#HOW do you look up 'ill-fitting jeans' references

[sisterdragonwithfeathers]

HOW am i meant to find photo reference for my stupid underfed old sweatshirt too-short jeans currently living his sad backstory 17-year old looser boy? What are the search terms for this?

[sunlightandsuffering]

https://www.tumblr.com/sunlightandsuffering/755548925701799936/httpswwwtumblrcomsunlightandsuffering7555088?source=share

bye i forgot to anon, anyway, OH LYS WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME *AGGRESSIVE CACKLING NOISES* NOW IM IMAGINING THE EVENTS AFTER THAT LMAO i went to the comment section bc yes i read it again as well, and everyone's just fanning the flames (IN HELL!!! SEE YOU ALL THERE) and contributing to the encounter's aftermath 😭😭

tumblr over other active socmeds, very understandable tbh i love how unhinged it is here and likee the users' interactions are more ✨ interesting ✨ here than the other sites ikyk

IT'S OKAY I LOVE U SO IT'S FINE, I DO ENJOY MEETING FELLOW TUMBLR USERS !!! ILL STEAL U FOR MY FEED !!! omg i have to go and look back at the comments, they'll egg me on but BC OF U !! I actually just started writing a little silliness LMFAO !! We are unhinged tho, like where else would i casually write about a crazy church goer and corrupt cop but tumblr and AO3? THE CHAOS IS IMMINENT

Does Eren feel great about corrupting the local church’s youth group leader and shining example of chastity? No, not really, in fact, his mother would probably murder him for it if she ever found out. 

But in the meantime, he’s sure stories of his ‘new girlfriend’ and possible marriage prospect will mollify her.

Or at least he hopes so, but regardless, that is the least of Eren’s problems. His biggest problem is the pain in the ass cadet he’s been assigned as a partner for the last week and a half of Armin’s paternity leave and said local churchgoing sweetheart’s ex-boyfriend. All in all, Eren has embroiled himself in a plot quite fitting for the church. He can see the headline now, ‘Local Cop Seduces Innocent Church Girl, Leaves Hopeful Cadet Destitute’.

“I hate him,” Jean is muttering darkly from Armin’s desk across from him, fidgeting with his pen in agitation. If only Jean knew that Eren is the ‘him’ he’s referring to. Instead, he’s simply been subjected to a singular break up text, and several quotes about the bible and forgiveness splashed across Mikasa’s instagram story. 

If Eren weren’t in the middle of it he’d find the entire plot amusing, but he doesn’t want Jean to become more irritating than he already is. 

The rhythmic click, click, click of Jean’s pen clicking is what finally sets Eren over the edge. “Leave your personal shit at home, Kirstchein, we have a job to do and that paperwork isn’t going to complete itself.” Jean looks like a kicked puppy as he turns back towards his paperwork, appropriately chastised by his superior, and for a split second Eren almost feels bad for the man. 

But then Mikasa sends him a nude, and he doesn’t feel so bad for the asshole anymore.

[dalusional]

Ill Be The Last To Know.

Dallas Winston x Fem Reader

Angst!!

Warnings: Arguing, Mature Language, Toxic Relationship.. ( i think that’s it? )

Description: Dallas and Daisy are in a relationship where all issues are never brought into discussion. Between Dallys toxic behavior and Daisys limited communication skills, their relationship can only go on for so long.

( based on the song Say Yes by Elliot Smith 🩷)

I sighed and sat on the living room sofa. The clock just rung half past 2, where could he be? It wasn’t unusual for Dallas to break his promises, it also wasnt unusual for him to break my heart. We were supposed to have a cozy night in, consisting of cuddles and binging movies with small chats about anything and everything. Surprise, surprise- he didn’t show. My heart shattered at the thought of what he could be doing at the moment besides sheltering me in his arms. Was he with another woman? Was he in a bar fight? Or worse, was he laying somewhere in an alley waiting for help? I shivered at that thought. Even if I had a good day with Dallas Winston it was always as if I had to pay it forward with another heart break. A happy day then you pay. Tears started to stream down my face, I couldnt take it anymore. I loved Dallas Winston no matter the circumstances, and I knew Dally loved me too, he just never could love me how I loved him. My heart skipped a beat as I heard the front door swing open, breaking my train of thought. There he stood right infront of me, Dallas Winston.

“Hey doll, what’re you still up for?” His oblivious chuckle at the end was how I knew tonight wouldn’t be like any of the others. How could he be so blunt about the situation? I stood up infront of him, trying to mask the large lump now present in my throat. A person can only take so much of what they’re served.

“I’m up because Im waiting for you?!” I said as if it should’ve been obvious the reason I was waiting. It should’ve been. The hint of anger lingering in my words only made him throw a smirk on that handsome face of his. I hated it. I could see confusion fill his face under that smirk of his, as if he was trying to remember what I was referring to. I gave him a look inferring “we had plans” making him nod with his mouth forming into an O shape.

“Well, how sweet of ya doll.” He came to put his arms around me and for the first time I denied him. I denied him what he wanted, and nobody said no to Dallas Winston ever. It was an unspoken rule, nobody questioned it. Dallas Winston always got what he wanted.

He frowned at my actions and raised his brow. “Somethin buggin you sweet cheeks?”

“We need to talk Dal.” I said trying to keep my cold aura.

He kept quiet, obviously waiting for me to continue. I gulped down my nervousness and spoke. “We had plans Dal, and like before you turned them down. For what, or for who?! Don’t say you forgot, that’s all I ever hear from you and i’m sick of it! Making love won’t fix this, Ill still end up feeling like shit in the mornin!”

I was shocked with myself and I could tell he was to. I was never the type to raise my voice. Dallas shoved his fists into the pockets of his fitted jean jacket, huffing down his anger. I shivered at the thought of what could come next.

“I honestly did forget. Believe me doll. Y’know I love you, y’know I do. I ain’t in the mood for this. Now come here and give me some love.” He practically scoffed out the last sentence making me tense. As if he didn’t care about my obvious state of stress. After that i felt changed around, and instead of falling down into his sick aura I stood my ground.

“You really don’t care do ya? You barely listened to what I said? Don’t you get it? I can’t do this anymore!” I practically screamed at him causing him to widen his eyes. He looked around the room in disbelief, baffled even. He looked as if he hadn’t seen this day coming. He let out a sharp breathe as if someone punched him in the gut. I failed to realize at this moment I really hit Dallas hard.. in his heart- as if anyone were to believe that’s possible- in this moment it became clear that it was.

“Doll..” He let out in somewhat a whisper. “I.. I know you don’t mean that.”

“I do Dallas. I mean every word of it!!”

“Stop calling me that! What’s wrong in your head tonight Daisy!?”

He never called me by my name. “You! The thought of you in my head is wrong!” I screamed. Every word that escaped my lips hit him in the chest like bullets, each one killing him slowly. “I don’t deserve this Dallas and you being as straight forward as you are should know that! You treat me like shit! I don’t deserve to always be worried about you every night because you turn me down! I don’t deserve to be thrown to the side under all your other shitty decisions! This relationship is only stable because of me! This situation is fucked up!”

By this time tears were streaming down my face and my tone was cracked. I hugged myself in attempt to keep stable, but him and I both knew I wouldn’t be able too.

Dallas clenched his fists and jaw in order to prevent saying or maybe even doing something he’d regret in a short while. His breath hitched, and I watched as he turned to the wall next to him, expecting for him to punch a hole- he instead slammed his hand against it sighing roughly. His breath sounded shaky, was he about to cry?

The room fell silent besides the sounds of my quivering sobs and Dallases short breaths. After what seemed like an eternity, he turned to me, eyes red and cheeks flushed.

“Daisy.” He said in a horrid attempt to sound tuff. “I need you baby. I need you. You can’t leave me man.. I..” He looked down and leaned his head against the wall softly. “Situations get fucked up, get turned around sooner or later yknow? You’re the strongest gal I know doll, you and I are stronger than this..” That’s when for the first time, I may have even been the first person to witness it, Dallas Winston cried. His hard sobs echoed through the room, ringing through my ears like a nearby gunshot. I thought and reflected on what he said. That’s when I realized this was all a huge mistake.

“You’re right Dal.” I said with no emotion behind my words. Dallas turned to me with bloodshot eyes and a quivering lip. I knew what he wanted, I knew what he expected. I knew Dallas Winston to well.

“I could stay here and be a fool, an exception to your rule and feel like shit the morning after. The way you treat me will never come to rest. I’m damaged by you, bad at best. You’re saying we can overcome this Dallas but you’ve said that before. In the end, you’ll decide what you want and you know what’s sad Dal? I’ll probably be the last to know, like I always have been. So you’re right, I am a strong girl Dal, strong enough to leave you.”

The room fell silent and Dallases jaw was agap as if he just saw a ghost. He turned around slowly as his back slid down the wall. One last tear streamed down my cheek as I watched him.

It was as if Dallases life had flashed before his eyes. Did he really care for me the whole time? Maybe he just didn’t know how to show it? I don’t know, maybe it was a new feeling to him. It was as if the impulsive, troublemaking, confused, but ultimately loving Dallas Winston had gone, just his body was left.

“So this is what you get huh? This is what loves all about right?” He said staring into the distance, his voice cracking and words trembling against his lips. This was it, Dallas Winston finally had understood. Dallas Winston finally understood that day what it really takes to love a person, what it really takes to last in nature. Unlike everything else Dallas had committed to, he didn’t play it cool, brushing off all threats with “i got it man.” Instead he sat there, trembling in his own fear- fear of the end. “Caring for a person so much..” He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing at the thought of the words leaving his mouth. As if someone was beating the words out of him, he finally finished. “that it kills you.”

“And finally you’ve felt it.” I said solemnly. “Felt it to late.”

requests excepted in the comments 💓

[tumblerhearamber]

The biggest us news Guide to Smart Fashion

 

Over the past year and a half, we have had the good fortune of not having to Fashion out of our comfort zone as much. Thank you very much, sweatshirts and biggest us news   leggings have worked just fine. But now that things are getting back to normal, you might have noticed that your usual corporate pieces are a little... dull? Unappealing? Ill-fitting? Thankfully, there is a way to maintain style while remaining comfortable (yes, our mothers knew this all along).

We turned to Jacqui Stafford, author of The Wow Factor:, for advice on our post-COVID clothing journey. Insider Style Secrets for Every Body and Every Budget, also known as "the style bible," will provide us with her recommendations for the smartest investment pieces that you should have in your wardrobe both now and in the future.

The Lazy Girl's Style Guide According

Stafford, the majority of the smart fashion  we only wear 20% of our wardrobe. There are two essential considerations to make when creating a wardrobe that is both simple and timeless: flexibility and biggest us news  endurance You can wear the same outfit to brunch with your girlfriends and business meetings in the afternoon. So, how do you stock your closet with simple and timeless items? Stafford says that the biggest us news  majority of your clothes should be things you can wear for a long time. She lists ten essential items that every woman requires:

Denim jacket 

Crewneck cardigan

Crewneck T-shirts (in every color)

Classic leather handbag 

Scarves

Straight, ankle-length cigarette jeans (no rips!)

Classic wrap dress

Knit dresses (anything with a stretch)

Ballet flats

Knit dresses (anything with stretch) Ballet flats 3 Pay Attention to the Fabric The polyester—or, er, silk—is the proof. The biggest us news  straightforward fact is that superior fabrics last longer. Unfortunately, when we shop for clothes, we tend to overlook the quality of the biggest us news  fabric because we are so focused on color, cut, and style. What's the deal? A higher percentage of natural fabrics can be found on the tags. We're referring to wool, cotton, silk, linen, and any other fabric that your great-grandmother would have recognized.

According to Stafford, "better fabrics wash better, last longer, and hang better on your body." They can typically be kept for decades. Pima cotton, for instance, is wrinkle-resistant and softer than conventional cotton due to its longer fibers. Try to use at least 70% cotton, but be careful not to shrink it!).

Additionally, cashmere is a smart fabric that is breathable and self-regulating to the body's temperature. Cashmere is a fabric that can be worn all year round, contrary to popular belief. No, you probably wouldn't be able to wear it in 90-degree weather. However, Stafford suggests choosing finer-gauge cashmere for the winter and lower-gauge cashmere for the warmer months. And if you're looking for linen, don't worry if it has creases and wrinkles because that's how it should look!

Pay Attention to Fabric

 True style is not determined by pricey brand names or whether or not an outfit is "on trend" (which, let's be honest, is frequently a trap for spending more on items that will only last a short time). Instead, having clothes that make you feel at ease is true style. We look good when we feel good. also in reverse. We have observed a shift toward a more casual dress code in the corporate landscape all over the biggest us news country. However, be careful: casual does not necessarily imply sloppy. "The shift now has gone into more luxurious, comfortable fabrics, embracing all the biggest us news  technology in fabric," states Stafford. For instance, look for jeans with 5% elastane for more stretch when shopping for jeans. This way, you won't have to give up comfort to look fashionable.

Put Comfort First

Our wardrobe ought to exert the same amount of effort for us as it does for it. Although neutrals are typically considered to be a safe approach to style color palettes, these more muted hues also have a propensity to make us feel drab. Colors are a great way to keep things interesting and new in your closet. "When you wear color, it gives your skin that luminosity, brightness, and vibrancy," says Srafford. In the age of Zoom meetings, we have definitely noticed this. According to Strafford, "when you're dressing, think about embracing colorful pieces, especially on the top half, which just give your skin more vibrancy."

Have A Good Tailor

Good-fitting clothes make you look better. Although it may sound obvious, no two bodies are the same biggest us news  much to the dismay of fashion designers. A skirt that is a size 10 won't look the same on everyone who is a size 10. Because of this, having a reliable tailor is pretty much priceless. Even if you don't have a lot of money, a good tailor can turn something simple into something that looks like couture. Stafford asserts, "It's worth it to make small adjustments, not big ones that cost a lot of money, but ones that are easy to make and make something fit perfectly."

[beigehearts]

The Price of Self Respect

this is part one of a series of yandere chrollo x fem!reader. this story will contain explicit content. Warnings at the beginning of the chapter. Please send me requests if you wish to for hxh characters and scenarios! ���

PART I Read part two here!  CW: mentions of death, murder, and gore 1,730 words

____________________________________________

It had been many days since you had received an assignment as a hunter. At this point you would have taken a request to open a pickle jar. You had an agent who sourced your jobs through to you that way no one could know your identity. Your agent barely knows your identity outside of your phone number. While you are no where near as infamous as the Zoldyck Family- you definitely are not unknown. “The Creator” is what most people would refer to you as- quite fitting for your ability. Specialists are not as scarce as people make them out to be; a specialist who utilizes their ability as best as they can is scarce. You conjure a pencil, and you can draw anything into existence. Your nen concentrates in your hand and you can create life (or at least a husk of life). Drawing animals or weapons, even humans (who aren’t quite sentient) earned you your high respect as a hunter.

You gaze out of the window at the quiet streets of a city you’ve never travelled to. While the hotel is large and towers over the town, it is probably the biggest building for miles. Bzzzz. You turn towards your bed and see your phone screen is lit up. Picking up the phone you see a single message from the only saved number on your phone.  York New. 14:00. 1278 Pearl Street. G Watanabe- Room 207.  You scroll down to see the status of the person. Alive. Wanted Dead. 7 Days. Employer ---

A smile graced your lips knowing that you finally have a job. While town hopping and sight seeing for the past few weeks was a nice rst, you can’t just halt your income. You enjoy your job anyway so the money is a bonus. Ill pack in the morning you think to yourself, once you land in York New you may have some extra time to research your target. 

The plane ride was smooth and quite comforting- you paid for first class. While you could use your hunter card to be priority seating, it leaves a trace of where you’ve been. Plus, you’ll be getting paid soon enough and the 12 hour plane ride in first class would be nothing compared to the fat check that would be wired to your account. Murder is expensive you know. 

Stepping out of the taxi, the driver gets out and opens the trunk for you. You grab your one small backpack filled with nothing but snacks- drawn snacks are not particularly tasty. Just because you can create it doesn’t mean it’s true to the real deal. You jog towards the doors, fat rain drops assaulting you meanwhile. You get your room key under for the room you reserved under an alias and make your way to the elevator. You press the button to go up and when the elevator reaches your floor it sounds a satisfying ‘ding’ and the doors open almost soundlessly. You stepped into the confined space and to your surprise a man steps in with you. You hadn’t even sensed him nearby, it seemed as if he just popped into reality. 

He’s tall, is the first thing you think when you look at him. Not necessarily tall as in feet wise (though he definitely had quite a few inches on you) but his aura and the way he carried himself made it seem as if he towered you. The corner of his lips turn upwards and suddenly he doesn’t seem so intimidating. It’s as if he was dragged back down to earth. 

“Good morning, awful weather it seems.” The man says with a chuckle. You take a moment to drink in all of him. His black hair is somewhat messy, a middle part with water dripping down a few strands. A bandage is wrapped around his forehead and you wonder if it’s an injury or a fashion statement. A large fur coat cover most of his body, you’re only able to capture a glimpse of a white button up shirt at his neck. 

“Terrible. My flight almost had an emergency landing.” You groan, recalling your annoyance when the captain announced this over the speakers.

“Ah so you just got in today? I got into York New about a week ago. What are you here for?” 

Your eyes travel to his and you notice that they’re unusually large while seeming to only make him more attractive. “I’m on a work trip, though I shouldn’t be here long.”  His lips stretch a little further into something of a grin, “What a coincidence, I’m here on business as well.” 

The elevator dings and you give a quick goodbye, not necessarily because you didn’t like talking to him but because you wanted to take a nice warm shower. You sashay out of the elevator, and the back of your neck tingles, you can tell that his eyes are boring into your back.

You drop your bag onto your bed and wander over to the mirror. Looking at you in the mirror is yourself. Though you never seem to recognize this person as you. You pose in different angles but can’t find one that makes you like yourself. You grab the chub of your stomach and groan hopelessly. A world renown hunter who has killed the unkillable is staring at herself in the mirror and grimacing. You remind yourself that you’re one of the strongest specialists out there and you shouldn’t be critiquing yourself. 

A day passed and your deadline is growing nearer. You draw your outfit for the day, and put on the jeans, hoodie, and heels that were super comfortable thanks to your nen. An assassin has to look good as well as kill. Your rented car waits for you in the hotel garage and when you finally make your way down there, you do a onceover of the car. There are no signs of foul play, tracking, or marking so you hop into the drivers seat comfortably. Once the car is started your phone buzzes. 

