#christ. hairy women.

[astrangergivingthestrangewelcome]

Me: so anyway yeah the doctor's appointment went fine

My mom: gee I wonder what they thought about your Hairy Unshaved Legs

***

Me: yeah I had a great day hanging out with my friends

My mom: oh I wonder were you wearing shorts? Shorts that showed how you don't shave your legs?

***

Me: I met x new person today they seem nice!

Mom: hmm. Do THEY shave their legs

***

Me: yeah I just read today on the couch it was so nice and chill

My mom: oh? Reading about other women who don't shave?

***

Me: yup just doing some cooking currently

Mom: right, right from the cookbook "Recipes for Women with Hairy Legs"?

[bredforloyalty]

you ever go out in public and feel like an alien

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Could you maybe do possessive Amelia Shepherd with a strap on, where she gets jealous of someone talking to reader, drags reader to an oncall room and takes what’s hers. Xoxo

You're Mine

Amelia Shepherd x fem!reader Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, NSFW, established relationship, sex, strap-on, dominance, some explicit language (let me know if I've missed anything!) Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: A misogynistic new surgeon has all the women residents on their toes, and it seems the only way to beat out the boys for surgeries is by flirting. But your girlfriend, Amelia, does not like it. She takes it upon herself to remind you just who you belong to.

You sprinted through the halls of Grey-Sloan, rushing to answer a page to the neuro unit. You hoped against hope for a surgery–any surgery. Neuro wasn’t your specialty but, at this point, you’d take anything.

You’d spent the better half of the morning flirting and sucking up to Dr. Wooten–the cardiothoracic surgeon who was filling in for Teddy while she was on parental leave. You couldn’t stand him–none of the women could. He clearly favored the male residents, and was known to trade sexual favors for surgery. You weren’t interested in any sexual favors, but he didn’t know that. And flirting was harmless. He was an extraordinarily hairy man, and every time you got a glimpse of chest hair poking out the collar of his scrubs, you were reminded of how very, very gay you were.

Nevertheless, you’d turned on the charm as best you could, but it had all been for nothing. Despite kissing his ass all day, he’d once again pulled one of the male residents in for an emergency thoracotomy. This page to neuro was your last hope for a surgery before you hit too many hours and had to go home.

But when you reached the neuro floor, there didn’t seem to be any emergencies. No emergent situations. No one even to say, “Oh, Y/N! Good, you’re here.” You checked the page again to be sure you’d gotten the instructions right:

Neuro. NOW. Urgent. –AS

The AS was for Amelia Shepherd, Chief of Neurosurgery. She was also Amelia Shepherd, your girlfriend, but you both had a strict no-personal-stuff-on-pagers rule. If she’d paged you, it was for work. And if Amelia said it was urgent, it was urgent.

You poked around a few doorways, glanced in a few rooms, asked if anyone had seen her at the nurse’s station. You’d just been about to give up and at least watch Dr. Wooten’s surgery, when a hand shot out of a doorway and grabbed your scrubs.

“Ow!” you exclaimed, more out of surprise than injury, as Amelia jerked you into an on-call room and slammed you into the door, reaching behind you to lock it.

You didn’t even have time to question why you were there before her lips were on yours. She kissed you hard, so hard it almost hurt. And the force with which she held you there, hands on your waist–you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow.

“Amy,” you groaned, when she came up for air. “The pagers are for surgery, not sex!”

“That was before,” she said, yanking your pants down.

“Jesus Christ!” you exclaimed, blushing. “Before what!?”

Despite your confusion, you could already feel yourself getting aroused. It didn’t take much with Amelia. It never did.

“I saw you,” she said, accusingly, making you gasp as she ran her fingers through your folds. “Flirting with that cardio surgeon.”

“Wooten!?” you said, laughing a little, then wincing as Amelia sank her teeth into your pulse point. “Honey. He’s a pig. I’m just trying to get on a surgery.”

“I don’t like it when you fuck with other surgeons,” she seethed, kneading your breasts in her hands, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“I’m not fucking with anyone but you,” you protested. Amelia heaved in front of you, her face a mixture of anger and jealousy and, beneath it all, fear.

“Prove it,” she said, pulling down her own pants to reveal a thick, purple strap-on.

You startled. “Did you wear a strap to work?!”

“No talking,” she said, turning you around and shoving you into the wall face-first. You whimpered as she traced the strap over your entrance, teasing you. “The only thing I want to hear from you is who you belong to.”

You rolled your eyes. Who knew Dr. Amelia Shepherd was so insecure? She shoved herself into you without warning and you gasped, squirming and trying to adjust to the feeling of her inside you. But Amelia didn’t give you any time. She started thrusting into you, her hips ramming into your ass again and again. It was just the right amount of painful to drive you over the edge and you felt yourself pushing back, eager to feel Amelia deeper and deeper inside of you.

“Who do you belong to?” Amelia asked, her voice rough with lust and effort.

“You,” you whined, reaching down to circle your clit with your fingers.

“Again.”

“You.”

“That’s right,” she confirmed, grabbing onto your hips and pulling you toward her for more friction. “Who else makes you feel this good?”

You moaned. It was getting harder and harder to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Only you,” you whimpered.

Amelia could tell you were about to come, could hear your ragged breathing, feel the way you pressed into her harder and harder. She grabbed your hair and tugged and you cried out. “Amy, I’m gonna come!"

“You’re mine,” Amelia hissed, her breath hot in your ear as you tumbled over the edge, legs shaking, bracing yourself against the wall. “Say it.”

You covered your mouth with your hands in an effort to stifle your moans and whimpers; you were all too aware that the on-call rooms weren’t sound proof. You felt another stab of pleasure shoot through you as Amy tugged your hair once more, placing an open-mouthed kiss on your cheek. You heaved and shook, and she held you up, strong arms around your waist.

“I’m yours, Amy,” you heaved, wiping sweat from your forehead. “I’m only yours, you know that.”

You turned around to look at her, and you saw that she still looked scared, almost sad. You placed a hand on her cheek and leaned in to meet her eyes. “Amy. It’s only you for me, okay? You don’t need to worry.”

“You’re mine,” she whispered, leaning her forehead on your shoulder. It was halfway between a question and a statement.

“I’m yours,” you confirmed, running a hand through her hair, and she let out a shaky sigh. You chuckled a little as she melted into you. “Next time just say you’re jealous.”

She swatted at your arm, but beamed at you, leaning in for one more kiss.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, undoing the strap.

“Well, I’m certainly not.” You smirked, pulling your pants back up. You placed a kiss on the corner of Amelia’s mouth, grinning. “I gotta get back to my actual job. See you later, Dr. Shepherd. Thanks for the break.”

