his eyes once a stormy blue almost instantly resorting back to their usual icy color. “Deep breaths, put your arms above your head” you whisper to him and he follows your instructions as the hands working with you continue their duties.

“You’re doing good, just keep doing what you do. He looks tired, it’s like he’s only running on adrenaline so keep pressing him; he’s trying to play the energy game and you’re already winning” you speak over the loud music as Rafe listened nodding his head taking in every word. “Do I look like I’m slowing down?” His voice beared genuine curiosity only getting a head shake “if anything you’re fighting like this shit just started. The move with knocking his glove down was smart, if you keep doing things like that I’m pretty sure you’ll win via knock out” you wince at the memory as you could see some of the sweat flying to the mat with how hard Rafe had punched his opponent.

“Okay” he whispered as you use the last few seconds of his break to give him more water and put in his mouth guard before exiting the ring. The match becoming more excruciating as it drags on as the both are exchanging blows and bleeding with busted noses and lips eventually Rafe throwing a nasty right hook to JJ’s jaw that makes him drop to the floor his body slumping against mat the referee immediately checking on the younger boy before calling it and proclaiming Rafe as the winner.

A rush of pride surges through your veins, entering the ring as Rafe pries off his gloves his focus immediately on you as you always down walk up to him with a shining smile that makes your cheeks sore, his lanky arms wrapping around you in a tight hug, as the heavy belt wrapped around his waist; shining and thick, it presses against your lower stomach “I’m so proud of you” your words are muffled as your face presses against his shoulder.

You both pull away keeping a professional mask on in these moments Rafe got to give his final statements on the fight before exiting back to his locker room letting him shower before you clean his cut lip and the small scratches on his face and body. Putting away the small first aid kit you hold his jaw gently “I have a surprise when we get back to your place” you whispered making a mischievous and all to familiar smile tug at his bruised pink lips “yeah?” He asked his fingers fiddle with the large golden ring that encapsulated his finger.

“You didn’t want a celebration party, but I say; me and you just need to have our own celebration” you smirk and rough lets out a husky laugh as he moves to change into more comfortable clothes and gather his belongings as the two of you plan to leave. “What kind of celebration?” His voice finding its usual flirty tone he has when it’s just the both of you “it wouldn’t be a surprised if I told you” you teased as he holds the lockeroom door open for the two of you to leave.

It had never been unusual for you and Rafe to leave events with each other, the public had grown familiar with the close ‘friendship’ between the two of you through interviews and social media since Rafe had begun his boxing career. Privately the two of you had changed the dinamic nature from being friends to an eerie limbo of being domestic and sexual partners with no real label yet.

Checking back in was a breeze as you had booked separate rooms to avoid suspicion; yet you know majority of your night was going to be spent in his room. The dim orange light fixing from the beautiful chandelier that filled the spacious room, the texture white walls detailed with gold paint around the edges, or the large drapes above the one singular window that was covered, and the wall behind the bed as neutral tones of creme and beige with dusty rose gold accent covers the room giving it an almost vintage vibe.

Rafe drops his bags at the foot of the bed frame with an exhausted sigh he takes off his navy blue bommer jacket that covered his polo shirt, you take the jacket out of his hands and set it on the arm chair in the far corner of the room, you grab his arm guiding him to the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you relax hm? I’ll be back in a second” you mumbled as you stand between his spread legs holding his face in your hands gently grazing your thumb over the bruise that was leaving a big purple splotch on his jaw.

“Are you coming back with my surprise?” He asks his eyes lighting up with excitement like a dog who can hear their owner entering the house. “Maybe” you shrug pecking his lips and turning away to the bathroom near the entrance to his room finding the silky robe in a navy blue with his last name on the back with a set of lingerie that hugs you in all the right ways and does every curve of your body justice under his sink where you knew he wouldn’t look.

The robe was actually Rafe’s, it was one of his favorite peaces of gear to match his shorts and gloves, you let the fabric swallow you, being more loose on you than him, you smile at yourself in the mirror as you tie it closed letting it compliment your waist. You give yourself the final touches before walking back out slowly Rafe’s eyes latch on to you with an unmatched ferocity that sends a shiver through your bones.

Walking closer to the dirty blonde haired man it seemed he finally realized what you were wearing as you slowly turn around to show off his last name on your back like a trophy you slip open the robe as you whispered “congratulations champ” as the silk pools around your feet revealing your skin and the warm air in the room shifts. “c’mere baby, let me see you close up” he groaned, his voice slightly slurred as the pain in his jaw twangs every time he speaks.

Holding out a hand to you which you take with no hesitation, putting on a show as you walk with a slight sway to your hips that makes him watch you close and calculated like he was on the hunt and your were his pray who so innocently was frolicking about. When you take up the same space between his legs Rafe’s hands drop from your hands to the back of your thighs groping at the fleshy skin “best surprise could’ve asked for” he mumbled as he presses himself against your lower tummy.

His nose grazing your skin making you tense only to relax at the feeling of his soft warm lips pressing underneath the wire of your bra, the room filled with a distant buzzing and heavy breathing. “Didn’t expect this huh?” You looked down at him as your hand races through his hair, your nails purposely scratching against his scalp making Rafe moan. His weakest point that you had discovered after 2 weeks of sex all over your shared apartment. “c’mon now you’re just teasing me” his voice almost twisted in a whine.

“Well how about you lay back and let me help you relax on your big night” you push his shoulder gently guiding him to rest against the mattress as his buff arms flex as they rest behind his head. You get on your knees as the dull ache is a second thought the moment you begin to unbuckle his belt and pull his boxers and pants down in one full swoop. He was already hard and eager in your grip, the sloppy sounds of your slick palm fisting over his cock.

A small wince leaves his lips and Rafe doesn’t know if he’s palpitating or if hearing his heartbeat in his ears was normal, but the thought loses his the second Flattening your tongue against the underside of his cock you dragged up against the vein running up to the tip— he let out a rich moan that ended with a groan "shit". His head was thrown back against the mattress and his breathing was labored.

His hand rests on the back of your head not moving as he watches you take him deeper and deeper, feeling the way his hips were grinding into your mouth makes you pull away as spit gathers messily at your chin as thin strings of saliva latch from his cock to your mouth making you giggle. “fuck” whispered as you swipe your thumb over his sensitive tip as you lick a long stripe from the base of his cock to his tip swirling your tongue around him before pushing yourself to take him in the back of your throat feeling an impeding gag as your eyes cloud with tears.

Rafe on the other hand felt like he was ascending to a parallel universe pure pleasure, as the slick sound that come from between his legs makes them shake as your hand wraps around his dick filling the space that your mouth couldn’t handle. “fuck you’re gonna make me cum quick” he groaned as his hand travels to cup your face he sits up watch the way you look utterly fucked out just by sucking him off.

His thumb presses against your plump bottom lip as he looks at the way your pretty lip combo smudge on not only your face but his cock, and it makes his head spin. “Wait baby, hold on” he huffs out, pleasure so apparent in his tone as you pulled off his cock you slightly pout looking up at him with smudged makeup and your hair messy, Rafe can’t help but instinctively smile “I want you to ride my face” he whispers as his chest rises and falls and baited breaths as he watches your face twist in confusion yet regardless you stand up stripping yourself of your panties and slowly straddle his lap, he lays back like once before comfortably as he reaches his hands out to guide you over his face.

Groaning at the sight of you glistening wet and ready for him “fuck s’so pretty” he slurs before he sensually licked from your entrance to your clit and sucked with fervor making you moan as your back arches and your hand pushes his face deeper between your thighs. The feeling of his tongue almost as if he had to lick every inch of your pussy his hands grab at your ass making you arch deeper making a raw moan cut through the heavy air “fuckkk Rafe” you squeal as your thighs tighten around him.

His hand travels between your thighs as he continues to lick sloppy stripes against your pussy lazily, you can already feel the trembling in your thighs as your fingers grip harder against his shaggy hair making him hum against you sending vibrations up your body “pull harder, baby” he groans lazily as if nothing could pull him away from latching his mouth onto you and making you finish on his tongue.

Once Rafe could feel the pressure and stinging sensation in his scalp he hums “that’s it, be a doll and cum for me” he groaned against you, your head tossed back as you feel the warm and tight sensation that was growing in your lower stomach, you don’t know how much more you could take but out of pure desperation for release you grind your hips against him.

He placed his hand on your ass, kneading the flesh harshly as the other finds your pussy; groaning into you before easing his finger past your entrance. the added stimulation had you mewling. The sounds you make are music to his ears. He presses his nose on your clit, inhaling your scent deeply before his tongue dives inside your waiting pussy. You pull onto his hair, writhing against his face.

The thickness of another added finger was making you dizzy It feels like you’re high, stomach tightening with each second “you’re gonna make me cum” you whine as if the feeling was pushing you to the edge you look between your shaking this to see Rafe absolutely lost in the taste of you; his eyes rolled back, and his face glistening with a flush to his cheeks and in that moment you melted away with the hot white feeling of your orgasm practically hitting you like a car.

Rafe licks up every trace of your orgasm until you wince and pull away with a whine you adjust yourself to sit on his lower stomach still sensitive yet satisfied. The man beneath you sitting up looking just as clouded with lust as you do, capturing his lips in yours with an unmatched intensity as you taste yourself on his lips.

The rough palm of his hands pulling you as close to him as possible like in any moment you’d disappear. Growing more and more desperate to feel you he pulls away from you with hesitation pressing his forehead to yours. “Lay on your stomach for me baby” he whispered and letting you move with calculated ease as you move to the headboard and grabbing a pillow you can lay down underneath you before arching your back and shiver slightly at the cold air that hits you between the thighs.

Arching your back gives Rafe the perfect sight of your ass. You could feel his palm caressing and needing your skin before giving it repeated harsh slaps that had you quivering. Nothing compared to the beautiful stinging feeling on your skin given by him.

"Want you inside me so bad" you mumbled as your fingers grip the sheets, you were so needy that you were dripping down your thighs and it didn't take much for Rafe to run his tongue over his lips and grab onto your hips pushing his tip against you and pushing into you slowly before bottoming out.

The sharp grip he had on your hips kept you grounded as he set a steady pace that had you panting and moaning. Hearing yourself made your face heat up, dropping your head into the sheets hoping to muffle the pleasure falling from your lips.

"Don't get all shy on me now" Rafe says as his hand pulls your hair into a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head away from the sheets "I wanna hear you. Don't hide from me" he says breathily as his thrusts become more sharp and the sound of him pounding into you was hard not to hear.

"I can't help it. It's too good" you slur your words as you begin to bounce and grind against him to meet his hips. It felt like he was in your stomach and you didn't mind at all, your hands clutching the sheets tighter as he used his other hand to wrap around your throat. As his grip around your throat tightens, you couldn't even gather your words as he hits a spot that has you breathing shakily and your moans are even more louder.