+ $2000 to your account message attached: get his pass for the auction and send it to client

You nod to yourself, you had completely forgotten about the auction. Of course you were supposed to kill a member of the mafia during the auction. How could you not have made that connection. While you are intelligent, you wouldn’t say you’re smart. Once you arrive at the hotel your target is staying at, you book a room despite the fact you will not be using it for long. In the hotel room you draw a dress that makes you look like a model, all you need is to look good and your nen for this mission, this goes for most missions.

Each minute on the clock seems to last hours, you need to leave at 01:30, in order to complete your mission at 2. This is the part you hate the most, laying on the hotel bed listening to the clock tick and tick and tick. It feels almost like the clock is mocking you, and sometimes you want to just break it. Though despite this you lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, counting down every minute until the clock strikes 1:30. 

The last mocking tick sound rings and you get up quickly. Walking confidently out of the room and down the large and foolishly elegant hall. You make your way to the elevators where you had a run in with that man and go down to the second floor seeing as you were residing on the fourteenth. The second floor was reserved for the mafia only, many families used this hotel to be near the auction. 

The elevator opens up and you examine the hall. It is much different than the one where your room is. Lights are dimmer and the color pallet of the hall was that of red and black where as yours was blue and white. You step out onto the marble floors and your heels click against the cold surface. Something’s not right. Something is very wrong, very out of place. You can smell it. The smell of blood. 

207 is closer to the end of the hallway than it is to the elevators. The lights are completely off at the end of the hallway as well. With each step towards the room of your target the lights get dimmer until there is no light. You halt and look at the room with gold numbers on it stating ‘207′. The door is cracked and you approach it cautiously. You push the door open and see your target laying on the ground in hundreds of pieces, it’s a bloody mess.

A man stands in front of the window that is the entire wall, his form dark. Now the only sound present is that of the rain pounding against the glass of the window. He turns towards you, and you quickly recognize the large fur jacket. It’s the man from the elevator, his coat is open and he’s shirtless, but covered in blood. His forehead is uncovered by the bandage that was on him previously, revealing a purple cross. His demeanor is still friendly and inviting but something is different about his eyes. 

He smiles and for some reason you feel drawn to him, so you take a step forward. “I’ve been waiting y/n.” 

You swallow any sense of fear you have and nod, “Oh you have?” 

“Of course, I thought I would make your job easier for you.” He chuckles just like he did in the elevator, as if he didn’t just commit an atrocity. But who are you to judge? “Don’t worry, I’ll still be paying you every jenny of what was promised.” 

Your head cocks to the side “So you’re my client?” He nods in response. 

“And I got his pass to the auction so I would say you did a pretty good job of completing your mission.” He waves the pass at you as proof. 

“Can I have the pleasure of knowing your name since you know mine?” You question.

He nods again, “Chrollo is my name. You were commissioned by the spiders.” 

The spiders... It quickly clicks in your head. The phantom troupe. Which means, in front of you stands the leader of the Phantom Troupe.

“It’s nice to meet you Chrollo.” 

[transgenderteensurvivalguide]

Hi, I'm a parent of a 14yr old who says he is a transmale. After reading the vocabulary list, is there a difference between transmasculine and transgender male? He has not transition yet but I'm trying to learn/do what I can to support his journey. Thank you and please accept my apology if I didn't use the correct descriptive words.

Lee says:

The difference is like the squares and rectangles thing!

All squares are rectangles, so all trans men fall under the transmasculine umbrella, but not all rectangles are squares, so not all transmasculine people identify as men.

Transmasculine is a term used to describe trans people who were assigned female at birth and identify with masculinity to a greater extent than with femininity in some way.

Being transmasculine doesn’t mean that you actually identify as a man, it just means you’re A) masculine-leaning, B) transgender, and C) assigned female at birth.

Personally speaking, I identify as transmasculine because my gender expression and medical transition is bringing me in a direction society sees as masculine.

I also am medically transitioning to a body that people see as more masculine- I’m on testosterone, I’ve gotten top surgery, I’ve had a hysterectomy, and I’m scheduled for phalloplasty in the spring.

In terms of my gender expression, I usually have short hair, I’m growing a patchy quarantine beard, I wear men’s clothing, etc. But saying I have a “masculine” gender expression is an interesting thing because it depends on your point of view. Compared to my pre-transition gender expression I come across as much more masculine now, but compared to gender-conforming cisgender heterosexual men, I do not come across as masculine at all! People often assume I’m a gay man because I am gender non-conforming in some ways, like I have effeminate mannerisms and while I only wear men’s clothes I wear super skinny jeans and the like, so when I’m in a group of men they often think I am feminine, and therefore I must be gay because #sterotypes be like that.

So I use the term transmasculine because it can be helpful in describing what my transition is, like where I’m coming from and where I’m going to, even though I’m not stereotypically Masculine™.

Despite my masculine-esque appearance and transition, I actually identify as genderqueer and non-binary and I feel that my gender itself is neutral and not particularly masculine or feminine. 

I don’t understand what it means to “feel like” a boy/man, I don’t use masculine-coded words to refer to myself and prefer gender-neutral language, and I had a choice between being in a men’s group or space and a gender neutral group or space I’d always choose the gender neutral one. 

I’ve just always known that I would be happier in a more stereotypically “male” body and being in my pre-transition body was increasingly distressing after puberty. Some people who have similar feelings as I do might choose to identify as a trans man, but I’ve just never felt the need to do so.

So even though I identify with masculinity and would consider myself transmasculine, I don’t consider myself a trans male, and that’s how someone can be transmasculine but not a trans man!

Transmasculine is the umbrella term that covers both binary transgender men like your son and non-binary people like me who choose to transition in a masculine way.

In your son’s case, it seems likely that he is both transmasculine and a transgender male. He’d be transmasculine because he likely is transitioning (or wants to transition) in a masculine way and/or identifies with masculinity or male-ness more than femininity or female-ness, and he’d be a transgender man because he knows he is a man despite the gender he was assigned at birth.

So it’s possible to be transmasculine and a trans man.

That being said, there’s a bunch of different terms that people use within the community and which term someone uses depends on the context and what they’re comfortable.

Some trans men may not be particularly attached to the word transmasculine  as a self-identifier even though it’s a label they could choose to claim because they feel like it’s redundant or not necessary because saying they’re a trans man already conveys the same information that transmasculine does.

Transmasculine is a useful term for describing the overlap between the section of the trans male and AFAB non-binary community, but it doesn’t describe all AFAB non-binary people either, as some may identify as a trans neutral or eschew a broader umbrella altogether. 

So transmasculine doesn’t mean the same thing as assigned female at birth, and not all transgender people who were AFAB are also transmasculine.

Anyhow, being knowledgeable about the various self-identity terms people may use and how the various umbrella terms fit together is definitely a cool thing to do in supporting him, but I don’t really think it’s the most important thing! I’ll be honest, there’s a lot of terms out there that even I don’t know, especially specific microlabels for gender identities, and different people define and apply the same terms in different ways. But messing up on terms matters to some people more than others, so it is good to get an idea of the commonly used terms to avoid misunderstandings and hurt feelings.

In general, the most important thing you can do to support his journey is listen to him about what he needs and make sure you’re approachable so he knows that you will listen to him.

Now for some advice that you didn’t ask for! I just can’t help myself, so here we go.

I’d personally recommend looking into trans-competent mental health providers in your area. This is useful for a couple of reasons, the first being that pre-transition trans people often have depression because they struggle with being misgendered, incidents of transphobia, dysphoria about their bodies, being rejected and not accepted by peers/relatives/teachers, and so on, which is a lot to add on top of the usual stress from high school! And therapy can be helpful in finding strategies to cope with gender dysphoria.

Additionally, medical providers and insurance companies who follow the WPATH-SOC will require a letter from a psychologist saying that the person is ready to take [insert relevant medical transitioning step] so seeing a therapist is often the first step towards a medical transition, and at age 14 he might be interested in starting puberty blockers until he’s able to go on testosterone. Or he might want to start testosterone right away, or do neither, but having a therapist and getting diagnosed with gender dysphoria can help get through the gatekeeping process that may be present in medical transitioning if that is the path he decides he want to take.

But be careful of how you bring this up- you really don’t want it to come across as you saying “you’re trans so you’re mentally ill and you need therapy,” because the fear of conversion therapy means if you don’t make it clear why you’re suggesting therapy he might be hearing the completely different message of “you need therapy so you can stop being trans and get better” which is not your intent at all.

Every step makes your child’s life better- I legally changed my name at 17, which was hard for my parents to allow because obviously they were attached to the name they had given me at birth, but it made a big difference in my mental health. And the earlier people transition the easier it is for them.

It might also be helpful to offer to buy him men’s clothing and underwear and shoes and men’s deodorant and all that if he only has women’s things right now. He might be between the boy’s and the men’s sizes for clothes, but most folks can find something they can fit into.

You might also want to offer to buy him a safe binder from a reputable binder company. Binding unsafely can have risks, and if he can’t get a safe binder he might choose to bind unsafely with a cheap and dangerous binder or ace bandages or duct tape and so on, or bind for too long because he has to hide it and can’t get away to change out of it.

Buying a packer is another thing that he might want, but of course, with all of these things you also shouldn’t make assumptions about what your son will want or need. 

For example, some trans men may not medically transition and/or may not aim for an masculine gender expression because gender expression and genitals are different than gender identity. So even if he doesn’t want to go on testosterone, or decides to wear a dress sometimes or doesn’t pack, it doesn’t mean that he’s not trans.

You don’t want him to think that you’re saying that he should want these things or need them to be valid, or feel like you’re pressuring him into taking steps that he’s not ready for in his transition. But if you don’t bring up the topic at all, he might be too anxious to tell you about it because he’s worried about what you might think.

I do emphasize that being trans is rarely a phase, detransitioning is not common, trans people know who we are and we know our genders and you should trust our word on that and so on, but I think sometimes people push the “it’s not a phase!!!!” message so hard that they don’t leave any wiggle room for people who are still questioning and coming to terms with their identity. 

Especially at the start of someone’s journey we need to be open to some level of uncertainty and change. The only person who knows what someone’s gender identity is the person whose gender it is. It’s very important to take your son at his word! But figuring out your identity can be a process, so be understanding if he switches names, pronouns, or gender labels a few times while he’s still figuring it out. 

It’s likely that you will slip up with names and pronouns on occasion, and the best thing to do is just correct yourself, and move on.

You can briefly apologize (wait to do it later when you’re in private if it occured in front of someone) if you feel like it’s necessary. But don’t make it into a big deal, which calls attention to it and can be embarrassing for the trans person, and don’t start to self-flagellate about it and beat yourself up because then it makes it about you, and the trans person feels compelled to say “it’s fine” or something to reassure you when it isn’t fine.

Just correct yourself and move on, and do better next time! Then make sure you actually practice with his chosen name and pronouns so you make fewer mistakes in the future- practice makes perfect, as they say.

You should also make sure you’re an active ally to trans people in your everyday life if you weren’t already doing this. This is something you should ideally be doing whether or not you have a trans son who just came out. 

Finally, make sure you get the support you need. You might find seeing a therapist helpful for yourself, or connecting with a support group for parents of LGBTQ children- many are meeting on Zoom now, so if there isn’t a group local to you there’s probably one online you can join! Be careful to avoid the transphobic mom groups that promote conversion therapy, rapid onset gender dysphoria, and don’t believe in being transgender. Finding a good support group will let you vent when you need to and find community for yourself as well- it’s a lot to process, and it can be emotionally difficult for you on top of managing the logistics. 

But honestly, I wouldn’t recommend telling your son about anything you’re struggling with when it comes to his identity because saying things like “I feel like I’m mourning my daughter” isn’t going to make your relationship with your son any better. Especially because he’s 14, telling him that you’re having a hard time is just going to hurt him without helping you any, so it’s best to keep those feelings between yourself and your support system until you’ve reached that stage of acceptance when you’re no longer struggling with coming to terms with it. He needs to be reassured that you’re supportive of who he is and he won’t be able to reconcile your support with those statements, so don’t lie but don’t volunteer those sentiments.

The For parents/guardians intro has some of the same stuff as I mentioned above, like links to safe binders and packers and info on puberty blockers and the benefits of medical transitioning, so check that out too if you haven’t!

All in all, I think it’s really great that you’re reaching out and trying to support him! I know that even trans folks with really supportive parents still have anxiety about being rejected so it’s good to give them a little extra reassurance to show that you do care about him and that you do see him as male and you respect what he’s sharing with you. Good luck to both of you!

Followers, anything to add?

[tsarisfanfiction]

Long Way From Home: Chapter 9

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

Meant to update this last night but forgot, whoops.  The shopping trip continues, so that means one thing: more Scott&TOS!Gordon.  Hope you like this duo because there’s a lot of it to come :D  Also no full panic attacks in this chapter, but there are a couple of occasions where he starts spiralling before something stops him, so here’s a vague warning for that, I guess?

<<<Chapter 8

Other-Gordon didn’t start talking until the engine was running.

“You still okay to keep going?”

“I’m fine.”  It came out sharper than it was supposed to, and he winced.

“If that’s what you say.”  Other-Gordon sounded dubious, but didn’t press the matter, to Scott’s relief.  “Can’t say I blame you.  This is crazy enough for me; I can’t imagine how bad it is for you.”

“Don’t tell them.”  Other-Scott had already caught him on the edge of an outburst once, and they’d all seen him explode in the hangar, but Scott needed to seem at least somewhat in control.

Especially in front of Not-Dad.

Amber eyes analysed him for a moment.  “The fellas won’t think less of you for it, Scott.”  The words hung in the air, Scott not bothering to respond despite Other-Gordon giving him the opportunity, and the ginger sighed. “Scott should know, in case something gets out about it.  Madeleine’s discreet enough, but…”

Scott swallowed, but saw the sense in that.

“Besides, I fully intend on sending him out to collect all the clothes, so he’ll find out anyway.”  There was a grin on Other-Gordon’s face that Scott subconsciously labelled trouble. He’d seen it enough on his own Gordon’s face to know that Other-Scott was in for a prank or two.  “You can’t talk in public and it’d look mighty odd for the rest of us to be picking them up.”

That definitely made sense.

“So where to next?” he asked, deciding to change the subject rather than let that one linger.  Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.

“We might as well get your workman’s clothes out of the way,” he said. “Luckily for you, I do know somewhere we can get those.”

He put his foot down and the car started moving, rolling out of the parking lot and onto the main streets again.

“Say,” he continued.  “What was with the poke?”

It took Scott a moment to remember what he was referring to, the fiasco of the fitting rooms having almost pushed it from his mind.

“To get your attention,” he said.  “Don’t you guys do that?”

“The fellas do,” Other-Gordon admitted.  “But not to me.”  The words were laced with an undercurrent of bitterness, reminding Scott of their discussions about the rescues he was kept off of.  “They tap me on the arm.”  Scott frowned.

“They think you’re that fragile?”

The man shrugged.  “Father does.”  There was a heavy pause.  “It’s strange.  It’s not as though you don’t know about the crash, but you don’t treat me any different to the other fellas.”

Scott kept his eyes on the road in front of them.  “From what I can tell, you’re just as fit as my Gordon,” he said. “He’d make my life hell if I treated him like he was broken.  Well, I did, at first,” he admitted.  “When he was in hospital, and then through the physio afterwards.  I…  I was terrified something would go wrong.”  He’d never told anyone that before, but Other-Gordon…  Something told him Other-Gordon needed to hear it.  “But he wasn’t having any of it.”  A fond grin crept onto his face uninvited, but he didn’t try and force it away.  “Gordon’s tough, stronger than the rest of us put together, probably.  I won’t lie, it took me a while, but I trust him to know his limits.  If he’s having a bad day, if he can’t go out, he tells me.  Otherwise…” he shrugged.  “He can handle it.”

Other-Gordon’s hands were tight on the wheel.

“I’ve only known you a few hours,” he continued.  “So maybe I’m wrong, but you seem just as strong.  I figure if something’s too much, you’ll say.”

“Well, I do know my own limits,” the ginger agreed.  “You know, I’d almost forgotten what a jab in the ribs felt like.” Scott glanced across to see his lips pulled into a grin.  “Who knows, maybe the fellas could learn a thing or two while you’re here.”

Scott laughed, unsure if the unspoken message was simply permission or a plea, but hearing it anyway.  “Maybe.”

Silence lingered between them for a moment, scoring a line under that enlightening conversation.  Scott was glad for it – in many respects, most respects, Other-Gordon was still a stranger. Telling him things he’d never even told his own family, even if he was fairly certain Gordon suspected more than he let on, felt decidedly weird.  He didn’t regret it, though, because even if Other-Gordon was basically a stranger, he was also Gordon.

Trying to wrap his head around that idea was definitely a challenge.

The fact that Scott had got the feeling he’d needed to hear it made him wonder exactly what Other-Gordon’s relationship with his family was.  Father does, he’d said.  No mention of his brothers.  Just how much did Not-Dad rule the roost?

“We’re nearly there,” Other-Gordon said, interrupting his chain of thought.  “Custom is going to be tricky without you talking, so give me the run-down now. Blue?”

“Are you guessing that based on the last shop or on what your Scott likes?” Scott asked.

“Both.  Am I right?” He was still gathering information. Then again, Scott was, too.

“You’re right,” he confirmed.  “Something easy to move in, too.”

Other-Gordon let out a chuckle as he pulled into a parking lot.  Scott missed the name of the place.  “The fellas are gonna have something to say when they see it,” he mused.  Scott raised an eyebrow at him; he hadn’t forgotten the ginger’s own reaction to the idea.  “Well, we should be able to get the jeans and hoodie here.”

“Sounds good.”  Scott was already impatient for the trip to be over.  It had nothing to do with Other-Gordon – his company was about as good as he could have expected to get – and everything to do with the ill-timed realisation of his situation.  He watched Other-Gordon get out of the car, focusing on the lever on how it operated, before mimicking the movement on the lever his side.  Other-Gordon looked amused when he finished his walk around the car to see him extracting himself.

“I should have figured you wouldn’t need help a second time,” he commented.  “But remember, you lost a bet and don’t want to be here.  Try not to look too enthusiastic.”

“Decided on the bet, yet?” Scott asked him, and Other-Gordon sent him a look. From the gleam in his eye, he knew exactly what bet had supposedly been lost, and it was not going to be something either he or Other-Scott was happy about.  That look was dangerous on Gordon, and it was no doubt equally so on the ginger in front of him.  “Going to tell me?”

The grin said no, he wasn’t.  Scott sighed.

“If we’re going to hit the paparazzi, it’ll be here,” Other-Gordon told him instead.  “Remember, head down, mouth shut, let me do all the talking.”

Scott nodded, remembering Other-Scott saying something similar back on the island.  Gordon can handle the paparazzi.