[gynoids-over-androids]

I'm working on this project with some people who are all libfems TRAs (save me) and what really strikes even though we talked abt it on tumblr already, they REALLY think that misogyny *alone* isn't that important and that it's too like.. old fashioned ig? As if it was already solved and it's basically beating an old horse, nothing subversive?

For example one of the enbies of the group told me one could think my work is transphobic bc I use yonic imagery a LOT in my art abt women, female robots etc. I said I do it bc I like pussy and what, should we stick dicks everywhere in order to not be transphobic? But she was like oh I'm just tired of genitals everywhere, blabla. It was subversive to examine ur vag in the 70s but now now, etc. As if rn yonic art is dépassé and some old ass white feminist thing.

(yet you do not accuse the gay male of the group to only care abt cisgay masculinity, why's that)

My sister in Christ, you can't even accept ur proper womanhood 🤣🫵 the majority of the population finds vulvas yucky and not deserving to be powerful in a museum setting. The majority mainly sees it displayed, transformed, tortured in PORN! Vulvas/vaginas are STILL shaved, lasered, waxed, plucked, bleached, cut, sewn, stitched together, removed. I'd even argue that it's WORSE than in the 70s. Mainstream population is NOT ur libfem acc who's selling clit merchandise; how many women again don't even know they have a clit, ovaries, etc?!

Vulvas/vaginas in their natural state are NOT palatable to the general population and they're NOT palatable to the "" "progressive" "crowd either since you have to put one million disclaimers to depict them.

This is why I think that yes, yonic imagery especially hairy vulvas, is subversive and powerful.

No ONE is saying shit like this to gay or TIMs in arts I can guarantee you that!

[cator99]

not trying to start shit but if ur comfortable do you mind talking about your gender identity and transition / opinions cause the post about your coworker really got me thinking

Youre not starting shit dw. I think that if a man can blast roids be bald not shave think of femininity as personal humiliation be competitive and openly express attraction to females then I should be able to do all that while rejecting any of the pathologizing that happens based on the fact that I'm doing that while female. Ykwim. I think that the concept of "gender identity" is precisely that disturbing pathologization I'm referring to. When a male looks or lives how I do, it isn't ever seen as indicative of any internal misalignment... but for me it is? Stupid. But the thing is that there absolutely is a misalignment occuring– and I've had to realize it has nothing to do with me. The way I live signifies nothing about holding some sort of allegiance to the males who are generally the only ones utterly unquestioningly afforded the freedom to live this way because for them it is a freedom– and for females, living like this often takes immense amounts of courage. And when one wants OUT of it all... it's easier to approach this painful reality by simply performing mental magic, flipping the narrative and saying "ah! Suddenly my hatred for all of this Woman Stuff makes sense! I should have been a man all along!" That's great but after almost 15 years in this I've realized it is fucking loser shit to think that despising misogynistic expectations and restrictive gender roles makes one a man actually because well um because you said so... because only men crave dignity... because woman equals long hair and shaving legs and makeup and my socially-trained bodily hatred and desire for a life free from demeaning treatment on the basis of my femaleness is totally abnormal no women ever feel like this no women could possibly enjoy the thought having a hairy body or a beard or feel inspired by masculine aesthetics which are largely equated with strength confidence dignity social dominance and being in actual possession of a brain and personality so any desire to embody that and be seen by others as an actual human being instead of a member of the subjugated sex actually make one imbued with Real Maleness... right..... to be honest it just became so embarassing to think that I was a grown adult still acting like this shit made any sense. I don't have a gender identity. When I pass, I take on the status of undercover female. I'm not a male. Have y'all actually met any of them?? Like, for real??? Its like... Jesus christ... LOL. No. I like the way I live. I have sympathy for females lost in the gender sauce but it only goes so far when they're by and large fucking insane and homophobic. And sure I could talk about my transition but I ultimately see it as such a non-thing. I don't think of myself as having transitioned at all, because I was always like this more or less, it's just that now I have a few more hairs on my face and a deeper voice and none of it feels unnatural or strange or "trans" it just is what it is and was always going to be... and that will always be contextualized by my sex– how could I go on denying myself that? And letting it fester like a wound... Oh and also I eventually realized it's just way more dope to be a high-value hairy jacked dyke who accepts myself but keeps doing my thang & not give a fuck than it is to be a desperate delulu self-conscious passing-obsessed little wannabe-man lol

[tears-that-heal]

NEW Blog Post Series…. 🚩

Red Flag Symbols for Christians #2

My vacation to California had me get a little behind on my posts for this series. Lol Actually my time in Cali reminded me of another symbol used by many modern artists. This post will focus on the spiritual meanings of the Moth. Both the Chinese Lunar moth and the Death’s Head Hawk moth are two types of moths being used and seen in current witchcraft-related, pagan and gothic art.

From wikiHow: moth symbolism

Moths can represent change, transformation, and growth. Many cultures see moths as symbols of death and believe they bring messages from the afterlife. Others believe that moths symbolize your intuition and encourage you to trust your inner wisdom.

The Chinese lunar moth is used heavily along side the moon phases image and specific plants like mushroom and other herbal plants. Simply with the name of the moth makes sense why wiccans love them so much. Lunar equal “luna” is spanish for “moon”. These specific types of moth artwork are mainly for nature worshipers, pagans, witches and wiccans Other symbols to be aware of like in the second image is the “third eye” at the bottom, the snakes (x2), crystals and of course, the moon on top. The “third eye” usually represents the ability to see beyond/what’s ahead/foreseeing. Crystals are believed to posses the power to heal, a trend that’s been building in popularity in our society. This believe has already been debunck by science; future blog post to come.

Just to point out in the image above, many artists who use moths and etc. symbols in their artwork are sometimes feminists and naturalists as well. Which is why the witch girl in the image above has slightly hairy arms and legs; they choose not to shave. I personally don’t see anything wrong with this choice, but I have noticed the pattern in women who choose to do this are making a conscous statement towards society.

Now onto the Death’s Head Hawk moth which symbolizes as an omen of death. This believe isn’t limited to this specific and rarely seen moth, but moths in many cultures have this similar folklore that foreshadows death. We knew moth follow the moon light at night and dwells is dark corners during the day. In many tribal cultures moths, and sometimes butteries, are able to cross into the spirit realm and return with messages for their ancestors. As Christians, we know this doesn’t match with our beliefs and what’s written in God’s Word.

Hope this blog post was helpful to you, my brothers in sisters in Christ! I continue to strive and post on this blog series every Wednesday. Bless You All, and have a Wonderful Merry Christmas!!!! 🎄💖 ✝️

[violetequus8]

Angels, Demons, and Everything In-Between Bibliography

  Beatrix of Nazareth (1200-1268). On Seven Ways of Holy Love. Taurus Press, 2016, https://www.sofiatopia.org/equiaeon/7ways.htm.