"Right here? Does it feel good here?" He asks as he drags his cock against that same spot again and again "yeah, it feels so fucking good Rafe" you moan as your eyes roll back. The feeling of his sweet lips on your skin as you feel like you're in heaven.

Your thighs are practically shaking at the feeling, pleasure practically taking over your body as Rafe pounds you into his mattress without a single care in the world. Pushing your face against sheets while he becomes sloppy and rougher with every passing second you could feel the pressure in the pit of your stomach growing and waiting to be released.

"I can't take it" you moan as you shake your head "I'm gonna cum" you whimper as you feel warm tears slide down your cheeks. "I think you can baby, you wanna cum so bad right? So take what I give you" he orders sweetly in a faux tone. His thrusts are non stop and you can't help but let the pleasure envelope you.

"Oh fuck" you gasp as the feeling of release comes closer "cum on my cock. I know you can '' he coos at you while pulling your hips into his harder than before tipping you over the edge as your walls clench around him sporadically earning a guttural moan ripping through Rafe's throat.

"I'm close, where do you want it?" He asks as he continues to fuck into you "inside. Please cum inside me Rafe" you beg before you feel the pressure in your stomach let loose "I got you, you're okay" he praised as his fingers rubbed down your spine leaving goosebumps up and down your body.

A few more thrusts slow and deep have your toes curling and sending Rafe into an orgasm struck daze. "Fuck you feel so good" he groans as his hands rub against the red warm skin of your ass. Leaning of you and kissing up your spine as you both bask in your pre orgasm clarity.

You both were practically glowing as Rafe waited until he softened inside you to pull out "you did so good" he whispers sweet nothings to you as he pulls out and watches his cum drip down your inner thighs.

The both of you settle into the bedsheets the body heat coming from the both of you feels comforting, Rafe doesn't want even the slightest bit of space between the both of you as he pulls you by your waist until your pressed flush against his chest.

“Congratulations champ” you huff out making Rafe snicker “thank you” his words are followed by an impending silence, although you do know eventually you would be walking back to your own bedroom with sore and shaking legs but that was something that you would have to worry about later.

As for now you would enjoy his warmth that radiates against your skin.

[soilology]

the first of my hazbin and helluva redesigns starting with my favorite character, NIFFTY!!!

pre-death story and inspirations below the cut!

before she died, niffty was a housewife, residing in the fukuoka prefecture in japan. she was married to a man for a little over 4 years. their lives were quiet, yet happy. almost. niffty had her fair share of misfortunes; she was diagnosed with OCD and had constant instrusive thoughts of aggression/violence, either towards herself or others. though her and her husband had a stable enough income, she refused treatment, afraid of the cost and it interfering with her fixed schedule. on top of her diagnosis, she also was infertile and could not have children. this saddened her, though she convinced herself it was for the best due to the fact she thought her condition would be detrimental to any kid she might have. her husband didn't like this however. he desired kids, and niffty's infertility became a source of growing resentment. her husband started to cheat on her with another woman. what began as a secret affair eventually turned into a second life- one niffty was never meant to discover. but she did. and when she did, her intrusive thoughts became far more than fleeting visions. they became consuming, vivid fantasies she could no longer suppress. the images of inflicting pain- the ones she had spent YEARS trying to silence- now felt like a promise of justice. one evening, she made their usual tea, just like she had countless times before. but this time, she stirred drain cleaner into both cups. the stench was foul. she sat across from him at the table, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the cup to her lips. he drank without suspicion, despite the disgusting, rotten odor coming from his cup. for a brief moment, they sat in silence, just like they always did. then, the coughing started. the retching. his throat burned, his voice strained with confusion and pain. niffty watched him struggle, her eyes dull and distant. she didn’t move to help. she only stared, feeling the same searing pain clawing at her own throat. by the time anyone found them, they were lying cold on the kitchen floor. their tea cups were shattered nearby, the sharp scent of chemicals still lingering in the air. to everyone else, it seemed like a tragic accident or a suicide pact. but only niffty, now down in hell's depths, knew the truth. she made sure they left this world together, bound by the same pain that had quietly torn them apart.

niffty's design has bothered me for many reasons, the main being that: 1. she looks like a child 2. she barely looks like a bug, what her motifs are supposed to be. 3. her hair is not 50's at ALL, which is when she supposedly died (which seems to be a major problem with vivzie's designs, the sinners do not match the era they died in.)

to combat these problems, i have her a more mature and period accurate hairstyle, as well as some lipstick! her pilot design had colored lips so i always thought of it as red lips. her original hairstyle looked more like some sort of shaggy bob, while female style's in the 50's were much more curly/wavy and well-kempt. i'm going with a 7 deadly sins motif for each of the main characters. of the sins, niffty represents ENVY.

she is now based off an asian lady beetle, which are commonly mistaken for ladybugs. lady beetles have a foul smelling odor, which i'm giving niffty as a nod/punishment to the smell of the drain cleaner that killed her and her husband. they're also known to bite as a defense mechanism. along with her buglike limbs and her spotted dress, her headband is supposed to mimic bug antenna.

as nods to her heritage, her teeth are similar to an oni (a japanese demon), and the top of her dress is crossed over like a kimono. instead of the normal correct way to wear a kimono where it is folded left over right, it is right over left, which is for dressing the dead.

if you came down this far, thanks for reading !! i really hope you like her, i think even after i re-do all of the other characters she'll be my favorite design. reblogs and constructive criticism is appreciated! <3

[on-the-clear-blue]

Something that I think people tend to forget is that...through the batman cross overs, Scooby Doo is canon to DC... that's just...truly insane to me.

It also makes me think about a certain teenage ghost that is commonly thrown into DC...

---

Danny stared down at a motley crew of four young adults, a seemingly speaking dog and man dressed in a sad, stained treanch coat looking so done with the rest of them.

Why you might ask was he staring down? Because some how, some way through a Rue Goldberg machine of utter bullshit he managed to get wrapped up in a net, that if the slight shocks to his body were correct, was ecto-charged, meaning he couldn't simply faze through them.

The tall blonde teen gave a woop of joy as Danny finally stopped spinning, "Wow, Velma! That net your aunt gave you sure came in clutch! Looks like this spooky spector ain't getting out of this one!"

Said girl, which Danny is now slowly, to his horror, is recognizing as his cousin, Velma Dinkley who was related to his mom, and if the almost terrifying glint to the girls glasses were to be trusted? She was just as wickedly smart.

"Well of course my dear Fredrick, once Shaggy and Scooby noticed the ghostly goo Casper up there was leaving around here it wasn't hard to figure out we weren't just dealing with a man in a mask, but a proper, bona fide ghost."

Velma held a proud smirk on her lips, hands on her hips as she looked up at Danny, she had caught a glint of recognition in her eyes, followed by a bit of doubt bit that was quickly shaken away.

The lanky teen, now identified to Danny as "Shaggy" looked both fearful and proud of himself, "Like zoinks Scoob! We really did catch ourselves a ghost...though this one doesn't look half as scary as the last one..."

(It was slightly unsettling to see the dog chuckle, though if Danny was going to be honest to himself it wasn't the weirdest thing he had ever seen)

The mentions of catching other ghost made Danny's head snap to them, a frown forming on his face, while he did know he was horrible at being spooky (much to his ghostly half's shame) he wasn't trying to be! He had been trying to stop Vlad get some sort of artifact that the sad trench coat guy had, though if this was the only ecto-net that they had...

Danny's eyes widened as he looked down at the group, "Shit you guys have to let me out of here! Please you...you just made him angry!" Fidgeting in the net, Danny could only helplessly beg the gathered people below, "You Guys won't be able to handle him...Please you have to get some where safe!"

The last teen, a girl with long red hair tilted her head up, and even while Danny was above her, it felt like he was being looked down upon, "Really? I have heard some pathetic threats but that one wasn't even thst good, you simply arnt going to be-"

Here words were cut off as the sad trench coat man started wheezing suddenly, grasping at his chest as sooty ash started pouring out from his mouth, great big blooms of black smoke, his cigarette falling from his now open mouth, his eyes screwed shut, but slowly a red light started glowing from behind screwed shut lids.

The red head backed away quickly, eyes wide as she watched more and more black smoke pour out from the man, "Freddy somethings wrong with Mr. Constantine!"

Before Fred could react, the red light shone brighter than ever, the last of the black smog falling from the newly named Constantine's lips before the man toppled over, body unmoving.

Danny could only watch helplessly as the body moved in a sickening way, bones popping and muscles rippling, a glowing red amulet floating out from the man's buttoned up shirt, and when the man looked up at Danny, cold chills ran down the teens spine...

Because those were Vlads eyes. Danny was too late.

[owlespresso]

a gentler shade of green. jing yuan tags. a/b/o, spice beneath the cut, fluffy, jing yuan getting a little jealous for the lovely @lorelune, who also writes many delightful things that you should check out!

Mid-afternoon sunlight suffuses the Luofu with lush springtime warmth. The pleasant weather brought the citizenry out in droves, the air riddled with a myriad of different scents. An overwhelming amount especially when combined with the riotous chattering of the crowd. As unfortunate as it is to have to cut your daily market trip short, you can come home safe in the knowledge that Jing Yuan will be there to receive you.

You like to swing buy the markets and grab yourself a little treat, before visiting his offices. He never asks, but you always make sure to bring some of his favorite sweets, a courtesy that makes him melt every time, makes him beg you to settle on his lap. Offers you have to, unfortunately, decline lest you scandalize his poor employees. 

He’s taken a rare day off. And a day off typically entails lounging in bed until late morning or early afternoon, clinging to you like a child clings to their favorite plush toy. Extricating yourself from his grapple hadn’t been easy, a feat only managed after petting him for five straight minutes and assuring him you would be back within the hour. 

You snake back onto the property through the side entrance. A narrow pathway slides along the western edge of the estate, leading out unto the gardens. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom. Chrysanthemums and azaleas and an array of colorful tulips line the paths, swaying in the delicate breeze. The urge to lay and roll around in the veritable field of flora is nearly crushing. You willfully resist the temptation, slipping into his bedroom through the glass sliding door beyond the wooden deck. 

It’s exactly as you left it. One nightstand on each side of the bed. A lacquered vanity. A small seating area with two, comfortable chairs. An extravagant overhead chandelier that’s typically ignored in favor of a standing lamp in the corner. And one Jing Yuan, who manifests as a lump beneath the duvet. 

Said lump shifts the moment the door clicks shut behind you. His head pokes out from the thick covers, shaggy bangs thrown over his eyes. His glossy mane of snow white is frazzled from being pressed into the sheets–one side noticeably more so than the other. 

“You’re back,” he says, voice nice and rumbly with sleep. The scent of him is thickest, here. Your shoulders slump with an instinctual sort of relief, as though your body realizes it is home. His lips part with a yawn and his arms stretch above his head. The rippling muscle of his torso emerges from the sea of silks, his pecs fatty and arms thick. His nipples pebble in the comparably chilly air of the open bedroom. A mottling of bluish-purple spans across part of his right shoulder, and you nearly flush. Had you really bit him that hard, yesterday?

