Tumgik
#but that's not exactly the kind of thing you think about when working on a manga ahah.
moonstruckme · 2 days
Note
Hi! I absolutely love your writing and saw that your requests were open so I thought I’d shoot this over. If you don’t vibe with it don’t worry about skipping it. I was wondering if I could request a James x reader where they are living together and definitely love each other but they’ve kind of slipped into a roommate phase. Like they’re just living around each other and reader starts feeling insecure and scared and doesn’t know how to get back into normalcy. Maybe a little angsty with some fluff at the end
Thanks lovely!
James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 2.4k words
When James comes in the front door, his shoes squelch. You look him up and down, dripping wet and mud caked up to his knees. You wince. 
“Rough practice?” 
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” James says, dropping his bag by the door and heading for the kitchen. 
There’s an exhausted slump to his shoulders, and his shoes leave a muddy trail of footprints, and you hate to do it, but—
“Would you mind taking off your shoes?” 
“Oh.” James looks down. You see him follow the trail with his eyes. “Yeah, sorry.” 
“It’s fine.” 
You hate yourself as soon as it’s out of your mouth, because that’s exactly the sort of thing you’d say if it wasn’t fine. And yeah, you’re a bit peeved that he’d track mud inside after you’d mopped the floors just yesterday, but you know he wasn’t thinking about it and you’d promised yourself just this morning that you were going to be nicer to him and now he’s sitting on the floor looking like his day is getting worse instead of better. 
You try again. 
“Um, I made dinner.” You step over him awkwardly, setting a hand on his head to help yourself. James doesn’t shrink from the touch, but he doesn’t lean into it like you could swear he used to either. The stove turns off like it’s relieved to do it, having idled for close to a half hour while you waited for James to get home. You wanted to try and eat together tonight; you used to do it all the time, but lately you’ve been having too many couch dinners by your lonesome. “Macaroni and cheese, is that alright?” 
“Yeah, thanks.” You jolt a little at James’ hand on your back as he reaches around you for a bowl, and he looks at you, lips quirking like you’re funny. 
You find yourself smiling back by muscle memory, a reflex almost forgotten. It lifts your heart. 
“So, how was practice?” 
James glances up at you, then goes back to filling his bowl. “I’ve already told you,” he says. “Rough.” 
“Oh, right.” You huff out a little laugh. He passes you the spoon, and you take it without really looking at him. “Sorry.” 
His answering smile is weaker this time. More a press of his lips than anything. 
“Don’t be.” He kisses you on the cheek, then goes, pulling out his chair at the table. 
You take your seat, too. A lot of these base routines have begun to feel empty lately. They used to be an assurance for you, like if you always wore your same paths into the carpet you’d become so entrenched in this house, in James’ house, that neither he nor it could ever let you leave. You loved knowing that if he was back from his run when you woke up in the morning, there’d be a glass of orange juice waiting for you on the counter. That when the flowers on your kitchen table started to wilt you’d come home to a fresh bunch, and that if you called and told him you were having a bad day lunch from your favorite sandwich shop would miraculously show up at your work. Those things used to make your heart feel full to bursting, because they meant he was thinking of you. 
Now you’re not sure what they mean. They seem like things James does because he’s supposed to, like part of a script, a routine. Chores. 
As soon as he’s sat down, he’s digging into his dinner. James eats like a boy. Wolfing, like someone’s going to take it away from him. You hope it means he likes it. 
“What’d you do tonight, m’love?” he asks through a mouthful.
And see, he says things like that. Calls you his love, asks about your day. It’s all started to fall flat. You know he’ll take whatever answer you give him, because you’ve begun to suspect he doesn’t really care. 
“Nothing crazy,” you answer honestly. “Shayna’s baby came early, so I’m taking on a bit more at work until they can find someone to fill in for her. So that’s a bit stressful, but it’s not awful.” 
“Mm.” James nods, but doesn’t offer more than that. His mouth seems to be perpetually full. 
You fork a macaroni noodle, pretending you have more appetite than you do. Truthfully, you’ve felt weird and off and vaguely nauseous all day. 
Last night had been a bit of a breaking point for you. It came on rather suddenly. You’d gone to bed long after James, but you couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t seem to tear your eyes from him, the way the moonlight snuck in through the slats in your blinds to fall across his sleeping face. He was so beautiful, and you loved him so much you didn’t know what to do with it all, and then you were crying. 
You’d wept silently, wishing James would wake up, but you were unwilling to rouse him and he wasn’t going to do it himself. Eventually, you’d fallen asleep with your pillowcase damp and cold under your cheek and woke to find James’ side of the bed empty as usual. Orange juice on the counter. 
“I was wondering if you might want to watch a film tonight,” you say lightly. “I saw they’ve put that sci-fi one you like back on Netflix.” 
“Ah, have they really?” James swallows, forks another bite. “Wish I could, but I’m supposed to meet everyone at Spoons in a few minutes here.” 
Oh. The realization hits you like a dull thud, smack in the center of your chest. He’s not eating quickly because he likes your food; it’s because he wants to leave. 
“Can’t you stay here?” Your voice is small. James looks at you like he’s not sure what to make of it. 
“Not tonight, sweetheart.” He offers you a smile. His fork clinks in the bottom of an empty bowl, and his chair screeches as it’s pushed back. James brushes his lips across your cheek as he goes by. “We’ll have to do it this weekend, though, definitely.” 
You know by now these sorts of promises aren’t meant to keep. They come written in disappearing ink.
He heads upstairs to change, and desperation grips you. It forgets he’ll be home later and puts you hot on his heels, your own dinner left on the table barely touched. 
“Jamie, wait.” He pauses with his shirt half off, looking over at you in the doorway. “Don’t you feel like we’ve not had much time together lately?” you ask. 
The plea is naked in your tone, and James’ eyes soften. He tugs his shirt off, straightens his glasses. “I haven’t had time for much of anything lately,” he says, shrugging good-naturedly. 
It’s true. He’s been busy. His new coach seems to think the team has nothing but time, and as captain James is expected to commit even more than most. When he’s not at training, he’s keeping fit on his own or running errands for his mum or sleeping it all off in your bed. 
“But you should come tonight,” James goes on brightly. “Dorcas and Marlene will be there, it’ll be fun.” 
He tosses his clothes in the laundry bin and makes his way over to the dresser. You cross your arms, then uncross them. Parse your words. “I don’t…I just feel like you hung out with your friends last night, you know?” 
“You could’ve come then, too,” he says, stepping into a pair of jeans. “They all love you, you know that.” 
“I don’t want to hang out with your friends.” It comes out sharper than you intend, though not less sharp than the look James gives you. He’s finished getting dressed but doesn’t make to leave. “That’s not what I mean. I like your friends, but it’s not…the same as spending time with you. It doesn’t count, for me.” Your voice softens on the last two words, knowing that for James, it might very well count. 
For him, you’ve gathered, social time is social time. So long as you’re there, he’ll feel just as connected to you as if you were curled up on the couch together having a private conversation. You wish your brain worked the same way, but it doesn’t. 
He’s looking at you with something like trepidation now, so you state it plainly. 
“I really miss you, Jamie.” A blockage rises in your throat. You swallow it back down. “I feel like…I don’t know what’s going on with us lately.” 
“We’re the same as we have been.” He looks confused, worse when your face pinches painfully. 
“And that’s all?” You try to blink them away, but tears burn in your eyes. “This is just what we do now?” 
“No.” James looks appalled, but you catch the quick glance he gives to the digital clock on his nightstand. “It’s only for now, just until the season’s over and Coach mellows out. Where’s this coming from?” 
You blink hard, angling your head away from him. “Nothing, sorry. I’m just being emotional.” Your breath scrapes on the way in. You pretend it doesn’t. “It’s okay if you have to go.” 
He shakes his head, and when you start back towards the stairs anyway, he says, “No, come on.” In a few long strides, he’s got your elbow. He tugs you gently back into the room. “Let’s sit down, okay? What’s going on?” 
“Sorry.” Your voice is pitchy and tight. You think you hear James inhale softly before he’s drawing you into a hug. It doesn’t feel quite like it used to, but it’s still warm, still nice. 
He sits you both down on the edge of your bed, arms still wrapped loosely around you. “What are you sorry for, baby?” 
“I was going to try not to make your life harder today,” you laugh wetly, pulling back from him to swipe under your eyes. 
“You don’t make my life harder,” James says, somewhere near to dismayed as he slides his hand to your shoulder. “Of course you don’t.” 
You give him a look meant to say, Oh, come on, but you’re not sure how it comes off with your face blotchy and snot starting to run from your nose. You take in a big breath, trying to calm yourself. 
“I think I’ve made it harder more than I’ve made it easier lately,” you admit, looking at your bedcover and also at nothing at all. “I didn’t even really realize until recently, but I’ve just felt so…disconnected from you lately. It’s like even when you’re here, I’m just around you and not with you, and—” Your voice catches, and you inhale again. “And I know you’re really busy, but I’m just trying to find ways to fix it.” 
James’ hand drops from your shoulder, into his lap, and you lift your gaze. He looks crestfallen. “What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly, his own voice starting to sound raw. “I can’t control these things. And we live together, I see you all the time. It doesn’t seem fair to ask me not to see my mates.” 
“I’m not asking you to do that.” You’re horrified. “But that’s just it, Jamie, it’s like we only live together anymore. Saying hi when you come in, waving when you go back out, those don’t count as quality time for me. And I wish I could get the same feelings from being in a big group that you do, but I can’t.” 
James looks at you helplessly. You shrug, just as powerless. 
“I know it’s not your fault,” you tell him, and a tear drips off your chin. “I don’t know what to do, either. I just want you to know that I’m trying, okay?” 
James nods for a minute. Thoughtful, heartbroken. He lets out a big breath. Your arms come around each other at almost the same time, so in sync you can’t be sure who reaches for the other first. You’re trying not to get snot on his fresh shirt, but he palms the back of your head, pressing your face to his shoulder. 
“Okay,” he says quietly. “You’re right, we should both be trying more. I think I’ve let myself get so overwhelmed that I’m not…almost not even thinking throughout the day, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with all of this by yourself.” 
“It’s not your fault,” you repeat, and a little laugh rumbles through James’ chest. He hugs you tighter. 
“It is a little bit, though, isn’t it? I haven’t been paying attention. But okay, let’s make a plan for now.” His hand splays out between your shoulder blades, and you clutch at the material of his shirt, both of you wordlessly trying to get closer as if you can make up for lost time. “Come with me tonight, please.” You go still, but James goes on, “I know it’s not a solution, but I can’t back out and I’d really feel so much better if you were there. Please, angel. And tomorrow, we’ll stay in and watch something. Not a film only I like,” he gives your back a teasing little squeeze, “but something we can both get into. Or we can just talk, or play a game, I don’t care. Tomorrow is our night, yeah?” 
“Yeah,” you sniff, nodding and pulling away slightly so you can wipe your face. James joins in, pinching your nose clean for you and wiping the snot on his jeans carelessly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll try to clear my busy schedule.” 
He smiles. It’s like the sun beaming through clouds. “I’d appreciate that. Really hard to get ahold of you these days.” You let out a little laugh, and his grin spreads. “Good, so that’s for now, and at training on Friday I’m going to talk to Coach about cutting down on our hours.” 
You feel your eyebrows pinch. “Jamie, you don’t have to—” 
“I do,” he says. “I’ve been a wuss about it, but everyone on the team is miffed and it’s really my job to handle it. He doesn’t know everything yet, so I can at least give him some advice about how we operate best.” 
James palms the back of your neck, pulling you towards him and meeting you halfway. His forehead presses against yours. 
“I’m really glad you said something. Thanks for being the smart one, as usual.” Your smile is small at first, but James nudges his nose against yours until it blooms in full. “We’re gonna make it better, okay?” 
You swallow thickly. “Okay. Thanks, Jamie.” 
“Don’t thank me.” His voice takes on a tender quality, and you push your forehead into his. He palms your cheeks in response, stamping his lips to your forehead. “Love you, sweetheart.” 
“I love you, too.” 
That was never up for debate. 
454 notes · View notes
billfarrah · 3 days
Text
One of my favourite things about Young Royals and its characters is how much it romanticizes being utterly ordinary.
Stories often focus on characters who are exceptionally good at something or who are more ambitious than the average person. Even in the teen shows I’ve watched, these young characters always seemed to have their dream career and dream university figured out at a young age and I could never relate to that because I had none of those things figured out as a teen. It always felt like pushing this narrative that teenagers need to have their entire lives figured out before their brains are even fully developed.
None of the characters in YR seem particularly ambitious and in fact, the main character’s journey is a story of anti-ambition. When he is introduced to Simon, it is precisely Simon’s ordinariness that draws Wille to him. Sure, Simon is a very talented singer, but it’s never indicated within the series that he has dreams of being a pop star. It’s just something he likes to do. Simon is motivated by very ordinary things - he wants to do well in school so he can have better opportunities for himself, he wants to take care of his family, he wants to hang out with his friends and play video games. He’s a dedicated student but not necessarily valedictorian. It’s not his ambition that Wille is drawn to but his integrity and kindness and warmth.
Wille had a chance to be extraordinary - to be Sweden’s first gay king - but being extraordinary has never been Wille’s ambition. Wille’s ultimate goal and dream within the series’ narrative is to be free to make his own decisions and live his life as he pleases. He just wants to kiss his boyfriend and get drunk at parties and live his life one day at a time instead of spending every moment of his life preparing for an inevitable future he doesn’t want. In the end Wille is extraordinary not for his ambition, but for his bravery to reject the expectations thrust upon him and throw himself into the unknown and see where it takes him. Wille had a whole future in front of him as crown prince and future king - he’d never have to work a day in his life and would have people advising his every move - and he rejects that. This lack of ambition is not portrayed as a moral failure, but a necessary step in Wille’s journey to personal self-discovery and fulfillment of his own desires. His desire right now is simple - be free with Simon, but that doesn’t mean his dreams end here forever. He deserves peace and tranquility after all the trauma he’s been through without having to worry about where or who he’s gonna be in a few years. He deserves time to just exist.
None of the characters know where they’re going when they drive away at the end. We as the audience don’t know what careers if any these characters will find themselves in, but that’s also not important to this story. The series is saying you don’t have to have everything figured out when you’re 17 and you don’t have to do something just because your parents think they know what’s best for you and even if you don’t know exactly what you want to do, that doesn’t mean you don’t have the agency to know what you don’t want.
It’s not a moral failing to want the simple things in life or to be ordinary, and I love that Young Royals celebrates that. It shows the beauty in simple moments that feel revolutionary to a person - touching the person you love, forgiving someone and making amends after a hardship, whooping with your friends in a car as you drive into the summer and celebrates them. Ultimately these are the moments that make life worth living.