  Bovey, Alixe. Monsters and Grotesques in Medieval Manuscripts. University of Toronto Press, 2002.

In the prologue, Abbot Mayhew mentions Hob reminds him “of a beast.” This is an allusion to the concept of the Beast Man, which is an illustrated figure appearing in some manuscripts, which is a non-canonical story about a grotesque man who wandered the earth (hairy visage included). Not to be confused with the Beast (the devil).

I also used this book hoping to find human-like illustrations, but unfortunately, the monstrous bodies (see Oswald) meant that all of them appear directly ghastly. I imagine that Hob, looking at the illustrations such as the ones I saw in this book, would immediately discount them against the Stranger.

Bovey also mentions an interesting fact: by the 12th century (that is, the 1100s) both laymen and women were beginning to read in greater numbers. While illuminated manuscripts remained expensive and valuable, it would not be unheard of for a layman to know how to read.

  Cameron, Euan. Enchanted Europe: Superstition, Reason, and Religion, 1250-1750. Oxford University Press, 2010.

References in-text:

James’ mention of exorcism of the woman (chapter 1): “certain women were believed to be capable of experiencing an out-of-the-body flight in which they traveled great distances in the company of other women and a pagan goddess.” (47)

Text of the ritual exorcism (chapter 1):  lifted verbatim from page 60. The exorcism text is from the Dominican Prierias.

There were two schools of thought about angels and demons, which Hob mentions in chapter 2. The first of these, Augustine, believed that “demons gave vision and prophecies, but these failed to have edifying moral content” (81). However, he also argued demons had souls and that God had created them for divine purpose, and should be treated as expressions of divine power (Bovey, 10). He was, as Hob notes, unsure about whether demons had physical bodies.

Thomas Aquinas, who came much later, had different opinions. He said that angels were the following

incorporeal

can not and do not know the future

could not know the inner thoughts of man

faster, stronger, and wiser than humanity

had the power to cause “certain marvelous things” including the presentation of images

cannot express lust or anger

Aquinas believed that fallen angels (demons) could do all of these things as well (91-97). Of course, the incorporeal nature of them means Hob couldn’t much use Aquinas’ opinions.

  Coulton, G. G. Medieval Village, Manor, and Monastery. 2nd ed., Harper, 1925.

Used for a quick look into serfdom. Learned more than I’d like, and also realized I can’t make Hob a serf, because by definition he’d belong to some lord and I couldn’t have that.

Coulton had an obvious vendetta in this book, and it became particularly clear when he spoke about the monks. Of them, he says “the monk was […] a slightly better landlord than the layman”

  Holy Bible. New International Version, International Bible Society, 2007.

Chapter 3 references:

A demon, by that name, only appears in the New Testament, not the old. The New Testament references are as follows:

Mark 1:21-28 (Jesus drives out an evil spirit. The spirit shakes the man violently and comes out when Jesus commands)

Mark 9:14-32 (Healing of a boy with an evil spirit. Whenever the spirit seizes the boy, he foams at the mouth, gnashes his teeth, and becomes rigid. Jesus commands the spirit to leave and it does.)

Acts 16:16-18 (Apostle Paul is followed by a slave girl who has a spirit inside her which predicts the future. He gets annoyed with her and commands it to leave. It does.)

Ephesians 6:10-18 (These are the verses detailing the armor of God. The metaphor of being armed with Christ protects against evil [spirits])

Chapter 4 References:

Matthew 1:20 (the angel of the lord appears to Mary and tells her she will give birth to Christ.)

Ezekiel 1:5-14 (description of angels non-human)

Genesis 19:1-4 (this is the beginning of the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, which starts with two angels who appear like men)

Hobs first dream:

the pale white horse: Revelation 6:8 (“I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him”)

Elijah - 2 Kings 2:11 - Elijah was a prophet and miracle worker, and a chariot of fire and horses of fire took him to heaven, ergo, he did not die but was in fact taken directly to heaven.

Hob’s second dream - wrestling: Genesis 22:22-32

  Karras, Ruth. Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing Unto Others. 3rd ed., Taylor & Francis, 2017.

“In Medieval times, distinction among the three [sex, gender, and sexuality] was not just blurred, it did not exist.” (7) Thank you, Ms. Karras, for that absolutely enlightening line. I knew that I had made for myself a harder challenge by using the time period between the 1389 and 1489 meetings, but I really struggled to write this because I couldn’t just say “Hob’s bisexual” or “Dream is genderfluid.” Medieval sex was drawn on different lines than we use: there is a difference between penetrator and penetrated, and reproductive and non-reproductive sex. Obviously, the burden on women was much greater, and combined with the “passivity” (29) that was supposedly natural to women, drew further lines. Sexuality, when it was spoken about, was within the realm of the church, particularly in the area of virginity. There is indeed a hierarchy of virginity: women were believed to become a different kind of virgin (43). Of course, neither Hob nor Dream are virgins. The canon is very clear about that. But Hob is a sort of virgin; he hasn’t had anal sex, which would be sodomy, and although it was hard to find information about anal sex in the early 1400s, I interpolated the above thoughts about penetration. If sex was something “done to someone else” (4), then if Hob had anal sex with Dream (Dream recieving), it would be arguably better than if it was the other way around. This is why Hob’s reaction is so severe. Dream is having sex with him in the second arc, and this is a more flagrant violation of Medieval sex standards than the first arc, which would be Hob having sex with Dream. (It should be noted that the first arc of sex is more permissible in Hob’s mind because he is having sex. Technically, Dream isn’t.)

Additionally, there is a clear distinction between celibacy and chastity in the Medieval times that is blurred in modern understanding (leaving kink aside). Celibacy meant the unmarried state (38), and chastity was a state of purity. A married couple having sex were both chaste, but not celibate. A husband who cheated on his wife was neither celibate nor chaste. A monk who abstained was celibate. A monk who had sex with his buddy was celibate but not chaste.

I’d also like to leave this quote here: “To Medieval people a vulva might have looked like a wound, rather than a wound like a vulva.” (70) I thought this was particularly metal of Ms. Karras to write, and also highlights how our modern brains have shifted.

  Lawrence, Clifford. Medieval Monasticism: Forms of Religious Life in Western Europe in the Middle Ages. 2nd ed., Longmang Group UK Limited, 1989.

This book provided the names and times of the prayer-hours for service (113-114).

In chapter 1, James references a charter or loan for books. Books were still valuable enough at this time (though becoming more available, see Bovey) that if one monastery wanted to borrow a book, they might have to send a runner with an amount of money or a letter from the king, and only then would a book be lent (116).

  “Map of a Medieval Monastery.” Britain Express, https://www.britainexpress.com/History/medieval-monastery-map.htm.