“How was the market?” he asks, looking at you through low-lidded eyes. Glowing amber peers out from beneath frayed hoarfrost lashes. The smile that pulls at the corners of his lips is sleepy and content.

“Crowded,” you huff, gently placing your bag of tasty goods on the nightstand. 

“Hm. I can tell,” Jing Yuan says, and does not elaborate when you send him a questioning glance. You turn away to peek into the bag, searching for his favorites. You typically keep a firm policy of no food on the bed, because the idea of getting crumbs on those expensive sheets is blasphemy to you… but a single chocolate-covered strawberry couldn’t hurt. 

Jing Yuan, ever the master strategist, spots the opening and exploits it wholly. His broad arms wrap around your midsection and tug you backwards. It’s not just a pull. He brings you straight off your feet, dropping backwards onto the mattress. The undignified sound that leaves you is better left uncatalogued for the sake of your pride. You both collapse in a heap with your back to his front.

“Jing Yuan!” you hiss, giving his forearm a harmless little smack. He laughs quietly in your ear, a brush of warm air caressing your sun-warmed skin. His iron-clad grip breaks apart, one large palm setting on your hip. The other lands atop your stomach, hot and calloused.

“My apologies,” he says, amused and very much not sorry. “In my defense, you afforded me a very considerate opening.” As he spoke, he moved one of his thick thighs to settle in between your legs, raising it by bending his knee. 

The entire, hot length of him presses up against your back. The position very quickly becomes more obscene than you expected–his throbbing cock pressed tight to your bottom. The hand on your tummy slips beneath your blouse to pet your warming skin. The scent of him is thickest here, in his bed, blankets all rucked up and pillows unevenly spread across the mattress. “Did anyone bother you, while you were out?” Jing Yuan inquires, and makes it very difficult to answer by kissing you behind the ear. You exhale. That familiar, tingling sort of warmth begins to settle between your thighs. He wraps you in his pheromones. The dense shroud of his scent renders you hazy when paired with the unmistakable, yet understated possessiveness of his touch. Every possible qualm is brushed away by the smooth baritone of his voice. 

Jing Yuan does not ask if other alphas touched you. He does not demand to know who you were with, doesn’t stake his claim with the immediate urgency a younger, less experienced alpha might. He coaxed and nudged, knowing you will come to him on your own terms, eager to find solace in your alpha’s protective embrace. 

“No,” you say, after a long moment. 

“That took awhile. Are you sure?” he hummed. A low sound kicked up in his chest, a syrupy purr that reverberates beneath your skin, settling your overwrought nerves. The hand on your stomach makes the journey south. His big fingers dive beneath your waistband, past the soft hairs of your to seek your (admittedly quite wet) cunt. 

He fingers you open with an unbearable amount of patience. More playing with your sodden folds than actually attempting to do anything. The meat of his palm slides against your clit and suddenly–the space between your bodies feels so much hotter. Your head lolls back onto his shoulders, breath escaping you in small pants. Your hips grind into the thick digits, hands skimming over the sheets in desperate search of something to grab.

And then he stops. The abruptness of it makes you whimper, hips continuing to grind even as he withdraws his hand. 

“I didn’t hear an answer,” he teases. Evil, evil man. Devious felon. It feels like a betrayal, almost. You trusted him with your pleasure and he ruthlessly has stolen it away. 

You would love to tell him as much, but then he lifts his hand to his mouth and you can hear the rasping of his tongue as he swipes your juices off each finger. The sheer obscenity of it makes the hairs along the back of your neck raise. 

“Jing Yuan,” you say–plead, despairingly. Much to your embarrassment, you sound like you’re about to cry. You throw your arm across your eyes. Is it not enough to have you trembling in his arms? Must he torment you so? You can hardly recall the initial question, fogged with pleasure and overly-warm. 

He laughs, sun-bright and charming enough to make you forgive him. He rocks his thigh against your cunt, and you arch your hips, mindlessly chasing the friction. 

“You’re alright,” he coos, slipping his fingers back into your trousers to tease your sopping cunt. Two slip inside, embarrassingly easy. He resumes his steady pace, palm grinding against your clit with every pass. 

The pads of his fingers press against the soft, upper wall of your cunt. He adds a third–and curls them–and that’s what makes the coil snap. You break into your first orgasm with a broken little whimper. Your toes curl and your eyes shut tight. You keep rolling your hips, each grind sparking another wave of liquid hot pleasure. His fingers remain sheathed inside of you, just to feel the way your walls spasm.

He pulls out when your whining turns to the pained side of overstimulated. The room settles into a contented quiet, only disrupted by the soft sound of your panting. Your eyes flutter shut, legs fallen open around his thighs. His cock, rock-hard and throbbing, presses to the small of your back. But he doesn’t make any move to alleviate the strain. Instead, he presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes you deep. His touch returns to your stomach, clean hand petting at your hips, your stomach. 

The myriad of scents which clung to you upon your return have been dissipated, banished like wispy, loathsome spirits. Is that why…? You begin to wonder, but quickly and contentedly decide it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re sated, and warm, and resting limply in his arms.

[otsalezu]

College Cat AU Sneak Peak

This is just chapter one! These chapters are gonna be shorter than the Crashing Down ones, as this is mostly a fun side fic based off of @dark-lord-of-awesomeness Cat Stan AU! Okay chapter below the cut cuz its pretty long

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, who was raised a proper Christian boy, knew all sorts of things about demons. He grew up hearing stories and urban legends about them and being taught to never trust anything that seemed like one. He wasn’t, however, told that they would come in the form of his college campus’ honorary mascot.

It had all started during the first few weeks of his and Ford’s second year at Backupsmore. Fiddleford had been heading towards his engineering class when, with a start, he realized he’d forgotten his thermos of coffee. He’d cursed a bit, checking his watch and deciding that it was worth the risk of being a little late. The professor, a fellow Southerner with a similar passion for the subject, loved him enough to excuse the odd tardiness. He hadn’t thought much of the rustling that came from the dorm, thinking that Ford had simply also forgotten something. When he neared the door, he’d thought his first prediction was correct. The man going through his desk had Ford’s face and curls. However, that was where the resemblance ended. Stubble lined his worn face, and glasses didn’t rest upon his crooked and obviously previously broken nose. His hair was long and matted, splayed around his shoulders in a greasy mullet. The clothes that hung off of him were too casual and threadbare to be from Ford’s closet. And the final discovery, the one that hammered home the wrongness for Fiddleford, were the man’s hands. Five fingers each, he noted with horror, as the man picked up his driver’s license and snorted.

“Heh. Diddlefuck Hard-on McSuckit.”

Despite the situation, Fiddleford made an offended noise. Jokes about his name were nothing new, but hearing a stranger who’d broken into his dorm make them must have been the final straw. The figure turned towards him, cursed loudly, and then…disappeared? No, he hadn’t disappeared. He’d simply changed. Where the man had once stood was now Nikola, the campus cat. In its mouth was the driver’s license, which dropped to the floor as the cat made a run for the door. Fiddleford quickly scooped him up, before remembering the situation and dropping him again like a hot coal.

“You! Just what in the hell are you?!”

“It’s a cat, F. Are you feeling alright?”

Ford pushed past him, and the cat quickly escaped as he did. The two men were left alone in the room to survey the mess on the desk.

“Moses, did a bomb go off in here?”

“I–the cat–you were–”

“Really? The cat? You’re telling me Nikola opened these drawers and took out all the papers?”

“He was a man!”

Ford gave him a cautious side-eye,

“Are you…?”

“God dammit Ford, I’m not high!”

“...Whatever you say. Don’t you have a class?”

“Don’t you?”

“The professor was sick, and I heard yelling. Which was apparently you terrorizing Nikola. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m…”

Fiddleford rubbed his head. Had he really just hallucinated the whole thing? The mess on the desk could have been a prank, and sleep had been scarce lately. It was more likely he was seeing things than the campus cat being a shapeshifting Ford look-alike.

“I’m not feelin’ too good.”

“Clearly. Do you need anything?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Probably just a migraine.”

“Alright. I’m headed off to the library.”

And that had been the end of that, or so he’d thought. Seeing “Nikola” around campus—especially their dorm—became a common occurrence for him. Going through their things, eating unattended leftovers in the cafeteria, lurking around the local cafes. The man would grin at him and wave, before being replaced by that familiar shaggy brown cat. This was frustrating enough. He was never able to get a camera out fast enough to take a picture, and the man always seemed to stay far from Ford. In human form, that was. Ford adored the hellspawn in cat form, often letting the cat sit on his shoulders or lap during study sessions. Sure, Nikola may have been the campus cat, but most people thought he belonged to Ford. It was a fair assumption, the way the cat always made a beeline for him.

Now, about four months into the year, Fiddleford was running out of ideas. Nikola and Ford seemed to only get more fond of each other, which was making Fiddleford’s job of subtly protecting Ford from the demon harder than ever. He’d started by keeping around a rosary…which disappeared from his nightstand the next day and appeared around the neck of the man. He’d laughed—laughed!—and mouthed a smug “thanks”, before turning back into the cat. He doubted he’d be able to catch the cat for an exorcism, not that he wanted to touch it at all. Any indication he gave to Ford that the cat may be dangerous was met with incredulity and a lighthearted jab about the first day Fiddleford had seen it shift. He was really, truly, at the end of his rope. He had begun absentmindedly sketching the design for a holy water spraying robot when Ford burst in, grinning.

“Fidds, what do you know about anomalies?”

[themetalhiro]

your hairstyle is so awesome, i've never see anything like it!! Is it like a mullet where it's long in the back? do you braid it every day? now im wondering what you asked the hairstylist for the first time you got the haircut lol

Thank you!! I think the first time I got it done, we described it as a shaggy mullet/wolf cut? It's a little bit longer in the back, and it's sort of mutated slowly over time.

Then I just chose pieces from behind the ears to stop cutting, but continued as usual with my trims until we are here!

I braid them whenever I go out, and they typically stay braided until I wash my hair next.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Bump in the night

Written for day 29 of the @steddieholidaydrabbles, and the December round of the @stmonstercalendar

Prompts: Fairytale and Krampus

Relationships: Pre-Steddie; Steve & Dustin

Rated: T

Tags: Kidnapping; Krampus!Eddie; Good babysitter Steve; Dustin is a little shit; crack (somehow, idk. it grew a plot again)

Running in snow is a bitch on the legs. 

By the time Steve leaves the village behind, the moon is dipping behind the trees and his legs are screaming at him to stop. He doesn’t. It has started snowing again, and he knows that it won’t be long before the tracks are gone. He’ll have no way of catching up to them, then.

He’s gonna fucking murder Dustin. 

Provided he manages to save him and they don’t both die of pneumonia. 