“And Scott,” the aquanaut continued, his voice quieter.  Calmer, reminiscent of the fitting rooms at Lemaires’.  “If you need to get out, tap me four times.”  It was Scott’s turn to give the younger man a look; after the almost disaster with the shirts, a signal was a good idea, but knowing that Other-Gordon thought they needed to establish one implied that he wasn’t hiding his unease as well as he was hoping.

“Four for Four?”  At least it was easy to remember, on the chance he would need it.  He sincerely hoped not.

“Four for Four,” Other-Gordon confirmed, a small grin on his face, before that grin transformed back into the amused cat got the cream of a younger brother who’d got one over on an older brother and was entirely too satisfied about it.

In a way, Scott supposed he had.  It didn’t make him any happier about it, and the wary looks he was sending the younger man weren’t entirely for show as Other-Gordon confidently led the way to the front door of the shop and strode in as though he owned it. Scott was left with no choice but to trail behind him and try to ignore the gawks of what looked like the entire shop.

The stunned silence appeared to have blanketed over everyone, all eyes on the two Tracys making their way to the nearest salesperson, and it was several long seconds before anyone else in the shop moved.  Hissed words accompanied the hubbub as life slowly trickled back into the shop.  Scott was certain he heard Tracys muttered in an astonished undertone.

This really wasn’t their usual shop, it appeared.  That was a pain, because as Scott looked around, he could see that the clothes here looked the most like the clothes he liked. Polos and jeans lined the shelves, and Scott immediately flagged multiple that he’d willingly wear.

Not being allowed to talk was suddenly a real pain.

“Mr Tracy and Mr Tracy, what an unexpected pleasure!”  The salesman Other-Gordon had beelined for was doing little to cover his surprise, which worked in Scott’s favour as the title put him on edge, but Other-Gordon just flashed him a grin.

“Mr Tracy would be our father.  Call me Gordon, and this is Scott,” he corrected, much to Scott’s relief. He’d never got used to being called Mr Tracy.

“As you wish, Gordon, Scott,” the man – his name tag said George – adjusted. He still looked a little star struck. “What would bring the illustrious Tracys to our shop?”

Gordon’s grin widened, if that was even possible.  “This fella thought it’d be smart to bet I couldn’t beat the whole family in billiards,” he announced, loud enough that the whole shop no doubt heard it.  Scott sent him a glare – he was better than Gordon at the game, and he suspected that held true in this universe as well.  Other-Gordon wouldn’t be so gleeful otherwise.  “The loser got a wardrobe makeover of the winner’s choice.” He shrugged.  “I won, so Scott here needs some new clothes, if you could help with that?”

“But of course,” George scrambled to say.  “What would you be after?”

“Well, Scott’s wardrobe is lacking in jeans, for the first.”  He made it sound natural, not quite alienating the people shopping there while making it perfectly clear that Tracys didn’t normally wear them.  “And I think one or two of your polos would be just the thing.”

Scott started – he’d never said polos.  Other-Gordon must have caught him looking at them.

“Gee, no need to look quite so horrified, Scott,” the ginger commented. “George here might think you don’t want them!”  He turned back to the man, who still looked rather out of his depth.  “Poor fella lost his voice last night, so he can’t make his own comments.”

Scott rolled his eyes, and the ginger beamed.

“Luckily for him, I know exactly what he needs!”

“Right, of course,” the unfortunate George stammered.  “If you’d like to follow me, then… sirs?”

“Lead the way,” Other-Gordon invited, and they were led into something that looked a lot like it was normally an office, and not open to the general public.  It was a far cry from the lavish customer furnishings of the last place.

“What would you like to look at first?”  George clearly had no idea which Tracy he was supposed to be addressing, from the way his eyes kept flicking between them.  Scott decided to have a little pity on the man and leaned backwards, effectively removing himself from the conversation.  Other-Gordon helped by leaning forwards, drawing more attention to himself.

“I think the jeans would be a good place to start.  Could you fetch some examples?” he prompted.

“Of course.  What size would you like to try?”

Other-Gordon answered without hesitation, leaving Scott to assume he had his brother’s sizes memorised, and George all but fled from the room, leaving the two of them alone.  The door closed, and immediately Other-Gordon pressed up next to him.

“Which polos were you looking at?” he asked, quietly.

Scott told him, before raising a quizzical eyebrow.  “You’re not complaining?”

“Aw, polos aren’t so bad.  Scott has one or two himself, you know.  Besides, I’d say it makes the story more convincing if we get a full outfit or two from here.”

He had a point.

The door opened again, and George entered, one arm laden with jeans.  Well, they all looked the right size at least. With any luck, they wouldn’t need fitting.

Scott could live in hope.

“Do any of these suit?” the sales assistant asked, hanging them up one after the other on a rack against the wall.  Scott eyed them all, suspecting that Other-Gordon was more likely to be paying attention to his reactions than the clothes themselves.

None of them were exactly like he was used to, but he supposed that was to be expected, considering the overall differences between the universes – and he was not going to think too hard on that one right now.  Instead, they seemed to be geared more towards being form-fitting, not quite ‘skinny’, but definitely a lot tighter than the ones he wore at home.  A couple of styles even seemed to be flared at the hem, a design that hadn’t been in fashion since Grandma’s time, and looked completely useless for doing any sort of exercise in without tripping over them.

He dismissed those immediately.

“You know, Scott, you’ve got to pick at least one,” Other-Gordon drawled. “A forfeit’s a forfeit, you know.”

So Other-Gordon was going to let him take the silent lead on this one? That made it easier, if nothing else. Scott stepped forwards, sorting through them one at a time until he found a pair that looked like they wouldn’t completely constrict his movement, and took it off of the rail.

“There is a changing room just through that door, if you’d like to try them on,” George offered, gesturing at a door set into the far wall.  Scott nodded, and started to head for it. Movement from Other-Gordon made him pause, and he glanced at the ginger to see a querying look on his face.

Right.  Last time he’d been out of the other man’s sight, he’d had a panic attack. Other-Gordon had good reason to be cautious, but Scott didn’t feel any warning signs of an impending one this time, so he shot him a reassuring grin before opening the door and walking through.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Scott waited a split second to make sure he didn’t suddenly descend into panic – not that he planned on calling Other-Gordon if he did; once was more than enough – before hurrying to get changed. The jeans were infinitely more comfortable than Other-Scott’s slacks, but that was to be expected.  Scott wasn’t particularly fond of slacks.

They also fit pretty much perfectly.  No ankles showing, but also not falling to the floor and getting caught underfoot.  Other-Gordon also clearly did know his brother’s waist size, because it wasn’t too tight or falling down.  The only problem was that they were a little tighter, particularly around the thighs, than he was used to, but that looked to just be a universal difference he’d just have to get used to.

Or hopefully not, because he wanted to go home sooner rather than later. His family must have discovered his disappearance by now and-

He cut that train of thought right there.  There was going to be no more breakdowns in changing rooms, so he busied himself with making one last assessment of the jeans before pushing the door back open.

Other-Gordon was looking straight at the door, George nowhere in sight, and Scott knew he didn’t imagine the flash of relief on his face before amber eyes flicked down to the jeans.

“George went to start picking up polos,” he explained.  “Everything alright?”

That was an obviously double-layered question, and Scott answered both with a single nod.

“Fabulous,” Other-Gordon grinned.  “You’ll need more than one pair, though.  Different colours of that one or different styles?”

Open-ended questions needed verbal answers; Scott glanced at the door leading to the rest of the store – still closed – before answering.

“Mostly colours,” he said.  “If there’s another style that fits, I’ll take that, but I think this is the closest I’ll get.  Not perfect, but…”  He shrugged.

“Alright,” Other-Gordon nodded.  “The rack’s still there, if you want to take another gander.”  Well, there was no harm in that, even if Scott was dubious about finding any more practical ones amongst the too-tight and flared-hem designs dominating the selection.

There wasn’t.  Maybe that was Scott also just wanting this trip to be over with, even if it meant speeding up his next no doubt probing conversation with one of the Other-Tracys, but he didn’t like the look of any of the others.  He said as much to Other-Gordon, who took on that calculating look that was quickly becoming familiar, and not just because he’d seen it on Gordon too many times to count.  Another piece in the puzzle for the ginger.  Scott wondered what sort of picture he was putting together.

He also didn’t want to know.

“You’ll need quite a few of that one, if that’s the case,” Other-Gordon reminded him.  “We can get you more later, if we can convince Scott to pretend he likes the clothes after all, but I’d say you need five or six.”

Scott nodded, but hoped they wouldn’t need to get more.  He knew Other-John had said it could take years – a prediction that had something uncomfortable curling in his gut if he thought about it, because if time moved linearly in both universes then that was years with his family not knowing what had happened to him, just like with Dad but worse, and he couldn’t do that to them.  He couldn’t. They’d hold it together because his little brothers were strong, but it would hurt them.  It would hurt them so, so much.

“So, colours.”  Other-Gordon’s voice cut through his thoughts, dragging him back to the room and the jeans and away from the thoughts running rampart through his head. From the look on the other man’s face, he’d noticed that his mind had wandered.  Scott still wasn’t sure if he liked how easily Other-Gordon seemed to be able to read him, but he supposed that was better than another breakdown.

He really had to get a grip.

“We should ask how many shades of blue these chaps can offer,” the aquanaut continued as the door opened.  “I’d suppose there’s quite the variety.”

“We do have a variety of colours available,” George assured them, now carrying a stack of polos in various shades and colours.  Some of them made Scott’s eyes water just to look at them. “Have you found anything?”

“I’d say what he’s wearing looks jolly good,” Other-Gordon said.  “What shades of blue can you do on those?”

“Well, we have five shades available,” the sales assistant said.  “I would have to check how many are in stock in Mr- er, Scott’s size.”

“He’ll have one of each,” Other-Gordon said.  “If they’re not in stock, you can order them in, can’t you?”

“Of course!  It may take some time for them to arrive, but we can definitely arrange that.”

Other-Gordon grinned.  Scott swallowed back against threatening thoughts about time. “Fabulous!  Now, how about those polos?”

At the full force of a Gordon who knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it – Scott pitied George for that; Other-Gordon was proving to be as much of an occasional bulldozer as Gordon when it suited him and was definitely enjoying the lack of a restraining older brother stopping him – the man had little choice but to lay the offerings out for the pair of them to look at.

Scott instantly dismissed the ones that hurt his eyes to look at. Unlike the jeans, which despite being made of denim and therefore technically still jeans were cut in styles that were nothing like the ones he was used to, the polos looked a lot more familiar.  He had no qualms about trimming the selection by the colours of the examples he was being shown, even if that was a shallow reason.

He still didn’t want to be there.  He wanted to be on the island – preferably his Tracy Island, in his universe, and not stuck here trying to find clothes for his inevitably long stay in a world where strangers wore his family’s names, personalities, and even looks.

“This one?”  Other-Gordon cut in again, appearing beside him and reaching for a blue one he hadn’t pushed aside yet.  Scott blinked and realised his hands had stilled on the rack.  Sharp amber eyes were watching him carefully, one of the man’s arms close enough to his hand that he’d brush it if he moved his fingers the right way.

Scott purposefully didn’t touch, keeping an inch or so of air between them in a clear but silent message to Other-Gordon.  He was not giving up on the trip.  Instead he poked and prodded at the polo in question.  It looked worth a try, so he unhooked the hanger from the rack and let the material fall over his arm.

There was a decidedly disapproving air from the man next to him, but Other-Gordon didn’t say anything.  Scott didn’t acknowledge it either, dragging his mind back on task and brushing through the rest of the polos on the rack until he had a sizeable pile folded over his arm.

With no excuse, Other-Gordon couldn’t justify following him into the changing room, but it was abundantly obvious that he wanted to.  Scott just wanted this to be over with, so when the ginger grinned at him and proclaimed that he wanted to see every single one, he glared at him.

Other-Gordon wasn’t perturbed in the slightest, chivvying him towards the door and ignoring George as he stood redundantly by the dismissed polos.  “For your favourite brother?” he wheedled, before a grin lit up his face.  It didn’t reach his eyes, but Scott could tell it was only a show for their audience anyway.  “Remember, this is a forfeit, Scott!”

For my own peace of mind, that translated as.  Reading the subtext behind the younger man’s words was as natural as breathing to Scott, which he put down to the similarities between the two Gordons.  He rolled his eyes in an attempt to persuade Other-Gordon that he was fine and not on the edge of another panic attack, before slipping back into the room and shutting the door in his face.

A little rude, and definitely coming off as ungrateful – he wasn’t; he knew it came from care and if their positions were reversed he would absolutely be doing the same if he hadn’t just overridden all protests and taken them back to the airport already – but Scott really didn’t want to be hovered over.

The waistcoat and shirt were shrugged off, hat and sunglasses temporarily removed, before he yanked the first polo on with more aggression than the action really deserved.  Scott grit his teeth.  He really had to get himself back under control.  Other-Gordon had good reason to be worried, and the fact that they were technically strangers was doing nothing to temper it.  But then, what did he expect?  He was still an operative of International Rescue.

Other-Gordon was also one of the few people in the universe that he was even vaguely comfortable around.  Alienating him would do more harm than good.

With a sigh, he tugged the hat and sunglasses back on and opened the door to dutifully show the polo.  It fit fine, he supposed.  Not too baggy, but not restrictive, either.  It was definitely better than any shirts he’d worn so far in the universe.

Unsurprisingly, Other-Gordon was more interested in his face than his clothes, clearly checking him over for signs of another spiral.  Scott hoped he didn’t look too terrible; whatever the other man saw, he didn’t comment on.

“Well that looks pretty fine, wouldn’t you say?” he said instead to George, who jumped at being suddenly addressed again and nodded vigorously.

“Very good, sir,” he agreed.  Scott shrugged a noncommittal agreement, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to be enjoying this trip – he wasn’t, but not because of the clothes – and retreated back to the changing room to try on the next.

In the end there were eight polos in the original selection, and six of them in the pile Other-Gordon was setting aside with the approved jeans.  From the look on George’s face, he hadn’t been expecting quite so many purchases but also wasn’t complaining at all.  Scott wondered if sales assistants still got commissions on their sales in this universe.

“That’s a fine collection.”  Other-Gordon looked positively gleeful, but Scott supposed that made some sense. Even if it was all a ruse, as far as the world was going to be concerned, he’d got one over on his eldest brother. In a way, he actually had, even if it had been with Other-Scott’s begrudging blessing.  “But I’d say there’s still something missing, wouldn’t you, Scott?”

Scott had started to wonder if Other-Gordon was going to try and force the shopping trip to a premature conclusion by skipping the hoodie, but to his relief it seemed as though that was still on the cards.  Burying the relief behind a long history of catering to little brother whims, he just rolled his eyes and let his shoulders slump a little.

Other-Gordon beamed.

“What this needs,” he told George with enough glee that Scott almost forgot he’d been dubious about the idea in the first place, “is a hoodie.  Wouldn’t you agree?”  He wasn’t looking at Scott, but rather a George who suddenly looked entirely too much like a deer in headlights.

“You- you’d like to view our hoodie collection?” he stammered, clearly believing that he’d misheard.  “But…” The look he shot Scott spoke volumes, enforcing Other-Gordon’s earlier proclamation that hoodies were workman’s clothes and certainly nothing that someone of the Tracy’s social standing would be seen dead in.

Other-Gordon’s smile turned the slightest bit predatory.  Scott suspected that was actually aimed at his poor brother’s reputation than anyone in the room, but it didn’t stop George blanching.

“He did lose a bet.”

“Yes, of course.”  Scott really hoped they were going to compensate this poor man for the mental stress he was being put through.  “Would you like me to fetch some examples?”

“I was thinking something a little more unique for my brother,” Other-Gordon corrected, and Scott recalled that Other-Scott had insisted on custom made. Personally, he’d have been happy with something off the shelf if it fit and was comfortable, but as far as compromises went, it could have been a lot worse.  “I heard this shop offers custom tailoring?”

“We do, but I will have to consult with my manager about hoodies,” George hedged.  “If you gentlemen would excuse me…”  When neither of them protested, he escaped the room.  Scott winced.

“They’ll agree,” Other-Gordon said confidently.  “Money talks in places like this.”

“As long as we don’t give the employees a heart attack first,” Scott muttered.  “George seems… stressed.”

Other-Gordon sighed.  “With any luck, the fella will calm down once his manager’s in the picture. I don’t like it any more than you do, Scott, but for the sake of appearances easing up on the guy isn’t an option.”

Cover story.  Right.

“How about you?” the aquanaut asked suddenly.  “Are you going to be okay for another fitting?”

“I’m fine,” Scott assured him.  It came out sounding almost believable.  Almost.  A judging ginger eyebrow rose.

“You’re as stubborn as a mule and refuse to admit when you’re anything less than A-One,” Other-Gordon informed him.  Scott got the feeling those were Other-Scott traits he was – admittedly correctly – associating with him.  “You trust me to know my limits, so it would be a mighty help if you’d show me the same courtesy.”

You do realise we’re on the same side?  His words from Thunderbird One’s hangar ran through Scott’s head.

“Talk to me, Scott.  You holding up?”

They had known each other barely a handful of hours.  Scott was acutely aware that he trusted International Rescue to do what they could to help him, but also that that same trust was not yet cemented between him and the individuals within the organisation. Other-Gordon was the closest he’d got, mostly through exposure but also because the ginger had respected the boundaries once they’d been felt out.

That trust was still a small, fragile thing.  Scott could almost see the thread in front of him, barely a hair thick and easily broken.  The wrong move would snap it, and then where would he be?  Both sides needed that trust to maximise their chances of getting him home.

Not that Scott was going to be blindly handing it out – Other-Alan had shown nothing but distaste for him so far, and Not-Dad brought up too many conflicting thoughts and emotions for trust to be on the cards any time soon – but to Other-Gordon?

“I can handle it,” he promised.  “Honestly…” he trailed off, trying to find the words and push past his natural inclination to keep the truth buried where it wouldn’t worry younger brothers, but that word was enough to get Other-Gordon’s back straightening. “Honestly, stopping and having to come back later would be worse.”  He’d take panic attacks in changing rooms over going back with the shopping half finished and having to explain the failure, especially to Not-Dad.

More than anyone else, he knew that if he showed weakness in front of Not-Dad, something would break.

“Then it’s a good thing the fellas don’t need us back any time soon,” Other-Gordon said matter-of-factly.  A hand rested on his shoulder, the touch light but there.  “We can take as many breaks as you need until we’re done.”

Scott felt like he’d just fallen off of a cliff, hoping he had a grapple pack left to catch himself with, only for Other-Gordon to grab his hand and haul him back up.  It should be disconcerting that he’d been read so easily, even with the bare bones he’d managed to share, but the overwhelming feeling of relief washed away any lingering unease.