  Mittleman, Josh, and Brian Scott. A List of 15th Century English Men’s Names. 2002, https://www.s-gabriel.org/names/arval/agincourt/.

Many thanks to this page for providing me with period appropriate names for the original male characters.

  Oswald, Dana. Monsters, Gender, and Sexuality in Medieval English Literature. D. S. Brewer, 2010.

“To make monstrosity visible is to assure people will know a monster when they see one--which assures them they are not monstrous” (114). In my half-hazard research, I spent a lot of time thinking about monsters, because demonization (ha!) occurs through the Othering of people, and this is what is occurring in Hob’s mind when he sees Dream. The Middle Ages were dealing with multiple identity crises: war, conquest, the Black death, and the increasing literature reflected an unstable identity. The literature used “the bodies of monsters to demonstrate the way in which boundaries of identity or culture might be breached” (125), and this fear was reflected in manuscripts. People had always had a fear of the unknown, but in combination with both folk beliefs (the mara, chapter 5) and the Biblical ones, there was ripe ground for genuine fear. If they could die and change so easily, why couldn’t monsters/demons?

  Reeves, Compton. “Gardens.” Pleasures and Pastime in Medieval England, Oxford University Press, 1998, http://www.godecookery.com/mtales/mtales16.htm.

  “Researching the History of Monasteries.” Researching Historic Buildings in the British Isles, https://www.buildinghistory.org/buildings/monasteries.shtml.

  “The Rule of St. Augustine ca. A.D. 400.” Fish Eaters, https://www.fisheaters.com/ruleofstaugustine.html.

  Trueman, C. N. “Positions of Responsibility in a Monastery.” History Learning Site, 5 Mar. 2015, https://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/medieval-england/positions-of-responsibility-in-a-monastery/.

[the-firebird69]

Steven Seagal stuns UFC Crowd! / Seagal vs Feijao (Full MMA Match)

You can see how the technique works better mentions that this man is dangerous do you have sea fighter And he had to keep him off a little bit cuz he didn't close in slapping doesn't work too good his dude but he didn't want to turn into a brawl and he didn't hit him or anything but this does show it if somebody's natural defenses a lot of people have natural defenses to you slapping and slap their hands away Jenna does it all the time it looks hilarious no it's like she's in trouble and she does it sometimes for a long time before someone can get there and it's survival in other women too Sarah does it and they say that they might be able to win a slap fight with the men and he's usually skinny and stuff that's how they get there cuz they be fighting women and they're interested in doing it they've been doing a lot of flack and it slapped him a lot

Thor Freya

Wow this is fun and my husband observes things pretty good but I noticed something else the other fighter was getting dominated and that is something of slapping that happens you don't want to get slapped to anything they'll stop if you bow down and it works but really my husband says no the UFC guys he's going to come in and hit him in this in the body and all sudden I see something is it's kind of tricky but for trained fighters that's what they do so even slap fighters would know it and some slap I just like this guy would be better close in and Steven seagal got curious I hear and he challenge him to a real slap fight no UFC and he was doing it and the UFC fighter came in close and he thought he'd hit him and all sudden he looks up and slaps him and Steven seagal was surprised and he said what is this and his hands are fast and it's a quick Arch like arm wrestling and it dazed him a little bit surprised him mostly and he did it again it said no way and so he said well his strength will be coming in close because I have long arms but unfortunately for the UFC fighter he is technique and he does the wrist action like what is it called racquetball and he knocked him down and he says I'm going to do with you is that I need some kind of training this is abysmal it was very everybody's threatening me to go after you and ours and you get upset and said that's what it is and if they're trying to negate it and they got people involved and he said yes and dragged out brawl turns into the pseudo empire versus warlock and they're really like the overlords they're affected and he said oh but really it's not even that great and he said that's terrible but they are running on in there cuz they push the Big fellas out and everyone else does I guess that so you found the plan and said no way his right and his shocked his watching your thinking and studying having a hard time doing regular stuff and it was on cuz it pissed him off can't trade you a little and things exploded and then he saw what you're saying

Hera

It's got a lot of hair it's getting very hairy and he says it's a sign that his immune system is coming back and it really is and he's growing a little bit it's real hard to see and it's not really growing up but he's getting weight and it's solid weight some bone and some muscle and a teeny bit of heights probably an eighth of an inch and fluctuates with the caffeine it's like the tide

Thor Freya

Olympus

Out of the blue earlier today this is bound to frustrate anybody the Tide's going up and down my head is going up and down a little and The song remains the same kind of and we said this is terrible it's stinky it's a stink pot he doesn't grow he doesn't get big isn't that any money doesn't go anywhere nothing changes and he suck riding a bicycle as I am the cheese this is some real pork and stupid s*** and then he ends up on a bicycle and we have plans to do all this but Jesus Christ what a nuisance the water is up it's just titties tedious as hell doesn't mean s*** about other stuff and it's really awful

Macs

Baby my kind of stuff and it's not distracting anymore it's freaking everyone angry

Mac Daddy

Olympus

[lou-graves]

Untitled

(Excerpted from the novel LET THE DOGSBODIES HOWL.)

...and Aisling smiled for the first time that day, and she said, “dreams are real, and the people in them are real,” and she shuffled nearer to Lou and rested her head on his shoulder.  “Do you remember when we used to look up at the sky,” she said, “and look for shapes in the clouds?”  And so they looked up at the sky, and they looked for shapes in the clouds, and Aisling saw a carousel and a polar bear on a unicycle and a wishing well with a bucket hung on a rope, and the bucket was swaying and dripping water, and the bear’s feet were turning the pedals of the unicycle around and around and his arms were stretched out like Christ to keep him from falling off, and Lou saw himself a lightbulb and a boulder and a mushroom and a battered sausage, and he saw a herd of sheep and some candyfloss and a bag of cotton balls, and Aisling saw a circus tent filled with clowns and freaks and elephants, jugglers and firebreathers and swordswallowers, and strongmen and tall men and midgets and bearded women,

and Lou saw a hairy cock and balls, the likes of which he often drew on his school notebook and would disguise as a face if Mrs. Shagworth walked passed.  And so Aisling saw the things she saw, and Lou saw them as well once she pointed them out.  And it was still spitting rain and so they peered through the rain, wiping their eyes now and again, and when he looked down at her it looked as though she was crying, the rain dripping down her face.  And she wiped her eyes and said, “clouds can be anything,” again resting her head on his shoulder, “a door or a window or a tunnel,” wiping her face with her sleeve, “but mostly they’re a curtain, and there’s a place beyond them, its where you dream of when you dream of somewhere you’ve never been,” speaking as slowly as though she were falling asleep, “rooms or houses or streets you’ve never seen before, and when you die you go there, you float beyond the clouds,” hooking her arm around his, crossing her legs and their feet touching, “is why if you die in your sleep you die in real life, and when you dream of dead people it’s because they’re already there, in the other place, and you can dream in a dream and you can wake up in one and fall asleep in one and it’s because dreams are more real than real life, and when they bury your body and your body rots the part of you that dreams lives on and continues to dream, and you live forever in the place beyond the clouds,” and she fell silent for a few moments and he thought maybe she had fallen asleep, but then she tightened and loosened, as though her whole body was yawning, and she said, “and it’s that simple,” her voice starting to tremble and a shiver went through them both, “you live and you die and in between you do the things you do, and hopefully you do enough to dream about,” her whole body shivering,