He pushes himself to go faster, and when he reaches the top of the hill, he spots a figure ahead of him. A dark, hulking shape standing out against the moonlit winter landscape. Even from the distance, he can see the pair of horns protruding from its head - long and curved and ending in wicked points. 

Steve gulps. 

Sure, he knows the stories. About things that go bump in the night, about monsters creeping down into the human settlements from the mountains to steal misbehaved children from their beds and carry them off into the darkness. He used to roll his eyes at them, think of them as mere fairytales made up by his father and the village elders.

Looks like he owes them an apology. 

He mentally schedules that for after he murders Dustin. 

“Hey,” His voice slaps off the trees as a distorted echo. “Hey, fuckface!” 

The figure stops. Then, very slowly, it turns. It’s hard to make out features through the night and the snow, so all Steve can see are its eyes. Two deep, dark pools peering back at him through a curtain of tangled hair. 

Steve is rushing down the hill before it occurs to him he didn’t even bring a weapon. Not breaking his run, he snatches a thick branch off the ground, twirling it high over his head and lunging at the creature with a hoarse scream. 

“Hey, careful with that! You could take out an eye.” 

Steve freezes. The branch drops. 

“Wha-” he croaks. “Wait, you can talk?” 

The thing rolls its eyes at him. Now that he’s closer, it turns out that its face is … unexpectedly human. Large, brown eyes and a pair of surprisingly pretty lips framed by a spill of dark, chaotic curls. Almost like any other guy you might meet in the marketplace - if it weren’t for the pair of horns attached to his head and the shaggy fur covering his body from the shoulders down, and the fact that his legs end in fucking hooves. 

“Yes, I can talk,” says the guy … the creature … Steve is so confused right now. “I’m a monster, not an idiot, y’know?” 

“Sorry,” says Steve automatically. “I didn’t mean to- … cut that crap, what did you do to Dustin? I know you took him, where-” 

“I’m here,” says a disembodied voice. Steve flinches, spinning in a startled circle. “Steve, is that you?” 

There’s a weird sort of echo to his voice, like he’s in a tiny room or other confined space. 

“Oh fuck,” Steve gasps. “Did you eat him already?” 

“I didn't eat him,” says monster dude. He sounds appalled by the concept. “He's in here.” 

He jerks back his thumb - longer than a human one and ending in a wicked claw - to point at the giant wicker basket strapped to his back. 

“You put him in a basket? Like what, a chicken?” 

Monster dude scoffs. “I sure as hell am not dragging him all the way. They tend to kick and bite.” 

Then, evidently deciding that Steve isn’t worth the trouble, he turns and resumes his way through the snow. 

“Wait,” Steve blurts. “Where are you going? Let him go, right now!” 

“No can do,” monster dude shrugs. “He’s been the naughtiest kid in all the valley, and rules are rules.” 

“Oh, c’mon!” says the basket. “I’m not that bad.” 

“Oh yeah?” monster dude says, producing a rumbled piece of parchment from somewhere in his shaggy fur. Does he have pockets in there? “Let’s see. It says here you talked back to your teachers.” 

“Because they were glaringly wrong. Was I supposed to just let that slide?” 

“You fell asleep in church.” 

“Not my fault the priest sucks at public speaking.” 

“You blew up the school building. Dude, seriously?” 

“That was an accident, you can’t hold that against me!” 

“Woah, wait!” says Steve, who just spotted the curly letters scrawled onto the parchment. “I know that handwriting! Did my father give you this?” 

Monster dude’s eyes go wide. Then, before Steve can so much as blink, he jumps. Steve yelps as he hits the ground, claws easily as long as his own fingers digging into his arms, pressing him down into the snow. 

“Hey,” Dustin yells from within the basket. “What are you doing? What’s the ruckus about?”

“You are the mayor’s son?” 

Steve blinks. “I- … what? What does that have to do with any- ow, shit!”

He tries to wiggle out of the claw’s hold, but they tighten their grip. Monster dude’s face has twisted into a manic grin, revealing a row of gleaming fangs and a long, pointed tongue. 

“This is brilliant,” he growls, more to himself than to anyone else. Steve winces as he is grabbed by the collar and yanked upright. 

“Hey, let go of me, what are you-” Something cold and heavy closes around his wrists. When he looks down, it is to find his hands bound together by a pair of large, rusty manacles. “What the actual fuck? What kind of sick weirdo are you?” 

“The worst there is,” monster dude smirks. “And you, big boy … You might just be my ticket to freedom, if I play my cards right.” 

He turns to go again, and Steve is helpless to do anything but stumble behind him as he tugs on the chain. The fresh snow covers their tracks as they disappear into the night.

Something, something, and then Dustin and his monsterfucker dads unveil how the village elders have been disposing of bothersome kids for years.

More holiday drabbles

[zepskies]

Take Me Home - Part 5

Pairing: Beau Arlen x F. Reader 

Summary: You are another lost soul at Sunny Day Excursions. You’re aiming to settle in Helena, Montana, where Beau Arlen is the new sheriff in town. But you’ve both got a past you’re running from. 

AN: Welcome back, friends! We’re gonna start ramping up from here on out.

Word Count: 5K

Tags/Warnings: Angst and tension, a bit of heartbreak, a little Shakespeare, and another small cliffhanger…

❤️ Series Masterlist

Part 5: Not That Simple

“I’m keeping close tabs on Carla and Emily just to be safe,” Beau admitted. 

Your face became the picture of concern. But before you could respond, a man approached the table, tall and lean, with a shaggy cut of dark blonde hair. He wore a pair of faded jeans, boots, and a gray Chicago FD t-shirt. 

Your face paled, and your mouth parted in surprise. 

“Hey there, stranger,” he said with a smile. 

“Michael?” you gasped. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Beau’s eyes widened. Michael was younger than him, closer to your age. And cocky too.  

“Hey, baby,” Michael said. His smile quirked with charm, but his next words were anything but charming. 

“We need to talk,” he said, raising his brows.

“We actually don’t,” you retorted in a firmer voice. Cold even. You straightened in your seat. 

Beau saw none of your softness and good humor from earlier. This was a different woman, and he was actually proud of you for standing your ground. Though he realized then that he’d never gotten on your bad side. (He hoped he never did.)

Michael frowned, sighing through his nose. He seemed to expect your reaction, to an extent, but was still disappointed. His gaze slid to Beau. 

Seeming to realize his manners were lacking, he reached out his hand.

“Sorry for interrupting. Michael Hadley,” he greeted.

Beau stared at the other man’s hand for a moment. Instead of shaking it, he held all his true thoughts inside and flashed the newcomer an easy grin, as well as the badge on his belt. 

“Sheriff Arlen,” he replied, raising a brow. “So you’re Michael.”

Michael met your eyes briefly, then Beau’s again. Michael’s hand lowered back to his side.

“So she’s talked about me,” he said.

Beau’s eyes were sharper when they took the other man in. 

“Oh, believe you me, that’s not something to brag about, Mike.”

You had to bite your lip so you wouldn’t smile. Michael’s politeness thinned, but just as his mouth opened to offer a retort, Cassie and Jenny returned with the drinks.

“Hi, there,” Jenny said with civility (sort of), but her blue eyes raked over Michael in an assessing way. She’d clocked your surprise and discomfort from across the room.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to stop the party,” Michael said, making you want to scoff.

Of course you did, you thought.

“I’m Michael, her fiancé,” he tried to introduce himself with an outstretched hand. Jenny also ignored that hand in order to set down the drinks.

It gave you the opportunity to interject with some reality.

“You’re missing an ex in there. As in no longer, and wish we’d never been,” you said. You crossed your arms and met Michael’s annoyed look with your firm one.

He eventually sighed and rested a hand on the back of the booth, behind your seat. You twisted to face him, but you were purposeful in leaning away from him.

Beau had to just watch the scene unfold. He didn’t like the way Michael leaned in, crowding your personal space when you were clearly trying to create distance.

“Can we talk?” Michael asked you. “Please?”

For a moment, you paused with indecision. You didn’t want to make a scene here in the middle of a bar. Not in front of your friends, where half of them were police officers. You didn’t want to stop them from having a good time either.

You met Cassie and Jenny’s eyes, and finally Beau’s. Despite the controlled, almost lazy way he’d handled Michael, you could see he didn’t look happy. You sighed.

“Sorry. Give me a minute,” you said. You got up out of the booth and went with Michael to a somewhat private corner across the restaurant.

Meanwhile, Beau tried not to seem like he was keeping an eye on you two. Cassie and Jenny were too, while sipping on their respective drinks.

“What’s the story there?” Cassie asked.

“Cheating ex,” Beau supplied.

“Great,” Jenny said wryly. Her lips pursed as she met Cassie’s knowing frown. They’d been there before.

Cassie turned to Beau and bumped his shoulder with her own. 

“You okay there, Sheriff?” Cassie asked him. Beau flashed her a look that showed he was unsettled. 

“I’ve got another one to add to the punch list,” he replied.

“I can’t believe you’d ambush me like this!” you whisper-yelled.

Michael crossed his arms in defense. The two of you ducked a server who was coming in hot with a plate of buffalo chicken wings.

“You came all the way to Montana? For what?” you continued. “I already said everything I had to say to you last year. And at Mary’s funeral. Thanks again for that, asshole.”

“That’s such a lie! You wouldn’t even talk to me at the funeral,” Michael shot back. “And you haven’t been answering my calls, my emails. What the hell was I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to respect me,” you snapped. Though you couldn’t help the emotion making your voice shake, just a little. “You’re supposed to respect me, and my choices. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But I don’t know why I should expect you to start now."

You started to walk away from him, but he grabbed at your hand. You turned back around and jerked your hand out of his grasp.

“It’s over. It’s been over for months. Damn near a year,” you said. “What do you want?”

He looked down at you through sad eyes under his furrowed brows.

“I never wanted it to be over,” he said quietly.

“Well, you pretty much made that decision for us,” you said, crossing your arms. You didn’t know whether it was to stand firm, or to shield yourself. “And I’m done. Quite frankly, I could live the rest of my life without seeing you again.”

“Come on. You don’t mean that,” he said.

He genuinely looked gutted, which was the confusing part. You shook your head and tried to blink the frustrated tears out of your eyes.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said.

“I want to say I’m sorry. And I am, more than you know. I want…I want to ask if you can forgive me,” he all but pleaded. He touched your arms, not quite grasping. For the first time since you’d known him, he seemed desperate. “Look, you know how hard it was for me to come out here and beg like a dog, but here I am…because I still love you.”

You were shocked into silence for a moment, but not out of happiness.

Then, you had to sigh. You held up a hand against his chest, a subtle move at pushing him away. 

“I can’t give that to you. Even your apology is hollow. Because what you did…” you said, on a halting breath. “You did it to me for years, Michael. Pretty much from the beginning of our relationship, if it ever was one.” 

You shook your head as a tear made its way down your cheek. 

“And if you could do that, then you never really loved me,” you said.