292 notes · View notes
kiefbowl · 1 day
Text
I was reading an opinion piece on Kate Middleton's cancer diagnosis on CNN by Jamal Baig about the increasing rates of cancer in patients under 50. As far as 5 minutes of googling and JSTORing can lend me to believe, there's nothing illegitimate about Dr. Baig. However, I found this bit in his opinion interesting:
Tumblr media
Now, I'm always dubious when reading anything that attributes a very broad generalized idea that changes in diets have caused an increased in cancer, because more often than not it's not pointing to an exploration of, say, increased pesticide use, but the author's personal bias against the quote unquote "unhealthy", especially those who are deemed "fat" by the medical industry.
That being said, I was curious what source he linked, half expecting it to lead to just another op-ed from some other doctor from who knows when, but I was pleasantly surprised! Written by a man named Michael Donaldson, it was an evidentiary review published in a scientific journal called "Nutrition and cancer: A review of the evidence for an anti-cancer diet."
Now I wasn't going to give the whole thing a read, but I stopped in each section, gave a quick skim to get a general vibe, moved on to the next section, etc. I was immediately suspicious that the very first line in the abstract was "It has been estimated that 30–40 percent of all cancers can be prevented by lifestyle and dietary measures alone" as that seems to be a bananas statistic to just posit, but it still had the air of scientific integrity, so I did my skim.
The first handful of sections had things that gave me some moments of pause, that this article was in fact another doctor simply cherry picking data to confirm his own biases, but nothing so egregious as to do a spit take. That comes in a few minutes. The first section that made really go hold the phone was when we got to his Flax Seed section.
Compare how he writes about Red Meat...:
Tumblr media
(that's all he wrote, btw)
...with how he starts writing about Flax Seed:
Tumblr media
Did I just enter a Flax Seed commercial? Does this guy work for BIG FLAX SEED? on and on he writes about Flax Seed, and I start getting a sense that perhaps this man has a Flax Seed Agenda. In any case, he eventually moves on and I quickly skim to get to the end (because it's boring among other things).
So, who exactly is Michael Donaldson?
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Girl are you kidding me
The Hallelujah Acres Foundation is a FOR PROFIT company that sells a """biblical""" based diet program called the hallelujah diet and also sells supplements on said site.
Now, in case you forgot where I started with this, this was the link provided as a "source" to a legitimate doctor's claim in an op-ed about cancer that "at least part of the answer" of why cancer is increasing in under 50 patients are the "changes to nutrition and lifestyle that took hold in middle of the last century." Dr. Baig did not read this article, or if he did was not concerned that it was written by the employee of a company that profits from unscientific research it uses to sell supplements and diets. Which is worse, I don't know.
The point I'm making is that you absolutely need to be vigilant all the time. You need to understand that doctors can not only have biases, but agendas. Researchers can have biases and agendas. Scientists can have biases and agendas. And that magical thinking about real health issues that can affect your future can permeate the scientific community because weirdos write convincing enough evidence that support their already determined world view.
This kind of shit is the reason why women go into doctor offices complaining about pain in their abdomen and get told to go lose weight and come back in 6 months. This is why ideas like moralizing eating have huge effects on women's health and influence medical misogyny, and why it's a feminist issue.
195 notes · View notes
pedge-page · 3 days
Note
Maybe Preggo needs a pedicure? Or help shaving??
how about both!
Joel Dealing with Preggo Wife: Spa Day
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Warnings: thigh fucking, some degrading language, a bit of m masturbation, use of razors to shave, Daddy/Mommy used lightly
18+ ONLY
- - - -
Joel is sitting on the edge of the tub as you prop your calf over his thigh. His heavily pregnant wife has her hair in a turban, green minty mud mask slopped over your face. You’re leaned back so far trying to spread your legs that your chin is just right above the soapy waterline. 
“I told you, you need to get IN the tub to shave my ass.”
Joel’s got your fancy scented shaving cream and a 5 blade razor in one hand, his trousers soaked from suds and bath water as you continue to squirm around trying to get comfortable. This whole ordeal is taking way longer because he doesn’t want to accidecanlly knick you, but you keep moving without forewarning him!
“I don’t understand,” he huff for the third time. “Why do I need to shave your pussy and ass, if you’re getting a PEDICURE?”
Did feet spa evolve into something that he wasn’t aware of?
“You don’t. But I haven’t shaved in a long time and I need my legs shaved for my pedicure. And while I’m at it, might as well do the whole thing.”
“You mean, while I’M at it.”
“Yes exactly!” you say, all giddy that he’s finally getting it now.
He leans back to get a view of where he might be working between your legs.
“It’s all soap. I can’t see a thing.”
You roll your eyes and throw your leg off him. His shirt wrinkles from the soapy fingers that grip it tightly as you pull him down to you. So much so that he’s lurching for the other end of the tub to hold himself from tumbling in.
“Get. In. The. Tub.” You seethe. Why is it so fucking difficult?
He purses his lips, but your eyes don’t back down.
Joel curses under his breath before sitting and stripping his shirt over his head.
You do little hand claps, licking your lips as if you’re getting a tasty treat. Forgetting that this is entirely a different kind of treatment.
 As he shucks off his pants and boxers, now fully naked with his semi hard cock dangling between his legs, you tap your clit and whisper “Settle down, girl,” in hopes of trying to be a good client to your free-worker husband.
Joel clambers in the tub, hissing at the heat of the water. For someone who wants the AC blowing like a winter wonderland in the house, it amazes him that you’re still good with bathing in lava.
He sits his knees up, crammed in such a terribly awkward position since he’s got to get down low. Thankfully the tub is big enough for the two of you to face each other.
“Spread,” he orders you, and you have to clench your fist by your side, easing your nub to stop jumping so excitedly underwater from his voice. You do your best to drape your ankles over the sides of the tub, your lower back comforted by the tub-pillow that Joel had bought you.
The razor glints in his veiny paw. “Daddy has sharp tools in his hand. Are you gonna behave?”
You nod vigorously. 
He aligns himself as close as possible, pushing the bubbles away so he can see under the water. Even with your bump in the way, it’s already difficult to see straight down to the source of your turmoil. His hands gently caress your inner thighs, getting a feel for his working area the same way he does for any detailed project he’s about to take on. Joel got such steady, careful movements when it comes to his craft, but having him look at you like a piece of valuable wood he’s about to carve a beautiful rose into is making you wet in a different way.
He dips the razor below the water and begins to shave away the hair that had been growing between your thighs, over top and around, before making his way to your slit. 
“Isn’t there a better way to do this?” He asks. He’s hesitant, not because he doesn’t think he can do it, but because he doesn’t trust your sporadic brain possibly jumping on him and cutting yourself. 
“Probably,” you snicker. 
He puffs his cheeks but gets back to work, trimming your front neatly in slow movements. If he just focuses entirely on your folds, the slippery traces of your juices evident even through the sudsy water, he can just keep his eyes from drifting up to your bouncing enormous breasts floating happily above.
“Alright, that’s the best I can get. Your ass is just gonna have to…”
You’re already moving like a hippo in the shallows, sloshing the water around as you roll over to your knees and sit up. Your pregnant belly sags heavily towards the water. But you manage to prop your arms over the edge and wiggling your naked butt to him.
He pinches his eyes together with his finger and thumb. THIS is why he didn’t want to get in the tub. Was it over you hurting yourself? A little. Doing reckless shit like this with a baby who could bump its head into the basin? Possibly. 
Having to now sit up to shave your ass, baring his hard cock close enough to you that he won’t be able to keep you placate if you were to turn around?
Yeah.
“C’mon, baby can’t dangle like this all day,” you hum. You sway your hips again enticingly.
You don’t expect the sharp slap to jolt you forward a bit, a gasp falling from your lips as the sound echoes in the bathroom.
You feel his stomach and chest drape over your back, his hot breath steaming over your shoulder. “Told you,” he grumbles. “To behave.” His large hand caress below your bump, helping to hold some of the weight while his other fists his cock and slides its between your thighs.
You bite your lip and moan lightly, eyes closed as he rocks you back and forth on his dick. He doesn’t penetrate, just glides through your thighs, all soapy while his tip nudges your clit each time it punctures through to the other side.
You’re both so wet over each other, warm and dizzy from the steam of the room as he fucks your slit. 
“Just don’t know when to be a good girl.” 
You shake your head. On the contrary, you know EXACTLY when to be a bad girl. 
“Daddy, put it in,” you whine. You can’t take your hands away from the edge of the tub, less you slip and tumble down due to the weight of your baby. 
You feel the rumble of his chest, laughing at your demands. “Bad Mommies don’t get cock up their slutty cunts—“
His voice goes quiet when you arch your back and wail out in pleasure, your clit twitching and thighs quaking with the unmistakable sign of your orgasm washing through you. 
Joel sits back as you heave through your pants. 
“Wow. That was… you needed that, Huh?”
You slowly roll over to you butt safely on the tub floor again, hazily nodding as you come to your senses. You begin to notice Joel’s fist pumping his cock underwater, fully okay with just jerking off as he watches your naked pregnant body covered in soap and dripping wet like a goddess.
“Your turn,” you hum, and Joel grins, parting his legs slightly as you crawl close to him. 
He’s not ready for the super human strength you have when you hoist on of his ankles up in the air, pulling him down until his head dips under water.
 He struggles up and sputters out the nasty taste he inhaled through his nose. “What??”
Joel wipes the soap and water from his eyes and slicks his hair back to see you with a razor in one hand and a deathgrip around his ankle in the other.
“You should shave too. Its just courtesy since they’ll be touching your crusty feet, plus when they put the moisturizer and hot towel and stones on your legs, it won’t get all stuck up in your hair—“
“WHAT are you on about? I’m not getting the pedicure. YOU are!”
But your eyes get all (fake) shiny with (fake) tears, you’re lower lip trembling with a (fake) pout. “You mean,” you hiccup, your voice soft and sad and FUCK if it were anyone else, you’d have them convened with an Oscar worth performance, “you don’t wanna… do it … with me?” 
He’s not falling for it. “That’s Maria’s thing with you.”
Your voice goes straight in a matter of fact tone, foregoing the sad pregnant hormonal voice. “Actually she and Tommy are taking trip up north so she canceled this weekend.”
Joel curses Tommy in his mind for letting such an important detail slip his mind. “Mhm. So I’m her substitute.”
“NooOoo! You’re my husband and you want to do this with me because you love spending time with me!”
Joel narrows his eyes. His cock twitches helplessly between his legs, and it doesn’t seem like you’re inching to give him a hand.
“Now hold still, Mommy has sharp tools in her hands. Wouldn’t want any accidents.”
Your fingers that are wrapped around his foot slowly glaze along his thigh, down below the water, tickling his skin until you’re oh so close to his inner thigh. tensing, he feels your knuckles graze his length.
 And if you behave like a good Daddy, you’ll get your reward.” There’s a sadistic curl to your sweet little grin. 
Joel settles back and closes his eyes as you begin hacking off the forest on his calves. He tries sending a signal to his cock to get comfy, because there’s no way he’s squirming or making any movements while you’ve got a weapon in your hand. He opens one eye to see you happily shaving his legs, splashing water over top so it washes away his clear skin.
He decides he’ll let his little wife play in her sandbox. 
-
“Ow-OW-OWW!” Joel shouts. The technician huffs in frustration as he flicks his feet away from her for the 5th time.
You grip his bicep from the chair next to him. “Joel. Calm down. It’s just—“
“She’s cheese grating my feet!”
He’s squirming like a toddler who doesn’t like the feeling of shit up his ass, were it not for the fact that he’s a grown ass man just getting a pedicure. 
You shake your head. “It’s a pumice stone. To remove your calluses. You got so much dead skin on there, because you never come here when I tell you!”
“It’s a cheese grater, and she’s grating my feet off.”
His feet DID need a lot of work. They were dry, always scratching you in your sleep whenever you cuddle up. His legs did look shiny though, thanks to your hard work hunched over the tub shaving. It was the least you could do for the poor lady trying to tend to his hobbit feet.
When the placed the hot stones on your calves, you sighed happily. Joel’s eyes were wide, and when they touched his shins, he screamed.
You giggled under your hand. Yeah, he’s making an embarrassment of himself, shouting and cursing and squirming everywhere because he’s so sensitive. He probably thinks the rest of the women in here are laughing at him and his fragile manhood, his pregnant wife dragging him here to get a pedicure. But you see the looks on their faces, it’s a mix of awe and jealousy to have such a hunk of a man want to do something fun with his wife, so secure in his masculinity. You grab his hand and kiss his knuckles.
He offers you his gritted teeth, lips pulled back as he tries to smile through the pain, all pressed back against the massage chair like he wants to fall behind it, holding in his next shout when she clips his cuticles. 
He’s getting his cock sucked so good tonight, you can’t wait to spoil him.
- - - -
Taglist:
@harriedandharassed @lola8888673 @its-nebuleuse @zliteraturehoe @merz-8 @joeldjarin @pascalscoffin @pedroshotwifey @ghostslillady @innerpersonunknown @missladym1981 @mrs-oharaxx @survivingandenduring @milla-frenchy @cockykookiee @fairytale07 @daddy-din @pedropascalsbbg @spookyxsam @somehopeatlast @millercontracting @pedrostories @mishala005 @theoraekenslover @animez96 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @puduvallee
329 notes · View notes
hazelfoureyes · 4 hours
Text
A Doe in Fall (Part 3)
Tumblr media
⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall smut💦
Part 1 - Pretty in Red Part 2 - Liar
So enraptured with Alastor, you forgot how you left work on Saturday. Tommy didn’t forget. And he made sure you remembered. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for you, your paramour made a habit of helping quicken karma’s balancing act.
「warnings/promises: immediate physical assault (let’s be up front about that), allusions to sexual assaults having happened in the past to non-reader characters, HumanAlastor x FemReader, penetrative sex, Protective Alastor, bruises, somewhat graphic descriptions of murder, mentions to coerced prostitution, sex near a corpse (words that have the FBI watching me), stabbing, knife, bad burlesque names, gambling, my own new HC for the Radio Demon’s origins, another deer reference thanks to @n-after-me , chin quivering, Tommy doesn’t know French and it shows, posted early for @jazzmasternot, wrath」
Minors DNI 🤺
Part 3 A tragedy 
You walked into the theatre for rehearsals with a pep in your step, body still humming. It was like the usual adrenaline rush Alastor brought couldn't fade this time.
But it did, when Tommy grabbed you by the hair out of your makeup chair and threw you into the wall. 
You couldn’t react, head ringing after it left a small indent in the drywall. Unlike before, you didn’t try to stand. Make him work for his second hit. And he did. Leaning down he yanked you off the ground by your arm and dragged you to your feet. 
“Do you think you’re funny?” He shook you, you were sure you could feel your brain jostle. It was rhetorical, but you replied anyway.
“No, Tommy.”
“No. Exactly.” He backed you up onto the make up table, head pressed into the mirror. “Mr. Wilson was not happy. He pulled his contribution. I know you don’t have that kind of money. Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
His fingers dug into your cheeks, “No.” You genuinely didn’t. He was talking to you like you had been in the loop on whatever it was he had been doing on the side. All of this was as shocking to you as your actions were, apparently, to him. 
“You’re gonna take whatever meetings I make until that money is back.” He let go of you and turned to leave but changed his mind. Coming back, he swung his fist and clocked you on the left side of your face.