“Thanks,” he managed.

“Thank you,” Other-Gordon replied, a gentle look on his face.

Chapter 10>>>

[dontshootmespence]

You’ll Get There

Summary: You plodded along. Day after day. Using the little joys to push through. Until one day your secret is revealed.

Pairing: Spencer x Reader

Word Count: 1,553

Warnings: Self harm, depression, body issues, body image issues, insecurity. This is heavy, and really real for a lot of people, SO PLEASE BE WARNED BEFORE READING.

A/N: This is for an anon who is going through some things right now. <3

As you stared at the ceiling, your eyes felt heavy. You just woke up and all you could think of doing was going back to sleep. Being awake was too hard. Too pointless. 

But you had to work. Apparently that was a thing you had to do to keep on living. Slipping out of bed, you plodded toward the bathroom and the unholy mirror, readying yourself to look in the mirror and hate what was staring back at you. 

You turned on the light before you walked over the threshold of your bathroom. Over the years, you outfitted your bathroom with anything and everything you could think of to make it more inviting and comforting, but it did nothing to lessen the mocking silver reflection that caught your eye the second you walked in. “Fuck off,” you said to the inanimate object, almost angry it didn’t say anything back - at least then you could fight something and get some of this hatred out of your body. 

Zoning out as you brushed your teeth, you closed your eyes and tipped your head up toward the ceiling, brushing until your mouth hurt. After spitting into the sink, you couldn’t evade your reflection and stood there staring for what seemed like hours, honing in on everything you hated about yourself. Before too long, you got disgusted with yourself and walked back to your bedroom to get changed for work.

Once you decided on some dark wash jeans (the only kind deemed appropriate by your office) that were ill-fitting to say the least, and a plain red t-shirt that probably could’ve been thrown away years ago, you got dressed, pulling your pants up to your knees before sitting down on the bed. A few quick cuts with your razor drove endorphins through your body. You hated that was the relief you found; that you couldn’t find it anywhere else, but that was your life now, so you muddled through.

The only thing you had pushing through each day was your weekly pizza nights with Spencer, who lived one floor above you, but unfortunately his job had him away from his apartment more often than in it, so you hadn’t been to his place for two weeks. Thankfully, he was going to be home tonight.

As you ambled your way down the stairs, you found yourself thinking dangerous things. What would the world be like with you gone? Would anyone miss you?

Slipping into the car, you allowed a tear to fall before drying your eyes, using your pointer fingers to wipe away the waterfall of tears awaiting release. With a deep breath, you pulled away from the curb and went to grab your morning coffee. It was things like that - the routine of your favorite coffee - that kept you going each and every day. It saddened you. But maybe it was enough for now.

                                                             ------

Work slogged by slower than molasses. Every minute felt like an hour. You’d forgotten breakfast, forgone lunch because you felt like you didn’t deserve and were so hopped up on caffeine by the time your shift was over that you went through one of your favorite drive-thrus and binged leaving you feel like a complete sack of shit.

Thank God Spencer was going to be home tonight. Literally, each small moment with a friend, each song that came out from your favorite artist, each move that “you just had to see” - it was all that kept you going. 

After texting Spencer to make sure you were still on for tonight, you drove home and quickly released some tension in the only way you knew. A few new ones on the opposite leg then you cut this morning. A couple on your arm. Spencer texted back to say he was on his way back to the apartment with pizza, which gave you a few more minutes with your seemingly closest friend. Shining metal pierced soft flesh a few more times, just deep enough to feel something, but not deep enough to do any real damage. When you thought of that kind of injury, your heart dropped, which was the only thing that kept you from doing it, despite how god awful you felt. 

You bandaged up the cuts and slipped into some super baggy pants and a sweatshirt, forever wanting to hide the body you hated so much. Spencer assumed you dressed that way for comfort, which is why he always joined you and wore pajamas - if he only knew the truth. 

Your timing was immaculate, both of you arriving at his door within a minute of each other. “Have a good day at work?” He asked.

“I had a day,” you laughed. “But I’m alive.” He didn’t realize what an accomplishment that was. 

Spencer jimmied the keys in the lock and swept the door open, allowing you to walk in first. “Do you mind if I grab something to drink?” You always felt the need to ask, like you were being an imposing ass if you did anything else. 

“Y/N, my place is your place. Feel free to get whatever you want. You don’t have to ask.”

And now you felt bad for asking. 

You reached into the refrigerator and grabbed some juice, pouring a glass in the hopes that you could put off eating pizza for the time being. Binging after you left the office made you feel like you shouldn’t be eating anything for the rest of the day. 

As you reached into the cabinet and grabbed a glass, Spencer opened the pizza box and turned to grab plates, freezing in place. “Are you hurt?” He asks. You look down and see a blood drop on the floor. One of the cuts must’ve been deeper than you thought, the bandaids usually covered the evidence. 

“No, I’m fine, Spence. Don’t worry.” You hated having people worry about you. Made you feel like a burden to the world. 

Another drop fell to the floor. When you clutched your arm, he knew. “Y/N...”

“It’s nothing, Spence.”

“You’re hurting yourself. That’s not nothing.”

“I’m nothing. So it seems fitting.”

Spencer eyes blanketed with tears as he begged you to sit on the couch with him. “Please. Talk to me.”

“It doesn’t make sense. I know it doesn’t. I don’t wanna burden you.”

“You’re not. I’m asking you to talk to me,” Spencer replied. His voice was shaky and his skin was paler than usual. “Please, Y/N.”

“I don’t know,” you started, completely unsure of where to begin. How could explain how you felt? If you knew, you could do something right? “I hate myself.” It was a simple statement, but it was at the root of everything. “I don’t like what I see when I look in the mirror. I either binge or don’t eat depending on the day. I feel like a burden to everyone around me. Honestly, it’s just little things, like having pizza with you or listening to my favorite song that keeps me from ending it all.”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. “I can’t say that I personally understand where you are right now. At least not to the degree that you’re feeling it. But you aren’t alone. Ever. When people love you, you’re not burdening them. They’re opening themselves up to help you because they want to help. Will you let me refer you to someone? The psychologist the BAU works with, her friend has someone that specializes in your type of struggles.” He could sense the hesitance in your muscles. “Please. I know what your brain is telling you right now. That you don’t deserve kindness of any sort. But I’m telling you that’s bullshit. It’s garbage. And with time and help I think you’ll believe it.”

“I’ll do it,” you said softly, adding quickly, “for you.”

“I’ll take that.” He said quickly, relief flooding his voice. “Eventually, you’ll be doing it for you, so I’ll take what I can get now.”

Spencer stood up quickly, kissing your forehead as he ran into his bathroom. He’d never done that before. You two were friends. You wanted more, but didn’t believe yourself worthy, or that he’d return your feelings. 

When he sped back, he had bandages and some antibiotic cream, peeling your sleeve back without words to clean your wounds. “Thank you,” you said, watching a drop of water fall to the couch. You were crying. “Thank you, Spence.”

He slid his finger under your chin and tipped your head up to see the genuine concern in his eyes. “You’re welcome. It’s what you deserve. Okay?”

“Okay.”

After cleaning up your cuts, he pulled you close, allowing you to rest your head against his chest. Instead of eating and watching tv like you normally did, he just turned on some music and brushed his fingers through your hair. “I know I’m away a lot with work, but please, whenever you feel like cutting text me instead. I may not be able to get to it right away, but I will read it, and I will respond.”

Heavy with exhaustion, you nodded your reply, tears turning his light grey pajama shirt much darker. “I want to feel better. I just don’t know how.”

“It’s going to take time,” he said. “But you’ll get there.”

[halfway-happyyy]

oh my GOD i cannot stop thinking about going out for the night to hang out w friends and getting so drunk that when alex comes to pick u up u forget he’s ur boyfriend 🥺 and when he reminds you you’re like “!!!!!!! me !!!!! how did i get so lucky !!!!!!!!!” n ur looking at him like he hung the moon and he falls in love with you all over again bye this image lives in my head rent free i swear

what a soft, lovely thought!!!

*

As all messy night-outs usually begin, she had gone into it with the intention of keeping every single one of her wits about her. She had actually heeded her boyfriend’s advice for once- “one glass of water per each alcoholic beverage”, she had viewed his full figure leant against the threshold of their front door before she left, large hands placed in the pockets of his denim jeans. His worn t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and she was glad that tonight- unlike most nights, she would have him to sidle into bed next to when the evening ended.

“Come here kid,” He murmured. “Let me kiss you once more before you go, hm?” Her lips turned up into a wide smile as she closed the distance between them wordlessly. He had an innate way of holding her like she was the most precious thing in the entire universe. Like if he let her go, she might shatter into a million little magnificent pieces. He held her face in his impossibly warm hands as he kissed her like it was the last time he would ever do it again. When he pulled away from her, he was out of breath and he gestured to her purse on the glass coffee table in the front entrance, “Can’t forget that.”

She reached for it, slung it across her body, and smiled at him. “What would I do without you?”

A car horn blared in the distance and Alexander shrugged his shoulders, a smirk tugged at the edges of his lips. “Let’s hope we never have to find out, hm? Your chariot awaits, kid.” His blue eyes sparkled merrily in the low light of the glowing hallway lamp, and the delicate creases next to them spoke volumes of the happiness that he exuded on a near-constant basis.

She swallowed hard; her hand poised on the doorknob. “I love you, Alex- just in case that big old sky ever falls on our heads.”

“I love you too, kid. Please be safe. Call me when you’re ready to come home.”

*

“One more babe! It’s my birthday!” Her best friend tried on her best Vana White impersonation and waved her hand tantalizingly down a row of pink coloured shots.

She eyed them suspiciously; her world had started to spin on its axis a few moments ago, and she swallowed hard. “I’m feeling a little ill.”

Her friend giggled and picked up a shot, waving it beneath her nose. She watched the liquid slosh out over the sides, and land on her friend’s white dress, causing her to erupt in a fit of giggles. Her friend shook her head, oblivious to the stain blooming steadily in the gauzy material and hiccupped. “Nonsense. One of these and you’ll be back to tip-top shape.”

“You spilled broken down golfcart on your dress.” She hiccupped and pointed to the stain.

“You’re not getting out of this.”

She took a deep breath and accepted the shot from the birthday girl, tilting her head back and pouring the liquid down her throat. She shook her head and winced as the alcohol singed the lining of it like smoke. “Alright. That was the last one. I’m calling Alex now.”

Her friend’s pout turned into a devilish grin, and she shrugged nonchalantly. “Let’s see how many we can get in you before he gets here…”

In hindsight she could not definitively say why she had agreed to play that game but come morning she would regret it. She was seated at the bar with some of her other girlfriends when he arrived, and even though her ringer was on and loud, she had missed the three previous phone calls announcing his arrival. She was clutching a glass of water in her hand when she spotted him, and her mouth went dry. She leaned over to her friend, a bold move considering she nearly fell off the wooden stool. “Don’t look now,” She whispered a little too loudly. “But that may be the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Her friend’s eyes widened in excitement and she craned around to see who she was referring to. When she caught site of Alexander, her face dropped, and she let out a loud giggle. “Girl, that’s your man.”

She watched him approach them in horror. “My man?”

Her friend stared at her in astonishment. “Did your drink get spiked?” She leaned back and tapped the girl next to her on the shoulder. “Were you watching her drink?”

“My man?” She repeated in unconcealed awe.

Her friend gaped at her. “Yes! You guys live in a beautiful home together!”

Her eyes narrowed as she mulled this over. “Do we have dogs?”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “Yes, two horribly cute ones.”

“Good evening, ladies.” Alexander appeared behind them; his opposing figure cast a long shadow over the bar as he bent down to press a kiss to the apple of her cheek. “Hi, kid. Is there a reason you did not answer any of the phone calls I sent you?”

Her friend cleared her throat. “She’s uh… she’s in rough shape.”

Alexander nodded slowly. “Alright, let’s get you home, hm?” He helped her up from her chair and held on to her hand as she bid goodbye to the rest of her friends. “It’s a bit cool out tonight so I brought you a sweater,” He murmured and draped it around her shoulders as they took their leave from the bar. “We’re parked right outside, my love.” He held onto her elbow as they stepped out into the October evening, and opened her side of the door for her to get in. Once safely buckled up, he made his way around to his side of the car and climbed in. She still found it a little hard to believe that this specimen of a man was really her person. That somehow, possibly by the grace of god, she had managed to reel this one in. Stopped at a red light, he turned to her and frowned. “You alright, kid? You’ve barely said a word…”

She opened her mouth to say something, and instead of any actual words, she hiccupped loudly. “I had a lot to drink tonight.”

Alexander closed his eyes and dropped his head to laugh quietly. “Yep. I know.”

She hiccupped again. “We’re together?” She had meant it to come out as more of a statement than a question, and Alexander blanched.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She swallowed hard and squinted her eyes. “How on earth are you this attractive? Like are you even real? This could be one of those dreams…”

Alexander’s blue eyes widened, and he let out a breathless chuckle. “Let me stop you there, kid- you and I are together. We have been for over three years now. We have gone home to Sweden multiple times- my family adores you. We have a home, and in that home, we have tons of artwork and we make meals together, and we have Max and Sitka- and they are the best dogs in the entire world.”

She nodded her head slowly. “Okay then answer me this, you giant Nordic Adonis. How on earth did I get so lucky?”

Alexander was quiet as he pulled into the driveway in front of their home. “I ask myself that question constantly.”

He helped her from the passenger seat, and up the cobblestone pathway to their front door. Upon entry, the dogs in which he had just told her about wagged their tails happily at the return of their beloved owners. “Hi puppies.” She murmured breathlessly.

“They’re happy to have you home, kid.” Alexander whispered. “And I am too.” He helped her up the stairs to their bedroom and got her changed into her favourite pair of pajamas. He left her momentarily for the washroom and when he returned, he was laden with a glass of water and two Tylenols. “Open up,” He murmured, and she did as he was told. They fell into bed together, and she cuddled up immediately on his chest, her head tucked safely under his chin. Alexander hummed quietly to himself and kissed the top of her head gently. “I love you kid- just in case that big old sky ever falls on our heads.”

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hi! So, this is just smut, I’ve been in a mood. It’s not even the same POV, but I decided halfway through my fantasy about shaving Harry’s face so I could see the curl of his lips, it would fit in this universe. Or not, but I don’t think you all will mind, 😉!! Enjoy!

Day ?: The One With The Mustache

"Is there a reason you are wearing so many clothes?" He asked from the French doors separating our bathroom from the bedchamber.

It's not a ton of clothes, not really, a thigh high robe and some strategic silk rigging beneath. It is, however, way more coverage than every other greeting Harry has gotten from me since we moved in together if he's been away more than a night.

There is a plan though. I have an agenda to carry out this evening. Things have gotten out of hand. I love my boyfriend, even have an affection for the dirtbag college kid on a worldwide backpacking adventure thing he has going on. Some affection, but I miss the way his lips move when they are unobstructed, when he speaks and when they touch my body.

He's been scruffy off and on since we met. Quarantine has gone on a lot longer than we expected,honestly, and everything is overgrown. My hair is super long and my brows are a bit unkempt, I know, but Im going to need the facial scruff he grew out of laziness and kept out of relish, to go.  I kinda like the dimple peeking beneath the 70's porn stache sometimes. I can at least see the camp value and the era reference he revers, but I really miss his mouth.

The structure of his jaw and strength of his chin, the smooth, perfect skin under my hand. I have a plan to get him to shave it. A good one, I think?

"Would we call this a lot of clothing?" I pretend to be confused and run a finger beneath the lace and silk to pull it out so a shadow of full breast is on display.

Harry groans. The smile playing at the corners of my lips is suppressed, I gape my eyes and tilt my head in faux confusion.

"Not a lot, but way more than you usually favor me with when I've been away." His eyes have zeroed in on my cleavage.

"Ahh, well, maybe I want you to take it off me."

He's already moving. "I can do that!" His fingers are also at the top button of the peasant shirt he is wearing.

I'm laughing, "looks like you've got yourself taken care of!"

"Now you!" His hands are on my shoulders, trying to push the robe off.

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" I chide.

"What, why?" He looks bewildered, and I suppose we always move at a hasty pace, except the first time, so slow down or wait aren't words he hears on my lips often.

"I have a plan for you, a surprise." His eyebrows raise and he's smirking.

"Yeah!" That expression solidifies my plan. I can't see the glory of it for his facial hair friend. I do need one more go with it though, for posterity's sake.

"Yeah! So, you keep doing what you were doing." His hands are already popping the button on his classic fit jeans. "Good boy."  I slither by him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, and my breasts to his chest. I'm even more obvious when I bend down to the bath, and light the cinnamon candle he keeps there. I make sure he can see the bottom of my ass cheeks beneath my silk drawers. "Was the drive miserable?"

"The drive?" Ah, attention diverted. I smile over my shoulder and his eyes glance up to my face. "No, no, actually it was lovely. Just missing you."

"You look like you've had a long couple days. Hop in the tub,"

"Are you gently saying I look dirty?" He's joking, but spot on.

I sit at the back of the tub on the stool I've placed there, pulling up my robe so my knickers flash. "I'm going to wash you up." I give him the grin I know he loves. "Then i have another plan of how we can get dirty again."

His pants hit the floor and he's going right along with me. I chuckle when he splashes some water over the claw foot rim. "Ok!" He looks up at me.

"Get wet." I tell him.

"You too."

"Already taken care of." He groans and turns his whole body around to bury his head between my thighs. "Hold on!" I delay. "Let me pamper you."

"Then let me smell you." he looks up at me and it's like seeing his devastating eyes, squared. The water is just below his chin, so he has a handsome, wet haired twin. He looks so enticing, his eyes so magnetic I nearly forget my plan."

"I wanted to wash you up." I lean forward so he has a good view of my chest again.

Harry pushes me back and drifts his hand low. "Let me get dirtier first." He's edging my panties aside and leaning in. I can hear the audible inhale and I'm convinced. "Ill even leave your clothes on, play by the rules!" His nose glances up the gatherings of my clitoral hood and hits my center while he gives me a textured kiss on my opening.

I guess I'm having my mustache ride now. "Yeah." And my head gets soft on my neck. "Let me stand up, you'll hurt your back." He nods and comes to his knees at the edge of the tub. The stool clatters behind me as I step up to his mouth. I push back my robe and he pulls the scrap of silk bunched over one labia all the way to one side.

His grip on my ass cheek alone could still me in the moment, but the thumb he hooks inside me, with unerring accuracy on my spongy spot, anchors me to this act, this moment, his face. The bristles of his mustache prickle at my swelling lips and I sigh. He smiles and swipes his face over the angles where my hips meet my torso. He looks proud, and it does feel nice. I may as well enjoy it while It lasts.