“and even if you don’t do enough it’s okay because you can dream of anything, and you can do anything and be anyone in a dream because it’s not the real world, it’s a world beyond the real one, and it’s more real than the real world and more real than anything else, and the only real people are the people who are there, the people we dream of,” shivering more and more and her body shaking and she was speaking faster and faster and though she were trying to get the words out before she was too cold to speak, “and the things we lose are there and the people we lose are there, and when you hear a song that makes you sad you’re sad because you’re remembering this place, and when you miss someone you miss the part of them that is there, in the place beyond the clouds where we all are in some way, and we are every age we ever were and every person we ever became,” and she turned to him, getting on her knees in the wet dirt, and she said, “it’s like those kaleidoscopes we used to play with,” and she said it as clearly as she could, as though she wanted him to understand her, “or it’s like the time we held my mother’s mirror up to another mirror and we saw a thousand mirrors, and they were all the same but some were smaller and some were bigger, and we couldn’t touch them and we couldn’t reach them, but we knew they were a magic hallway to some other place and we were going to go there, as soon as my mother fell asleep we were going to climb down the hallway of mirrors and see what was beyond it,” her voice trembling and her body shaking, and Lou tried to interrupt her and said, “but we couldn’t stay awake, we fell asleep before she did,” and Aisling laughed, and it was a desperate laugh, an exhausted laugh, and she said, “I know, we fell asleep, and I dreamed instead, and I dreamed we climbed into the mirror and down the hallway, but I couldn’t remember what was at the other end,” and she grabbed his head like a mirror, her soft hands on either side of his face, and she looked into his eyes and he looked into hers, and they saw themselves a thousand times, and if there was a fear in his eyes then there was a desperation in hers, as though she was pleading and begging him to understand her, and he thought he understood her but of course he didn’t understand her and he couldn’t understand her, and she began to shiver so violently and she couldn’t speak and so he picked her up and carried her inside the church, and they hid in the confessional booth huddled together like church mice.  

[generalfandomsofthefreak]

so, i decided to finally watch Marineford and Impel Down, which does mean the filler/expanded episodes of the rest of the crew and where they landed, which meant i had to see, the Kamabakka women...

and yes! i’m gonna call them women, because fuck the writing of these poor women Transwomen deserve to be treated with respect no matter how early they are in transtitioning, or how big and burly and hairy they are! So, i decided to redesign the first woman we meet, Elizabeth, just because i could

She’s an older woman, doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing but she’s finally happy

i tried to keep her face still kinda more angled, with pronounced cheek bones and a more square jaw. I also gave her skin a little more colour, because jesus christ her original skin colour is so fucking bright

also it’s so weird because the Kamabakka kingdom is, so very gross in it’s portrayal and writing of the transwomen, but the people we see in Impel Down while probably not perfect, are so much better? and fun? they’re all just queer folk having fun, dressing however they want and everyone’s wearing fishnet stockings, which makes the Kamabakka kingdom so much grosser in a way, and i hate that

[nikethestatue]

The Kings’ Wife

Chapter 5

Fenrys’s Turn

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, pervasive language throughout, violence

“I waited too long for you. I will devour you, love you into flame…”

Elain, as it turned out, was a messy sleeper.

It was not yet five in the morning when Azriel woke up–his usual time. The room was still mostly dark, when he turned on his side and looked at her. They didn’t touch during the night. He fought the desire to brush his hand over hers, but he knew that if he started with one touch, he wouldn’t end with it. He’d need to taste, he’d want to devour, he’d crave filling her with himself until the world itself moaned with pleasure.

Elain was a little too tempting for him not to touch, so he stayed on his side of the bed. He was acutely aware of her presence in his room: of her scent–some expensive perfume that he liked very much, and would have to ask her about it later–of her breathing, of her warmth, and of her hair. Jesus fucking Christ the hair! It was everywhere. So much hair. It flowed everywhere–covering the pillows, the sheets, the blanket. She’d pulled half the blanket off of him during the night, and was now swaddled like a burrito. A hairy burrito. And he was cold, with half of his body uncovered, and the rest hot. She’d smacked him a few times with her hand, rolling about and hitting him in the face, on the shoulder, as pushing at him with her legs. He felt every touch. She didn’t feel anything or react at all, sleeping through everything. And Azriel loved it. At one point, she pushed her cold feet into him, burrowing closer, seeing his natural warmth and thrusting the two icicles between his legs. It gave him a shiver, but he enjoyed it nonetheless, keeping them warm between his thighs.

How was he so whipped so quickly? 2 days? A month? And here he was, completely besotted with his new wife. Truly, only a few days. But, he also knew that he was compulsive, at times, obsessive. He’d been in love once before, with Morrigan, and with her, it was the same thing–a mere glance, and he was hooked.

He knew what he liked. He knew what he wanted. It didn’t change and he was not prone to whims. He wasn’t Fenrys, who had a new ‘love’ every other week. The one girl that he always thought was ‘the one’. They never were. But Fen kept trying. Azriel did not look for women. He had sex and he worked and that was his life–emotions were not part of it. But in the dim light of the bedroom, he looked at his scarred, rough hand and drew his thumb over the simple platinum wedding band that he now wore. And glancing at Elain’s pale hand, he took in her own–a replica of his, only studded with diamonds. She now wore two bands–he supposed that Ruhn finally offered her his (hopefully not at Subway). And a certain pleasant calm descended upon him–the realisation that the search was over.

He fell back asleep, to his utter surprise. He never fell back asleep once he was awake, but this was a week of many firsts for him.

When he woke up, Elain was no longer in his bed. At some point, she’d left, without waking him, and covered him with the comforter to keep him warm.

*

Elain tossed Mwah-Mwah on her bed and went to the bathroom.

She slept pretty well, though she was a little worried that Azriel would ask her to leave or that she’d wake him up. But he seemed to have slept through the night and didn’t even notice that she was in his bed. Which was a relief. It was nice–sharing the bed with him. Yet, she was so nervous, she didn’t even get the chance to look around his bedroom, and couldn’t say anything about it. She didn’t even know what colour bedding he had. All she remembered was the pleasant, comforting heat of his body, especially when she–accidentally–began warming up her feet on his legs. He made a muffled snorting sound, but didn’t wake up and she just kept them there.