You didn’t see it, but you heard the other girls running and pulling Tommy off of you, yelling and pleading for him to calm down.
“I worked really hard for you!” He shouted, jerking his shoulders out from under the hands of the other performers. What was he talking about? You hadn’t discussed any of this, asked for any thing from him. “I waited for a high roller for you. Real classy guy. Just wanted a private show! That was it!” He spit, “No, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is welcome now to ask for your time.”
You just held your face, unsure if you had the right makeup to hide the bruise before stage call. 
“Well?! Say you’re sorry.”
You considered not saying anything. No response. When you looked at him, you could see the half a dozen other girls staring back at you, just say it. We have to rehearse.
“I’m sorry.” Eyes cast to the floor.
“For what?”
It hurt when you rolled your eyes, “For being ungrateful?” 
He shoulder checked a few girls on the way out. A couple came to you.
“He’s got some gambling debt, he’s just using us to get ahead.”
“I have some stuff to cover that up for tonight.”
“He usually cuts us in.”
Tears stung your eyes, you were angry and humiliated. You could work elsewhere, with a little luck. Take a job at a diner out of the area where no regulars would stir up trouble. Maybe leave until Tommy got his debts paid off or whatever was motivating this recent streak of cruelty. But you didn’t want to run away. No one applauded waitresses. Maybe if you made yourself as unattractive as possible, no one would request you. Dirty your teeth, talk about other men, speak crudely. 
“What exactly was he talking about?” you asked no one in particular. The girls were quiet for a beat.
“Well ya know, private shows for clients who can afford it.” High pitched and nasal, Florence spoke as she searched her make up station.
“That’s it?” Incredulous.
“Sometimes. You know how it is… woman left alone in a room with a man who has too much money or ego or drink. Doesn’t always stop at a dance.” Minnie had much more experience than you, “It isn’t our jobs. It isn’t normal. But, well, ya heard about New York right? They’re trying to make burlesque outright illegal…”
“Gotta enjoy the art while it’s just misunderstood.” Florence wiped down your mirror before setting her supplies down for you. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”
By the time patrons began to stream in, you had blood staining the white of your left eye. Nothing you could do, but maybe at a distance it wouldn’t be noticeable. The bruise under your eye from his fist was easy enough to cover. The contusion from where your right cheek hit the wall was a little harder. 
Luckily, the stage offered a buffer of space and the rest of the room was dark. 
During your show, you tried to keep your eyes moving so the red sclera never stayed in one place too long. For the first time, the cheers did nothing for you. You felt your chin quiver, fighting back tears. You wanted to scream, to tell them to hate you and leave. Stop fucking clapping.
Ruth was naturally the first to come to you after your performance, “Want me to do the tour with you? Arm in arm around the hall.”
You took her up on the offer. It lightened the load, her taking charge of the conversation when people approached or bought you drinks. Luckily the bartender always poured the performers weak cocktails and watered down liquor to keep their heads on straight. 
Ruth’s companionship afforded you precious time to plan, to consider how quickly you could find new work or at least a way out of this.
“What a treat. Two for one. Can I buy you both a drink?” 
Ruth turned first to greet the customer, “Ooh yes sir! Gin and tonic, please and thank you. Autumn?” Your stage name drew your attention back to the world, turning finally.
“Alastor.” It fell from your mouth like a lead balloon.
He smiled down at you, his hand offering a little wave, “Hello. Surprise.” 
Your face fell, a frown pulling down your chin. It took you too long to recover, batting your eyelashes and turning the corners of your lips up unnaturally. 
“So you do have a beau!” Ruth slapped your arm, “I’m Skye, Skye Scraper. Pleasure to meet you, Alastor.” She extended her hand, Alastor planting a kiss on the back of it, concealing his smile at the name.
You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, head turned slightly away from him to obscure the neon sign of an eye shouting, ‘Weak!’
Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t an oblivious man. Unless he was dancing or drunk. “May I have a moment alone with her?” Alastor asked Ruth. Ruth looked to you for your okay, and you just nodded. She gave a little nod of her own to Alastor and slinked away. 
“Are you unhappy to see me, dear? Did I overstep by coming by unannounced?” You hadn’t heard him worried before, it pained you. 
“No, no! I am… so happy to see you. I just had a long day.” You scanned the room for the darkest area to bring him. A booth would be best, you could keep him on one side of you. You gestured with a nod of your head.
“Ah, I kept you out too late.” Alastor didn’t move.
“Not at all, come on let’s sit down.” You reached back for his hand without looking at him, but when you pulled he still didn’t move. He remembered the way you pulled at the hand of that man in the alley the first night you met. Desperate to escape somewhere. 
“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”
Lie. 
“Uh, no, I’m just embarrassed about this heavy stage makeup.” 
Alastor paused, hand slipping from yours to adjust his sleeves. It was a nervous action, an attempt to self soothe, but you didn’t know that. “I should have asked before coming.”
“Alastor, it’s not…,” you kept your eyes down at your hands.
“Then look at me.”
Would he think you were incapable of protecting yourself? His pity would kill you. Perhaps he would decide a second rate burlesquer wasn’t worth making time for anymore.
You could intentionally wound him, say you don’t want to see him so he leaves. But that sword was double edged and you weren’t sure you’d survive that either. You weren’t making it out of this.
You finally looked at him. He leaned in, “What happened to your eye?” A slender finger gently tilting your chin upward.
Lie. 
You thought too long for an answer. Why were you getting worse at lying? It used to be one of your best shields and swords but now you were so slow on the draw you were left defenseless. Vulnerable. His hand took yours, gently pulling you into the lobby and through the glass doors of the theatre.
Under the bright lights of the marquee and the street lamps, Alastor inspected your face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, wetting it in his mouth before wiping the makeup off of your under eye.
“Alastor, people are staring.” 
His eyes fell down, soft hands lifting your arm where a bruise was already formed. You hadn’t noticed that one.
“What happened?” He wasn't looking at you when he said it, instead cautiously wiping the makeup off your cheeks in search of more marks.
“The truth or wh-“
“Always. Never give me anything else.”
You sighed, and explained, “Tommy, the manager, he’s been shifting tactics for bringing in money because he owes some big bads a lot of debt. Private shows with performers that sometimes get hands on…,” his hands stopped moving but his eyes didn’t meet yours, “I never asked to be included in it. I wouldn’t do it. I was rude to a man Tommy introduced me to and I ran off Saturday. Yada Yada. He got me as soon as I got to work.”
Alastor didn’t reply, just turned on his heels and marched back into the theater. You chased after him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles!” You tried to get in front of him but he walked right past you.
“Not about what you need, dear, it's about what he deserves.” 
Alastor asked the bartender for Tommy, who pointed to the short but stocky man talking to a group of guests. Alastor approached so quickly Tommy didn’t have time to greet him, instead just backing up until he fell ass first into a booth. Alastor boxed him in, one hand on the wall and one on the table, towering over Tommy as he sat.
“I hear you sell dancers by the night.”
You paced the lobby nervously. Would you be fired? What would Alastor say? Would Tommy hit him, too?
He re-emerged, “Come to my car, please.” He didn't stop walking as he said it. 
You followed a few blocks down to his car, parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for you and closed it behind you. You wanted to ask if you were going somewhere, but thought better of it. A tight u-turn, he pulled the car into the side street where you’d first met each other.
Wordlessly he got out of the car, you opening your door before he could. Popping the trunk, he set the folded canvas inside a paper bag. Checking first, he placed it inside one of the tin trash cans. 
You stood, waiting for an explanation.
Finally he stopped and made eye contact with you. “You have a date tomorrow, with me. Bring this to the apartment above the theater before Tommy and I arrive.” Opening your mouth to speak, he didn’t stop to let you add anything. “Preferably near the bed.” He closed the trunk, “Wear red, please.”
You searched his face for some kind of discernible emotion but found none. Those constricted pupils again, an animal staring back at you from behind a pair of glasses. There was no reason to ask him, it was obvious what was going to happen. Did you want to stop it? 
Did you want to see it? Alastor at work?
“Okay. On all the points.” You looked back at the trashcan, “Canvas hidden near the bed. Wear red.”
“The extra clothes can go anywhere out of sight.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Your voice cracked a little, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”
He nodded, “I can’t stay here.” Before getting into his car he turned and added, “Don’t cover the bruises tomorrow. He should see them.”
You nodded in return, “Are you doing this for me?” So quiet you almost hoped he didn’t hear it.
He paused, one leg already in the car and his back to you, “No. I’m doing it for everyone.”
You watched his car light up and leave the alley.
It’s not that you felt abandoned, you felt…. Stranded. You had to go back in there, alone, and put on the normal act but under abnormal conditions. 
So it was happening. You hadn’t seen the first time. Just felt it. You didn’t see the second. You were going to actually see a man die. Not just a man, someone you knew. Someone you used to consider a friend of sorts. Before he got into whatever trouble was driving him to act like a flesh peddler. Could you do it? Could you watch a man be killed? Was that even what Alastor had planned?
Tommy found you the second you were back in the room, hand pressing too hard on the bruises he left on your arm. “You have a meeting tomorrow after your show. If you don’t show up,” he yanked you close, putrid breath of dead teeth you’d never been bothered by before this moment and bad booze assaulting your senses, “I will fucking kill you.”
You almost started laughing, bringing your hand to your mouth to hide your smile. “Okay Tommy.” 
Fuck it. He was going to die anyway, might as well make it a date. 
Ruth saddled up beside you as soon as Tommy was out of earshot, “Look at that smile. Quickie in the alley?”
Disgust, “Jesus, Skye, I was gone like, 5 minutes.” She shrugged. “Why does everyone think — is everyone fucking their daddies* in the side street?” She nodded. “Well, I’m not.”
“Prude.” She joshed before linking your arm in hers again, “We’ve got at least another hour of schmoozing. Tits up!”
Your smile came effortlessly that night, a thrum of excitement keeping you light on your feet. Not excitement for death, but for the very concept of being closer to Alastor. Would you see it happen, in front of you? Or would he have you leave? Either way, you were an active participant with a task list.
He trusted you, even if in a small way. Trust was so rarely given from the people who mattered. Men trusted you often; to be sweet when they tell you they were embarrassed about something, to lie when they ask if you orgasmed, to not steal their cash when they blacked out with their pants still on. Pulling it from strangers was one of your greatest pleasures. But it was easy. You were skilled. 
Yet again, like so often now, Alastor was the exception. He didn’t toss himself at your feet. He stood tall in front of you and on his own terms offered you the things you wanted. You didn’t have to pretend to be demure, you didn’t have sit on his lap in silence and nod and laugh. Just yourself, as much as you could allow yourself to exist in the world. No tricks. If his trust was presented wrapped in a bloodied bow, well, you would thank him dearly and wear the ribbon round your neck like a trophy.
Many men spoke to you, but luckily your participation in conversation wasn’t something they really cared about. As they spoke, your eyes were looking past them and into the future. 
However there was a sense of dread when you lied in bed that night. The excitement of getting closer to Alastor had melted into the fear there was no going back from this. 
Something in your chest stung, a thorn growing from somewhere unknown. Three encounters (that he knew of) and already it seemed your thoughts were more Alastor than yourself. No person had ever made such an impression before. You didn’t like it, but it made you happy. Which is why you didn’t like it. Tying your happiness to another person was a reckless thing to do. You’d seen your mother and half sister both use a man’s attention as a replacement for being happy with themselves and it made them brittle and hollow.
Thinking of what would happen the following night, oddly, you were reminded of losing your virginity. You were a “late bloomer” and were terrified you’d never be you again after. Like something would be taken from you. You fell asleep to that thought, of what you’d lose.
Then you woke, uncharacteristically early, feeling none the bit rested. No dreams. No nightmares. A few seconds of darkness and suddenly it was morning. With the extra time you had you wandered into a department store before going to the theater.
When a sales woman approached you, asking what you were looking for, you were too tired lie.
“A red dress.” You didn’t have the makeup at home to cover your marks, and gave up being worried about it. 
Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t so odd of a sight; a woman with a black eye.
“What’s the occasion? Apology dinner?” The woman fidgeted with the hangers while looking at you.
You grimaced, “No, a murder.”
She howled, “You are a hoot! Don’t we wish, huh? Let me pull you some options.”
You put the dress on the top of the paper bag, having hidden it under your make up table the previous night. Your fingers were trembling, applying your makeup needing deep breaths and concentration.
“Ruth, can you do my lips?” You turned and handed her the brush. 
“The eye looks better.” She took your chin in her hand and painted your mouth a pretty shade of red.
“Thank you.” You offered her a smile but she didn't let go, “What?”
“You ever seen a cornered raccoon? Like one got in the house and your mom boxed it into a corner with a broom?”
A nod, yes, actually, you had.
“Who’s got the broom?” She asked. You knitted your brow, not understanding. “Who’s got you in a corner? Is it Tommy?”
You took your chin back, deep breaths. “No brooms. No corners. Just rattled still from last night.” Not a lie, surprisingly. “You thought of a raccoon? Really? Is it because of the eye?”
When you took your bow for the evening and turned to escape the stage lights for the darkness of backstage, you found Tommy leaning just outside the dressing room.
“Get changed, doors unlocked upstairs. Room 504.” 
Grabbing the paper bag you ran through your mental checklist. Wear red, take off your make up, hide the canvas by the bed. An odd to-do list for murder.
The theater had two floors of modest apartments above it, the owners keeping two of the open for the theater’s use. One was for the owners should they ever visit New Orleans, and the other was multi use. Storage and a crash pad for performers or Tommy when he worked late.
The bag crinkled as you hugged it, looking over the small apartment. Boxes, decorations, a modest kitchen and a bed. The bathroom was quite large, a tub and shower head. Was this where the other performers went?  
Why hadn’t anyone said anything sooner? Why didn’t anyone leave yet?
Taking a second, you got to work. You opened the canvas and slid it under the bed, the smallest bit of edge sticking out for easy retrieval. Dizzy with the quickly settling reality of what you were doing, you sat on the floor for a moment. Trying to calm your breathing, you closed your eyes.
The fear of the unknown was suffocating you. There was a possibility Alastor failed and ended up hurt. Or, that he changed his mind and Tommy left you two to just hold hands on the bed for a sex-appropriate amount of time.
You patted your thighs and stood up. No time now for a panic attack. Alastor had a change of clothes in the bag, neatly folded and tied in twine. They were set onto the shelf above the closet.
And finally, yourself. Your dress was on and you stopped to wipe the make up off your face in the bathroom mirror. Still bruised, still nasty. The dress was nice though, carrying some of the weight for your battered mug. Red cotton, sailor neck and little gold buttons down the front. Flashy, brighter than the dark number you usually wore.
Would he like it? Most men looked for how a dress accentuated your curves (or hid them) but you had a feeling Alastor didn’t care so much about that.
You took your seat at the edge of the bed, thin mattress sagging from your weight.
The clock ticked, until finally the door opened and you saw something you hadn’t seen before and knew you’d never see again. Tommy and Alastor.