It's past the stage where it scratched the tender pink skin of my pussy, it's softer and textured and smells of me when he kisses me after he's given me head.

Maybe I won't shave it?

Or, I can just let it grow back to enjoy all the stages again.

Like this one, where it tickles and smoothes over me top to tail when he gives me the long broad stroke of his tongue, just the way I like. It does blunt the pressure a bit, so that's another point for team shave. The gentle wet glide up and over me over and over has my hips going.

His thumb is providing pressure from the inside as I ride his tongue where his mouth has latched onto my clit. "Oh fuck, Harry!" My neck has gone completely soft, and when I see his other hand working over his thick cock, I'm not sure how my knees hold up.

I'm afraid to put so much pressure on his jaw, But then the electricity gathering in my veins snaps and the seize rolls up my spine and my muscles relax. The choice is out in my hands and all my weight comes down on him. His busy hand stops to wrap around my waist while he gentles his tongue over my leavings and nuzzles his mustache over my trimmed mound and caresses me softly from the inside out.

"Mmmmm." He nips my thigh and licks me once more. I push his head away and collapse backward nearly tripping over the stool.

"Damn." Is the only word I can find.

"Ready to take off the robe and get in with me?" His slim eyebrow is high and his dimple is dented deeply.

"No," I giggle in my boneless state and lean forward to kiss his messy mouth. The mustache captures more of my flavor and I can smell myself while I taste his tongue covered in my release. "You're really very dirty, still." We both chuckle. I stare in his eyes and take out the clip holding his curls back. They bounce over my forehead. "Let me wash your hair now you've taken such good care of me."

He pecks my lips, it tickles. "Alright baby." He settles into the water and dips below, the tan of his skin and black or his tattoos blurring around the edges. He looks like something out of a surrealist movie; I ache over it. I trace a bird as he surfaces before focusing on his hair. I run my hands through the lush whirls and make sure it's wet before putting a dollop of shampoo into my hand and onto his head. I rub it in and get a good lather before scratching his scalp and massaging behind his ears. He's moaning and his dick is back to full mast from the attention.

"Who knew your scalp was an errogeneous zone?" I whisper into his ear.

"You make my whole body alive." He says and kisses me before in playfully submerge him and work out the lather with my fingers.

The conditioner is slick through his tresses and I let it sit while I massage his shoulders.

"Are you going to do this every time I come home? Might make leaving worth it." He looks  back. "Almost."

"No," I lean in again. "I'm buttering you up."

"Whatever you want, it's yours." He moans over a tight knot in working out. "Consider me buttered."

"I want." I kiss his cheek. The corner of his mouth, slick my tongue quickly at the curl of his top lip I love so. He's turned into me and his breath pants over my mouth. "To shave you." He narrows his eyes before I complete the almost kiss we've been breathing.

"Shave what?" Oh, I forgot I shaved his balls that one time.  He palms his jewels. "I've been keeping that up."

"No, not there." I kiss him, and the mustache interferes with the lip bite I try for. So I chew it a little. I hope ha catches my drift as I confirm it has to go for myself.

"My mustache?" He pulls back to look. "You seemed to like it a moment ago.

"I do, and you could always grow it back. But, I miss your face, and the way your smooth jaw feels on my neck, my thighs. Your lips, I need unfettered access to them." I'm saying all this a hairsbreath from his mouth.

"I like it." He harrumphs.

"I like it too. But not as much as I like you clean shaven." I finally kiss him. "I'll reward you! Shave and a haircut for my bits?" I let my robe Hit the ground then.

"You want me to cut my hair?" He's smirking. He knows how I like his long hair. I confessed it was my favorite.

"No, but my deal wasn't as cute without it."

"Alright love, so long as I can grow it back."

"It's not gonna take you 26 years again. You can grow a mustache now Harry! Triumph completed." We are both laughing as I grab a towel and he's stepped out while I dry him from the bottom up. I move the stool and pull out the kit I readied.  "Have a seat."

"When does your top come off." He gives his cock a lazy pull and it's still chubbed. It's distracting; I'm impatient to get to that later.

"Well, since you're starting to look like you actually bathe," I roll my eyes. "I'll give you a little now."

"How does this work? One nip for half of my mustache? What do I get for the beard?"

I slide a bra strap down to the crook of my elbow and know my nipple presses up and out of it. I straddle a thigh too and grab the towel I soaked in hot, hot water and wrung out. "Close your eyes."

"Then I miss your nipple." He pulls the fabric down farther, and once again his mustache tickles over my body, his tongue on the peak of my breast and the hard suck make up for it.

"Good things come to those who wait."I remind him and buss his wet lips. I'll see more of their see pink color with out his facial hair as wel. "Lean your head back and close your eyes."

I wrap the towel around his tipped back face and he sighs. The bra is gone before the 30 seconds are over. His eyes naturally come open when I take off the towel, but before he can give some cheeky comment to accompany his widened eyes, I turn on the trimmer.

"That sound usually means something different?" I'd blush if he didn't like using my vibe on me so much.

"Does it?" I step closer and my thigh grazes his shaft.

"I guess not."

"Tighten your lip?" He makes a face but complies and shrugs as if to ask if he's got it.

"Perfect!" I kiss his forehead and trim his mustache down to stubble, continuing on to his cheeks. I sigh. "Hi handsome!"

"I've been here." He says.

"I just haven't been able to see your pretty face." I pucker his lips and kiss them and he raspberries a breath out.

"Alright, I get it, you don't like it!"

"Not really, but I like you!" I straddle his lap to spread the shaving cream.

"You didn't even like it between your thighs?" He cups my ass and his fingers linger at my entrance. I suck in a breath.

"This would be sexier if you didn't look like Harry Claus." I giggle.

"It would be sexier with my beard." He pouts. "You really didn't like it." I slowly smooth the razor over his cheek, he moves with me like a dance. We rock and he rolls just the way I need him to, flexing and tightening his jaw to make the skin taut so I don't nick him.

Once his face and chin are clean, I stand back and slide off my panties before stepping in and gesturing for him to tighten his lip. I wick one side free of hair, and wipe the area to kiss it. "I did like when you ate my pussy with it, especially today, before the stubble kinda scratched me sometimes. But the full mustache felt nice, if it didn't tickle." I take off the other side of his mustache as well, wipe his face and sit full across him with his weeping shaft between us. I languidly kiss him, the way he loves, and he may not have known the mustache impeded. "I don't like anything getting between me and this mouth!" My hand slides between us and I grip him tight. "Or this cock." And I slide my bare skin over him hoping he catches the other surprise I have for him.

I'm pressed back on the vanity top with my toes clutching the lip and my hair mussed against the mirror with my beautiful man between my thighs a moment later

"Nothing between us?" His tip is resting impatiently at my opening.

"IUD is in. Play through- ahhhh!" The words aren't over my lips before he's balls deep inside me.

It's rough, my head bounces on the mirror and the slaps of our skin fill the air.

It's perfect. The hour long foreplay means I'm dripping onto his neatly trimmed bush already, only an easy give at his considerable intrusion.

"Fuck, Harry!" I say after aso close already.

"You about to tap out?" He looks amused. "I'm just home."

"What can I say?" I moan over a deep stroke, and my fingers find my clit to help myself along. "I just needed some firm," my other hand sweeps over his jaw, "smooth," I wick my thumb over his upper lip. "Strokes!" And then My blood is fizzing through my veins and my hand loses its rhythm.

Harry fucks me through the denouement, and then I'm flipped onto my belly, my toes leaving the floor occasionally with his powerful thrusts.

Hours later, he's looking at himself in the mirror where he's shaved again. Against the grain, so no stubble troubles my thighs. "You really won't miss it, at all?"

"You can grow it back." I shrug, "At some point, I'm sure I'll miss my mustache rides."

[wlfkssd]

Midnight Caller

based on the prompt ‘hvithelred + midnight / early morning hugs’ sent in by @issadoragreen <3

summary : after a rough week, and with hvitserk not answering his calls, aethelred (thel) visits the lothbrok house at midnight to see him.

warnings : smoking, brief mention of ragnar yelling at hvitserk, mentions of divorce and a bad impression of gimli from lotr. a little bit of angst, not much though.

pairing : hvitserk x aethelred. small appearances from alfred, rollo, ubbe. as well as a tiny flirtation between ubbe and thel. 

words : 2,380.

notes : aethelred is referred to as thel a lot in this fic. just because it’s a little more modern.

The dial tone continues in its monotony and Thel shakes his head, lowering the phone from his ear before he hangs it up again. He stares at the screen and his brows instinctively pull close and tight.

Why aren't you picking up, Hvitserk?

"Any luck?" Alfred, his younger brother, stands in the doorway. He looks anxious; hands buried so deep into the single, long pocket of the oversized, borrowed hoodie to keep him from picking at his fingers in worry.

"No. It just keeps ringing." Thel's defeated and to pretend otherwise would be idiotic. Perhaps Hvitserk doesn't want to talk to him. Perhaps he doesn't want to see him anymore. "I should go over there and see if he's alright."

"At this time of night? What would mum say?"

That's hardly a threat and they both know it. Life at home hasn't always been plain sailing, especially with Alfred's illness and the fact that it's clear he's the favourite. But Thel doesn't mind. Quite the contrary; sometimes that leaves him free to do just about whatever he likes without much fear of repercussions.

Still, this? Maybe his brother is right. It's no time to be showing up unannounced.

"You're right, Alfie." That garners a smile from Alfred - nickname having been with him, practically since birth - and he turns to leave for his own room just as the dial tone strikes back into life.

Some seconds pass, long and unnecessary in Thel's opinion. He can only imagine what the excuse will be.

"Hello?" Ubbe's voice is quiet, softer even than usual and something about it sends a tingling jolt straight up Thel's spine. They're best friends - more like brothers, really - but some things just can't be denied.

"Is Hvitserk alright? He's not answering his phone."

There's a silence and Thel hears the heavy sigh come through loud and clear. In fact, it's far too close to the receiver for comfort.

"Our father came home." Four short words that set the scene for the whole conversation and the coming night. So easily let out and yet their weight now holds itself in the space between the two boys. "He has a way of speaking that isn't always what you would call nice."

And that's putting it lightly. In truth, Ragnar had come home after three long years of globe-trotting and demanded to know which of his sons intended to take over their family business. It was sudden and off-putting and had ruined the last of everyone's Sunday night.

He'd barely spoken to Ivar, choosing instead to focus on Ubbe and Bjørn as his successors. And why not? They are the oldest of his sons. Why wouldn't they want to inherit his empire, his wealth, his standing in Scandinavian society?

Because, for one, Ubbe had told him, he was still in school and wanted very much to become something other than what had come before him. Bjørn had said much the same; giving details that he was going into business with their uncle Floki for a while.

That left Hvitserk and Sigurd and being faced with a father he hadn't seen for years, yelling into his face and asking if he's man enough, wasn't the ideal reunion.

It also explains exactly why none of the brothers have been at school for the past two days. Now Thel understands and his heart eases off its hammering just a little.

"Do you think Hvitserk would see me, if I came over there?"

For the first time in the conversation, Ubbe seems to relax. The sigh slips into something more amused and he hums, lowly. "I think so, yes. It's a shame you like him so much. I could use someone like you right now. Calling at midnight and asking to come over, just to see me."

Shame indeed. Were it not for the fact of Ubbe's younger brother's charm, Thel might have eventually fallen out of friendship and into love with him, instead. But both know it's not to be and there's a moment of comfortable silence.

"I'm on my way, then."

They hang up and Thel takes a deep breath, relieved that the sudden silence isn't anything he's done.

Dressing warmly, Thel makes his way down the stairs and out into the night with a single thought; how can he cheer up his boyfriend?

Several different ideas run through his mind as he walks the short distance from one house to the other. He could pick a flower from each of the gardens on the way and present them to Hvitserk. He could jog to the 24-hour corner shop and buy him some sweets or a large bag of popcorn. Or he could just bring himself and the space between his waiting arms that so perfectly encompasses the one he's chosen to show and give his heart to.

That sounds about right. Sappy as it is.

Coming to the Lothbrok house, Thel slows and considers his ways of entrance.

Knocking on the front door is definitely out. That's far too obvious, isn't it? Plus, he doesn't know who might be sleeping. There is a light on in the living room but the windows blinds are all the way down and disturbing whoever is inside might not end well. Especially if it's Ragnar.

As he's standing there, looking at the house, a throat clears and sends him almost out of his skin.

"Staring won't get you anywhere." Flame of a lighter flickers into life and, for a few seconds, the identity of the voice shows itself. Then it's gone. Thel stands his ground, though, relief filling his veins now instead of fear.

"And scaring the shit out of teenagers won't get you anywhere, either."

Tongue kisses teeth in a gesture of disappointment at the language and Rollo stands up, causing the lamp above the side door to come on, illuminating him. The sterile shade reminds Thel of a hospital.

"What are you doing here, Aethelred?" Rollo asks on the exhale of his cigarette, smoke blown in a steady stream as his eyes focus on the boy before him. "It's a little late for studying, isn't it?" His expression holds so much knowing.

"I'm here to see Hvitserk." And that's all the explanation he's going to give.

"So it's true then? The two of you-" Rollo cuts himself off as he takes another drag on the cigarette, which now looks as though it's due to be snubbed out any moment. He holds in the smoke to delay but lets it out as he comes closer, towering over Thel the way one does when he should be feared.

Flicking away the cigarette gives a single notion.

Threat.

Instead though, it's an embrace that passes between them. A hefty one in which Thel is lifted quite literally off of his feet. And a hearty laugh bellows uncaring from Rollo's chest, still rumbling as he lets go and claps both hands to the teen's shoulders, looking him over.

"You're both terrible at hiding things, you know. Anyone with eyes can see your affection for each other." Maybe in the dark it's easier for him to say things like this; the veil of night covering all manner of distress at discussing affairs of the heart. Lagertha and Siggy have both torn him apart in their own ways but love spreads just as much as anything else. "Now," he sniffs and clears his throat, squeezing one of Thel's shoulders. "Do you need help getting into his window?"

"What?" What, indeed. Thel blinks up at Rollo, brows coming together as they had earlier over the screen of his mobile phone. "I was going to use the front door." He lies and hopes it's convincing.

It isn't.

"Nonsense. You English need to have more adventure." Rollo observes, all the while leading Thel towards the overhang beneath Hvitserk's bedroom window.

They come to stand, looking up at it together. From on the ground, it doesn't seem too daunting but Thel isn't keen on breaking a bone when he's got a big game at the end of the week.

"You expect me to climb up there?" Thel shakes his head, wishing he had asked Ubbe to wait up and let him in. Better than risking life and limb for the sake of adventure. In fact, he's sure Hvitserk would prefer he arrive in once piece and upset Ragnar than show up and immediately have to spend the next day and a half in the hospital with him because he fell.

"Come on. I'll help you."

Bending at the knees, Rollo widens his stance and lays his hands palms up in front of him, interlocking his fingers. He gestures for Thel to come closer with a jerk of his chin. Silently his eyes say he'll never forgive Thel if he doesn't find the courage to at least try it.

"Oh, fine. Fine." Thel huffs and, putting one hand firmly on Rollo's shoulder, he lifts a foot and places it into the waiting hands. One swift motion sees him launched up and onto the overhang. No problem whatsoever.

Rollo gives him a thumbs up for good luck and disappears, presumably to smoke some more.

Then it's just a glass pane that separates him from the one he loves. It feels strange to think, let alone to say, especially given that each of them is so young but, apparently, when you know, you know. And he knows.

Crawling on his hands and knees, uncaring as to the scuff to his black jeans, Thel gets close enough to see his own breath fog up the window and he pauses to peer inside. One hand cups over his eyes, blocking out the light of a nearby streetlamp.

Hvitserk is on his bed, curled around his blanket. One leg on top, one beneath. He wears only a pair of bottoms - Thel's, he notices. They're a loose fit and black and the pull strings are frayed from years of play and fretting. They're old but, somehow, Hvitserk makes them new. He makes everything new; vibrant.

The catch is unlocked so he doesn't even have to struggle with it before he's pushing up the window and slipping through. Hvitserk would say he's like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible but that's difficult to believe.

Cool air moves the curtains and breathes life into what is otherwise a morbidly still room. Hvitserk's mobile phone lays dormant on his bed, placed in the concave created by his rounded position. As though he just watched Thel calling and calling and chose to ignore it.

No.

Maybe he couldn't bring himself to answer. Shock does strange things to people. Aethelred's own parents almost divorced when his father found out Alfred wasn't his. But they worked through things, eventually. So he's all-too-aware of just how debilitating that emotion can be.

"Hvitserk?" Thel whispers into the dark. It's the softest he's ever spoken and thinks, perhaps, he didn't actually make any sound at all. So, he tries again, not wanting to startle Hvitserk too much if he wakes.

"Mmm?" The noise is an obvious sign of exhaustion and Hvitserk doesn't turn over, immediately. He clearly thinks it's one of his brothers; come to disturb what little sleep he's managed these past few days. "What is it, Ubbe?"

Chancing the gesture, Thel sits on the side of the bed and tentatively lowers a hand onto Hvitserk's exposed shoulder. "It isn't Ubbe. It's me."

"Hello... me." For the first time in days, Hvitserk smiles. His eyes are still closed but that simple touch to his shoulder - naked skin prickling at it - is enough to lift his spirits from even the deepest of depths. "How did you-?"

"Your window was unhooked. I've told you about leaving it that way. Strangers could get in." The hand moves from bare skin to sandy braids and Thel's long fingers gently sweep through, earning him a contented sigh.

A contented sigh that precedes Hvitserk's eyes opening heavily. He blinks, adjusting to the light. "Did you climb up here?" His brows furrow at the thought and he turns over fully now, onto his back. The side of Thel's face that is visible looks to be smiling but it's hard to tell.

"Your uncle tossed me." Doing his best impression of Gimli, Thel ducks his face and laughs. It's almost silent but the moment is one of utter closeness, despite the humour, and after a minute, even that dies away, leaving nothing but the gaze of a sad boy looking into the face of the one he knows can rescue him.

Abruptly, Hvitserk embraces Aethelred's waist; not sitting fully but no longer laying as still and placid as he had been.

"I'm sorry I didn't answer you before. My father-" The very fact that Hvitserk buries his face tells them both all they need to know about the life of that conversation. It needs to be cut short.

"Ubbe told me everything. So you don't have to explain."

It isn't made clear exactly what it is Hvitserk has to do but by the way Thel directs him steadily with a hand at the back of his neck, the other having moved now from soft hair to rubbing at the space between his shoulder blades, and kisses him, it doesn't appear to be anything too taxing. Just be kissed. Even he can manage that now.