She brushed her teeth, enjoying her nice, spacious bathroom and savouring the feeling of freedom…

Well, she wasn’t actually free. Maybe even less free than she was before, because now, it was all about guards and codes and secret doors and a house that no one knew about. Yesterday, Ruhn explained to her that the house–the old fire station–was decommissioned a long time ago and stood, abandoned, and ready for the wrecking ball. It was a prime piece of New York real estate, right smack in the middle of Lower Manhattan, in Soho. When things became a little too tight in Little Italy for so many families clustering within a few city blocks, the Kings bucked the trend, didn’t move to Long Island or Jersey, and instead, went a little bit west, but still a stone-throw away from their old neighbourhood. But Soho was prestigious, fashionable, expensive. It wasn’t a poor Italian hood from the 1870s. And the Kings weren’t the old-fashioned Tony Sopranos of the world.

So, they bought the four buildings, and the old fire station. The Old King still resided in Little Italy and didn't want to have anything to do with this place, for which the sons were definitely grateful. There was obviously something going on between the father and the sons, and Elain was going to find out what it was, and why the dynamics seemed so strained. Even at the wedding, the Old King didn’t bother with a toast, and only half-heartedly danced half a dance with her, even though she was his first daughter-in-law. Not that she minded. Elain found the Old King handsome–hence the remarkably good-looking, brawny, tall sons–but somehow…malicious. There was an aura of debauchery and cruelty coming off him, as well as something else that Elain couldn’t quite put her finger on. Envy? Resentment? But towards who?

Elain rinsed her mouth, figuring that there would be a lot that she’d have to learn about her new family, and the unhealthy foundation. Though, truth be told, she’d never met a happy, well-adjusted ‘made’ family, including her own.  

She undressed and stepped into the large glass-enclosed shower.

Despite everything, it was still nice–the current situation.  Not needing to deal with Nesta, or their father. As close as she was with Nesta, her sister was domineering, demanding, and at times, degrading. Nesta was short-tempered and impatient, and whenever things didn’t go her way, she often took it out on Elain. Not having Nesta around is going to be an adjustment, but one that Elain wasn’t sure was going to be a painful one. Perhaps it was time that they all separated.

Just as Elain relaxed under the rain showerhead, the door to the bathroom opened, and in strolled Fenrys. No knock. No request for permission to enter. Just Fenrys, naked, but for gray boxer-briefs.

Elain screeched and turned around, trying to hide her nudity, which earned her a “Nice ass!” compliment.

“What are you doing here?” she cried.

There was no shower curtain to hide behind.

“Hey babygirl, how did you sleep?” he inquired cheerfully, ignoring her squeals, and started brushing his teeth, with a toothbrush that he brought with him.

“You travel light,” she noted dryly, trying to cover herself as much as possible, “how Egyptian of you.”

He barked a laugh, watching her in the mirror, brushing vigorously, while Elain was eyeing him from under her lashes, trying and failing to be discreet about it. He allowed her the opportunity to ogle, without displaying a shred of modesty. He knew he was a fine specimen of a male–toweringly tall, with broad shoulders which were packed with heavy muscles, and thickly muscled arms as well, and he didn’t hide any of it. Despite his breezy attitude and seemingly perpetually positive, exuberant personality, his body told a different story–scarred in places, it was apparent that he was so fit and sculpted not because of vanity, but rather, due to necessity. On his right side, Elain spied a telltale round scar that looked like a bursting start–a gunshot wound. Same, on his bicep. Scars on his arms, long and thin, likely from knife cuts. Knuckles, which she already knew were padded in scar tissue, from numerous scuffles and fights.

As expected, Fen was a little wilder than Azriel, even in appearance. He wasn’t particularly concerned with being smooth and pristine–though Elain figured that Azriel was naturally smooth like that–and there was a sexy dusting of hair on his truly washboard stomach. The Adonis belt was so pronounced, it looked like a set of extra muscles on his already insane eight-pack.

“You are shaped like a Dorito!” Elain spat with annoyance.

He glanced at her and grinned his slightly maniacal smile, flashing a row of beautiful white teeth.

“Doritos are a choice chip!” he announced, spitting the toothpaste in the sink and then, without any preamble, he rolled his underwear down and strode across the bathroom and into the shower.

“My god, what are you doing?” she gasped.

“A. taking a shower with my wife. B. my shower doesn’t work,” he explained, crowding her, as he hogged the shower head, squeezing her towards the wall. Then, his broad, calloused palms lay on her hips and he turned her around, to face him.

“Your arse is fine and an 11 out of 10, but I like your face even more!”

Of course, the moment she was faced with him, her treacherous eyes fell below his waist.

Well, that explained his exaggerated sense of self and his extreme confidence. Who wouldn’t be confident and feel like he could rule the world with THAT?

His dick was massive. Absolutely…huge.

Elain didn’t have a lot of experience with dicks, but when she saw Ruhn’s yesterday, she thought that his was enormous. Which it was. It was thick enough to give him a run for his own grip, but this…

She swallowed. Fenrys smirked, following her gaze, and then nodded, slowly, eyebrow cocked with amusement. He was half-hard, and that enormous dick kept grazing over Elain’s thigh and hip, while he shampooed his hair and then pumped more of her coconut shampoo into his palm and began to gently but thoroughly lather it into her long locks. She inhaled deeply, as he massaged her scalp, his hands heavy but careful and gentle on her head.

“Mmm, that feels good,” she murmured, eyes closing, her hands handing on his sides, squeezing him instinctually.

He smiled, stroking and massaging her head, making her moan softly and her breasts bounce.

“You have the prettiest fucking titties,” he groaned, watching her from his massive height.

He was the tallest of the brothers–a magnificent, if intimidating 6”5, his shoulders built to break down doors, his long legs allowing him to run fast whenever needed, and his athletic body agile and powerful, ideal for fighting and manhandling others.

Elain wasn’t small–she stood at an above-average 5”7, just like Feyre, with Nesta being the tallest of the sisters, at 5”10. But compared to Fenrys, she felt small and fragile, only reaching his chest. With him though, she always felt coddled and protected–probably a stupid idea, though.

With Ruhn, it was dangerous–exciting, but a little nerve-wrecking, because she never knew what to expect of him. Much like Fenrys, Ruhn didn’t care for social graces, and he filled the space around him with an aura of authority laced with violence.

Fenrys was like a wild horse, a mustang–untamed, with an aura of world-weariness, despite his young-er age, and disdain for rules and regulations. Fenrys breathed and lived , wild and free and soulful, and he set Elain’s heart alight. Being in his presence meant that she was breathing and living and gulping the air around her.