Michael’s eyes fell away, to hide the emotion stinging in them.

“So…just go home,” you told him. “Be with Kate if you want. I could really give a shit.”

Once again, Michael held your wrist when you tried to leave, this time more gently. He met you with frustrated blue eyes. Those eyes you used to drown in. 

“She’s not you,” he said. 

You slipped out of his grip and uttered a laugh devoid of all humor.

“That, you should’ve known from the beginning,” you said.

He was hurt.

And when he was hurt, he tended to cover it up with anger. His jaw began to work with frustration.

“What, so you’re just going to run away? Live in this dusty piece of shit town until you die?” he said, with the derision you’d come to expect from him when he didn’t get what he wanted. 

“Go home, Michael,” you repeated. “I’m not going back.” 

“Everything okay?” Beau asked, when you finally returned to the table. He didn’t tell you that he, Jenny, and Cassie had been watching on standby, in case Michael tried to press his luck and get more grabby. It had taken everything within Beau to stay in his seat for the past ten minutes.

You gave him a smile and took up the shot of tequila Cassie had brought for you. You downed it and grimaced at the burn.

“I’m good,” you said, with a bit of difficulty. Part of you felt accomplished, that you’d faced Michael and hadn’t let him soften your resolve. Yet there was a big part of you—not so deep down—that felt like utter crap.

“Sorry for the unnecessary drama,” you muttered. 

Jenny gave you a more serious look. One that said she had no problem stepping in if she needed to.

“If you ever feel unsafe, just let one of us know,” she said. 

“That’s right. If he doesn’t leave it alone, all you need to do is call,” Beau added. Cassie echoed that sentiment with a nod. You met Beau’s gaze, despite the uncertainty inside you.

If you need me, call me, his eyes said. 

You nodded then, with a thankful smile. 

Beau couldn’t help it. He felt protective of you. It welled up in his chest and simultaneously felt heavy like a stone. And he could admit, if just to himself, that it was in the personal sense. 

He tried to remember that his life was complicated right now. Too complicated probably, for all of that…but he cared about you. And he didn’t want to see you hurt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Beau spotted Michael Hadley at the bar. He was drinking a beer with an angry frown, and no good written all over his face.

Carla called Beau in a tizzy yesterday morning. 

Not only had Avery bought a gun, but he’d given her some unhinged, quasi- “If I die” speech that had freaked her the hell out. 

In searching Avery’s vacant hotel room, Beau found the missing pages of Paige’s journal. Pages that contained a seed phrase passcode to unlock the $15 million crypto account she and Luke had stolen. 

If Avery had those pages, then it only confirmed that Avery had made a play for the money in order to save his failing business. He was attempting to break the encrypted code to unlock the account, likely for the shady-ass people Paige stole the money from in the first place.  

Naturally, Beau had gone looking to bring the man in for questioning. He’d found Avery at a different, much seedier hotel, being led away by another man who walked and talked like a killer. Beau rightly assumed he was a hitman, gunning for Avery, and quite literally about to take out the trash.

Maybe the people he was working with were tired of waiting on him to unlock the account. Or maybe he’d already done it, and now they’d decided they didn’t need him anymore.

Beau was able to save Avery’s life, shooting the hitman. Then he’d arrested Avery. In return for that save, Avery had been giving Beau the runaround all night, with a side helping of audacity. 

“What’s your plan here, man?” Beau asked. He leaned forward in his chair across from Avery’s. A narrow table lied in between them within the small holding cell for questioning. 

“New identity? Thailand? Or maybe you’re not into the whole heat thing. Maybe Winnipeg,” Beau posed, with all due sarcasm. “You see, these people don’t forgive. And they don’t forget. And the ones that steal from them rarely die alone, which means you have put Carla, and you’ve put my daughter into danger. Did you even think about that?”

Right about now, Beau himself was beyond forgive and forget. In fact, he was irate. But he held it all down beneath a thin line of professionalism, despite the fire in his eyes. 

Avery rested his elbows on the table as well.

“Everything I’ve done has been to protect my family. That’s all you need to know,” he said. “You on the other hand. You’ve made quite the mess, haven’t you? Killing that man put us all in more danger.”

He then leaned back in his chair, as if he held all the cards, and Beau was just a monkey wrench in his plans. It was a good front, but Beau saw right through it all. Avery was bluffing through his ass.

Still, he put on a good show.

“And now I’d very much like to speak to my lawyer,” he said. 

It took everything within the sheriff to stop himself from reaching across the table, grabbing the other man by the collar, and yanking him down hard on the table, face-first. 

Instead, he got up from his seat, deceptively calm. The only explosion of his rage came when he kicked his chair hard on his way out, making it slide across the room and hit the wall. He yanked the cell door open and closed it firm behind him.

He knew he couldn’t hold Avery, not even on Paige’s journal pages. As Avery had so cleverly pointed out, the money hadn’t been reported stolen (why would criminals drop a dime on themselves?). So Beau would let Avery go, for now. All he could do was wait for the cocky son of a bitch to mess up, even more than he already had. 

Beau hated waiting.

But his next step was returning to his office and calling Carla. He asked her to join Emily in staying with him, until this thing with Avery blew over. Likely the people he was working with knew where he lived, knew how to find Carla and Emily. 

Carla sounded shaken even on the phone, but she agreed.

“Is Emily at work right now?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’ll tell her,” Carla said, releasing a breath. “I’ll take her to your place again tonight, and I’ll bring an overnight bag for myself.”

“Good,” he said. “Thank you.”

After hanging up, Beau leaned back in his office chair and covered his bearded face with his hands. He rubbed at his tired eyes. What the hell do I do now? 

The answer eluded him, especially when a knock sounded against his door, disturbing his thoughts. He sighed.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me,” you answered from behind the door. “I come bearing baked goods.”

Beau’s eyes widened in surprise. He beckoned you to come in, and so you did. 

“Working hard, or hardly working?” you teased.

The sight of you was a balm to his frayed mind. Your familiar face, your pretty yellow sundress, the way you’d done your hair. It all managed to kick up his smile at seeing yours. Not to mention the delicious smelling basket you carried on your arm. The top was covered with a red checkered cloth. 

“Hey, there. How’re you doin’?” he greeted, trying to hide the brunt of his former frustration and worry behind a more upbeat attitude. 

He knew he hadn’t done well enough when your smile began to fall. 

“Sorry, did I come at a bad time?” you asked in concern. “Deputy Poppernak told me I could stop in real quick…”

Beau shook his head and waved you in. “It’s all right. Come in, please.” 

He stood and walked around his desk to sit on its edge. 

“I have a feeling I’m gonna want whatever’s in that basket,” he added, nodding at the whicker you carried. You offered it to him, and your warm hand brushed his on the exchange. 

“Just a little something,” you said. “And an apology for making a scene at the bar last night.”

Beau frowned. “You’re not really blaming yourself for that, are you?”

Though he soon brightened, whistling lowly when he found a half dozen chocolate chip muffins under the checkered cloth. A smile grew across his face when it dawned on him. The first thing you offered him when he met you was this very same treat. 

He had a feeling your muffins would be even better. (...And he tried not to think about the potential double meaning there.)

“Damn, between you and your aunt Denise, I’m gonna have to start running again,” he quipped. His eyes met yours in amusement. “And between you and me, I freakin’ hate running.”

You chuckled at that. “I’m more of a yoga girl, myself.”

Beau’s brows rose in interest, but again, he tried not to picture you in some tight-ass yoga pants.

“Thank you for this,” he said, instead, waving the basket of muffins. He set it down beside him on the desk. “I definitely needed a pick-me-up today.”

You searched his face and began to frown at what you saw there. He both looked and sounded…tired, down. Not himself. 

You drew closer and chanced resting a hand on his arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

Beau glanced down at your hand. He took in a deep breath through his nose before he met your gaze again.

“Yeah, don’t you worry. Everything’s fine,” he said. You gave him a somewhat chiding look.

“Beau, you don’t have to tell me it’s okay when it’s not,” you said.

He considered you ruefully. He should’ve known you were perceptive enough to see right through him. Or maybe he was just a shit actor. 

He blew out a breath and nodded. “I asked Carla and Emily to stay with me for the next few days. At least until this investigation of Avery plays out.”

Your patient expression melted into worry. You had a feeling he wouldn’t do that unless things were truly dangerous. 

“See, that’s what I didn’t wanna see,” he said, lightly bumping a curled finger under your chin. Despite yourself, you smiled a little. “I just want them where I can see them, is all.” 

He was putting on a good front, but you weren’t convinced. And Beau could see that. He nodded at you to change the subject. 

“Has Mike tried to contact you?” he asked. It was your turn to let out a sigh.

“Only two calls and eleven texts before lunch, but I’m not answering. He’ll get the hint and go home soon,” you said. 

But Beau was perceptive too. He knew you well enough to read your added thoughts as you frowned and looked away. It said, At least, you hope he will. 

Beau wanted to reassure you, not just to help make you feel safe, but because his gut churned with both unease and anger at the thought of that guy harassing you. 

Beau reached out and gave into the temptation to stroke a thumb across your cheek, earning not just your attention, but your widening eyes. 

“Hey. No more worrying, huh?” he said. His voice was quieter, warmer. He gave you a smile, along with an assured look.

“If anything happens—” he started to say, but you actually beat him to it. You held his hand to your cheek, surprising him this time.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve got the sheriff on speed dial,” you said. Your smile was sweet and teasing. 

Beau had to smile back. His gaze roamed your face. Then your eyes dipped down to his lips. There was heat between you, prickling across your skin and zipping up his spine. It was an inevitable, raw kind of feeling.

He wanted, more than anything, to lean in those precious few inches and find out what you tasted like… He wanted nothing more than to haul you up on this desk, hands sliding up the skirt of that sundress.  

But he held himself back with more self-control than he thought himself capable of. His hand fell away from your cheek. You looked up at him in confusion, and a bit of hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, in a lowered voice. “My life is…complicated.”

“And mine’s not?” you countered.

“Not the same,” Beau said. “Trust me. I uh, I’ve got some things in my past that I’m not proud of. Let’s just say you’re better off steering clear.”

“Let’s just say?” you repeated. Your brows drew together in frustration. “Why don’t you just say it? God knows you know everything about my messy life.”

Beau sighed. His gaze fell away from yours. 

“It’s not that simple, darlin’,” he said. 

He saw your disappointment, tinged with disbelief. As much as he didn’t want to hurt you, he also didn’t really have time to explain things properly to you. The truth was, he didn’t have time for this. 

“Look—” he tried, but you cut him off.

“No. It’s fine, I guess,” you said. You looked down at your shoes and muttered, mostly to yourself. “Em was right. You are an old clam.”

“What?” Beau asked in confusion. 

You shook your head and withdrew from him. 

“Okay, sorry. I just…you know what? I need to go,” you stumbled over your words a bit, and you backed away.    