For a long moment, there's nothing in the world but them and it's blissful. All the heavy decisions in their futures and all the things they've done wrong in the past just melt into nothing. They're living for the moment.

Lips leave their tender mark on one another as Thel pulls away, briefly, nose bumping Hvitserk's, along with a touch of their foreheads to bring about the signal of parting. Not that it lasts long. Tiredly, Hvitserk shuffles further towards the wall, letting the blanket tangle itself even tighter into his legs and Thel kicks off his shoes and strips down to his shorts.

As they get comfortable, skin presses against bed-warmed skin; the soft, downy hair of Thel's soft tummy tickling the small of Hvitserk's back. Naturally, a groping hand reaches and finds an arm to pull over and a hand to hold in the darkness. The same lips, too, now part and breathe as one, chests rising and falling together.

"Will you stay until I fall asleep?" The question comes around a yawn and Hvitserk hugs Thel closer to him, looking back briefly and offering himself up for another kiss. Aethelred gives it, freely, leaning in for a series of small, affectionate pecks. Each brings about a satisfied sigh.

"I will stay until you fall asleep."

[butterflies-dragons]

That was a heartbreaking read :( Enlightening tho, TY!! While I was aware of the parallels between Marillion & hound's attacks, I hadn't noticed the recurring themes leading up to the hound's attack. I've seen others speculating about nightmare wrt Jonsa and IA with you that nightmare is Sansa's way of processing her trauma. But I also think it could be part of the "Jon is a foil to Sansa's false beasts" motif. Two men with scarred faces forced Sansa onto her bed & assaulted her, but the 3rd 1/2

Hello Anon,

Many thanks for your words.  Here is the post for anyone interested.

About scarred face men around Sansa, Jon wouldn’t be the third, in any case the forth or even the fifth, but Sansa could meet others before her reunion with Jon, a man from the Mountain Clans of the Vale for example, like the Burned Men.

So far we have:

Ilyn Payne has a scarred face (pockmarked).   

The Hound has a scarred face (burned).

Tyrion Lannister has a scarred face (noseless).    

I also suspect Lothor cut Marillion’s face while saving Sansa.

Illyn Payne didn’t try to rape Sansa but his interactions with Sansa are surrounded by rapey and phallic imagery... I know, it’s disturbing...

Sansa always feel naked next to Ilyn Payne:

“The king is gone hunting, but I know he will be pleased to see you when he returns,” the queen was saying to the two knights who knelt before her, but Sansa could not take her eyes off the third man. He seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly he turned his head. Lady growled. A terror as overwhelming as anything Sansa Stark had ever felt filled her suddenly. She stepped backward and bumped into someone.

(...)

There was general laughter, led by Lord Renly himself. The tension of a few moments ago was gone, and Sansa was beginning to feel comfortable … until Ser Ilyn Payne shouldered two men aside, and stood before her, unsmiling. He did not say a word. Lady bared her teeth and began to growl, a low rumble full of menace, but this time Sansa silenced the wolf with a gentle hand to the head. "I am sorry if I offended you, Ser Ilyn," she said. She waited for an answer, but none came. As the headsman looked at her, his pale colorless eyes seemed to strip the clothes away from her, and then the skin, leaving her soul naked before him. Still silent, he turned and walked away.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

This line: “His pale colorless eyes seemed to strip the clothes away from her” sounds very rapey... And the reference to his “pale colorless eyes”  next to this line: “and then [strip] the skin, leaving her soul naked before him”, sounds like Bolton imagery, colorless eyes and flying skin.

Also, Ilyn Payne having Ice has a powerful and disturbing phallic imagery:   

The serving girls tried to talk to her when they brought her meals, but she never answered them. Once Grand Maester Pycelle came with a box of flasks and bottles, to ask if she was ill. He felt her brow, made her undress, and touched her all over while her bedmaid held her down. When he left he gave her a potion of honeywater and herbs and told her to drink a swallow every night. She drank it all right then and went back to sleep.

She dreamt of footsteps on the tower stair, an ominous scraping of leather on stone as a man climbed slowly toward her bedchamber, step by step. All she could do was huddle behind her door and listen, trembling, as he came closer and closer. It was Ser Ilyn Payne, she knew, coming for her with Ice in his hand, coming to take her head. There was no place to run, no place to hide, no way to bar the door. Finally the footsteps stopped and she knew he was just outside, standing there silent with his dead eyes and his long pocked face. That was when she realized she was naked. She crouched down, trying to cover herself with her hands, as her door began to swing open, creaking, the point of the greatsword poking through …

She woke murmuring, "Please, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, please don’t,” but there was no one to hear.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

Ned used Sansa to kill Lady, Sansa’s direwolf, a part of her soul.  So, in a way, Ice has cut Sansa already.

Later, Ilyn Payne used Ice to kill Ned, Sansa’s father.  So Ice is painted with Lady’s and Ned’s blood.  And a bloody sword is also a metaphor of a phallus deflowering a maiden:

"Brandon loved his sword. He loved to hone it. 'I want it sharp enough to shave the hair from a woman's cunt,' he used to say. And how he loved to use it. 'A bloody sword is a beautiful thing,' he told me once." 

"You knew him," Theon said.

The lantern light in her eyes made them seem as if they were afire. "Brandon was fostered at Barrowton with old Lord Dustin, the father of the one I'd later wed, but he spent most of his time riding the Rills. He loved to ride. His little sister took after him in that. A pair of centaurs, those two. And my lord father was always pleased to play host to the heir to Winterfell. My father had great ambitions for House Ryswell. He would have served up my maidenhead to any Stark who happened by, but there was no need. Brandon was never shy about taking what he wanted. I am old now, a dried-up thing, too long a widow, but I still remember the look of my maiden's blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain.

—A Dance with Dragons - The Turncloak

In contrast to Ned cleaning Ice after using the sword, Ilyn Payne keep it bloody:

Sansa had not even seen Ser Ilyn return to the hall, but suddenly there he was, striding from the shadows behind the dais as silent as a cat. He carried Ice unsheathed. Her father had always cleaned the blade in the godswood after he took a man’s head, Sansa recalled, but Ser Ilyn was not so fastidious. There was blood drying on the rippling steel, the red already fading to brown. “Tell Lady Sansa why I keep you by us,” said Cersei.

Ser Ilyn opened his mouth and emitted a choking rattle. His pox-scarred face had no expression.

“He’s here for us, he says,” the queen said. “Stannis may take the city and he may take the throne, but I will not suffer him to judge me. I do not mean for him to have us alive.”

“Us?”

“You heard me. So perhaps you had best pray again, Sansa, and for a different outcome. The Starks will have no joy from the fall of House Lannister, I promise you.” She reached out and touched Sansa’s hair, brushing it lightly away from her neck.”

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

Sansa even dreams having her wedding night with Illyn Payne: 

“Once she dreamed it was still her marrying Joff, not Margaery, and on their wedding night he turned into the headsman Ilyn Payne. She woke trembling.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

So I think we must count Ilyn Payne in the scarred face men with rapey/non con connotations surrounding Sansa list, next to the Hound, Tyrion and Marilion that later also lost his eyes. 

And in AFFC Sansa meets another scarred face man: 

The gaoler Mord came with him, a monstrous man with small black eyes and a lopsided, scarred face. One ear and part of his cheek had been cleaved off in some battle, but twenty stone of pallid white flesh remained. His clothes fit poorly and had a rank, ripe smell. 

A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

Sound familiar?

Anyway, let’s talk about Jon now.  

Among all these men, Jon’s scar in his left eyes, a gift from Orell’s eagle, is almost nothing.  He is not disfigured like the Hound (half face burned), Tyrion (noseless) and Marilion (lost his eyes).  But there are theories that he could lose an eyes, like Waymar Royce his look-alike, an Jonnel ‘One Eye’ Stark, his ancestor and almost name-sake.   

Also, among all these men called beast in figurative sense, Jon’s beastly status is about him being a warg, a skinchanger.  Jon is both Beast and Man. That’s why there are theories about Jon’s soul living inside Ghost after his physical death.  

And finally Jon is the only hidden/secret prince that is a very significant parallel with the Beast from the fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast.” 

You can read more about jonsa and “Beauty and the Beast” in the following links:  

In the original fairy tale ‘La Belle et la Bête’ written by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve, Beauty and Beast/Prince are cousins.

There is a version of Beauty and the Beast where the Beast is a white wolf.

Other ship questioning jonsa and its connections with Beauty and the Beast.

Other ship questioning jonsa and its connections with Beauty and the Beast II.

Other ship questioning jonsa and its connections with Beauty and the Beast III. 

I agree that Jon won’t assault Sansa and that she will probably sing to him spontaneous and willingly.  Also take note that the Beast from “Beauty and the Beast”��was very courteous, he needed to court Beauty and make her see him beyond his beastly appearance, in order to break his curse.           

Even in GRRM’s favorite version of the tale, the 1946 French film “La Belle et la Bête” directed by Jean Cocteau, “The Beast invites Belle to dinner, where he tells her that she's in equal command to him and that she will be asked every day to marry him. Days pass as Belle grows more accustomed to and fond of the Beast, but she continues to refuse marriage”.

So, Jon won’t be part of that long list of butchers around Sansa. 

I got your point, you made sense, don’t worry.  But I refuse to associate Jon with traumatic Sansa’s nightmares.  I wish for him to be A Dream of Spring.        

Thanks for your message.

[sloppy-butcher]

Waitin’ On a Superman -  Chapter 3 : Like Pulling Teeth

(The Hillbilly (Max Thompson Jr.) x female!reader)

notes: i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and enjoy what i have managed to produce so far <3 its really helps me with my confidence and such

also i have made a spotify playlist of songs that i personally listen to when getting in the mood of the story. i would like to share it but only if yall would like to hear it ahaha  er anyway, thank you again <3 

Previous ; Next 

Pulling your head free from the grasp of the hay straws felt like something akin to being born. All at once you were alive again, breathing in the cool barn air having just awoken from the land of musky earth. It was refreshing; cleansing; jarring. The dream world fell away and noise and smell bombarded you, crashing in like unforgiving waves against a wayward boat. You were confused by your surroundings, head turning around frantic for clues, until your eyes landed upon familiar yellow and you remembered everything.

You remember walking. You remember the dog. And you remember him. 

It was brighter now, your mind more inclined to function as intended without fog or muck to slow production. You remember his voice, the sound of his heavy footsteps, the way in which he spoke and how he had helped you. Kindness, even small as his was, was such a rare oddity here, strangers only being associated with unforgivable violence and cruelty. But he was kind, offered you rest and protection where others would simply chase you out. It surprised you, more now than it did when it had occurred. How strange, how very strange indeed.

As you stood up from your make-shift bed, dusting stray straws off your jeans and t-shirt, a part of you started to construct a way of saying thank you to the man. Though you had nothing to give, nothing of material value, you somehow felt obligated to present to him your utmost appreciation for his generosity. It was an ingrained and practiced habit that consumed you until you started to focus more on the man himself.

You remember feeling oddly familiar with him - something about his voice perhaps? Or the way in which he walked and presented himself? Whatever it was, it triggered something from you, a deep, visceral response that made your stomach grow heavy with lead and your palms begin to sweat. And the more you tried to identify the specifics of your sudden upheaval, bringing it to the forefront of your attention, the heavier the response became and the more panicked you began to feel. Dread crept up your back and nestled into your shoulder whenever you thought about him. Something about trying to remember him made you feel … terrified. There was simply no other word to describe it. He terrified you. You just couldn’t understand why.

You were stuck at a crossroads. A part of you wanted to find the man and personally thank him for everything, to pay forward his kindness using gestures of companionship and see how far one could push this unique experience. The other part of you never wanted to meet the man ever again, demanding you flee at once and never looked back. Each road pulled at you, neither one able to one-up the other in strength and appeal thus leaving you at an uncomfortable, pointed balance. You rub your face with your hands, sighing as you tried to sway yourself to make a decision. You wished you were back asleep.

Nothing offered itself as assistance to your plea as you paced the barn and with no other option, you relented your fruitless battle and walked out into the night. Whatever will happen, will happen - whether that be you see him again or you finally manage to escape the corn-maze, you were going to meet it head-on regardless. 

You stood on the border of the clearing between the barn safety and the yellow ocean, gazing into the sweet abyss that had been devouring you for so long. You wanted to stay at the barn, at the only sign of land where you could not drown. But you remembered his warning and with a heavy sigh you set off. Without looking back you stepped out into the field, casting yourself once more off to sea, letting go of the red barn and allowing the wind to swallow you whole and carry you to wherever it wished. However, you had only been walking for a few minutes before you heard the heavy panting of the dog behind you. So this is what has been decided. No fighting it, no running.

“Hello again.” You stopped and breathed in, gathering your confidence in the face of the beast, willing yourself not to give in to the unjustified fear.  You had no reason to be so afraid, he had done nothing to you. Not yet. “I was hoping I’d find you again.” Your voice was calmer, collecting itself in idle conversation. You slowly, careful of quick movement so as not to frighten him or yourself, roll your head around your position, trying to spot any sign of the man hiding away. “I wanted to thank you for your generosity.”

“Did you sleep?” The man answered almost immediately, somewhat throwing you off balance. From how reserved and mild he was during the previous encounter you were sure you’d have to sweet talk him a little more to get him to open up. But his eagerness was not unwelcomed and you gave yourself over to talking.

“I did. On the hay pile in the barn. It was…” You paused from a moment, all cylinders in your brain firing in an attempt to find the appropriate word to describe your rest, “...great, I suppose.” At this he paused, probably to take in your response and work out a retort. In the silence something stirred, curling itself into your already weak stomach. You shooed it away and willed him to speak.

“Donny always liked the hay. It makes a good bed.” He said finally, drawing your mind away from the coldness in your palms and to his voice. You tilt your head at his mention of ‘Donny’. Was he referring to the same pig from the other night? Or in some weird way was he calling you ‘Donny’? For now you let the confusion slide and instead pushed on with the discussion.

“Do you not sleep?” You asked, your head continuing to timidly scan your surroundings. If he was opposed to your efforts to locate him, the man did not show it and without him actively stopping you, you endured without complaint. You practically heard the man shrug.

“Don’t try to.” He mumbled halfheartedly. 

“It's because you’re stuck, like me. Right?” His perplexed quiet was enough of an indicator for you to example yourself. “I mean, you’re stuck here in this corn field. Just like me. I may not know exactly how long I have been here but I know it’s been a while.” You look down at your hands, fingernails dirty from stains you could not remember getting. “I’ve been walking through this field forever and yet I never reach a fence. Or a house. Or anything.” Speaking your fears into life was somewhat cathartic for you, reaching out to this strange person with a hand trembling and unsure made you hope beyond reason that he could sympathize with your plea. To be human and experience and understand the toils of another as if they were your own. You lifted your eyes to the corn and towards the position where you guessed him to be. You smiled, lips chapped and cracking from the stretch but persevering regardless. It hurt you to grin, a gesture you had not partaken in for so long that you had almost forgotten how to even do it. You hoped that it at least looked more sincere than it felt.

“You are stuck.” The man replied in his ever gruff and rocky voice, like stones crashing around in an engine. “I am stuck sometimes. The corn is like mud. It sinks.” 

“Sometimes?” You inquire, an eyebrow lifting as your interest peaked. He grunted, sounding as if nodding with force.

“I can leave only when Boy is called. Called by the spider in the sky.” Suddenly, you jumped and gasped loudly.

“You know about that thing!?” You twirl on your feet, spinning around the corn looking for any hint of the man. Your eyes were ablaze with glory, ironic relief washing over your body at his words. Here you found another lost soul. Another person who could feel the sky pulsing and eating. Someone who knew that there was more to this world than just psycho killers wielding axes. “I thought I was the only one who could sense it! No one else at the campfire believed me when I said there was something up there.” Your victory waned at the mention of the campfire. Your smiling dwindled and your movement stopped, eyes clouded and downcast. The campfire? The others. When was the last time you had seen them? The last time you had seen anyone for the fact? You could barely remember their faces. They were all a blur like mist on a foggy bathroom mirror, there were faces but no details. Names but no meaning. You suddenly felt very lonely and longed to go back to that horrible campfire with those equally horrible people. 

A most nasty habit that people had - the want to flock together like sheep. Though to be with people irked you, riding up with an ill-fitting pair of jeans on tender skin, there was no denying that your heart ached when it realized it was alone. You always said you liked being alone but you always hated being lonely.

“Will you walk with me?” Your voice was distant as your thoughts drifted back to the people waiting at the campfire, your tongue moving before your mind would react. “Will you walk with me to the fence?” In your stupor, the man’s reaction to your request went unnoticed. He was shocked, gawking at you with wide, disbelieving eyes and his mouth agape. He examined you from head to toe, tearing you apart with suspicious eyes, trying to uncover if you were attempting to hurt him or not. Was this some kind of joke? Were you going to laugh at him? You knew that there was no real fence, no true boundary to this place, and yet you wanted to exhaust yourself trying to find it? He was baffled by your ignorant persistence and resorted to studying you harder for any cracks in your outward appearance. Where he expected to find half-hidden malice, he only saw sadness. You were sad, he knew what it looked like on people. And it wasn’t fake sadness either, not the kind that people on the T.V wore when something bad happened. Yours was real, he could smell it. 

“I will walk with you. To the fence.” The man replied softly, speaking at a volume that was tentative and hesitant, a part of him still remaining apprehensive to your next actions. You raise your head at his confirmation, a glimmer of your former smile returning to your lips.

“Thank you.” You lowered your head in a meager bow and after a moment debating whether to let him lead or you, you walked off in a direction you presumed to be forward with the man setting off behind you.

All through the walk you racked your brain from conversation topics; lovely weather we are having? What do you think someone would do with all this corn? There were so many different options to choose from yet each fell flat when pitted against possibility. Try as you might, you just could not think of anything to say. It also did not help that that horrible, foreboding feeling had followed you out there, trailing you like a dark cloud. With the man so close your familiar fear kicked itself into overdrive. There was just something so recognizable about him, something dreadful and vile. But what? What about him had spooked you to this extent? Sure, his voice was raspy and congested and his breathing was that of a sleeping beast, but his words and the soft tones he used were all of that of a boy. A simple youth who bled this pure form of compassion and slowness. Such a contradicting feeling he gave off, to be the reason you wanted to flee yet drawing you in with a need to know more about him. You yearned for the talking of frivolous topics to distract you from the gnawing panic that resided in your stomach but the rivers ran dry of inspiration and you were left to walk in pitiful, heavy silence.   