“Here she is. Autumn, this is Mr. Cerf. He's asked I stay in the apartment, apparently word of your attitude already spread among the upperclass.” Tommy wagged his finger at you in a playful way that was entirely out of place.
“Look at her. Pouting. Not very excited, is she?” Alastor smiled at you, softly. You felt for a second that maybe you entirely misunderstood. He looked calm, normal. Even peaceful.
“It’s always nice when they fight a little. But she won’t cause you any trouble.” Tommy patted Alastor’s back, who immediately shirked away.
“Do you like it when women try to fight you off, Tommy?”
A dry laugh, “Ya know how it is. They gotta act like they don’t like it so people still respect ‘em.”
A hum. Alastor’s smile falling entirely. A shadow settled over his face. “I see. That does make things easier.” He slipped on his short black gloves. “I always tell her she looks lovely in red. She rarely listens to me, but I’m happy to see she did tonight. It’s a special occasion.” 
Once, you thought. You didn’t listen once. 
Tommy nervously chuckled, looking from Alastor then to you, “What?” Alastor grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground and onto his knees. Hand fisted in his hair, knife pressing across his throat. 
Alastor dug his knee into the small of Tommy’s back, “Tommy, I think you owe the lady an apology.” You let your feet find the edge of the canvas and slid it out with a kick. It glided across the wood and stopped where his knees met the floor. 
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry.” Tommy was staring at the waxed fabric in front of him. 
You felt your eyes sting with tears, a smile breaking out against your will. “For what?”
“I—,” his eyes searched the room for an answer, your words bringing a pulse of Deja Vu, “It’s about yesterday?” He seemed to relax a little, “Come on. I said sorry. ” Looking back to Alastor. “I didn’t know she had a guy.”
Alastor yanked his head back to look him squarely in his eyes, “Wrong answer.” He pushed him down onto his stomach, “Come on Tommy. I like when my victims fight a little, too.” Sensing the taller man towering over him with the knife, Tommy scrambled onto his back to look at Alastor. Tommy started shouting, “Hey!! Someone!” But there was no one to hear him. That was the beauty of the space he always brought his dates to; it was too loud to hear anyone scream. 
Funny how that works both ways.
Alastor shrugged, “Well that didn’t last long.” As Tommy backed up, trying to get traction on the slippery canvas and failing, Alastor straddled him. Tommy’s hands came up, one pushing against Alastor’s face, the other against the arm holding the knife. Alastor put both hands onto the knife’s handle, staring down into Tommy’s eyes as he inched closer to the man’s neck. “You look scared, Tommy. Are you scared?” 
The other man shouted, eyes trembling as he watched the knife come down.
Alastor pushed through, metal sinking into Tommy’s throat. No pause, he withdrew and sank it again and again. Tommy’s hands fell from Alastor’s face, flailing slightly at his neck before slumping down. He was frenzied, stabbing at his chest and upward with wide eyes. You recognized those constricted pupils. They made sense in this setting. Alastor was panting, taking a second to split the skin from ear to ear in the middle of his melee. 
You brought your knees to your chest, watching the crime unfold. Was this anger for you or truly for everyone? No one ever got so angry for you before, if you could be so conceited as to say this was for you. Your mouth opened and you spoke without thinking, no filter. “You look like an angry God. A jazz demon of wrath.” You smiled, the morbidity not lost on you.
Alastor stopped, frozen as he stared at you. For a second, he had forgotten you were there. He was always alone during these hobbies of his. Until recently. You looked like an angel in red and gold. Had he dyed your heavenly robes crimson? Or had you been made that way?
He dropped the knife, peeling his gloves off and stepping over Tommy’s decimated torso before kicking off his shoes.
You scooted back onto the bed and opened your arms, welcoming a strange after-kill cuddle. Your reward.
Alastor took off his bowtie, then his shirt. It took you a second, not realizing what was happening until he began to unbuckle his belt. “Now?!” 
He nodded, “Yeah.”
“What the fuc— okay,” your hands flew to unclasp your stockings and roll down your panties. You mumbled to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”
As he crawled over you, warm gloveless hands tracing along your legs, hips, waist, you looked at up him with your now dilated pupils, “It’s murder? You need murder?”
He laughed, embarrassing you a little, “No it isn’t that.” His face nuzzled into your neck, “You’d go to hell? For me?” 
You froze, you hadn’t really seen it like that.
“You’d damn your eternal soul,” his hips pressed into you, an unfamiliar hardness there that made you gulp, “just to spend time with me?”
How were you so heated over an erection? A dime a dozen, men practically threw them at women who offered them the slightest smile. Yet feeling him so hard against you, something you had been practically praying for, made you weak. A trembling virgin all over again. 
Don’t lie, he always told you to be honest so you decided to try it out even if it made you feel at risk of harm. Your hands slid up and into his hair, gripping gently, enough to elicit a groan from him, “Well I was worried heaven wouldn’t have jazz, so… yeah.” You had to always say something a little in jest, to hide from the vulnerability of honesty, “This seemed like a better option.” The truth was, if you had to state it plainly, you would dive head first into hell in exchange for his smile. To hear his laugh. To feel his breath over your mouth. You were quite sure hell was more your scene, anyway.
“I’ll be sure to fill your afterlife with jazz every day, dear.” 
How could he make hell sound so sweet?
“It’s a deal.” Fingers playing with his hair, basking in the warmth of skin on skin. 
He leaned up, eyes scanning your face as he always seemed to do in these intimate moments. The feeling spreading down his chest was one wholly foreign to him, one he was struggling to put into his own words. You hadn’t run away. You opened your arms for him even still, welcoming your own damnation in exchange for… affection? Attention? Him? The reason didn’t matter, not to Alastor, and not now to his growing need. You didn’t even push him for more than he wanted to give, not yet needled him for details, secrets, sex. Could you really just be there for Alastor? Take him for what he was and what he wasn’t?
His mouth was salivating at the thought you’d give him anything. Reality was, you already had. His finger caressed the purple welt on your cheek. You were given pain and he returned it ten fold to its owner. A demon of wrath. He felt his cock twitching, underwear tented around him. 
You smiled up at him, wiping a little streak of blood from his jawline, “You look quite pretty in red yourself.”
His head came to rest on your collarbone with a shaky sigh.
Had you said something wrong? 
“Please, you’re already pushing me to my limit.”
Making a show of it, you zipped your mouth and pretended to toss the key. You wanted to reach down and pull off his remaining bit of clothing, to rub yourself against his manhood. But, you weren’t sure if that was something he would appreciate. You didn’t want to ruin his experience, to make him regret offering you something he so clearly didn’t need to give.
He removed his underwear, watching you unbutton your dress and pulling your arms free. Your bra, garter, and stockings were still on. Somehow he found it more scandalous than if you were completely naked.
Your breath was shaking, uneven as the excitement took control of you. There was a not totally unfounded fear you'd black out from hyperventilating.
Alastor lined himself up with your heat and pressed in, making a hard to decipher face as his brow knit up and he bit his lip. You were already so wet, not a hand or mouth needed from him. He wondered if you shared more than an acceptance of justified homicide; your body so relaxed and welcoming to him. 
With a few shallow thrusts, he was fully sunk into you. You may have let out a cry. An emptiness you hadn’t clocked was suddenly gone. Was this what Zeus meant when he said the two souled humans were too powerful and tore them apart to weaken them? 
Was this sex, or love? The word made you nervous. But—- if he offered it to you in both palms, you’d suffocate yourself in his hands.
He began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out slowly. You had expected the frantic moves of a horny virgin. Instead he was moving with control, hips rolling into you like waves gentle and steady where the lake met land, not slamming like many men before him. 
Had it been any other dick, you’d whine and begin moving yourself against it for that needed speed. This was Alastor. Dripping pleasure into your open mouth like a drought-breaking summer shower.
You didn’t recognize your own sounds, already panting and moaning as a warmth spread from the place where his cock was sliding around inside you.
Alastor tried to keep calm. Even when his body was sensitive, he wasn’t used to the mental work needed to fight off his orgasm. Usually he had the opposite issue, struggling to stay focused enough to finish. Mind wandering to more productive chores. 
But you were so wet, so accepting in body and mind. He watched your eyes close, one hand gently clawing at the blankets, the other reaching down to touch his lower stomach every time he thrust back in. For the first time in a very long time you really truly wanted to remember who was at the other end of the dick you were enjoying.
Languid moves. Swollen cockhead hitting the bottom of your walls, the top, the end, pushing still a little further.
“I’m sorry,” Alastor leaned down over you, kissing at your jawline, “For making you wait so long for so little.”
His rhythm picked up then, burying himself deeper into your sopping cunt and dragging out enough to pull back that quiver of his release.
You shook your head, lips tingling. “Nothing little here.”
He attempted a laugh, losing his breath. He wanted to last longer, to make the experience worth your while but he could feel you dripping down his balls and it weakened him with alarming efficiency. Finally the frenzied speed you witnessed earlier was turned to you, you brought your legs up, holding at his sides. “Darling I need to-,” he moaned into your ear.
“Please stay.” You clung to his neck, nails grazing at his shoulders.
Alastor’s voice was soft and sweet, a small moan and a gentle grunt. His legs spread more, trying to get every centimeter of himself into you. Hips now grinding in a small circle, but not losing any of the comfort of your warmth. You felt him still pumping that welcomed heat into you, and you tightened around him, drawing out your own moan. He hissed, “Sensitive.” Your legs were shaking like leaves in a storm, no orgasm but the pleasure nonetheless intoxicating.
The front of your brain felt like static, perhaps from the lack of oxygen as you had uncharacteristically lost your breath under Alastor. 
Like losing your virginity, after the fear faded and you were able to find a moment for introspection, you found yourself larger than before. The edges of your canvas expanded out, new parts of yourself unfurling for you to explore. Nothing had been lost, only gained.
Alastor kissed at the dark circle under your eye, at the bruise of your cheek, he lifted your arm and kissed gently at the purple and blue spots there too. He had lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but maybe he’d find the will to admit it to you someday.
He had left yesterday to keep from strangling Tommy in the center of the theater, finding himself in a rage. He rarely felt anger. His killings always about retribution, about karma, about righting the scales. He needed to leave to keep from losing his composure.
He lied to you in the alley, unable to look you in the eye when he did it for fear you’d see it. You always seemed to see him with a clarity others didn’t despite such a short time together. He struggled to hide from you and it was as exciting as it was frightening. A testament to your similarities.
He hadn’t done it for everyone. No. His personal moral code fell to pieces when he saw your bloodied eye and bruised skin. He would have killed Tommy even if he had been a good man, even if you’d been the instigator. None of his murderous rules mattered. And it scared him. 
(Next Part Next Week, orz)
*slang for boyfriend, often a rich one
༻Masterlist༺
∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):
@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,
@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay /
🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions
162 notes · View notes
undercoverpena · 2 days
Text
7. honey cream
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of do me yourself
Tumblr media
summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.
wordcount: 3.9k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. frankie being a good dad. bad tool names. anxious!reader. an: can i just say a massive thank you to all those who show up EVERY SINGLE WEEK. i adore you so much. thank you. if you're new to the ride, also welcome. even if i loved this story so much, i never expected people to love it even half as much as me, never mind the love i keep getting. so thank you.
prev chapter | series masterlist
key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics
Tumblr media
Nice forearm in your story.
Thanks, It’s this guy I met in a hardware store? We’ve been kind of seeing one another.
Oh, tell him he has a nice watch.
I’ve been told to tell you that you have a nice watch.
You’re hilarious.
I try to be.
You can say no to this, but do you want me to call you later?
That’ll be nice. I’ll be working late so I'll take a break when you do.
Tumblr media
Tomorrow, I just need to grab some bits from the store and then I’ll be with you.
Are you sure you want to spend your day off helping me paint?
I was promised to see you in overalls, so yes.
They’re nice, but please lower your expectations.
I bet they look great on your ass.
Everything looks great on my ass.
Including my hand.
Yes, specifically when you slipped your fingers in my jeans pocket on the way to brunch.
I can’t wait to see you.
Drive safely, Butterscotch.
Tumblr media
“I feel bad that your day off is spent painting.”
Flicking the lid off with a screwdriver, Frankie just smiles—eyes looking up at you from under his cap.
When he looks at you, you might as well be a fly irresistibly drawn to the brilliance of it, captivated by it.
He’d come in clothes that were long since paint-splattered. A set, you assume, he wears most times—an over-washed and over-loved flannel over a greying white tee, and a pair of cargos that have more pockets than you know what they could be used for.
It had been more natural when he’d arrived this time. A sweet kiss at the door, a long hug where he walks you in and his heel kicks your door shut. A muttering of 'you smell nice', into your neck—grinning over his shoulder because you’d sprayed far too much of your perfume.
“Don’t—I want to be here.”
“I think I’ll likely apologise another three times, at least, before we’re done.”
Standing, wearing a slightly twinged expression on his face, he steps over the clean trays and folded step ladders. His hand rises, turning the beak of his cap around, before he’s in front of you, staring at you before he kisses you.
Kisses you like he wishes to rid you of your worries and make your guilt wash away. Like he wants to empty your mind of things you’ve once been told, make you forget them, purge them. Fuck, his mouth almost does.
“So, rule of thumb—ceiling, walls and then kickboards, window sills.”
“Did you… Did you really just finish kissing me and immediately talk about painting?”
Grinning, he chuckles, bending down to grab a paintbrush. “Did you want me to linger on why you feel bad, or are you ready to get your hands dirty?"
You hesitate for a moment before taking the brush, fingers brushing over his. “I guess I’ll get dirty, since it’s with you.”
He seems to swallow, gaze holding yours as a soft smile tries to tug at his lips before flattening out to a line. Then, you just watch as he pours the off-white paint into the trays—its thick, glooping contents filling it quicker than you’d banked on, but he took it perfectly in his stride.
The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up, forearms flexing as he tilts the larger tub until he appears content with the measurement in the tray.
You know a thumb covered in paint shouldn’t cause your throat to dry, but it does. Your mind thinking up all the places he can leave a stamp of it, a trail of it, turn you into a map showing where he’s been—over a thigh, collarbone, your —
“Race you to the end of the wall?”
Blinking, finding him already readying his roller on the blank, sun-stained wall.
Before you can respond, he's off. The roller glides smoothly across the wall, leaving a trail of fresh paint in its wake. You laugh, shaking your head at his competitive spirit before joining him, your own brush meeting the wall—cutting in.
In time, the room fills with the rhythmic sound of brushes against the wall, the occasional laughter, and gentle conversations. The room transformed over the hours, looking fresher, already a thousand times better than it had this morning with the patches off filled in holes and cracks.
Taking the brush from your hands, you step back to the middle, looking around, not initially aware of how he’s looking at you. Not until you spot a satisfied smile and a glint in his eye.
“We did good, didn't we?”
You shrug. “Think you could do better—put your back really into rolling next time.”
Shaking his head, he throws your brush into the used tray before he’s grasping, tugging, your body connecting with his in an oomph—his reflexes quicker, arms longer than you’d expected—as laughter escapes out as you slide your hand around the back of his neck.
“Thank you. For helping me.”