It had Beau feeling at a loss already, not to mention the lance of guilt hitting him between the ribs. He stretched out a hand to you.

“Wait—”

You were too quick for him to stop, however. He watched you leave his office in a hurry, and mentally kicked himself all the while. He sighed and looked over at what you’d left behind—the damn basket of muffins. They smelled heavenly. Torturing him. 

Damn it all, he thought, until he played back the reel of what you’d said in his mind.

“Old clam?” he repeated. 

Once again, a knock on his office door disturbed his thoughts. Except this time, it was Deputy Poppernak.

He stopped short, seeing the furrowed look of confused, guilty frustration on the sheriff’s face. 

“Everything okay, boss?” 

“Fine,” Beau said, shaking his head. “What d’you got?”

Poppernak hesitated for a second, but he held up a file that he passed along. 

“Here’s everything I could dig up on the guy from the hotel shooting,” he said. 

 Good, Beau thought. A worthy distraction. 

You gave Poppernak a belated wave on your way out. You didn’t want to answer any questions or talk to anyone else. You just wanted to escape to your car, where you covered your face with your hands and tried to breathe through the tears stinging in your eyes.

Once again, you felt stupid. Your heart was racing in the worst of ways.

So you peeled out of the police station and headed home…

Or rather, you almost headed home. When you saw Dewell & Hoyt P.I. coming up on the right side of the road, you turned into the parking lot and went inside to see if your aunt was working. 

Cassie wasn’t in, but Denise and Emily were. You greeted them both with warm hugs (and you tried to hide your frustrations from the latter, especially). 

“What brought you in, hun?” Denise asked. 

“Nothing really. I was just in the area and decided to pop in,” you replied with a shrug. Denise smiled and rubbed your arm.

“Well good. Em’s actually going on a coffee run for us. You want anything?”

“No, no, I’m good,” you said. 

“You sure?” said Emily. “I can get you a banana bread or something.”

You smiled and shook your head, touching her arm in thanks. “It’s okay, honey. I just had lunch not too long ago.”

“Okay. Oh hey! Did you ask Dad about being on the podcast?” Emily asked. 

You blinked as you went blank for a moment. The last thing you wanted to do right now was see that man (even if your heart called you a liar). You narrowly kept yourself from lying to Emily as well.

“Uh, yeah, we did talk about it. He’s on board with the idea,” you said, trying to give her a smile. Maybe it didn’t reach your eyes, but Emily seemed to buy it. She smiled back in triumph.

“Yes! Okay, this is good. Now I just gotta start thinking of some questions and we’ll set a date to record the first episode,” she said, doing a little fist pump into the air. 

You tried to match her enthusiasm, but you knew you were falling short. Denise could see it too. Lucky for you, Emily ran off to get to the nearby bakery, the excitement keeping her face bright all the while. 

Denise turned to you knowingly. 

“Okay, grab a seat. I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me what’s got you looking white as a sheet,” she said.

You sighed and sat down in the lounge area—a seating of couches and a chaise. You sat on the couch while Denise took the chaise. And between mugs of jasmine tea, you told her everything that happened at the precinct when you went to visit Beau.

When you were done explaining, Denise looked contemplative and sympathetic. However, you knew there was more to that look. 

“Okay. Honey, I know you don’t want to hear this, but he’s in a complex situation right now,” she said. “Between investigating Avery, and how it’s falling back on Carla and Emily—”

“I know. He told me about that,” you said. You were worried about them too. While you didn’t know Carla all that well, your friendship with Emily meant something to you. And not just because you had some…unnamed feelings for her father. 

Your bond with Emily had started at that damned camp, and solidified the night of Mary’s murder. “Trauma bonding” was a thing for a reason. But besides that experience, you genuinely enjoyed the girl’s company, hearing her talk about her interests in school, careers she was considering after college, and even helping her explore her creative side. She was young, but she was bright and mature for her age. 

You cared about what all this was putting her through…though you finally realized that Emily might not be comfortable with the thought of “you and Beau.”

“I don’t want to upset Emily with all this either,” you admitted. “I don’t even know what she thinks of her dad possibly dating again.”

And something else you hadn’t considered. Could all this shakeup between Avery and Carla, not to mention her and Emily staying at Beau’s place now…

“God. Maybe he wants to get back together with his ex-wife,” you realized, with some small shock. 

It wasn’t inconceivable, and it had tears welling up in your eyes for a whole different reason.

"Oh, honey, you don't know that," Denise started to say. You shook your head and set down your tea.

“You know what? I’m just gonna go home,” you said, but Denise tried to keep you with gentle hands on your arms.

“Come on. You don’t have to go,” she said. 

You shook your head and eased out of her grasp. 

“Sorry. I just…it’s his choice, and if he’s already made it…” you trailed. You didn’t want to even acknowledge that your heart was fracturing. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have to respect that.”

Denise didn’t know what else to say to you. But that was just as well. 

“Tell Em I’m sorry, but I had to go,” you said. 

Denise protested, but you left Dewell & Hoyt before your tears could fall in earnest. 

When you actually got home, you were exhausted. It was a case of emotional stress weighing down your body as you forced yourself up the stairs to your second-floor apartment.

You didn’t bother changing. Instead, you grabbed a familiar book of plays from your desk and dropped yourself onto the couch. You got comfortable with Much Ado About Nothing. You hadn’t finished reading it while at the camp, and you needed to brush up on it if you were going to be mentally prepared for the coming school year.

It felt like a world away, but at least with the characters in Much Ado, you had familiar ground. In the scene you were reading, the main characters, Beatrice and Benedick, were already at each other’s throats:

BENEDICK: What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?  

BEATRICE: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence.  

BENEDICK: Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none. 

BEATRICE: A dear happiness to women. They would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

It was hard to believe that these two were supposed to fall in love. Actually, their later “epiphanies” would lead them to realize that the sniping and the arguments and the misunderstandings between them had been love all along…

But you’d come to realize that there was no “Benedick” for you in real life. Sometimes, the angry sniping wasn’t sexual tension. It was just a man who’d never truly respect you.

And sometimes, the arguments and misunderstandings were just two people in the right place at the wrong time, never quite meant to be. 

Thankfully, a knock at your door interrupted your romantic musings. 

Releasing a sigh, you set Much Ado on the glass coffee table in front of you. You got up from the couch and went to the front door, where you looked in the peephole. Your lips drew into a frown, but your disbelief had you unlocking the door before you could think better of it.

“Michael?! What are you doing here?” you asked. 

He stood there with determination set across his face.

“We really need to talk.”

AN: *Sigh.* This guy just doesn't learn, does he? And I'm not just talking about Michael.

Next Time:

“If you give me one more chance, I promise I won’t mess it up again. I’ll be the man you deserve,” Michael said, taking your hand and uncrossing your arms in the process. 

“Believe it or not, I took a week off without pay, just to be here and get a chance to say this to you: I love you. I love you. And I know now that it’s meant to be you.”

You hesitated, and even made the mistake of looking up into his eyes.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 6

Ko-Fi Me ☕

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[severallyfrassireddas]

The shuffle of memories is weak, flickering in and out. Some moments are so sharp they cut, others are barely more than impressions.

The strongest, the first to be seen, is drenched in blue and has a feeling like sticking your hand into crystal.

Lyf looks to be maybe 9 years old. They’re a scrawny kid, skinny and already starting to look exhausted. Maybe it’s the red rimming their eyes that makes them look so tired, though.

They’re sitting on a stool in front of a bathroom mirror, hair loose and falling around their face in shaggy curls. Behind them stands Elvi, a pair of scissors in hand. Her eyes are similarly red rimmed, but her face is tight, keeping the sorrow out of her gaze. She looks to be around 12, her hair trimmed short. Both of them are wearing dull green: the color of mourning.

Lyf doesn’t speak as she takes a strand of their hair and lifts the scissors. With a decisive snip, the strand falls to the floor.

They squeeze their eyes shut as she continues to cut their hair, trying to breathe slowly to keep from crying. Elvi is careful as she cuts it, making sure it’s still long enough to braid eventually.

The final cut is a fluffy bob, the curls almost hiding Lyf’s face. Elvi places the scissors down on the sink, letting out a breath. She ruffles their hair slightly, a typically playful gesture that seems to be more reassurance, now. Their face tightens, a couple tears slipping from their eyes, and hitting the floor.

Elvi crouched in front of them, just under eye level, holding out her arms. They practically fell into her, finally letting themself start to sob. She held them close, rubbing their back, and letting her own tears flow down her cheeks.

- @elviiiii-edda

Lyf watches the scene, this girl who they've never met cutting the hair of someone who looks so much like them. Whose memories are they watching now? Which Lyf's memories are they watching?

Who was lost?

Lyf finds themself wishing they could speak in these, yet they're sure they can't.

Unseen behind them is a young boy, trying his best to sort through glitchy and fading memories, trying his best to bring Lyfrassir through the memories of someone who is fading, trying his best to stabilize them.

[fuck-customers]

I caught a coworker of mine, who has been causing everyone in the department (and also upper management) all sorts of problems for literal years, using managerial permissions to commit fraud.

I wouldn't have thought to pay attention if she wasn't a shifty jerk, and I probably wouldn't have cared if her pulling stuff like this didn't frequently and consistently cause problems for myself and my other coworkers. She's tried to throw all of us under the bus for her nonsense at least once.

The issue is, nobody has been able to prove she's doing it. She invents sale prices, voids things she shouldn't, steals and scalps merchandise, gives special discounts to her friends, etc. But "nothing" could be "proven" (aka our loss prevention department never bothered because they'd rather chase down innocent shoppers who look suitably shaggy or dirty or not white, which is a whole other story).

Well. I finally managed to get proof. Photos, a date and time to check the cameras, even a reprinted receipt of the transaction with her name on it, plus pictures of the indicated merchandise to prove she more than halved the price of high–ticket items in addition to what their actual sale was.

So explain to me why the loss prevention manager is telling me that what I submitted literally does not COUNT as proof? Spending two minutes on the camera to confirm will show that it happened, AND that the customers she rang up set off the door alarm. A door that was supposed to be locked to customers at the time, that she opened specifically for them, presumably so they wouldn't get receipt–checked at our open door. It would also show all the voids she rang up that should have demanded an override, but didn't, meaning she used her own override to authorize the changes.

I'm not sure what to do besides escalate, because that employee needs to go. Everyone agrees that she does. But I'm worried that doing so will just mark me as the problem employee between the two of us. Even the managers don't care, and are letting her still work the registers.

I should quit. This isn't the first time things have been swept under the rug that should have been dealt with, in favor of harassing employees who work hard and work beyond their position's pay or parameters. But anything that's available means either a big cut in pay, or just dealing with the same issues somewhere else.