She looked down and watched his left hand cup her breast, his thumb pressing and teasing her hard, thick nipple, while he slowly rinsed her hair with his right hand. His complexion was lighter than that of Ruhn and Azriel, the skin a pale golden hue, and Elain noted that they were very similar in colour, especially when his wide, large palm clasped around her breast, covering it completely.

“Do you want to come, baby?” he murmured into her head, that cock of his growing stronger and even bigger between their wet, flushed bodies.

“Where?” she breathed, feeling light headed and breathless, even though he was hardly doing anything to her body. But the heat that was pouring out of him, the dangerous hunger in those dark, unusual eyes which devoured her naked body made Elain shiver, as she clutched at his side, her nails pressing into his skin.

He huffed an amused laugh and clarified, “Babygirl, why are you so stupidly innocent? Like a little fluffy lamb sent to three wolves.”

Elain pouted, understanding what he’d meant, but then muttered, “Fine. I want to come.”

Fenrys’s eyes glittered with excitement, his golden locks dripping water onto her face, when he cupped her jaw and placed a little chaste kiss on her lips.

“How far did Ruhn get with you yesterday?” he whispered, pressing her into the tiled wall, the hand on her breast rolling the globe tightly, possessively. “Don’t tell me that he only took you to a museum…Though I wouldn’t put it past him to go down on you in front of some expensive painting, I think he gets off on things like these. Ruhnnie is an auteur, if nothing else.”

Elain was panting wildly, the magnificent dick pressed into her belly, a living, hot pole against her wet skin and she managed to ask,

“And you?”

He pulled on her nipple, squeezing it hard between his fingers and made her whimper with pain. He kissed her and whispered into her mouth, “what about me?”

“Do you want to come?” she asked, looking up at him with her caramelly eyes.

He grinned wolfishly and nodded, “who doesn’t want to come, babygirl?”

“You’ll show me?” she swallowed, “How to touch you? What you like?”

“Sure,” he agreed easily. “Even if Az will try to rip my dick off because you touched mine first.”

She choked a laugh, a little uncomfortable, since the threat sounded plausible.

She wasn’t sure of what the ‘rules’ were exactly–Azriel didn’t seem to mind when the others came onto her, and didn’t seem to be too concerned about sharing, though she knew that the virginity thing would have to go to him.

“So you think I’ll go easy on you?” he pondered, looking down at her, “if you are asking to try my dick first?”

She laughed nervously,

“Easy?” Elain shook her head. “With this monster cock?”

He palmed himself and then agreed, “Big boy is big”.

“No,” she assured him, “but you…” she thought for a moment, while his hand massaged and massaged her breasts, until she finally explained, “I trust you.”

His ridiculously handsome face lit up at the admission and he smiled, muttering, “good. I might be a crazy bastard, but you are my girl. You make me feel,” the normally cold, bottomless dark eyes warmed up at the words, full of emotion, “like maybe I've done something good in my life, Lainey, if I got you. You are a reward, a prize that I’ve won, even though I always expected to come last.”

Elain wrapped her arms around him and leapt onto him, breathing, “Ahh, Fen…Never last!”

“You are my good girl,” he smiled, tugging her to him, so she was flash against his hard, solid body, every bit of her softness melding into his flesh, the arms caging her, while he stroked her head.

He turned her around then, brashly, without warning, and pressed her hands to the wet cold tiles, just above her head, his hot lips muttering into her ear, “stay like that”. The large hands caressed her from shoulders, down her back and sides, clasping her narrow waist and pulling her towards him, spreading her thighs wider with his knee.

“So fucking gorgeous,” he groaned warmly, admiring her back, those hands cupping her ass cheeks, just shy of being large enough to be able to grasp the whole lot of them. Elain was not shy–to his great relief. She actually owned her body and her attractiveness with admirable skill and pride. She knew that she was pretty, actually far more than simply ‘pretty’, but remarkably beautiful, though she wasn’t conceited about it and treated her good looks with a measure of humour and nonchalance.

“How am I going to touch you,” she began, but he dropped on his knees behind her and snarled, “me first”.

She looked down at him, over her shoulder, her wet hair plastered to her back, and he moved it all impatiently over the other shoulder, so he had the lovely expanse of her naked back all to himself. Licking her lips, she watched him curiously, unsure of what he was about to do.

Elain was a Disney princess, wrapped in a sinful bow of lust and sexuality–with her exaggerated features; the overly large doe eyes, the sharp, but softly rounded cheekbones, the rosy lips which were like a blossoming tulip, the adorable beauty mark low on her chin. The whole package was an endless source of erotic agony for Fenrys King, who, if given the chance, would escape with her to his native London, lock her in his flat and fuck her senseless day in and day out. Apparently, kidnapping and owning his woman with his dick was frowned upon, by society, as well as by psychotic brothers.

But he understood them. Not the society and its dumb rules, but the primal and territorial rage that he’d experienced when anyone but he and his brothers even looked at her. She was his, and even though he knew that he’d never be the only one, she could only be shared with his blood.

He kissed her just above her bottom, where the two divots invited his lips and she gasped, when he pulled her cheeks apart and licked between them, his tongue swiping flat within the crevice, top to bottom. Elain groaned loudly, the sensation so foreign and forbidden, she didn't know what to do with herself. Yes, yesterday, Ruhn placed a few playful kisses right on her little hole, but it wasn’t as intentional as what Fenrys was doing right now.

“So sweet, it’s giving me a toothache,” he vowed, kneading her hips, her ass cheeks within his palms, licking her again, before kissing around the new tattoo on her upper thigh, his fingers skimming over the design.

“Ruhn did a beautiful job,” he commented, looking at the King crest on her supple flesh. “I love seeing you marked with us,” he admitted heatedly, kissing the tender skin, his lips soft and gentle, knowing that she was still sore from the bite and the tattoo.

“And I love being marked as a King,”

“My beautiful Queen,” he smiled and then kissed it again. “Sweetheart, tell me where you want to be marked with me? Not now…But later,”

“I’ll think about it,” she promised, panting softly, her core clenching and drenched, uncomfortable pressure pushing at it, while Fen muttered, more to himself, “look at you,” slapping the right buttock, his voice gruff with appreciation of the fine, generously ample flesh, before he rose rapidly to his feet and grabbed her face, kissing her roughly, one hand still firmly planted on her ass. He kissed her the way he yearned to fuck her–long and deep, with enough force that told her everything she needed to know–she was his. That she was never going to belong to anyone, but him. Them.