“Sure,” he whispers, cheek close to yours, fingers on your hip. “Have I told you how good you look in your overalls?”
Rolling your lips, you slowly turn in his hold—all set to turn his cap for him again. To whisper to him that they’re easy to remove too, that he could slide his fingers up, even slant your mouth back over his again.
But you hear his stomach. It rumbles—practically thunderous.
“I haven’t even offered you food,” you confess, words laced with guilt. “I should make you food.”
“You don’t have to…”
Fingers entwining with his, you pull him—finding him happily following, even as he mumbles about cleaning up, that the paint will dry in the tray. You don’t loosen your hold until the two of you are in the kitchen, a hand needed to open the fridge, both required to pull out some ingredients.
“You cooking for me?”
“I’m going to try, if that’s okay?”
He leans against the counter, watching you with a soft smile.
“I'd love that, baby,” he says, the affection in his voice making your heart flutter like it keeps doing.
Before you’ve even sliced the first vegetable, Frankie excuses himself—a kiss to your cheek, all domestic, normal. It not feeling weird even as he goes back to the “project room” and you hear him tidying.
Because it’s not odd in the slightest him being here.
A thing you turn over as you continue to prepare ingredients, cutting and marinating. By the time he’s returned, sporting an amused smile on his face, you’re about to begin frying things.
“Can I do anything?”
Shaking your head, you glance at him over your shoulder, finding he’s taken up his earlier spot. “Just keep me company.”
And he does. Asking you things, questions—some about your childhood, your family, friends. Every word spoken, he hangs onto. Staring like he’s making notes in his head, committing them to memory, somewhere inside that beautiful, amazing mind of his.
“Should I get used to you cooking if I come round and help you with your project?” he teases, taking a water from the fridge like you’d instructed.
“You better not get used to it,” you retort, throwing a small piece of bell pepper at him playfully. He ducks, laughing. “I batch cook most of the time—easier when you eat for one.”
His eyes follow as you move around the kitchen with a fondness in his eyes, you focusing on not burning anything. Stomach knotting itself when it comes to dishing it up, placing it down, and watching him slide into the stool.
When he takes the first bite, you swear you are frozen—unable to move, or think. Eyes just focused on his, watching, waiting, until you breathe a sigh of relief at the way his eyes light up. “This is really good, baby.”
You can't help but feel a little proud. “Thank you.”
He raises his water in a toast. “To more cooking then,” he proposes, and you laugh, agreeing wholeheartedly.
As you stick your own fork in, it's easy to find comfort in the shared silence, a contentment you continue to be amazed at. The atmosphere all at ease. There's no need for words as you both eat, side-by-side, a relatively normal thing for most, but not for you.
But, none of it feels weird, awkward. It never has—even if part of you continues to wait for it. If anything, it continues to be comfortable, right.
Even as the food effortlessly vanishes off both of your plates, it's not until you've reached your fill that you clear your throat.
“So, how often do you have Luca?”
Chewing his food, he puts down the remainder—wiping his fingers on the napkin. “It’s a weird rota. But it works? I’ll have him in the week for two nights and then overnight on a Saturday one week and then one night in the week the following and then Friday to Sunday, and then I’ll have him for three nights in the week the following. Sometimes, extra if I have time off or I want to take him to see family.”
Nodding, you take a sip of your drink.
“Does that… bother you?”
“No! No, of course not,” you grin. “He’s the most important, in all of this. It was just curiosity, I couldn’t… I couldn’t work out the pattern.”
Chewing his cheek he smiles. “You trying to work out when I’m free?”
Shrugging, you look away, aware of the heat warming your cheeks. “Well, someone did post about brunch on their Stories…”
“I remember someone else posting my forearm on theirs.”
Smiling, you plate your cutlery down. “It’s a very nice forearm.”
Shoulder nudging you, Frankie chuckles—cutlery lined up on his plate, your hand moving to take it. Sliding around the kitchen as he begins debating what part of him will appear next, a thigh, an ankle.
“I can include all of you next time, if you like?” Hand testing the hot, soapy water filling the bowl.
“Yeah?”
Licking your lips, you smile. “I don’t cook for anyone, Morales.”
Shifting to meet your gaze, his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. “Is that right, Rainy? I must be pretty special then.”
“You have no idea,” you reply, your voice a mere whisper but the words carry an immense weight, one you suspect has snuck out, and embedded itself into him.
You're quick to turn your back to him, hide the heat and shyness, as you carefully rinse off the dishes. Only hearing the stool shift at the last moment, the sound of his sock-covered feet padding around until he's standing behind you.
His presence is unmistakable, more so when he places his hands on your hips. “I think I'm beginning to,” he murmurs into your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.
You turn to face him, the plates forgotten in the sink. Looking up into his eyes, seeing a reflection of things fluttering in them.
“You better,” you say, reaching up to gently stroke his cheek, “because I'm not planning on posting anyone else’s arm for a while.”
His grin widens at your words, his hands pulling you closer until your bodies are flush against each other. "Good, because I don't plan on trying brunch with anyone else."
And as he leans down to kiss you, he pauses, mouth hovering over yours. “Speaking of…”
Narrowing your eyes, you retract your head, soap suds sliding off your wrists.
“My friends… they want to meet you.”
His words catch you off guard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Meet...me?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
As soon as he confirms with a simple nod, you feel a tightness in your chest. An explosion in your mind. A vortex of thoughts, all overwhelming, non-stop.
Each second you try to breathe, the knot in your chest tightens, sitting, carving a bigger hole where your happiness had just been—
“Yes,” he confirms, his hands soothingly rubbing circles on your hips as though noticing your sudden tension. “I think, maybe, I’ve talked about you too much?”
Running your teeth over your lip, you feel a piece of skin. One sticking up, not as smooth as the rest. Lip balm would solve it, fix it—but you pick at it anyway, pick, pick, pick—
Running your teeth over your lip, you notice a stray piece of skin, protruding slightly, disrupting the otherwise smooth surface. Lip balm would fix it, effortlessly smooth it out—but despite knowing this, you find yourself unable to resist the urge to pick at it. Listening to him as he explains, hearing names, a day suggested. As you compulsively pick, pick, pick—
Until he says your name.
Soft. Gentle. So cautiously spoken it makes your heart do a double take as you taste copper on your tongue.
“Are you sure? I mean, I want to. I just… don’t want to intrude or anything,” you reply, and you know it’s left your mouth shaky, bathed in nerves.
Attempting to shake the suds from your hands, hoping to fling off the worries with it, you find yourself unable to meet his gaze. Mind a flurry, a snowstorm of ifs, buts and maybes.
Because meeting his friends is a significant step—a thing you’re happy about, pleased he feels the same way. Yet, you're also terrified.
Digging your hip into the counter because of it, rooting yourself as you flex your fingers.
“Hey.” His fingers gently lift your chin, forcing you to look up at him; eyes full of warmth and reassurance. "You wouldn't be intruding, baby. They're… they’re like my family and… I want them to meet the person I can’t stop thinking about.”
Shoulders sliding down from your ears, you move to rest your hands on his waist. “You really talk about me that much?”
Scrunching his nose, he smiles. “A bit.”
“Okay,” you agree, your voice sounding more confident than you feel. “I'll meet your friends.”
“Great,” he grins, his relief evident. He pulls you close, hugging you tightly. “Benny—the one who fights—that's who we'll be supporting.”
“When?”
He frowns, but vanishes it away as though realising you hadn't been listening. “Not this weekend, but next. They’re going to love you, I promise.”
“I hope so,” you whisper into his chest, your heart rate trying its best to slow down.
Tumblr media
I need you to tell me what I need to do with the office room, if your friends happen to not like me. They’re going to like you. But if they don’t. Rainy, they will. Introducing you is more so they don’t think I’ve made you up. You have a habit of making up people? No. But apparently, the way I talk about you makes it seem like you’re made up. Why? Because you’re perfect. I am not. You are, but let’s have that battle another day. What are you worried about?
It sits there, in your fingers. The answer to his question.
Foot kicking out at your kitchen island, laptop light illuminating your face as you roll your tongue over your lips.
Foot kicking out nervously at the kitchen island, the harsh glow of the laptop casting an eerie light across your face, you roll your tongue over your lips.
A nervous tic. One you find yourself repeating—letting it trace over the same path again and again, desperately seeking a sense of calm that seems perpetually out of reach.
The question doing its rounds, spinning and swirling: What are you worried about? What are you worried about?
Like a bell has been wrung, it blares out. The answer.
It vibrates through your bones and comes back to you in an echo. Almost a chorus: That I’m not good enough.
A thing you’ve done well to ignore, to stuff down. But now, it's crawling up out of its boxes, the tape having barely kept it down, flapping about in the whirlwind of worries in your head.
As your phone screen dims, memories flood, recalling the evidence. The words flung at you, feelings you’ve wrestled with in bathrooms at loud parties and brutal quiet nights; arguments in places that don’t feel like home and tears against brick walls that cut shoulders.
Unlocking your phone, you tighten your jaw because he's not like them. He's good, kind. A sudden unwillingness to bend to insecurity roaring inside of you as you list every good thing about him; not willing to let a good thing be ruined by things that could never happen.
Sliding your fingers over the screen, you type words that seem easier, less difficult to confess:
Living up to the stories you’ve said. No stories, just a mention of your name and apparently a smile they’ve not seen in a while.
With a mouth-closed grin, you purse your lips.
Reading over the message again and again as your teeth sneak out to bite your lip, thumbs darting out over the phone’s keyboard.
Would it be okay to pick you up? You want to pick me up? I do. Yeah, sure. I was going to offer to pick you up. I think I’d like to pick you up, and if I don’t make a fool out of myself, would you like to stay over? I’ll pack your robe.
Tumblr media
As soon as he throws his bag into the backseat and slips into your car, you feel at ease.
The drive over to grab him had been a combination of whispered mutterings about how it was going to be fine and a mind full of all the ways it wouldn’t be.
It’s further helped when his lips press to your cheek, allowing hands to loosen on the steering wheel, and when that low voice sweeps over you as he greets you—as other words hang there unspoken.
You almost say it on sight, I've missed you.
Because you have. A week and a half of messages and phone calls sufficing, but you’ve missed his presence, his face, the chance to brush your fingers over his cheek.
“You look nice.”
Eyes widening, he stares down at himself, palms brushing out over his thighs. “Me?”
“No, the ghost you brought with you—of course, you.”
Snorting, he fastens his seatbelt. “Says you, hermosa.”
“Smooth talker.”
The drive to the fight continues with similar, gentle teasing, all comfortable conversation filling the vehicle. He begins to fill you in on the new developments in the saga of Luca’s newfound love for blanket forts rendering the living room a disaster and you about the sign-off on the work you'd been worked up over.
As you navigate the roads, excitedly sharing about how you've picked a wallpaper you like, Frankie's warm hand finds a home on your thigh, his thumb idly tracing patterns over the fabric of your jeans as he continues talking.
No smirk, nothing. Just the usual smile, as if he'd done this before.
Yet, he hasn't. Unfamiliar sensations surge through your body, catching you off guard, body all ill-prepared for the way it warms you. It almost urges you to shuffle in your seat so his hand rises north; Electricity crackles along your veins, accompanied by a tightening in your abdomen that refuses to dissipate. And, it only worsens when he coughs and his hand grips you a little tighter.
As more of the cityscape flits past your windows, you steal glances at Frankie. His profile illuminated intermittently by the passing street lights, shadows highlighting the rugged contours of his face.
By the time you're pulling into the parking lot, you wish the drive had been longer. Momentarily, you press your thighs together, for reprieve. Only doing so when his hand moves to open the door, the liveliness and music spilling out onto the sidewalk as he comes around the vehicle to take your hand.
“So, where will your friends be?”
Frankie tightens his hand on yours, leading you, holding the door open. “They’ll be in the locker room. Will is Ben’s non-official trainer.”
Nodding, you smile, letting him lead until the two of you come to a stop at the bar—him asking you what you’d like, giving you a look that says please don’t fight me as he takes out his wallet.
“You not needed there?” Shaking his head, ordering drinks as he faces his head forward but his eyes slide down to you. “And what are you, what's your role?”
“His other non-official, less present trainer.”
“You slacker.”
Shrugging, he shakes his head, paying for the drinks. “I know, so much free time to do it too.”
Grinning, you follow him to a spot out of the line, sliding your arm around his back, curling into him—the ice cubes in your plastic cup colliding in the fizziness of your drink.
“I’m glad you came.”
“Because you missed me?”
His mouth opens, parts—the tip of his tongue peeking out as you feel his chest expand before relaxing. “Yeah. Nine days was too long.”
Biting the inside of your cheek, you slide your hand under his jacket, it taking a moment, more awkward than full of ease before you can fan your fingers out against him.
“Technically, it was five—if you count me half-waving to you when I came in to get a screwy.”
Almost spluttering as he takes a sip, he clears his throat, staring down. “You can’t call it a screwy?”
Narrowing your eyes, smirking away. “And why not, Morales?”
“Because suena mal... dirty,” he argues, trying to suppress a laugh.
Your eyebrow raises in question, but before you can retort, his lips are on yours, effectively silencing you. The place around you is all of a sudden silent, muted—as if no one else is around at all. The ring, the lights, and all of the people blurring into nothing, not as your fingers tease over his chin, as your mouth reminds itself what his feels like.
Pulling back, mouth hovering close to his. “So, what do I need to know about your friends? Outside of the obvious.”
The obvious is that they all served together. Frankie had explained it one night as you cooked for yourself, him on a shelf—face filling the screen as you sliced and brewed on the stove.
It was clinically given, top-level you'd been sure. Just the need to know—the need to understand.
“Well, Ben is loud—but he’s gentle. Will is a bit protective, especially since we've all been through a lot together," he begins, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand. “But they're good people. They're upfront and honest.”
“Does Harold like them?”
Tutting, he pauses as he lifts the plastic cup to his lips. “The only person Harry likes is you. And his own family.”
“I’ll be sure to drop that in conversation then. Show them I’m one stamp approved already.”
Tilting your chin up, he licks his lips—slowly, intently. “You have nothing to worry about, alright?” You nod, trying to take in his words. “I mean it.”
“Okay.”
Kissing the top of your head, Frankie keeps his arm around you. Even when Benny's name is shouted and the crowd goes wild.
Tumblr media
I think they like me.
Are you texting me from the bathroom?
Maybe. But, I think it’s going well.
Baby, are you peeing and texting me?
No! I dried my hands and then messaged you.
So you’re leaning against a dirty wall texting me.
Are you grinning like an idiot at your phone?
Don’t answer I can see it.
Shut up.
If that’s the grin you wear when I message you, no wonder they wanted to meet me.
Basta!
You're cute when you're flustered. Can see the red climbing up your neck from here.
Come back and keep me company.
Grin a bit more and I might.
Rainy.
Fuck you're handsome, Butterscotch.