I hate working somewhere that prefers keeping mean, dishonest people happy over respecting people who don't pose an active liability to the company (fuck capitalism and all that, but it's still annoying when I get punished for stupid stuff all the time while she gets managerial responsibilities and frames people and steals)

Posted by admin Rodney

[angelic-waffles]

This is probably gonna take awhile to draw them all but early 20s By the Grace of God Jack ^^

Image description and design notes under cut

Image ID

There is a single image depicting Jack from lord of the flies older, about age 20. He is wearing a typical mod style of the late 1960s with a green turtle neck and brown leather jacket. He sports shaggy ginger hair, and strong mutton chops on the side of his face, along with glasses

Design Notes

As I already went into the time period and reasoning for making aged up versions of the kids, I won’t repeat myself for the sake of brevity. Therefore, I’m going to speak solely about character specifics

So I’m not gonna lie this is mostly based off some cool headcanons I’ve seen. I really like the idea of Jack needing glasses but resisting them like the plague. I think it’d be a sort of denial of his own perceived weakness, which is why I have him wearing them here to show him kinda just…. Getting the fuck over himself? His outfit is very much based on mod stylings and rock bands of the time because I can actually really see him perusing music as an adult, either as talent, or more likely imo as a producer. Overall, while child Jack would call adult Jack slurs, I think adult Jack is actually a lot happier :)

[hesawifebeaterdanusethegun]

Original Sin Chapter One - Honor Thy Father And Mother

“The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.” – Revelation 12:9

A cool breeze blew through the parking lot of St. Raphael the Archangel Catholic Church. It was September, and a chill was threatening to cut through the warmth of the sun in the clear blue sky. A very well-kept yellow 1980 Buick Regal pulled carefully into a reserved parking spot near the front of the church. The woman behind the wheel made sure to remember to hang the little blue placard with a stick figure in a wheelchair printed on it from her rearview mirror before opening her door and stepping out of the car. Chloe stood about 5’4”, just the slightest bit stocky, wearing ripped jeans and a flannel shirt over a faded black band t-shirt, her usual “uniform”. She was in her mid-30s at a guess, but seemed younger somehow, and not just because of how she dressed.

Chloe took off her Ray-Ban sunglasses revealing striking blue-green eyes, and hung them from the collar of her shirt, taking a deep breath and puffing her cheeks out as she exhaled before walking around to the passenger side of the car. She opened the back door, pulling out a folded wheelchair from the backseat. She set up the chair, locking the wheels in place so that it wouldn’t roll anywhere on the uneven, slightly slanted parking lot. She moved to the front door and pulled up the lever. Nothing happened. She looked through the window at her mother who sat scowling ahead while Chloe tried to get her attention by knocking on the window.

Eventually the older woman looked at her daughter. Janet had short, grey, curly hair, and wore a blue and white floral print housedress and entirely too much makeup on her aged face. Chloe had always secretly thought she looked like a circus clown as a child, but if the thought crossed her mind, she’d always been careful not to laugh, as her mother would inevitably ask her what was so funny. Chloe couldn’t lie, she’d never been able to, and she would have told her mother the truth, earning her who knows what sort of punishment, especially if her father were home and happened to overhear.

“You need to open the door,” Chloe said loudly, a little irritated. She wasn’t in the mood for her mother’s bitchy little games today. Her mother smiled and pulled up the lock on the door, allowing Chloe to swing it open. She offered an arm and her mother took it, using Chloe to steady herself as she got out of the car and hobbled the few steps to the wheelchair and sat down. Chloe’s mother had suffered a stroke a few months ago, and had had trouble getting around since, frequently falling when she attempted to do things on her own that she ought to get help for. After the third fall she’d suffered, Chloe had made up her mind to move back to her hometown from her apartment in New York City to help her parents and particularly to take care of her mother.

That had been three months ago. Chloe swung the passenger side door closed, trying not to slam it in her anger and only partially succeeding.

“You know what you’re wearing is completely inappropriate,” her mother griped at her. “I don’t know why you insist on embarrassing me every time we go out anywhere.”

“I’m wearing what I usually wear, mother, it’s fine,” Chloe told her through gritted teeth. They went through this every week.

“And you could have done something with your hair, make a little effort, dear,” continued her mother in a tone that indicated she thought she was doing Chloe a great favor by bestowing such wisdom on her. Chloe wished she could tell her to shove that wisdom up her ass. But she kept her mouth shut and nodded as her mother looked up at her from the chair, waiting for a response.

Chloe kept her hair in a dark brown shaggy pixie cut, not to make any kind of fashion statement, more because she couldn’t stand when her hair got in her way or held her up when getting ready in the morning. She’d had it cut this way since she was old enough to choose her own haircut, with very little variation. She ran her fingers through it now before putting her hands back on the handles of the wheelchair. Chloe continued pushing the chair up the sidewalk to the front doors of the church, which were propped open, saving Chloe the struggle of getting her mother to push the chair through the door on her own without making too much of a dramatic spectacle of herself. They’d been propped open every Sunday since the second week she’d brought her mother to mass, when Father Joseph had introduced himself and held open the door for them. She’d thanked him with relief on her face. The following week and every week after, regardless of the weather (it rained here quite a bit), the doors had been propped open when they got there, she suspected at the direction of Father Joseph.

She took her mother into the church, dipping two fingers into the small bowl of holy water at the door and making the sign of the cross, her mother doing the same. They took their usual spots in the back corner pew, Chloe on the end seat and her mother’s chair next to her on the deep red carpet of the aisle. Father Joseph took his place at the pulpit, delivering a sermon that Chloe admittedly barely heard a word of. She may as well have been drooling while she watched Father Joseph speak. She knew this was stupid. She was too old for stupid crushes, and on a priest no less. But she couldn’t help it. She felt a little tug inside her towards him every time they were near each other. He was about six feet tall; with short thick dark hair and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. She almost lost her breath when she first met those eyes and hadn’t stopped thinking about him since.

Father Joseph stood at the head of the church, ready to speak, but he hesitated. He scanned the crowd filling the pews quickly, his eyes flicking to the back corner of the room. She was there. He nearly sighed in relief. Father Joseph looked forward to seeing Chloe, for he’d found that was her name the Sunday morning they met, when he’d helped her and her mother through the front doors of the church. Every Sunday, their short talks after mass as the assembled parishioners were leaving the building were one of the highlights of his week. They left him in a good mood for the rest of the day.

After mass, Chloe wheeled her mother toward the front door, veering right towards the bathroom. She always had to pee after sitting for so long, she’d told her mother more than once. The real reason she stalled leaving the church wasn’t even obvious to herself, but when she stopped to use the bathroom, it gave everyone else time to leave the church, giving her Father Joseph’s undivided attention when they spoke outside the church on Chloe and her mother’s way to the parking lot.

Chloe had been thinking a lot lately about her faith and about her place in life. She needed someone she could talk to. She hoped Father Joseph could be that someone, not least because she was eager to spend more time with him. She finished in the bathroom, washing her hands and drying them with a barely absorbent paper towel that felt only a little less rough than the bark of the tree it had been made from. She crumpled the paper towel and tossed it in the trashcan on the way out of the room, shutting out the light as she went. The church wasn’t especially large, and so only had a single bathroom labeled “MEN” and another small one labeled “WOMEN” containing a toilet and a small counter against the wall surrounding a round sink basin with a mirror above it. Consequently, only two people could use the bathroom at any one time during mass, a bit of an inconvenience on major holidays when the church was especially crowded.

She took the handles of her mother’s wheelchair in hand and started to push her toward the front doors of the church, propped open as they always were. She wheeled her mother outside to find Father Joseph standing just outside, hands folded behind his back, seemingly in thought. She stopped in front of him and greeted him warmly. He took her hand in his and shook it, a wide smile spreading on his face and a warmth spreading to his cheeks at her touch. Chloe thanked him for a lovely sermon (even if she heard zero percent of it) and he thanked her sincerely. They spoke a little about the weather, neither wanting to part ways just yet. Father Joseph realized he still held her hand between his and let go, clearing his throat.

“Listen, Father, I wanted to ask you something, and I understand if you’re too busy, I’m sure you are,” she started.

“What is it, Chloe?” he asked, leaning in so that Chloe’s mother couldn’t hear them.

“Would you… I mean, would you meet me for lunch at Nat’s later today? If you have the time,” she finished quickly, nervously trying to spit out the invitation before she lost her nerve.

“I… Sure, I can do that,” he said quietly, trying to hide his elation at the prospect of seeing her again without having to wait until next Sunday, and of having some time alone with her. The relief on her face was obvious.

“How’s three?” she asked.

“Three’s perfect,” he answered with a smile.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, genuine gratitude in her face. Chloe turned to leave, sensing that her mother was getting antsy. She was honestly surprised she’d behaved herself this long, but was thankful she had. Apologizing for her mother’s behavior and words had become a part-time job in itself since Chloe had moved back home, though it hardly felt like home compared to New York. She missed the city every day.

She thought about calling her best friend Becca when she got home, after getting mom settled at her house, and making sure she had dinner prepared for her father to put into the oven when the pair got hungry. Chloe usually spent Mondays preparing easy to cook meals for her parents to defrost and put into the oven for dinner throughout the week. She came over a couple of times a week to cook something other than casseroles and pasta dishes. She’d gotten pretty good at coming up with easy-to-freeze-and-reheat meals that were actually nutritious while she’d lived on her own.

Chloe was an artist, “though not a very good one” she always told people when the subject came up, and she hated being interrupted by having to cook a meal when she was in the middle of a new project, so she’d gotten good at meal prep to prevent that irritation. If asked, Chloe would probably say that her art was “just a hobby” and leave it at that, but the truth was she’d had a decent amount of success selling her work just through word of mouth after some friends of Becca’s had bought from her, and was even featured in a gallery or two in the city (she hadn’t sold anything then, but she’d been thrilled to be there either way).

Chloe left her mother at the end of the sidewalk and walked across the parking lot alone just to get away from the constant stream of consciousness pouring out of her mouth, most of it negative and often hurtful to Chloe, though she’d grown quite a thick skin over the years of dealing with her parents. She breathed deeply and focused on the concrete beneath her as she walked across the parking lot to their spot. Not a far walk but she needed the respite. She unlocked the door and climbed into the car. She checked her mirrors and flicked the small Alf bobblehead she kept glued to the dashboard.

“You ready for her, buddy?” she asked the bobblehead. She flicked it again to make it shake its head “no”. “Yeah, me neither. Fuck it,” she said as she jammed the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot, speeding up to the curb where her mother waited, tires squealing when she braked hard in front of her. She smiled widely as she got out of the car, tuning out the loud bitching coming in a steady stream from Janet’s mouth. Lately Chloe had gotten into the strange habit (but not surprising really, given the childhood they’d given her) of calling her parents by their first names, at least in her head. She wouldn’t dare do it out loud, dreading the headache that would ensue, the lectures about disrespect, the “honor thy mother and thy father” bullshit would start, and it would just go downhill from there. Not worth the temporary satisfaction.