In one last, desperate grab at distraction, you started to pay attention to his footsteps, a task made easier in the barren landscape of only corn and wind. His pace was loud and large, landing with each step in a heavy stomp. He must be very tall, you supposed. Or very big. The weight of the sound, after being taken into consideration, was not deemed as important to focus on when you noticed the odd rhythm he had. Instead of a consistent 1-2 pace that most people would have, the man had a rather jolted one. The space between thumps were uneven and gave you the impression that he had some kind of limp or poor leg. In a strange sense it almost sounded like a heartbeat.

Something flickered at your revelation. It was such a unique walk pattern that it triggered a memory in you, a vision of running and hiding away and the sound of a chainsaw. The fear flexed itself in your stomach. It did not help when the breeze shifted and you managed to catch a whiff of that previously undisclosed smell. His smell. The coppery smell of fresh blood. The coldness spread further, you mind reeling as the fingers of your panic threatened to grab you. You remember that walk. You remember that breathing. You remember that heartbeat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, mentally willing your body to calm down and stop racing to conclusions. Stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about the dog. Stop- 

You come to a sudden stop when you realize that he was not behind you anymore. Snapping your eyes open you were greeted by the sight of the dilapidated red barn and its open doors. Disappointment mingled with your fluttering chest, terror mixing well with despair in a deadly concoction.

“I really am stuck here.” You mumbled to yourself, hands falling from your arms to hang useless at your sides. “There really is no way out.”

“Not unless Donny is called.” The man, oblivious to your dawning anguish, muttered from somewhere to your right. Though you knew that ultimately that you were never going to find a way out of the fields and that even thinking about it would only cause misery, that moment when your feeble hope died you were sure your heart had stopped altogether. This was your eternity now, to barely be alive when drowned in yellow. Nothing to run for, nothing to fight towards. Listlessly you feel your body regain itself, standing tall at the edge of everything. If this was all there is, then what are you scared for?

“Donny can stay at the barn again. Boy will be here soon. Stay. Sleep and I will come back.” You heard the man shuffle to leave and before you could even think you shouted at him.

“Wait!” The world shook in the wake of your outburst, such volumes never being reached in this sea of feigned tranquility. “Wait please.” You exhale, finally feeling the full weight of the fear you had tried so fiercely to run away from, settle mercilessly upon your chest. “I know you.” With your eyes looking at the ground, you turn your head over your shoulder towards the man. “I know you so there is no need to hide anymore. If I am to be stuck here with you, I want to see your face. And know your name.” He did not respond right away, a part of you suspecting that he had simply left before you had even asked your question, unaware of everything. But you could still hear his breathing, coming now in hollow gasps. 

“No one likes my face.” He answered, voice surprisingly dangerous and bitter. You did not shy away from him however, did not give into the rising uneasiness of the mood. 

“But I already know you. And I don't remember not liking it.” That was a blatant lie and you wished that he could not see through it. There was a growl.

“No! No! No one likes my face!” He was shouting, angry words springing forth from the same person who was so soft spoken just moments before. You turn more of your attention to him, your eyes still lowered allowing yourself one last opportunity to back down. You did not. There was nothing for you to go to if you backed off now.

“Please.” You knew he could not resist your request when you presented it in such a placid manner. There was a shout, an explosion of noise and violence and you jumped at its severity. You heard the rush of footsteps leap out from the field as a shadow loomed itself over you.

“Look! Look Donny! Look at Max and laugh at him!” He was right behind you, his hot breath bursting against your neck in towering waves. Without giving yourself the chance to consider anything, you spun around and came face to face with the fuming dog, his teeth bared.

At the sight of him, your knees went weak and the floor beneath you fell away. You wanted to scream, to run away, to give in to horror and fear and go hysterical and wild. He was hideous, truly monstrous and hardly even a man at all. It was flesh at war, torrents of skin fighting itself as it connected head to neck and neck to torso. Beneath that storm was a face pushing through, with a mouth wide, teeth crooked and eyes like fiery pinpricks in the dark. He was awful to look at yet your eyes could not be torn away. He stole from you your sanity with nothing but the mere look of his being alone. 

Though your mind clouded with uncontrollable panic and fear, you could still recognize the man, his face unforgettable. It was him alright, no more denying it, no more pushing it away. You had known it was him from that very first encounter yet foolishly you had rejected everything, ignoring every piece of awful evidence that had sat itself right in front of your nose, all in favor of self desires. You wanted him to be someone else. You needed this strange man to be a good person whom you could hold on to, you could reach out for. But as the cruelest twist of fate, he was the complete opposite.

It was the Hillbilly - the monster who hunted you and the others with that wicked chainsaw of his. Nothing but a beast made of only the poorly defined form of man, a shape with no purpose other than to kill. You knew it was him from the moment you heard him behind you, breathing like that roaring engine he always did. You never forget the sound of the dog trying to kill you. You had been weak, allowing him to get close enough to you to practically have his bloody hands wrapped around your throat. 

You wanted to run, to flee and try to live just that little bit longer - give your body and soul over to inherent prey instinct. But as you looked into those blazing, hateful eyes framed by grotesque threads of dirty skin, you found that all you could do was wait. It was like facing off against an oncoming train, reckless and unstoppable coming at you at full-speed fuming with noxious smoke. You had seen this movie before and knew how the story ended - he would kill you and leave your body for the rats. 

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to leap out of its path but something stronger and more persistent held you tightly in place. He was not moving so why should you? He was not attacking so why should you run? He was talking so why should you not listen? Once again you clung to the belief that if this man was able to talk and reason then there was something human inside him, something that could be grasped and felt. Regardless of all logic and reason you sought that something and waited for him to offer you another chance to try to dig it out of him. If this was the end, then you would not die with your back turned.

“Hello Max.” You said, your voice a quiet light in the gloomy atmosphere. You saw him visibly retract at your calmness, his eyes darting around your whole body in search of something, anything that would indicate malcontent. “It's nice to meet you.” His stupor lasted only a second longer before he roared and lunged forward, hand twitching around the handle of his chainsaw.

“Donny always laughs! Donny is always scared!” He reeled his head back violently, stretching up into his full, powerful height. You sank into his shadow but did not waver in your stance. Come rain or ruin, you could not find the effort to move your feet even an inch. “Everyone is meant to be laughing at Max! Everyone is meant to be scared!” He brought his attention back down to you and you shuddered under his glare, trying beyond anything not to flinch in his presence. “Donny is always scared!” 

You waited a moment, allowing for his fuming words to cool and settle in the night air before answering with yours. “Donny is scared. They are terrified.” Max tilted his chin inwards to his chest, looking as if preparing to attack, a deep gnarl resonating forth from somewhere in that twisted body. “But not of you, Max. Donny is scared of your anger. Of your…” Your eyes drift to the chainsaw clenched tightly in his hand. Max’s own attention followed yours and for an instant you saw him relent his hold on the weapon. He shot his head back to you, had he had eyebrows they would have been furrowed with muddled anger. 

“Donny lies! You lie! You laugh!”

“But Donny is not.” You retorted, your tone never raising above a mellow reassurance. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the blackness offer you strength as your confidence crumbled. You opened them again and, with a slow, soothing exhale, let your lips extend into the faintest of smiles. You gave him everything in that moment, putting forward all compassion and comfort you could muster into your eyes and smile for him to consume and judge. “I am not lying. And I am not laughing at you Max.” This earned a slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression from the man, his emotions, though messy under his tangled flesh, portraying clearly on his face. He was completely and utterly astonished. 

You watched as he took in your coolness, sucking from you all the serene and hushed energy you had given. He shuts his eyes, slamming his jaw closed and shaking his head vigorously as if trying to shake something loose. He roared again, a most horrible sound that carried for miles in every direction across the field, making the corn around you shake from the sheer magnitude of his power. He raised his empty hand and started pounding his fist into his ear, screaming louder and harder with each contact. You were startled by his reaction and by the way he jumped so quickly from seeking your comfort to out-right rage. Without thinking you step closer to him, a hesitant hand lifting to reach for him. 

Suddenly he jumped forward at you, coming so close that you can feel the heat of his anger eminent off his heaving chest. He stands over you, his fist, with knuckles gone white from stress, moves dangerously closer to your face and hovers there as if debating whether to choke you or not. You subconsciously gulp and take in your final breath, sure that this was the last moments of your pitiful life. You look up at him, his eyes bursting with something between uncontrollable hatefulness and a desperate pity. He tightens his fist and it shakes from the sheer force.

“Donny stays in the barn. Stays in the pen. Until Boy is gone.” His words were more rough, coming from behind gritted teeth. You nod up at him.

“Of course.” Max runs his eyes once more over you body, scanning every corner of your face for anything that he could use to call your bluff but finds nothing. With one final snarl he pulled himself away and disappeared into the corn, leaving behind no reminisce of himself to prove that all that happened was real. In the silence that filled the gap he had left you felt the universe cave in. Conflicting voices erupted in your head, your trembling legs buckling under your body weight. You felt cold and despondent, eyes lingering on the spot where he departed. While your mind wanted to stay and think, to mull over everything until you had worked yourself into a vile panic attack, exhaustion beckoned and you submissively and gratefully followed. Walking inside the barn you find your hay pile and within minutes you were floating away to the safe land of earth and nature. 

[mulletcal]

greased lightnin’ - a cashton!mechanic blurb.

a/n: my second blurb for the fic event! did i finish it up 12 hours before it was supposed to be posted? maybe, but she’s here and she’s thriving.  thank you once again to all the other fic writers involved in this event, you’re such a supportive group and ilu sm.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: mentions of a toxic relationship, oral (male receiving), smut, public sex

Event Masterlist

****

When Calum was little, his two favourite things to watch were Grease and Happy days; so it came as no surprise to anyone when he wanted to be a mechanic.  Calum also may have cited a time or two that The Fonz and Danny Zuko are who opened his eyes to the fact that he was attracted to men.

The slicked back, leather jacket look was something Calum was into; and while he was well aware that no proper mechanic actually dressed like that, it didn’t stop him from wearing such a getup to his interview at Irwin’s Auto- his curly hair perfectly messy, white t-shirt fitted against his torso with his worn-in leather jacket over it. 

Calum had hoped the man who did his pre-interview over the phone would be the one interviewing him, because based on voices alone Calum thought he sounded extremely attractive, and he was only rewarded when a young man who looked roughly his age came walking through the door.

The man wasn’t dressed like he would have expected, which only served to make him even more attractive.  He was dressed in a torn-up black Led Zeppelin t-shirt, dark ripped jeans that hugged his thighs, and his black hair pushed off of his forehead - Calum had to give his head a small shake to get himself out of the headspace of checking out his potential boss.

“Don’t mind my outfit, I didn’t get much sleep and this is the first thing I found.  I’m Ashton, I own this shop,” Ashton spoke, reaching out his hand for Calum to shake.  

Standing to shake the man - Ashton’s - hand, Calum couldn’t help but to admire the blood moon tattoos on his forearms, “Not to worry, happens to all of us.  M’Calum, I’m… interviewing to work here.”

Oh, so he was in the business of telling people things they already knew now, that’s good.  The grin Calum received in response made him grin as well.

“My ex is an ass.  I went to go get the last of my stuff and he wanted to start another fight… I don’t honestly know why I blurted that out, I’m sorry.  That was unprof--”

“He?” Calum blurted out before he had the chance to rethink it.  Maybe he did have a chance after all, if he didn’t get the job maybe he could follow up another time and ask him on a date.

Ashton’s frown made Calum’s breath seize in his throat though, immediately rethinking his choices, “Mate if you have an issue with gay people, you can get the fuck out.”

“No!” Calum sputtered, burying his face in his hands, “I was just surprised because I’m gay too.  Well… Half gay, bisexual really.  Fuck m’sorry, that was a horrible way to say that.  I’m bi.  I don’t have an issue with gay people.”

The grin returned to Ashton’s lips in an instant, leaning back into the chair opposite from him and crossing one leg over the other, “I think we’re going to get along just great.”

Calum was hired by the end of the interview, despite only being an apprentice at one other shop for three months before it went belly-up.  He liked to think that maybe the fact that him and Ashton seemed to get along great had something to do with it, or maybe he just saw potential in Calum.

His first day hadn’t gone as well as he expected; he knocked over a tray of tools, and somehow managed to drop numerous items onto Ashton’s foot.  

“You’re so lucky you’re pretty,” Ashton muttered under his breath, and it made Calum pause for a minute - had he just said he was pretty? No one had referred to him as pretty before.

It was all Calum could think of the rest of the day, doing his best to avoid dropping more things onto Ashton in hopes of not getting fired. After his first day of stumbling about, the rest of the week seemed to go smoothly; that was until he slipped on a small patch of oil on the ground, landing on his ass. Thankfully, it wasn’t a painful fall, but it was enough to have Ashton rushing to his aid, barking out a laugh when he realize Calum was okay.

“You’ve had a tough start and end to the week, wanna go for drinks after work?” Ashton asked, patting Calum on the forehead.

Calum agreed a little too quickly, a blush creeping up on his cheeks when Ashton held his hand out to help him up.  They had brushed past each other before, but Calum had forgotten how warm Ashton’s hands were, and how nice the man’s calloused fingers felt against his own. Realizing he was holding on for a little too long, he quickly pulled his hand away to run his fingers through his hair, messing up his curls a little more and tugging on the ends in his embarrassment.

Ashton’s eyes lingered for longer than he’d care to admit on Calum’s fingers in his hair, silently wishing they were his own. The more he got to know Calum, the more attracted he was to him; he struggled of course, because he was supposed to be his boss, and it would be completely out of line. Ashton had thought more than once about how Calum’s lips would feel against his own, or how many more tattoos the man had. 

“You okay?” Calum asked, “I was the one who slipped, mate. You look like you’re going to be ill.”

Ashton shook his head, laughing softly, “Just thinkin’ bout the damages you woulda cost me if you cracked that thick skull of yours on the concrete.”

With that, the two returned to work- Calum placing the tires back onto a car, Ashton trying not to watch the way his muscles moved underneath his jumpsuit. And Ashton replacing someone’s rear brakes, Calum definitely not watching the way his stomach muscles would tense on a particularly hard tug. The day seemed to pass slowly, the anticipation creeping up making Calum sweat for more reasons than just the heat.

“Ready to go?” Ashton grinned, wiping the sweat off his brow with the rag that had been hanging out of his pocket.

“Uh, yeah. Just gotta get outta my grease monkey clothes, y’know,” Calum chuckled before he turned to head for the bathroom to get changed.

By the time he had cleaned up the sweat from his face, and changed into mostly decent clothes, Ashton was already ready, leaning against his car waiting for him.  As if Calum couldn’t be any more attracted to the man, seeing him sitting against the hood of a black 1969 Ford Mustang made him practically salivate at the sight.

Ashton simply grinned when he saw him, pulling the sunglasses onto his face and pushing himself off the car, “Ever been in a car like this? S’a beaut.”

Calum hummed, shaking his head, “I’ve only ever seen cars like this, oldest car I think I’ve been in was a 1995 impala ss, I think?”

Ashton nodded, allowing the engine to roar to life, “Well then you’re in for a treat, mate.  Maybe we’ll go for a drive and I’ll let you take the wheel.  You’ve driven stick before, yeah?”

“I’ve handled a few sticks in my time,” Calum smirked, watching a look of realization cross over Ashton’s features that his meaning may not be entirely innocent, sporting a matching smirk all the way to their destination.  

Walking into the bar, Calum relaxed at the familiar warmth of the bar enveloping him; the smells invading his nostrils, and the music had him humming along quietly as he followed Ashton to a table in the back corner.

Once they settled in and had their drinks, conversation flowed easily between the two men.  Talking about where one another grew up, favourite hobbies, foods, and the like.  It wasn’t until the subject of relationships came up that Calum grew more quiet and withdrawn, which Ashton took notice of as he spoke of his ex boyfriend.

“What about you, any horrible first date or relationship stories to share?”

Calum shrugged, taking a long sip of his beer before he spoke, “I’ve only had one boyfriend, and it wasn’t the best experience.  He wasn’t out to his family yet, so he had to keep me hidden.  I didn’t so much mind that he wasn’t ready to come out, of course, what I minded was that his shame lead me to being treated pretty shitty by him.  Needless to say that relationship didn’t last very long, and I’ve been single ever since.”

Ashton listened intently, leaning his elbows onto the table so he could listen to Calum better, “I’m so sorry you experienced that.  It’s like you said it would be fine if he wasn’t prepared to come out, but the way he treated you is inexcusable.”

Calum nodded, draining the rest of his beer and setting the glass down, “It’s fine, m’doing better now.  Trying to go on some dates, but each one has been pretty shitty.”

“Hm, well the goal I’d say is to be a little less shitty every time no?”

Chuckling, Calum nodded, “Yeah, well, I don’t know if you can tell but I have no idea what I’m doing.  I almost never do.”

Ashton quirked a brow, smiling around the rim of his glass before draining his as well, “My big toe would have to agree,” he paused, looking towards the window to see if it was dark.  Seemingly pleased that the sun was beginning to set, he looked back to Calum, “Wanna go for that drive? I got the tab while you were in the bathroom.”

Calum frowned, agreeing to heading out, but not before promising Ashton that he’d pick up the tab the next time.  

When they walked out to the car, Ashton spun to face him, walking backwards while he spoke, “I was gonna let you drive, but there was somewhere I wanted to show you first.”

The question didn’t leave Calum’s lips of if he was about to get murdered, simply letting Ashton drive.  Classic rock played in the background softly, Calum enjoying the feeling of the wind through his hair as he realized Ashton was driving towards the beaches.

“Why would you want to go to the beach at night?” 

“Not technically night yet, Cal, we’re going to watch the sunset on the beach.  Well not on, but on the hood of my car!” Ashton smiled brightly over at Calum when he pulled into the parking lot.  Ashton seemed like he was driving to the furthest spot away from the entrance, and all the other cars, and it made Calum pause for a moment - maybe he really was being murdered.  “Stop looking so worried, I just like to play music and I don’t wanna disturb people around us.”

Once he had parked, Ashton encouraged Calum to get out so they could sit on the hood, leaning back against the windshield to watch the sunset.  Calum thought of how crazy that within a week his life had drastically changed; he got his dream career, made a new friend, and started to feel more like himself than he ever had.

“You okay?” Ashton asked, tilting his head in Calum’s direction, “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

“Just thinkin’...” He trailed off, feeling Ashton bump his shoulder so he would continue.  “My life has improved so much just in the last week, and I have you to thank for that.  I went from this dorky dude who was stuck in the past, still hurt over his ex, to a passably cool mechanic who’s only looking forward to the future.”