Tumblr media
NEXT CHAPTER ->
an: while the meeting happens off-paper (haha wanted to say off-screen) all meetings won't appear like this 👀. we knew they'd love her, and in time we'll see how much. also, her texting him in the bathroom may be my fave thing she's done off her own accord (i am merely just a body and fingers when rainy begins talking to me)
181 notes · View notes
al-of-the-stars · 3 days
Note
poly vees! poly vees! where everyone loves eachother
anyways, the vee's find themselves attracted to an imp!reader (maybe only one or two at first). i love the upper class x lower class dynamic ajhs
the imp was originally just trying to be a thief in peace and rob them, but they get caught in the process.
gn! reader is more desirable but you can go for a fem or male reader if you want!!
-🍋 anon
"Stole our hearts. (and our money lol)"
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
A/n: Hi, 🍋! This reminded me a bit of Blitzo and Stolas from Helluva Boss lol Ik I said this before but I'm not too familiar with poly relationships so I'm so sorry if I got anything wrong! I did gn reader but I did mention reader wearing one of Velvette's dresses so I hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable! Hope you enjoy!!
Tumblr media
Imps were never respected in the hell hierarchy. How ironic that the ones who fucked up enough to get sent here are treated better than the innocent demons who never even got a chance at life in the first place. This was the reason you decided to become a thief. If no one was willing to hire the lowlife so that you could make an honest living, you would steal to live a comfortable life. You weren't a Saint by any means but you weren't evil enough to steal from your own kind, only people who either deserved it or people who could afford to be stolen from. That includes overlords, and more specifically, your latest victims, the Vees. They were known for their social influence on the residents of hell, but you didn't really care much since overlords only live in the pride ring and imps usually residents in Imp City in the wrath ring. That, however, doesn't mean you won't travel there and take their shit. You were currently at Vee Tower late at night. Everyone was asleep so you had the perfect chance to do your job and quickly scurry off, or at least that's what you thought, You usually work fast but that doesn’t take into account the time constraint of Vox’s new security system. The moment you touched the vase, a loud alarm rang and a few seconds later, Vox and his tired partners came up to you. 
“What do you think you're doing,” Vox said, his business smile faltering. Shit. You underestimated this guy's inventions. “Oh.. uhhh..” you were at a loss for words. What were you even supposed to say? ‘Hey I was about to steal this vase that you own’? Absolutely not. Luckily for you, they didn't seem to mind as much as you thought they would. Little did you know that every time you had stolen from the Overlords, they had known you were there. Although they didn't exactly appreciate you stealing their belongings, they had taken a bit of a liking towards you. Even when being mischievous little shit, you still had a sort of charm. Like when you were stealing one of Vox's newest prototypes and spent 10 whole minutes trying to figure out what it did before giving up and furiously putting it in the bag. Or that time you stole one of Velvette's dresses and before putting it in the bag you put it on, just for funsies. She had to admit, you didn't look half bad in her designs, maybe when you finally date them, she can ask you to model for her. And the time you tried to steal one of the blankets from one of Val's studios, which surprisingly sell for a lot. You hurriedly put it in the bag, trying to touch it as little as possible, who knows what things people had done in those blankets. They slowly fell for you one by one, maybe next time, they can finally ask you out. Once they give you the world, you finally won't have to steal their things.
Tumblr media
132 notes · View notes
anincompletelist · 2 days
Text
Tumblr media
feb + march recs <3
[other rec links below the cut!]
y'all know the drill! as always, please remember to leave kudos and a comment if you enjoyed the fic or show support in other ways, and be kind! mind the tags and if you come across something you dislike, please kindly (and quietly) move on.
I had quite a few recs to catch up on - and am STILL catching up on - as I have been MIA with physical/mental health shenanigans as of late (so please excuse the fact that these are a bit angsty skjdhkjhd). thank you as always to these authors and their beautiful words for being a comfort! I love having a full 'to-read' list! :D
see you again soon, and happy reading! <3
+
I've Always Loved New York, Since Garlic Aioli | KingCaspianX | E | 12k
Alex would say that this date is going really, really well. It hurts to admit because he now owes Nora a six-pack of beer, but he’ll happily swallow his pride if it means he gets to spend as much time as humanly possible with the cute librarian with the elbow patches who’d asked him out last week. The cute librarian, Henry, is not wearing any elbow patches this evening, but is instead dressed in cream linen pants and a soft blue oversized shirt. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, on his collar bones, down his neck from the balmy New York air but instead of being gross, the way Alex probably is, it’s sinful. He’s glowing. Alex wants to lick his throat. Jesus, he could have sworn he was straight a minute ago. Or, Henry asks Alex on a date. Alex, straight, accepts.
Henry's an Asshole (I Want to Kiss Him) | anarchyat4am | T+ | 7k
At the NYE Gala, Henry starts feeling the hazy edges of anxiety and an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It takes him longer than it should to take notice of the feeling, and even longer to realise that the cause is likely the binder he’s been wearing all day. He escapes the party, Alex gets him upstairs to his room to change, and the rest of the night goes far differently than Henry could have expected.
getting good now | Standinginmoonlight | M | 20k
Alex sighs and balls his hands up into fists, digging them into his eye sockets until he sees stars, and then he’s speaking without his brain giving his mouth permission. “I can’t believe I’m going to marry someone British.” Or: the Love is Blind AU that no-one asked for.
cause you're classic and I'm reckless | @firenati0n | T+ | 5k
“I've, actually, uh. I've never done this before.” At this, Henry stops short, takes a second as his gaze moves up and to the left, trying to recall something. “I've seen your films. You most certainly have done intimate scenes.” Alex clears his throat. He hopes his nerves aren't completely obvious, the slight waver in his voice about to give him away. “Yeah, well. Never with a man, so. Not at this scale, anyway.” “Would it help to, er, practice?" Henry winces a little as he says it, which does not inspire confidence. But Alex is shocked nonetheless. What the fuck?
love was just an ocean (I would drown before I float) | srrafoxjournals | NR | 21k
There are moments in Henry’s adolescence, maybe even later, when he feels he doesn't belong to anyone. He is no one’s son. He is no one’s little brother. He is no one’s partner. He isn’t related to anyone at all. He’s just there really, just existing. Just an entity. Though he thinks he’s realistically always felt this, it doesn’t make itself known until he turns thirteen. Or: moments from Henry's pov
It's Not Rotten Work If It's You | a_stray_thief | E | 31k
After years of taking suppressants to hide his omega status, after the email leak and the election, after things finally settle, Henry and Alex spend Henry’s first heat together.
say you'll see me again (even if it's just in your wildest dreams) | @coffeecatsme | T+ | 21k
5 times Henry is too scared to come out to Alex and 1 time Alex gives him the courage. Or, 6 times Alex slowly falls in love with Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, for exactly who he is.
*I HIGHLY recommend this entire series! check it out here!
What are the chances? | @wordsofhoneydew | E | 2k
Nora helps June achieve her first vaginal orgasm.
Bang a Gong (Get It On) | @cactusdragon517 | E | 11k
AKA ouroBROros, as dubbed by the Brownstone. The long awaited foursome fic. -- It’s late when they end up out in the yard, the fire from the firepit casting all of them in golden syrupy light under a dark sky. It feels like a night for secrets and Liam thinks it’s why he asks, Spencer’s hand a gentle pressure on his thigh.
cut | validvali | E | 12k
Holy fucking eyelashes. He’s all tan skin and bright eyes and charming smile— everything that makes Henry weak in the knees. Pretty brown eyes dart between the lineup and his clipboard, trying to put two and two together, but all Henry can focus on are those arms. Those hands. That arse. “Can I call you up, handsome?” Henry almost blacks out. [or, the five times alex and henry shoot a video together as (not so) strangers, and the one time they do as a couple.]
Silence & Sound | @nocoastposts | E | 2k
Alex tugs at his hair and tries to focus on choosing his next words. He knows that Henry will help him - that he wants to help him. He knows that all he has to do is say the word. Henry stands and steps closer, holding Alex’s chin firmly and tilting his head up so their eyes are forced to meet. “You need me to clear that lovely head of yours, hm?” “Please,” Alex says in barely a whisper. or: Henry helps Alex fill the silence before indulging in the sound.
Through All My Cards | @cactusdragon517 | E | 7k
Alex, preparing for top surgery, gives in when June suggests he not recover alone. Enter her friend, Henry Fox.
I love you (ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard) | coffeecatsme | E | 20k
Henry doesn’t doubt that, just as much as he doesn’t doubt now that Alex won’t have a single issue with him being trans. In another life, when Henry whispered it in the quiet hours of the night, he didn’t. In another life, when he kissed Henry anyway, he didn’t. In another life. In this one, when Alex meets his eyes, all there is left behind them is a cold glare that freezes Henry to his soul. One year ago, Henry had a whirlwind of a day with Alex after a chance meeting in a coffee shop, only to leave in the morning to protect his heart. He doesn't expect to see Alex again, until he shows up at June's wedding and finds out her brother is the same Alex he hasn't been able to get out of his mind for a year - and he's pissed.
Can You See Me? (I'm Waiting for the Right Time) | @affectionatelyrs | T+ | 7k
“Whose turn was it?” Henry asks while Alex is busy pondering the merits of throwing himself out their fifth-story window and hoping his boner doesn’t take anyone’s eye out on his way down. “Forgive me, but I am a bit tired. Do you think you could take it?” There’s no way that Henry’s not doing this on purpose. He makes words mean things when put in a certain order for a living, for fucks sake. Alex almost quips back depends on how big it is just to see how—or if—Henry would react. “Yeah, um, no problem.” There. Much more normal. He could steal Henry’s job at this rate. “Truth or dare?” [Or, Alex’s world gets flipped on its axis during a game of truth or dare]
At the end of a bar | @hgejfmw-hgejhsf | E | 9k+
Alex has a supremely shitty day at work and finds himself wandering into a bar where a mystery man catches his attention.
What do you have against color? | jumpsuit | E | 11k
Upon opening the hardcover of a found sketchbook to locate the owner's contact details, Alex discovers only this inscription: In case of loss, please return to: Instagram @henryfox.usk He, of fucking course, knows who Henry Fox is. That striking yet humorless, rude, and self-righteous British prick he met on the first day of the symposium. [Or, an AU where Alex and Henry are urban sketchers. A short story of how they get to know each other, fall in love and in bed within one day.]
Sunless Dusting Libraries | @itsmaybitheway | T+ | 7k
Henry should leave, he should wait until everyone is asleep and then silently leave, without a trace. As if he never existed in Alex's life, as if he never touched Alex's body, as if he never wanted only exist in his heart and mind. Because that is what Alex deserves. Alex deserves someone who can love him out and proud, someone who is not shamed for his existence, someone as bright as him, not the pale starlight gleam Henry is. But lying there on the pile of mattresses they piled together and called a bed- Henry can not even find it in himself to breathe, let alone get up and go. Betrayed by his own existence, once again. [or: what-If taken by a depressive episode, Henry can not leave the lake house?]
each time we touch / I wanna take too much | firenati0n | M | 1k
Alex keeps his head angled away from the couch, leaning his back against the base for support as he pretends to be engrossed in conversation with Pez on the floor; pretends not to shamelessly eavesdrop on Henry's conversation with some girl on the opposite end of the couch, a classmate in Henry's course on human sexuality and expression. He digs his fingers into the frayed edges of the shaggy rug, feeling the soft strands slip through his hands as he keeps his eyes on Pez. Keeps his ears on Henry, who's sitting behind him, his knee occasionally nudging Alex's back as he talks animatedly, his whole body moving as he gestures; all languid limbs, lithe body, loose lips, lazy smiles.
to repair a hollowed heart | coffeecatsme | E | 28k
Alexander Claremont-Diaz, the young ruler of the Underworld, the presider of souls that have passed away, has been banned from Olympus his entire life, on account of bringing death and destruction wherever he goes. His seat in the highest council of gods has been left permanently empty until someone sees all that he is and still falls in love with the man behind. It's been twenty centuries since the curse has been put upon him, and Alex has long since given up on finding the right person. [Or, a Hades and Persephone AU no one asked for]
+
back with more soon! see my other recs below:
vol i
vol ii
vol iii
vol iv
vol v
emotional hurt/comfort
kid fics
tag for all recs
xx
60 notes · View notes
Text
Just realized I don’t think I’ve like ever really dug into how I imagine the infection works with Infected/Kasper
To be fair I think it’s been pretty clear just based on my drawings, the ask blog, the uh other stuff also that I forgot
Very ice king/Simon Petrikov sort of situation (I FUCKINGN. LOVE APOCALYPSE SIMON FOR THOSE THAT WERE THERE FOR THAT HI. YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL.)
Kasper is like. A person. Like he acts like a person and is a person (crazy I know) the virus parasite whatever you wanna call it that’s what makes Infected kinda just. Weird. Like something that is vaguely similar but more like something pretending to be him on face value.
infected is a slur sayer put that boy in a cod lobby NOW!
Like ice king is kinda of a severely skewed memory of Simon, yanno? He’s his own kinda silly weird thing but there’s a few parts that’s like oh that’s Simon (😢) same sort of idea
It also kinda plays into an idea I had that Kasper just wasn’t particularly close with anyone outside of Lampert, like those two were basically siblings they literally did nothing unless the other was there, And I think it kind of works itself out, because all the others don’t really seem to care very much about infected beyond yea that’s infected and he is gross.
When kasper was infected, other people just didn’t really notice as much because again he kinda jsut acts at a very flat face value of the person that Kasper was
I don’t know if any of what I’m saying is making sense bare with me
It’s why Lampert really jsut can’t stand Infected, Infected is a bad caricature of Kasper and it’s sickening (also literally, I mean Infected is gross and snotty nasty)
I think how it went was like, Kasper gets whatever it is from the thrift store that has the infection in it (I like to think it’s the roomba, because it’s ironic and also I bought a roomba once and it was fucking full of cockroaches and it took months to get rid of them.)
It infects him and at first it’s like ah shucks sick again guess I’ll stay indoors, but then it kinda just progresses to complete isolation
Kasper may have had pretty bad anger issues but he never took it out on the people closest to him (Lampert) so.. yea
Anyway yah isolates for a while and then suddenly appears in public again, still sick but very much not the same LOL I hate that guy anyway bye im gonna spend exactly $1.28 now
56 notes · View notes
inklore · 23 hours
Text
you taste like mine
Tumblr media Tumblr media
prompt: nobody can know about this okay.
pairing: ben solo x f!reader
contents: enemies to lovers, modern setting, fingering, blood mention, a crumb of dirty talk, public setting, ben calling reader princess | wc: 876
note: solo au’s are actually superior and idc what anyone says okay if you want to argue about it hmu cause i have time!
Tumblr media
You hate him. 
That’s the one thing you’re sure about right now. 
Know for certain.
Even with his fingers in your underwear, your skirt pushed up your thighs, bunching so high that if someone turned the corner to leave the party hall for some fresh air, they would catch a glimpse of the soaked material between your legs—cotton that had been soaked half the night from the man towering over you.
Every snide comment.
Every fake smile.
Every dirty look.
The intensity of his dark eyes burning a hole through your sound mind. Lighting something deep in your belly the way he always does when the two of you are forced to play nice.