Chloe tried to be a good daughter, she really did. She tried so hard. But it had never been enough. She had never been enough for them. She’d called them dutifully every week like clockwork while she’d lived in New York, she’d come home for the holidays, made sure to send gifts for Father’s Day and Mother’s Day, had done everything she thought she was “supposed” to do. She loved them, she always had and always would, but she resented them. Though a bit of a lapsed Catholic, Chloe had still always somewhat believed, and had at least gone to church on the major holidays with her mother (her father never attended, he barely left the house since he’d retired). She had tried to adhere to the teachings of the church, when it came to most things anyway, but she couldn’t help how she felt, and she’d long ago given up trying to.

Chloe opened the passenger side door to the Buick and helped her mother up from her chair. Janet snatched her arm away from Chloe when she tried to help her into the car, muttering something about her being “some kind of maniac” under her breath. Chloe smirked at that and closed the door behind her, cutting off her mumbling with a mechanical clunk and a click. She opened the back door, collapsing and stowing the wheelchair between the back of the driver’s seat and the back seat where it couldn’t slide around when she inevitably took a turn too sharply for Janet’s liking, maybe accidentally, maybe not. Once it was secured, she closed the back door and walked around the back of the car to the other side, climbing into the driver’s seat and inserting the key into the ignition. A neon keychain reading “Foxy Grandma” hung from her keyring. The only other keys on the ring being the one to the house she was renting at the end of her parents’ block and a spare key to her parents' house.

Chloe drove her mother home, taking it easy on her this time, taking the corners slowly and obeying the speed limit for once. They arrived at her childhood home in about five minutes (if she hadn’t needed to drive her mother, Chloe would have walked to church every Sunday) and Chloe climbed out, admiring the shady, oak tree-lined street she and her parents both lived on. She helped her mother once again into her wheelchair, closing the doors to the Buick and wheeling her down the sidewalk to the large red front door of the house. The house was eggshell white with red trim and a red wraparound porch with a swing Chloe had spent many hours reading on as a child. She pulled out her key and let them into the house, wheeling her mother into the living room where her father sat in the dark, the only light in the room reflecting from the television, playing some black and white western or other, feet up in his La-Z-Boy recliner, beer in hand.

Chloe didn’t bother greeting him.

“Hello, Harold,” said Janet to her husband, who appeared not to hear her. After a much too long pause, he took a sip of his beer and grunted in response. Chloe wheeled her mother across the rug so that she could sit next to Harold. He was a short stout man, wearing grey chinos and a white t-shirt with red suspenders. He had house slippers on his feet and sported a thick white mustache below a bulbous red nose and bald pate.

“I’ll go get dinner in the oven, okay, mom?” asked Chloe. Her mother nodded, looking up at her with a grateful smile.

“Thank you, dear. You take such good care of us,” her mother answered, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Chloe had learned to take her mother’s rare good moods in stride, though they threatened to cause whiplash at times, and just enjoyed the ride until her regular sour disposition showed itself once again. Chloe smiled down at her mother, a smile she hoped looked more genuine than it felt, and left the room to make her way down the hall from the large, high-ceilinged living room to the even larger kitchen (though her mother had always been a terrible cook, half the time during her childhood Chloe was afraid whatever concoction her mother served her for dinner might get up and walk across the table to escape being eaten, it often looked so alien). She looked at her reflection in the stainless-steel surface of the restaurant sized refrigerator for a moment, making a face and sticking her tongue out at herself before opening the door and looking inside.

She found what she was looking for after a minute of searching through the cavernous fucking fridge that for some reason her parents thought they, two elderly people who barely ate, needed. She pulled the casserole off the center shelf of the fridge and kicked the door shut on her way across the room to the convection oven, turning it on to heat up and waiting the few minutes it took before putting the pan inside and setting the timer that sat on top of the oven. Chloe walked back down the hall to the living room and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, telling her father that dinner would be done when the buzzer in the kitchen went off. He grunted again to show he heard her, not looking away from the television. Chloe turned on a couple of lights in the room on her way out of the house so her mother could read while Harold lost himself in a John Wayne marathon on TNT.

She left through the front door of the house, letting herself out quietly, closing the door behind her and making sure it was locked. She put her hands in her pockets as she walked down the sidewalk to her car. She got in and drove to the end of the block, parking in her driveway (she used the garage as an art studio, and so parked the Buick outside under a large carport to protect it from the weather, and from falling acorns). She got out of her car and walked to her own front door, hers painted a bright blue with white accents, the rest of the house matching, white siding with blue windows and shutters and a deep blue-grey shingled roof. Chloe let herself in with a sigh and put her bag down next to the door beneath the coat rack. She went to the kitchen and took a seat at the kitchen island on one of the dark polished wooden stools that surrounded it.

She reached across to the wall behind her and grabbed the cordless phone from its cradle, dialing Becca’s number. Becca answered after three rings.

“Hello?” Becca asked into the phone after a second of silence.

“Hey, it’s me,” said Chloe, knowing Becca would recognize her voice.

“Hey, bitch what are you up to?” Becca greeted her with the usual grace she saved only for her closest friends. “You enjoying the night life out there in Bumfuck, Nowhere?” she laughed.

“What are you doing tonight? I have to live vicariously through you because there is nothing to do in this town, I swear everyone’s dead after eight p.m.”

“Going to a show,” said Becca.

“What show?” asked Chloe suspiciously. Becca sounded cagey. Becca coughed something into the phone that vaguely sounded like a human language, though which one Chloe could only guess at.

“What show, Becca?” asked Chloe again.

“The Fisted Nuns,” said Becca louder, this time clear enough to understand.

“WHAT THE FUCK BEC?” asked Chloe loudly. “Why the fuck are you going to see my ex’s band?”

“I didn’t know they were playing until after I bought the tickets, we wanted to see Sludge Enema and Pierced Foreskin was supposed to open but they had to drop out at the last minute! I literally had no idea, I swear Chlo!”

“Just please don’t talk to him, okay? Don’t tell him anything about me, okay? I really don’t need another headache to deal with here,” said Chloe.

“I won’t, I swear, I probably won’t even see him because Cam and Derek aren’t meeting me for drinks until seven and—

“Bec, I have to go, I have a meeting with somebody,” Chloe interrupted her. Knowing Becca, that was ramping up to be the longest story ever told in one long, run-on sentence.

“Who do you have a meeting with? Is this a date? Did you meet a guy down there?” asked Becca, curiosity and a bit of teasing in her voice. “What’s he like? Better than the last one, I hope. Not another drummer at least, right? Is he tall? I bet he’s tall. Where did you—

“BEC I HAVE TO GO I’ll call you later, I promise, okay?”

“Okay but you better be ready to spill, bitch, I’ll be home until seven,” said Becca.

“I thought you said Derek and Cam were meeting you at the bar at seven?”

“Always keep ‘em waiting, Chlo,” said Becca, laughing. Chloe laughed too.

“Kay, bye,” she said into the receiver.

“Kisses,” said Becca, hanging up with a click.

Chloe looked at her watch and realized she’d stayed on the phone with Becca too long and she was about to keep Father Joseph waiting unless she forewent a shower, so she ran upstairs, washed her face and threw on some eyeliner before heading out the door. It was a nice day so she decided to walk, Nat’s Diner wasn’t that far from her house, and she could make it in time since she’d decided to shower after she got home. It was getting a little colder and some clouds were starting to creep in at the edges of the sky, occasionally blotting out the warm early autumn sun. She pulled her flannel shirt a little tighter and thought about how she should have brought an umbrella, but it was too late to go back and still be on time to the diner.

Chloe made it to the corner unmolested by any neighbors, a frequent occurrence when she decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to get some air and do some thinking. The parents of the neighborhood kids she grew up with always recognized her and wanted to catch up as if she had been close to any of their children. Chloe had been a loner growing up and still kept her friend circle small now that she was older. She’d occasionally played with the other kids, but eventually she’d been labeled the “weird” girl and thus, untouchable, by the time they’d reached high school. That had been fine with Chloe, as far as she was concerned, she didn’t belong with any of these people anyway, and why should a round peg try to fit into a square hole? She was content doing her own thing and being left alone.

Then her father had decided to retire when she graduated high school and leave her the concrete business, Harold’s, with the caveat that she not change the name, her father didn’t want a “girl’s name” taking over his business’ title too. The business essentially ran itself, and had only grown since she’d become the owner, making sure that her employees were paid and treated extremely well, with full benefits paid by the company, a pension plan, paid vacation and parental leave. Those were her demands for the business; beyond that, she left the running of day-to-day operations to Robert, the man that her father had always wished were his son, and who he had trained to take his place in all but ownership of the business, which went to Chloe. She’d heard the fight her parents had had over that decision from her bedroom. Her mother tearfully telling her father that if he left his business to a stranger over his own daughter, she would leave him. He’d hit her that night for the first and last time, but he’d also changed his mind and decided that it was only right that his blood inherited the business, even if she wasn’t the right gender.

As soon as the ink was dry on the paperwork she had everything she needed packed into a duffel bag and was on a bus to New York City. She found a cheap apartment until the business had the opportunity to start garnering her a steady income (which turned out to be much more than she’d expected) at which point she rented a larger apartment with a much better view, in Gramercy Park, near Union Square. That’s where she’d met Becca, who lived in the same pre-war building, a floor below her. They met several times on the elevator and had eventually struck up a conversation. They found they got along quite well, and Becca started inviting Chloe to concerts and parties. The two had been best friends ever since, over 15 years.

Becca wrote for fashion magazines, mainly doing freelance work that allowed her almost as much freedom in her everyday life as Chloe had. Though Chloe enjoyed and needed quiet time at home, she loved the experiences she got hanging out with Becca, who was knee-deep in the goth and punk scenes of the city, meeting members of bands she’d never heard of and likely never would again, learning names like Spike, and Iggy Ooze, and even one guy who, I shit you not, went by “Snake”.

Chloe was in the middle of her reverie, barely looking where she was going, when she found herself standing outside Nat’s Diner. She checked her watch. She was a few minutes early and couldn’t see Father Joseph inside waiting for her, so that was good. She went inside to escape the nip in the air and sat at the booth in the far back next to the window, enjoying the afternoon rays of sun shining through the glass whenever the clouds allowed it to peek through. The server, a middle-aged curly-haired woman named Mel, approached the table, and took Chloe’s drink order, a black coffee.

She settled herself in the booth, both hands wrapped around the cup of coffee Mel had brought her, occasionally sipping the rich black liquid that warmed her from the inside as she waited for Father Joseph to show up.

Tag List:

@barrettfilms @magicovento @amaliazeichnerin @theodoesitagain @endofradio @maxwellendowed @hellsangelbaby @icecoffeekisses @dopewitchtrash @astrangegirlsmind @daniirosie @xenalistair @rachaeljurassic @monstergifpacks @wolvenjay @maria-allegra @moonlight-fern @rainstorms-library @chocolate-starfish-wtf @sportsmusicsoapsmoviesfan

My writing master post (Father Joseph is at the bottom):