Ashton smiled, shifting to move closer to Calum, their thighs touching, “Good.  I meant what I said before, the way he treated you was inexcusable.  You’re such a smart, funny, and talented man, it’s part of the reason I hired you, and you didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

Calum’s breath caught in his throat when he turned his head to find Ashton inches away from his face.  Swallowing thickly, his eyes searched the man’s hazel ones, watching as they cast down to his lips, “What was the other part that you hired me for?”

The man licked his lips, slowly dragging his eyes back up to meet Calum’s, “Say the word and I won’t.  But I hired you because I didn’t want anyone else to have you.”

His words were true, that ever since he met Calum he knew he had to have him; on his staff, and just in his life in general.  Ashtons’ words were all it took for Calum to close the gap, his soft lips meeting Ashtons’ own.  Calum’s fingers tangled in the white shirt the man was wearing, pulling him closer.

Their kiss was heated, needy, and it didn’t take long to realize where these kisses were going to lead.  Ashton’s lips trailed along Calum’s jaw, his fingers gently coming to rest on Calum’s crotch and toying with the zipper.

“Ash, we’re in public--” “And?” “And? What if someone sees us and calls the cops?” Calum nervously glanced over his head to see if anyone was looking at them, only to be relieved that a majority of the pairings had dissipated, few cars left in the parking lot.

“Fuck ‘em, want you,” Ashton hummed, pressing kisses along Calum’s neck.  “Do you want this? Because we can stop.”

Calum knew it shouldn’t be sexy, but Ashton reassuring that it was okay seemed to only turn him on more, nodding feverishly, “Yes.  I want you, please.”

Ashton didn’t need to be told twice, his fingers working at the button of his jeans, sliding the zipper down soon after.  Reconnecting their lips, Calum moaned as Ashton palmed his clothed cock.  The friction of Ashton’s hand combined with the fabric of his boxers could have been enough for Calum, not having been touched in such a way in a while, but he wanted to hold off as long as he could to see what Ashton had in mind.

Leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along his chest, Calum gasped when Ashton finally reached the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down with ease.  He could see the man lick his lips once more, which made him let out a quiet moan. 

Ashton leaned forward and began to tease the head with his tongue, hand wrapping around Calum’s length to keep it in place. A few more teasing licks, and Ashton dipped his head, taking as much of Calum in his mouth that he could all at once.  Gasping at the feeling, Calum’s eyes quickly darted around to see if anyone was watching before he tangled his fingers in Ashton’s hair.  The older man expertly bobbed his head, hollowing out his cheeks and flattening his tongue against the underside of Calum’s cock.

“Fuck.  Your mouth feels so good,” Calum whined, biting his lip to keep from being too loud, though he so wanted to.

Ashton picked up his speed, using his hand to make up the rest that he couldn’t take into his mouth.  Calum nearly came then and there when the tip hit the back of Ashton’s throat, causing him to gag slightly.  Though he wanted to, Calum knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer, especially with the way Ashton was moving his tongue against him.

“Ash, m’gonna cum,” Calum whispered, just loud enough for Ashton to hear.  The final push for Calum was when Ashton took him into his mouth again, allowing the tip to hit the back of his throat despite the gagging it caused him, the sensation sending Calum over the edge.  With a whimper of Ashton’s name, and a final tug on the older man’s hair as he came, Ashton working him through it.

Once Calum had come down, he pulled Ashton in for a kiss, smirking against his lips, “Definitely wasn’t the way I was expecting my first week to go.”

Ashton chuckled, helping Calum get redressed, “Well, welcome to the team Fonzi.”

“Fonzi?” “Dunno, when you came in you kinda reminded me of Fonzi from Happy Days,” Ashton said with a small giggle, pressing his lips to Calum’s once again.

“Please, you’re more like Fonzi.  I’m like… the b-list Fonzi, a Bonzi if you will.”

“Bonzi and Fonzi? I could get used to that.”

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[temasdeconversacioneneltrabajo]

"Would you experience yourself differently if our gendered language flipped?

Let’s try talking about humans and the human experience as woman, womankind, sisters and sisterhood? Not man, mankind…

Welcome all, women and men alike, to the sisterhood of womankind.

Now, suddenly everyone is called a “she” when there’s no specific referent.

And always place females first, because we are more important: Women and men, girls and boys, sisters and brothers… When addressing holiday cards put wife first, and then husband, and then children in order of appearance.

After all, from now on women will be heads of household.

Men identified by relationship to women

Married men will be called “Mr.” and single men will be called “Monsieur.” Because, when it comes to men, we need to know who is claimed and who is not. But all women will be addressed as Ms, married or not.

When a woman marries a man, the priestess officiating the wedding will declare them, “Woman and spouse.” The priestess then directs the bride to, “Kiss the groom.”

From then on the husband will take on his wife’s name. John Smith marries Mary Taylor and becomes John Taylor. Or maybe Mr. Mary Taylor.

Sexy men plastered on billboards

The world will change visually, too.

Most action heroes will now be women so when they do something gutsy go ahead and shout, “She’s got ovaries!”Sometimes our heroine will end up in male strip joints with naked guys shaking their stuff while the heroine enjoys the view before getting down to business. With the enemy vanquished the female victor may end up with a cute guy on her arm. A fitting reward.

Outside the theatre men in Speedo’s and thongs will entice us from billboards. And as we walk down the street we’ll enjoy the view of men in skin tight shirts and jeans that show off their hot abs, buns and “packages.” Women’s clothes will be a lot baggier — and a lot more comfortable.

And guys, we love you and we think you’re oh so sexy. But if you “give it up” too easily, you are a bunch of sluts!!!!

Women will “score” by having sex with as many men as possible. The highest-status among us will have notches on their beds and stables full of lovers. That’s right. Such a woman will be the pimp of her posse!

But of course some women will seek out “gentlemen of the night” to provide sex for a price. And “sirs” will run the “houses of ill repute.” Because nowadays titles that once denoted status for men will be downsized and sexualized. So of course, lesbians will be “kings,” too.

Otherwise, women will take charge and ask men out on dates, plan the dates, pick the guys up, pay, and make the first moves. So men will now have to primp, and do their best to attract us.

Men are so trivial. They care about silly, vain things like how they look (because now they have to attract us). So their looks will determine how they are judged and valued. Hope you’re a “10” honey! With a perrrrrfect body!

Men, those babbling chatter boxes

After men have been largely removed from positions of power and prestige, they will probably spend their time chattering and babbling over trivial matters. Because who babbles? Babbies, the mentally ill and men. Women, don’t waste your time listening to them!

Women in charge

We will now worship the goddess. Women will officiate as priestesses, prophets and Popes.

In fact, women will be in charge of governments and businesses, too. With a smattering of males here and there, women will mostly head Fortune 500 companies. Men will largely be house-husbands.

When a man does have a high status job, he will be called “a male CEO” or “a male president,” for instance, so that it will be clear that generally, those are women’s roles. We will now use words like chairwoman even if a man holds the job.

Never let a man dominate you

And women, if you ever see a man dominating a woman, you tell her, “Stop being cockwhipped!”

After all that

After all that do you feel a shift in how you see yourself?

The world would be no better with female dominance. I’m for equality and partnership. But what I describe here is what we have now — or have had very recently — except in reverse."

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Imagine: PRT TWO

Erik talking real nasty and fucking the reader and she can’t take it.

Whew. This was some nasty shit. I’m over here with a wet pussy just writing this shit 💦💦💦

I like my Erik’s freaky so this nigga is overly freaky. Read read read ! It will make you just as wet I promise ☺️

“Slow down, lil mama. Damn, calm down, baby,” Erik laughs at the way you shimmy out of your panties. You were seated on his bed, skirt hiked further up around your waist because he instructed for you to keep it on. Your legs opened wide, pussy glistening and pulled apart like angel wings.

“Where all this confidence coming from?” He teased you, standing between your legs.

“I don’t know, just touch me,” you beg.

“Ain’t no fucking I don’t know when you with me. I don’t respond to that shit tell me straight up why you opening up and showing me that soaking wet pussy.”

Whimpering, you respond to his demand, “it’s cuz I want you to touch and lick and what ever else to me down there.”

“You gonna let me take this dick out? My shit pressing to hard in these jeans I gotta let the monster free.” He chuckles. His ego was something else. He started undressing, hoodie first then his dark wash jeans and briefs. The minute his fat dick bobbed out you slowly close your legs. That was not going to fit and if it DID fit in you how were you supposed to leave here with mobility in your lower limbs and back?

“That’s grown man dick, Princess. This the dick that I plan on making you bounce on.”

Down on his knees, he grabs your wobbling ankles, pulling you closer towards him. He pushes your thighs back so far that the heels of your bare feet rested on the mattress.

“Lil ass flexible.” He takes your pussy lips, pulling them apart. Out of no where he spits on your clit, rubbing it in with the clear viscous liquid that seeped from your tight opening. All that fluid dropped down the crack of your ass while his warm breath tickled your pussy.

“You letting me eat this pussy?”

“Yes.”

His mouth went to work. You looked down the valley of your body, watching the way your vulva puffed up from how horny you were, stiff clit moving up, down, back, and forth from the torture of his expert tongue. You briefly wondered how many women he made cum with that tongue. You were only 23 and you had this older man lick and suck on your pussy like he was proving to you that this is what he had to offer if you decided to fuck with him.

“Damn, just leaking on my fucking tongue.”

Every inch of you was on fire. His dirty talk mixed with his tongue game had you crying.

“You ready for me to open this little shit up?”

He already knew you wanted him to, he had his fingers at your entrance, three to be exact. You couldn’t even fit three of your own fingers in you so how the hell was this nigga gonna accomplish that.

“Three?!” You spoke in an alarmed tone.

“Easy, you need to relax. That’s the only way three gon’ fit.”

“How?!” You panick. He was gonna rip your shit wide open.

“By keeping these legs open and letting me do what I gotta do, lil mama. Stop asking fucking questions.” He barked out with finality. You gave in, keeping your legs wide while your breathing steadied. Erik sucks on his fingers, bringing them down to your quivering hole before pushing inside with a curl of his digits. You arch up from the bed, mouth wide and an expression on your face that had to be an ugly one because you didn’t have time to prepare yourself. He didn’t even let you breathe.

“Fffuckkkkkkk.” You speak through clenched teeth.

“Fuck ain’t even the word,” he pulls his fat fucking fingers back, “you a creamer I see. Creaming on my fingers you nasty lil bitch.”

Your hips jumped the moment he put his fingers back inside of you. You tilted your head back, breast bouncing, nipples hard, thighs quaking, this shit was ridiculous.

“Bad lil pussy,” he slaps your vulva, making it sting. All you could hear were splashing sounds like a whole Pacific ocean lived in your pussy.

“You got real fat on me down here, fat lil kitty,” he pinched your clit before flicking it rapidly with his thumb while his other fingers were stroking you. Your eyes were low, mouth parted and your pussy sounding like a damn splash park from the way his fingers stirred against your walls. He was really reaching in there. All he was gonna find was more cream and possibly a squirt or two if he kept it up.

“If you keep doing that I’m cumming on you hard,” you whisper to him.

“And ima suck all that shit up, ma.”

You clawed the bed, toes curling and moans so loud you had him smiling.

“You adorable bitch.” Your pussy lips jerked in time with his thrusting. You were really leaking on this man’s fingers. It was like he had a whole hand full of your cream. Shit was delicious.

“Keep doing that!!” You begged with pleading eyes, “keep doing that! Keep going pleaseeeeeeee!!!”

Taking in a sharp breath you fall back against the bed, bearing down from the immense pressure before a stream of liquid left your pussy and coated his arm and chest. He placed his lips on you, sucking as he continued to finger you.

“Dammit! I’m cumming again!!!” You fist his fro, body shaking while he allowed you to release in his mouth.

“OhmyyyGodddd!!!” You scream out.

“There you go, good girllllll,” he kisses your pussy.

“I’m fucking the shit outta you. Got my dick hard.” He stood up taking a condom from his wallet. You watch as he rolled on the magnum, the condom fitting him perfectly. His heavy sack jerked from the need to cum and his dick with that fat head had you drooling.

“Open the fuck up,” he demands. You open your legs, watching his beautiful body crawl on top of you. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of this man’s body. He has that grown man body and damn it wasn’t fair how fine he is. Muscles everywhere. Taking his dick, he grabs your ass with on hand, anchoring you for better access to that pussy.

“I’m tryna be deep in you,” He whispers in your ear while his fat head rubbed your wet pussy.

“Fuck, Y/N...shit...damn, this is some good pussy and I ain’t even in there yet.” He pushes his head in, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck, you sure you ready for me, lil mama? I’m tryna get up in there,” he pushed further and you were ready to beat his damn back.

“Does it hurt?” He asks while still deep in you.

“No it’s-its just...oh my God it’s so big I can’t even move.” You tried to stay still and adjust.

“It’s cool, ill go slow for you.”

He pulled out, then back in, matching the same rhythm. You could feel all those veins and how wide his dick was.

“I wish I knew this pussy was this deep before hand...damn, lil mama, didn’t even warn me your shit was like this.”

You felt him hitting your walls at every angle. He held you in place, more than prepared to fuck the shit outta you since you reacted to his dick the way he wanted.

“You grabbing the fuck outta me girl, shit!” He groaned in your ear, “ain’t no way I’m fucking you just this once this pussy got me hooked.”

You looked down at the connection, eyes glossy as you watched his cream coated dick move inside you with ease.

“I’m about to fuck the shit outta you. It is what it is, ma, you fucked me up just now.”

His strokes became more intense, the bed rocking and your walls more sensitive the faster he went. You sat up on your elbows but Erik knocked you back down his hips pistoning you like he was trying to pull your cum from you. His heavy erection was stretching you the fuck out.

“Damn, I’m so open,” you whisper between moans.

“I told you, didn’t I? I told you all this mature dick would have this lil pussy open and willing.”

He was so damn nasty and his stroke game matched his words. He didn’t even have to do anything to make you open your legs for him.

“Daddy, make me cum,” you whisper to him, watching as he sucked on your nipples and played with your clit. He had a dip in his pelvis that gave you deep pressured strokes, plunging into you something wild. It felt so unreal to you that you had to look at his dick with confusion. You were bewildered at how much of that big fucking dick beat your pussy up.

“Tight, baby girl,” he whispers in your ear, “Y/N this pussy is gripping the fuck outta me, don’t make no damn sense.”

“You’re so nasty,” you whisper to him, leaning up on your elbows to kiss his lips. He grabs the back of your neck, kissing you with much needed force. It was sloppy, wet, and really intimate if you were being honest.

“This ain’t nothing, ma, I can get even nastier.”

He pulls out, flipping you over on your belly.

“Come to the edge of the bed and stick that thick ass in the air.”

You arch, feet hanging over the edge and ass pointed straight up. Clearly, that wasn’t good enough for him because his large hands were applying pressure to your spine, bending you so deep that you felt as if you were sinking into the mattress. Condom covered dick still lubricated, he slipped inside but your body wasn’t used to the change so you jerked forward.

“Your pussy...”

Erik glared at the back of your head from how good your shit was. The shit was hitting different. You were so far gone and detached from your soul that your body lay limp against the bed, back breaking sex working your pussy up so much that you leaked on him without even realizing.

“That’s my lil baby. You know this pussy mines, right?”

You simply nod your head, clutching the sheets with your hand. Erik grabs your waist, pushing in further since you were inching away from his big dick.

“Bite the sheets, lil mama,” he laughs while fucking you hard, “I mean, you can scream too don’t matter to me.”

“Fuck, I’m fucking your sheets up, Erik. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry girl, I don’t give a fuck about these sheets.”

You were sweating, hair sticking to your forehead and dripping sweat from your breasts. His hands slid up your back with ease from the sweat as well.

“You can cum some more on Daddy’s dick. I’m breaking this shit down.”

Your pussy muscles clenched him tightly, his dick swelling within you.

“Damn...fuck, Y/N... oh my God I’m about to nut all in my pussy.”

He referred to your pussy as his pussy.

“Don’t let none of them young niggas fuck this pussy, you hear me?”

“Yessss,” you cry out, tears in your eyes.

“Whenever you craving some dick come to Daddy.” He slaps your ass cheeks, making them swell up with pain.

“Oh my God!!!!” You throw your head back, loud screams filling the room. His laughter could be heard through it all, his dick going 100 miles per hour in your pussy.

“I’m about to make a big ass mess in this pussy!”

For a split second, you wished that he was condom free and cumming deep inside of you. Next time, maybe he could, after all you were on birth control. You definitely weren’t gonna let any other nigga step your way in a long time. You didn’t know what this meant for you and Erik in the future but for now he was offering you a chance to fuck and suck his Big Daddy Dick and you were more than willing to take him up on that offer.

“AHHHH FUCKK!” He shouts, voice deep and large hands palming your ass so tight. You whince in pain from how tight he gripped your ass but that all ended once you felt his dick rippling inside of you. You gasp with arousal, disappointed a little inside that he was still wearing a condom. He was most definitely going to cum inside of you next time.

“Fuck, you’re cumming so much,” you say as he slips from you, stumbling backwards while removing the condom. Erik ties it into a knot before tossing it within his trash can. His body was glistening with sweat, dick still hard eyes intense.

“This is most definitely not the last time I fuck you,” Erik breathes out deeply, hands rubbing down his sweaty chest, “best pussy I had in a long time.”

You blush at his compliment, sitting up on his bed, knees to your chest and eyes staring down at your toes.

“You wanna fuck me on the regular, right?”

Your eyes meet his, nodding your head.

“Use your mouth, lil mama,” He says casually.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Erik takes a seat next to you, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you into his lap.

“Cuz I need that shit again. Probably in a few minutes. I wanted to rip that fucking condom off so bad and feel you all the way but we gotta be careful,” he strokes your thigh with his finger tips. You couldn’t believe you actually wanted him to take it off. The first time getting dick from this nigga and you wanted it raw.

You could feel his left hand squeeze your left breasts. It made you close your eyes, pushing your chest out for him to feel it up more. All he did was make you horny again and ready to take some more dick. How would he fuck you this time? You hoped he would make you bounce on it like he said he would. You bit your lip in excitement.

“You ready for round two?”

“Yeah, I’m ready, Daddy.”

“Look at you, I turned you into a slut for this dick.” Erik makes you straddle him, both of his hands palming your ass while he smiles up at you.

“You are so fucking fine. Pass me another condom.”

You reach over to his table, grabbing up another one. You watch as he puts it on again, his hand now between your thighs rubbing your clit and fingering you.

“Mhm, come on miss pretty pussy drip on my fingers.” His seductive whisper had you spreading your legs and moaning softly within his ear. This was going to be a long and nasty night.

You hoped your friend got the hint and decided to leave without you. Erik planned on taking real good care of you.

@sheisexcellent1 @quietstorm-73 @blktinkerbell @chocolatedippedinhoney