Forced to put on a show for your families and act like you wouldn’t screw the other one over at the drop of a hat. Happily. With a smile on your face and the need to come nipping between your thighs. 
You’re blaming it on the vodka sodas you downed back to back tonight.
Blaming it on his irritating smirk. 
Blaming it on your lungs, forgetting how to properly work when he followed you out here and leaned a forearm against the brick above your head. The height of him completely shadowing you, making all the light around you disappear. Engulfing you completely in him. So you had no choice but to look up.
Each breath you took, drawing in his cologne. 
How could you think straight?
Even your “fuck off” was breathy and halfhearted. 
And when your palms pressed themselves against his large chest to push him away, he didn’t budge. Only leaned further into you; his mouth parted inches from yours. 
“Stop.” He had said. Serious. Like if you didn’t stay right where you were, he’d go insane. Would put on that show of frustration only he knew how to. 
Except the fire in his eyes lets you know it would be a different kind of frustration. 
The kind of frustration that has him wrapping his big hands around your wrist and pulling your arm up so it’s wrapped around his neck. 
His eyes flashing from yours to your mouth the only warning you get before he’s pressing his lips to yours. The kiss hard and demanding. Burning every part of your brain that can think coherently. That can think of all the reasons why this is a bad idea. A brush fire starting in your frontal lobe and engulfing everything in it’s path between your thighs. 
That’s how you know you hate him.
Know that even with the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit and his fingers fucking into your throbbing pussy, you hate him. Still. This changes nothing. No matter how good it feels.
No matter how hard you’re gripping the sides of his dress shirt. The material, once pristine, now wrinkled from your fingers digging into his sides. 
“Nobody can know about this, okay?” You wish you sounded more stern. Less hollow of all emotions but him. 
But Ben Solo and his fucking fingers and mouth.
His mouth hot and dirty, nipping against your bottom lip, your chin, your neck, under your earlobe when he whispers, “that’s fine with me, princess. But if I make you come, you’re mine.”
His words should aggravate you, but they only make you moan. Make you squeeze around the two fingers that are curling and rubbing against your walls. Your body bracing for a hard thump against the brick wall when you throw your head back, only to be met with the soft cushion of his hand.
Something you try not to think about him doing out of kindness.
You don’t want his kindness. 
Fuck him.
You hate him.
You wish your body wasn’t reacting this way. Had stopped acting this way towards him a long time ago. Wish his fingers and mouth didn’t feel exactly how you imagined they would when you’d fuck yourself with your own fingers under your sheets. 
Wish Ben Solo had one irredeemable quality that you could grasp right now to stop yourself from coming. 
But everything he’s doing is perfect. 
He’s fucking perfect.
And so you come on his fingers. Teeth biting so hard into your bottom lip that you think you taste blood, preventing you from saying his name the way you want. 
He knows it too. Eyes burning hot as he watches your face as you come. His mouth on yours the second your teeth release your bottom lip. His tongue runs along the damaged skin. Lapping at any trace of blood that could be there. 
“I’m not yours.” You say breathless.
“You’ve always been mine.” 
He says it like there's no room to argue. Like it’s a simple fact that’s been known since the first day the two of you met and have been at each other's throats. Your stomach flutters as you watch him bring his wet fingers to his mouth and press them inside. A deep sigh vibrates in his chest as he gets rid of any evidence of you on his fingers. As he tastes you. 
And then he’s turning on his heel and walking away. Heading back to the back entrance of the hall. Leaving you a sedated and complete fucking mess because of him.
41 notes · View notes
Text
I wrote a little something just to cheer myself up and I thought instead of just writing it in my head I could maybe share it here.
----------------------------------------------
The angel and the demon had several completely unspoken rules about drinking together that they always obeyed.
Never sit on the same piece of furniture while drinking. Never give compliments while drinking. Never touch each other while drinking. If you feel the urge to do the above, sober up with immediate effect.
They had broken all of them.
"No, no my dear boy I have no idea what you're talking about," Aziraphale giggled and then hiccupped. "Tell me again." He slapped Crowley's thigh affectionately, and then left his hand there.
"It's... it's... well it's ineffable," Crowley stalled, trying to work out what he was in the middle of explaining. "It's... everything does it. Humans, animals, angels, demons... love! That was it. Yes." He was very proud of himself for remembering this key point, and he put his glass triumphantly on the table. Fortunately it was empty, or it would have gone all over the floor.
"Demons?" Aziraphale questioned. "Are you sure?"
"Yessss," Crowley demanded. "I AM a demon aren't I? I think I would know what demons do."
"Well, yes..." Aziraphale looked as thoughtful as one can while persistently hiccupping. "But... love?"
"Yes!" Crowley was beginning to get cross. "That's exactly what I'm saying. That's just the way of things. The way of the world. It just is. That wasn't my department, I don't know who was in charge of that side of things. Lucifer, maybe."
Aziraphale reached for his glass and discovered to his great disappointment that it was empty. He picked up the bottle and found that too, was empty. Where was all his wine going? He summoned another bottle from... somewhere. Apologies to the diners down the street who would have to pay a large bill and be accused of stealing a bottle that seemed to disappear from their table when they weren't looking.
After he took a large swig and spilled some of it down his front (Crowley miracled it away before the angel could notice; nobody needed the kind of sulk that came from Aziraphale finding red wine on his waistcoat after he sobered up), he lent forward conspiratorarily and asked, "who is it that you love, Crowley? I won't tell anyone, I'm tremendously good at keeping secrets."
Aziraphale didn't always know the difference between thinking in his head and speaking out loud in front of an audience. Too many Shakespearian asides had confused his brain, perhaps. Still, Crowley was quite drunk enough to think it was a good idea to share a secret.
"Come a bit closer and I'll show you," he said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, which was somewhat ruined by the fact that his eyes clearly couldn't properly focus.
"Why do I need to... oh!"
Crowley's kiss landed somewhere nearer to Aziraphale's chin than his mouth, but the angel's hand still on his thigh helped to steady him and he found his lips fairly quickly, only very slightly drooling on his face. Aziraphale kissed him back with perhaps too much enthusiasm, and tasted of nothing but red wine, and they kissed for several minutes until Crowley started to feel too dizzy and needed to open his eyes.
"Oh that was lovely my dear," Aziraphale beamed, his cheeks even pinker than they had been before, and his hiccups seemingly cured. "So, tell me... who is it that you love?"
36 notes · View notes
hannahssimblr · 2 days
Text
Tumblr media
“Evan, can I sit?”
He glances up at me and shrugs, patting the ground next to him so I slump down heavily on it and take a healthy gulp from my bottle. 
Tumblr media
“You good, man?”
“Yeah, amazing.”
“I, uh, I see you were chatting to Leah, there? You know each other?”
“Nah.”
“Really? Well... she’s a weirdo anyway, you’re better off getting away from her, like, I just sell her weed and stuff, I don’t really like when she hangs around too long.”
“Yeah, fair enough.” 
“Was she being weird with you?” 
“Nope.” 
Tumblr media
We’re silent as we watch the flames. I begin to wonder what time it is, and whether I've stayed long enough now for it to be acceptable to go home. As I watch all of the other friends around the fire have fun together I’m struck by how much of an outsider I really am. Sure, Rob and Katie are nice, but will any of that niceness extend into normal life with the eyes of everyone else at school upon us? Surely they will go back to the steps at the back of the school while I go back to the rugby changing rooms, or the library, as it may be and things will resume as they are, as they've always been and always will be. Realistically, would they ever be seen with me? Would I ever be seen with them? There's this weird, empty feeling in me, a feeling that just compounds day after day, month after month, year after year, and it's like I don’t belong anywhere or to anyone. I'm just floating in the in-between, and who even am I? What does it mean to even-
Tumblr media
“Hey,” Evan interrupts my spiralling inner dialogue, “I meant to say to you that it’s cool that you came along, you know, even when Jen and Michelle didn’t.”
This takes me by surprise, “You think?”
“Yeah, I mean, I suppose I kind of thought you were just hanging out with us sometimes because of them, and that you didn’t really want to be there, but,” a shrug, “I suppose that isn’t true.”
Tumblr media
“No, I like hanging out with you.”
“And it’s not just because you’ve been ostracised by your other friends?”
I hesitate for a beat, “No.”
Evan laughs, “Wow, I’m so convinced!”
Tumblr media
“No, come on,” I rock to the side and nudge his shoulder with mine, “Like, yeah, sometimes it’s nice to have Jen here, but I’m fine, I can handle myself around the emos… and as for Michelle, well, she hates me, so it’s actually kinda comfier when she’s not here, and- oh,” I realise immediately what I’ve said, “um, well I don’t really mean that, it-”
Tumblr media
“No, it’s okay,” Evan says, “I know that you two aren’t exactly best friends or anything.”
“Ah, so she’s talked to you about me.” 
“Nah, you’ve honestly never come up in conversation.”
“Somehow that’s worse.”
He snickers. 
Tumblr media
“How are, um,” I pick at the beer label with my thumb, “How are things going with you guys? Like, the last time we talked you were feeling kinda…”
A sigh, “Oh, yeah, it’s the same. Like, she’s so nice but sometimes I don’t feel like I get enough from her.”
“Uh huh.”
Tumblr media
“I kind of get a bit annoyed about it sometimes, like, how are we supposed to be together properly if I hardly see her? Like, man, she’s allowed to come to my house like, once a week. In the afternoon. And that’s the only time we can… uh, hook up or whatever. It’s so annoying.”
“Just from an outsider's perspective, you know, you seem pretty happy.”
“Yeah. She’s definitely into me,” He musses up and fixes his fringe, “I dunno. It’s fine, just sometimes I wonder about shit. You know what I mean, right?”
Tumblr media
“I’m probably not the best person to ask, seeing none of my relationships have worked out so far, and I’m also fairly drunk, so…”
“But you know what it’s like to be with someone who wouldn’t give you the things you needed, right?”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
“So you do get it.”
Tumblr media
“Mm, I suppose,” as our conversation tapers off I let my mind drift into thoughts about love and loneliness and the hollow disappointment of all of my relationships. These are bitter, useless, self destructive thoughts as usual, made even worse by the fact that I’m not exactly capable of rational thought while inebriated. Is drinking bad for me? Am I a miserable drunk? I have to physically shake myself out of my own head before I start talking myself into a hole again.
I turn to Evan to start saying something else about, I don’t know, whether he’s ever tried pranking someone by turning their school bag inside out and putting the books back into it or something stupid like that, but I see he’s distracted by something else across the bonfire. 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
It’s that girl with the pink hair. She’s leaning over a bag to rummage for more beer, and her short skirt rides up when she’s bent over like that so that her underwear is visible through the sheer material of her tights. I frown at the dirty little smirk on his face, the way hungry eyes follow her movements, and the look between them as she glances over her shoulder and sees him watching her. I nudge my knee against his to interrupt whatever is going on.
Tumblr media
“Wow, nice legs, huh?” 
He looks at me, surprised, but lets out a rough laugh, “Yeah, for sure.”
“Is she into you or am I just seeing things?”
“Nah, I don’t know about that.”
“Oh, c’mon, no, I’m just messing with you, she just looked like… I dunno.”
“Like what?”
I shift awkwardly, “You know what, don’t mind me, I’ve had too much to drink, I thought I detected flirting, or whatever, I guess I was wrong.”
Tumblr media
The girl kneels onto the ground and starts asking around for the bottle opener, and Evan doesn’t take his eyes away from her. “She’s pretty though, isn’t she?”
“Hm?”
“Carlie. That’s her name. She’s pretty, do you think?”
“She’s single?”
“Yep.”
Tumblr media
“So are you trying to set me up with her or are you just pointing that out?”
“I’m not trying to set you up.” Evan seems agitated by this idea that I might try to date pretty Carlie, who, by the way, treats me like I am contagious. As though it’s any of his business what she does, as if he should even care. Something sour settles in my gut, but I can’t tell whether it’s that I'm weirded out by this conversation or if the alcohol is nauseating me. 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
“Right, well, she’s not my type,” I watch his face carefully, “Is she yours?”
“She’s pretty hot.”
Maybe he's looking for my approval or my agreement, which I don’t give him on purpose. To see where it leads me I respond with a benign, “Oh, you think?”
“Uh huh,” They catch eyes again and she smiles coyly and quickly looks away to resume her conversation. That’s flirtation. She’s flirting with him, and him back, right in front of my face. 
Tumblr media
“You know, a lot of people would consider your girlfriend to be pretty hot too.” It’s true, I’ve heard those rugby boys saying it before, the only time they ever had anything remotely complimentary to say about any of the emos was to point out the things they fancied about Michelle and what they might like to do to her if she A. wasn’t emo, or B. nobody knew, so that they wouldn’t have to suffer the social consequences. I feel disgusted again at this memory. I know where I was, sitting on the bench lacing up my boots and saying nothing while they spoke casual filth about a girl I know. 
It’s a similar feeling to the one I have now at this bonfire with Evan, and maybe this is how he is when he’s drunk, maybe he just gets a bit… leery, but when he stares across the fire at someone who isn’t his girlfriend I swear I am looking at Willy FitzHerbert. 
Tumblr media
He waves my comment away, “Yeah but at least Carlie is interested in sex.”
“How do you know that?”
He leans closer, “Obviously because I’ve done it with her.”
“Yeah?” I say, “When?”
He smirks and says nothing.
I push him again. “A few years ago?”
He lowers his voice and looks at me with eyes that glitter with salacious excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever once seen another boy look so pleased with himself as he says: “Try a month ago.”
Tumblr media
It takes all my self control not to react. I just pause for a second as a shock of revulsion rips through my body, I feel it from my feet to the top of my head, and then, when I decide to speak, my voice is strange to my own ears, “While you were with Michelle.”
A shrug, “It just happened on a night out when she wasn’t there. I dunno.”
“She doesn’t know?”
“Course not. She’d break up with me.”
“And... you don’t want that.”
“No, because we’re in love. This stuff with Carlie, it was just… you get what I mean. It’s not like that with her.”
I sigh, “Uh, yep.”
So it appears it is the same for Evan as it is for all the others. Michelle is the virgin, Carlie is the slut and he wants it all at the same time. A girl worthy of love, and a girl interested in sex, two things that cannot converge. There is no girl that can be both.
Tumblr media
“It felt good to let loose with someone who knew what they were doing, and like, not have to think so hard about making the other person all safe and comfortable and, blah,” he rolls his eyes, “Carlie is cool.”
“Right, yeah, she seems it.”
“You get me, right? Guys like us, you know, we need to be able to just relax sometimes, not think so hard…”
“Yeah, for sure… Guys like us, huh?”
“Hell yeah!” He clinks his beer bottle against mine, “I knew you’d get it, honestly, I wasn’t sure if I should say something but I feel good now that you understand what I meant.”
Tumblr media
I try to laugh but it sounds weird and strangled, so I bring the bottle to my lips in the hope that drinking will disguise my discomfort, or at the very least numb it a bit. I finish the last two thirds of it and toss it somewhere amongst the miscellaneous rubbish, remnants of a hundred other miserable bonfire nights on Dollymount strand.  
Then, after a minute or two Evan nudges me again. It’s hard to look at him but I force myself to because it is what I would do if this situation was normal, “You’re not going to say anything, right? Like, to Michelle or Jen? Like I know you probably won’t...” A laugh as he adjusts his fringe, “That'd be insane, I know, but I wanted to make sure.”
Tumblr media
“Me? Nah,” I say, “Why would you even have to ask? Don’t worry about it,” I scratch the back of my head, “your, uh, your secret is safe with me.”
Beginning // Prev // Next
34 notes · View notes
Text
The podcast was Steve’s idea.
It had started with a joke from Heather. She’d took one look at Billy and Steve’s accidentally matching gym clothes and told them they looked like a failing alpha bro podcast duo. The type of guys who’d talk about being alpha males. Billy had laughed hard but it had made Steve think.
They’d been best friends since kindergarten and were functionally inseparable. Billy had seen Steve through a long period of deep, dark depression and Steve liked to think he’d helped Billy through Neil. Most podcasts Steve had listened to, the hosts didn’t even sound like they liked each other. They’d be perfect.
It took Steve about a month to convince Billy to put himself in front of a microphone. For a guy with a 300k follower Instagram thirst trap account, Billy was crushingly self conscious about his voice. He’d been on testosterone for three years but still felt like he sounded “clockable.” It wasn’t until Steve promised that if they got even one comment about Billy’s voice, they’d immediately delete the episode, that Billy agreed.
Between the two of them, they had absolutely no qualifications to start an agony aunt podcast. Still, the first episode was released onto Spotify and it had a surprisingly warm reception. Most of their listeners were queer or neurodivergent and were asking about what to do when a hookup went wrong or how to go outside without having a panic attack.
It was heartwarming really, the affect Steve felt that they were having. Two trans guys talking openly about sex, relationships, social faux pas, fitting in and the occasional tangent on oyster forks wasn’t exactly common. And their audience seemed to cling to them like two older brother figures.
It was perfect. Should have been perfect. It was just that there was a bit of a side affect.
As it turned out, spending every week with your best friend, who was physically just your type, and was also just an absolute sweetheart, led to having a crush on said best friend.
That is if you were Steve anyway. Shit.
Most guys on realising they were crushing hard on their best friend probably would have done something normal, like tell him. Not Steve though. Steve endeavoured to lock himself in the broom closet and scream before every recording session of the podcast.
It would work. Hopefully.
Then Billy started getting random listeners proposing to him via email. They’d read them out before every advice segment and Billy would either accept or decline depending on how funny he found it but it still made Steve die a little inside. Billy felt like his in some intangible, indescribable way and even jokes about marriage felt like suffocating.
He redownloaded Grindr the next day. The guys on there left a lot to be desired, especially compared to Billy but at least it stopped Steve from feeling quite so lonely. He flirted, made decisions that made Robin tut and generally started morphing into the kind of hot mess Steve had been in his late teens.
Billy didn’t seem to notice. That is until he did.
Steve was very late for recording the newest episode, a silly one about accents. He hadn’t remembered to shave so the patchy stubble that hrt was helping him grow in was a mess. There was gum stuck to to the bottom of his shoe. Something had gotten spilled on his shirt.
His co host once again looked delicious. Delicious and worried. So worried in fact that he dragged Steve into the very closet that he’d spent almost two months hiding in.
There was only so long Steve could hedge around the issue. Not with Billy worrying about all the things that could have gone wrong, anxious brain in overdrive. Steve had to tell him.
A short, excruciating silence followed after Steve admitted his crush/budding love. One that the slightly irrational part of his mind was convinced would culminate in Billy punching him again.
That didn’t happen.
Instead, Billy called him a dumbass, they made out under a precarious tin of paint for fifteen minutes, and agreed that getting together was long overdue.
The first email they got from a listener after going public about their relationship was short and to the point.
Can I propose to both of you?
I think it was @camaro-and-smokes and @prettyboy-like-you who reblogged being interested in the og post about this idea and since I am a fic writing weirdo, I wanted to write a little ficlet for them! I hope you both like it
(Inspired LOOSELY by the hilarious Help I Sexted My Boss podcast which I adore. Also inspired a smidge by Lust For Life by @oopsiedaisiesbaby)
33 notes · View notes
banes-favourite · 1 day
Note
I for one would love to hear about Enver’s fucked up relationship with food
tw for dead dove!! not just food, i mention extreme abuse. pls don't read ahead if you're easily triggered.
Ok so I headcanon that he grew up nearly always hungry. Like, he was living in poverty for the first years of his life and his parents didn't particularly like him, so I think there came a time where they just kind of left him to care for himself and, as expected, scavenging for food at 6 years old isn't exactly the healthiest way for a kid to grow. I imagine he stole a lot or traded whatever he could make for gold or just loaves of bread. He went to bed hungry a lot of times, but he managed, and even though his belly wasn't always full, he survived.
HoH, though?? That's a whole other can of worms. I think he was really mistreated there, especially with food. I just bet he was teased with the banquet table a lot, banned from taking anything on it even though it was always full. I headcanon that they just gave the prisoners a mix of leftovers/rotten food (writing a fic about this actually) like once a day which obviously wasn't enough for him, so he was definitely malnourished methinks.
I bet at one point he tried to steal food from the table but they definitely noticed so he was punished by being locked up and starved for like, 2-3 tendays. It got bad, to the point he was just curled up on the floor by the end of it, too hungry and tired to move or do much of anything. He probably resorted to catching one of the rats in his cell and had to force himself to eat it (it didn't help, he vomited it back up) or like, he tried eating his clothes or the hay in his bedroll,, I'm talking really desperate.
(also i have a scene of like, the first time he was sexually assaulted was in the hoh, where in his first days there they'd just forgotten to feed him and another prisoner took advantage of that by using him in exchange for food. it was the first time he learned sex can be used as currency)
Anyway, all of this to say his relationship with food is so fucking complicated I couldn't possibly put it into words cause I'm not experienced enough on the effects of this. So if you have any thoughts at all I'd love to hear them!!
In my very unprofessional opinion, I do think the moment he gathered enough money to eat comfortably, like have his first real normal meal after HoH, he definitely cried of joy. But the mindset of 'you could starve at every moment' definitely stayed with him, to the point he ended up hoarding food and going hungry bc 'I'll need this when things get really bad'. I think he has his ups and lows, like if he's relatively okay in general he has his 3 square meals a day plus a lil fruit, but then he goes on these long days-long tangents of only working where he settles comfortably into the hunger cause he's lived his whole life with it. He's barely affected by it and it's definitely not healthy
46 notes · View notes
allastoredeer · 2 days
Note
You know, ever since I've read De-Lovely, I can't help but think that it is Alastor's and Lucifer's song. I even have this headcanon, like, at the end of your series, after all the issues have been solved and Alastor and Lucifer finally got together, one evening Lucifer stays up late talking with Charlie in the hotel lounge about anything and everything, and when they decide to wrap things up and go to sleep, Lucifer starts to his room but suddenly hears faint music coming from the kitchen. He follows the music, now he doesn't even have to wonder what it means, and of course finds Alastor there, cooking, exactly like that night many months before. They share a look, not speaking, and Lucifer silently goes and sits down, watching Alastor work through the recipe. The radio plays soft jazzy tunes and suddenly the first cords of De-Lovely starts to play. "Oh, that's the song" Lucifer pipes up without thinking, "Hmm? What song?" asks Alastor, "The one you were listening to when I first found you here cooking" Lucifer explains and sighs nostalgically. And to his surprise, Alastor pauses, puts the oven on low heat, takes off the apron, then extends his hand to Lucifer and asks "Would you honor me with this dance?" And after like a moment of surprise he takes Alastor's hand and next thing he knows they are dancing, laughing, twirling to the tunes of the song, it's so lovely, and it becomes their song. Plus point if Charlie comes down to the kitchen for some milk or something and secretly spies them having the time of their lives, and her heart swells with so much happiness because her dad(s) is(are) happy and everything will be alright. Sorry for the long ask, I just love your series very much and can't help but imagine scenes for it. Looking forward to the next installment!
Honestly, it's kind of become Alastor and Lucifer's song to me too T.T every time I listen to it now, I think of them.
And that's such a beautiful scene 😭 Just a complete replay of the first fic, but with all the development and experience between them now making it that much sweeter. And the dancing. I am a SUCKER for Alastor and Lucifer dancing with each other. That shit gets me every time.
Never apologize for a long ask! I really enjoyed this!
27 notes · View notes
scenetocause · 2 days
Note
Prompt: Lando in lingerie because you put that idea into the world in climb up to your lips and I would very much love to read it ❤️
girloscar-verse drabble under the cut; fairly far into the future but before they get married (and getting very meta! because that's what tumblr is for lol)
Oscar says it's only fair she gets to pick stuff out for him, since he bought her some. And anyway, she arguably knows more about it than he does, which Lando reckons is actually by a very fine margin, if it's true at all but won't argue with her about it.
It's nice, the idea she's going to dress him up. He liked buying her gala dress, it's kind of the same thing.
She leaves the bag in the middle of their bed and it takes him a nervous ten minutes to actually open it, like he thinks some posh knickers might bite him. He's giggling by the time he tips the contents out onto the duvet, not because it's funny but because it kind of is? Here's a millionaire Formula 1 driver getting all anxious about what silky, lacy things his girlfriend wants to dress him in.
It's not that it's a surprise that Oscar's picked things he like because she does know him pretty horrifyingly well. But it's still nice that she has, makes him have to curl up on top of the duvet for a minute, lingerie scrumpled in his hands, to feel how good it is being loved by her.
It's a nice, soft, cream colour that he's got a few tracksuits in. The sort of comfy stuff he wears to snooze next to her on flights, nose buried in Oscar's shoulder. It's a good, clean colour that goes well with his skin and contrasts sharply to his tendency for dark grey boxers, something special but still somewhere in his comfort zone.
Getting his own clothes off feels a bit mad, having to stuff them in the laundry basket because he doesn't feel like a discarded hoodie and socks is the right vibe for when Oscar comes in and sees him trying to be sexy or whatever.
There's not just pants and whatever. He's not one hundred percent surprised by this because it's sort of an inside joke that he's always trying to trick Oscar into keeping her socks on in bed. Sorry if he wants to be reminded of her riding him every time she crosses one leg over the knee of the other in debrief or whatever.
He likes long socks anyway, for golf and that sort of thing so the fact these come up over his knees isn't that alien. They're a nice, soft material, like a very fluffy cotton or almost like the cashmere cardigans he steals off Oscar to bundle up on the couch in. Not really like stockings, grooved and topped with elastic almost like Oscar's beloved trainer socks but definitely a lot fancier, sitting low on his thighs.
The next thing he unravels is a soft top, not exactly a bra so it won't flag up the fact he's not got actual tits but gently cut so it cups his pecs, plunging between them. Lewis or Yuki would probably wear it to the paddock, maybe Lando'll give it a go for Monaco this year.
It's short, not covering his waist and abs and he's suddenly very aware there's nothing over his dick. Has to scrabble to pull on the knickers, which he'd sort of assumed would be boy shorts or something but instead it's a thong-thong, in the same, soft fabric as the top.
He squeaks involuntarily when it goes up his arse because what the fuck. Oscar wears this sort of thing quite often, these days, when they're not at work and she must be really committed to sending him insane because that's a wholly weird sensation, fabric brushing up against places normally only touched by Oscar.
Checking himself out in the mirror, though, he does look cute. There's some vaguely shocking tan lines around where his shorts were during their week on Pulau Joyo but they fit well enough with the pale lingerie. It's not too frilly, doesn't look like he's wearing something he shouldn't be - he could halfway imagine it being for a photoshoot or something, if Sophie would ever be likely to sign off on him having his arse out.
It takes him a minute to work up the courage to stick his head around the door, call out for her.
Oscar appears very quickly, like she'd been hovering nearby and a bit nervous herself about whether he'd like it. "Can I see?"
He has to laugh because, like, obviously. Lando didn't put this on so she can not fuck him in it but also Oscar looks so genuinely worried and excited. Like she thinks he's going to say no or call her taste in underwear shit or something and even though he is feeling quite shy about it, it makes him step around the door to comfort her.
Oscar almost immediately has him up against it, pressing Lando back on the solid wood and lifting his knee to run her hand up the left sock, feel where it stops and leaves his thigh feeling more naked than when he's totally undressed.
"Oh my god." She kisses him, gentle, lets Lando climb on her a bit with his arms over her shoulders. "You're so cute. So pretty. Fuck."
It's easy to tuck his face into Oscar's neck and breathe her skin in, the reassuring eucalyptus still clinging to her from last night. He'd thought she'd want to perv on him a bit or whatever, the way he does with her when she's wearing nice stuff but Oscar seems more intent on feeling him up, pressing her fingers to the tender place behind his balls where the thong's soft against his skin and tracing the seam of his arse, over where it's just hiding his hole.
"Oscar." He bites at her collarbone, where she's usually chewing him, just to tell her he loves her.
"Do you like it?" She pulls back enough to look him in the eye, tucking one of his curls back with her index finger as she does it, nail trailing gently down his face afterwards.
There hadn't been really time for him to figure that out, yet. But yes. "Yeah. You chose - you know, I can tell it's for me. And it's nice, the fabric."
"Comfy." She moves her hand further down his neck, rubbing over his chest to where the top's resting on his pecs. "I thought you wouldn't like - you know, anything with straps and wires."
Definitely not. That sounds like a deeply unpleasant sensory experience, fairly horrible even the times he was trying to take anything complicated off his ex.
Oscar kisses him again, sliding her hand up the leg he's got propped on her hip until she's cupping his dick, makes them both make a curious noise that he's still soft.
"It's not - I do think it's sexy? And you're - I love this. I don't know." Normally his problem is the opposite, that he's at half-chub pretty much any time he's in the same room as Oscar.
"It doesn't have to be a sex thing, though." She coaxes his other leg up, until she can get her hands underneath and pick him up, carry them over to the couch. "You can just look pretty, if you want?"
Maybe. It's hard to explain what's going on in his head and Oscar is normally the translator for that but she's not psychic, here.
"I think I just." He curls round, onto her, lets her do the koala thing. It feels safer, less wrongfooted by their mutual nervousness earlier, like this. "Can we watch some more of that show?"
Oscar makes a surprised noise, probably because it's her series and Lando just naps on her or fucks about on his phone during it. But that sounds nice, now. Just being them, in a slightly new configuration.
"True Detective? Sure." She gives him a squeeze before she gets up to find the remote, pottters around the apartment for a minute to get him his phone and both of them bottles of water.
When they're under the biggest, softest sofa blanket - nearly the same pale cream as Lando's underwear, a huge mistake for somewhere they eat half the time - he asks her to explain the plot to him again because nothing makes Oscar happier and he loves listening to her.
Half-asleep against her shoulder, he realises the story she's telling him stopped being about detectives awhile ago and is about a really hot boy whose girlfriend can't believe he's real.
He pokes Oscar in the chin. "Oi, I am actually listening. They should do a season from her perspective."
21 notes · View notes