And then, Fenrys was back on his knees behind her, his face buried deep in her ridiculously tempting behind. He licked like she was ice cream melting in the summer heat–urgently and quickly, not wasting any time, or any bit of her flesh. It was wet and hot, and Fenrys moaned into the tight little rosebud of her anus. He split her open with his tongue, and swiped against the puckering opening again and again, while she whimpered pathetically somewhere above him, her thighs straining against the wet wall. Warm water poured over them, but Elain shivered violently, her pink, glossy lips parting with her moan. He grasped her ass cheek roughly, pressing his thumb into the anus, dragging his tongue around and around it, slurping loudly, filthily. That long, able tongue fucked into her, sliding into place and pumping deftly, knowingly, and the sound that burst from her lips was almost pained–loud and pitiful, as her legs began  to shake, while her back arched deeper, her ass rubbing into his face.

“That’s right, my girl,” he urged her, “fuck yourself on me,”

“Fen, Fen,” she cried, “I can’t…oh, I want,”

“What do you want?” he encouraged her, lapping at her opening obscenely and feverishly, as her hips jerked and moved of their own volition, her fingers sliding noisily over the tiles. He was a man starved–his tongue and lips and nose all working with gluttonous abandon.

“I’ve been wanting you from the moment I saw you,” he growled, biting and nipping on her sensitive skin, his arms rising and grabbing both of her breasts, fingering her nipples mercilessly. “Wanted to fucking eat you up. Your mouth, your pussy, your ass, you tits–all of it mine,” he declared possessively.

“Yes, yes,” she mewled desperately, “everything is yours…oh my god, Fen, fuck me…oh, fuck my ass…do whatever you want to do,” she was hardly coherent, driven out of her mind by the spectacular tongue that this beast of a man possessed. Her lips formed a silent O, in a long, pathetic moan, as she sagged against him, her feet refusing to support her. He banded his strong arm around her middle, holding her up, sucking on her swelling hole like it was the sweetest fruit, as her bottom gyrated over his face. He tugged on his aching cock, adjusting himself, and then gripped it hard, relieving some of the pressure. His chin was bathed in her succulent wetness, but he restrained himself from diving into the tempting slit, because then, there would be no self-control left. He’d eat her out and fuck her senseless right here, in the shower, Azriel and everything else be damned.

He began fucking her tight hole with his tongue in earnest, rubbing his engorged cock and trying not to come just from the delicious noises that she was making. He might have to set the sound of her moans as his ringtone, so he’d hear it multiple times a day.

The trail that women left in his life was immeasurably long, but Elain was the one that somehow enthralled him completely, immediately. He didn't understand it, because it wasn't just about seduction or possession. It was something different, and more profound. He’d seduced plenty of women, so many, in fact, that most of them blended into one cohesive mess. Yet, Elain…his little feisty gorgeous virgin–she was different.

“Fenrys!” she screamed.

A violent tremor rocked her whole body–it was different from a normal orgasm, and she went completely silent, as if stunned. He kept licking, unable to stop his own tongue, his body from separating from her. Her toes curled and she choked out a silent, breathless sob of pleasure. Crumpling on the marble shower floor beside him, she panted loudly, eyes closed, her body shuddering and rocking, reaching desperately for him.

“Open your mouth, love,” he ordered, when she managed to finally look at him, her gaze dazed.

She watched him flip over her and cage her body between his thighs, almost sitting on her chest, his gorgeous cock just about bursting from his powerful rubbing, and she was unable to stop herself, the sight of the thick pink head so tempting that without him prompting her, she wrapped her lips around it.

“Fuck, Elain,” he howled, “pinch me, babe!���

She couldn’t help but laugh over the dick that was now crowding her mouth, and then pinched his shoulder, as he laughed too. Grabbing the back of her head with a tight grip, he pushed whatever fit in her mouth, uncaring about anything, but the soft red lips wrapped around his length.

“God you are fucking gorgeous with my dick in your mouth!” he growled, his voice so low and thick, she barely made out what he said. He also suddenly developed an acute English accent. That would have to be a question for another time, because it was the first time she was holding a dick in her mouth–and what a dick it was. Start with the best, she figured, swirling her tongue around the smooth head.

“Baby, will you swallow?” he asked, the accent still there, his tone almost pleading.

She nodded easily, because she couldn't even wait.

Nothing was happening according to the plans that she’d made in her head, but that was alright–she wanted to drown in this whirlwind of passion and unexpected sex acts, though being with Fenrys and Ruhn–what else would she expect?

He rubbed himself fiercely, the thickness of his shaft taking up her whole mouth, and she watched with fascination the workings of his tattooed fingers. Like the other brothers, his fingers were tattooed, though besides that, he only had Gavriel written on his chest. The other two were much more heavily inked, Ruhn especially, but Elain recognised Ruhn’s work on Fenrys’s hand.

His cock twitched and he released himself with a groan of pleasure, his eyes closing, and a blissful exhale escaping his lips. His orgasm face was just as, if not more beautiful, than his normal face and even if Elain was surprised by the new sensation of her mouth filling with his semen, she couldn’t tear her away from how fantastically beautiful he was. She swallowed rapidly, but there was so much cum, he spilled out of her mouth and down her chin.

He smiled at her, smearing it with his hand over her mouth, her face, while the water that was beating down on them, erased all traces of it at once. She wiped her lips, swallowing the remainder and then loudly kissed the tip of cock. He dropped on his ass and propped himself against the wall, draping his arms over his knees.

“Mornin’, darlin’,” he winked at her, smiling. “Did you enjoy your first breakfast?”

She flushed, understanding the joke and nodded.

“I liked my first breakfast.”

“Yeah?” his dark eyes glittered with humour and delight.

“Feed me like that every morning?” she proposed.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he drew his thumb over her lips, and she asked, “but a first breakfast?”

“Yeah!” he was up, his recovery time less than a minute apparently and then he pulled her up to her feet. “We got shit to do! Let’s go.”

*

Elain was ready in 15 minutes, her hair haphazardly dried, but she plaited it into a messy braid, slapped some blush on her cheeks and lip gloss on her lips. She wore a simple blue dress, a denim jacket over it and suede ankle booties. Fen recommended that she wear something on a warmer side, though he refused to tell her what they’ll be doing. Surprise.

The hour was early–not even 8 am yet, and when Elain made it downstairs, no one was there, except for Fenrys. He was dressed in his usual fashion–a white shirt, unbuttoned to the chest, black Diesel jeans, but today, he also sported biker boots and a leather jacket. Somewhat unusual for him.

He took her hand and threaded his fingers with her, holding her close.

They left the house, crossed the lawn and entered one of the Kings’ buildings.

“We’ll have to print you for access,” Fenrys decided and Elain nodded.

“Yes, like yesterday!” she exclaimed.

He chuckled, “Where you gonna go, babygirl?”

“Work!”

“Not doing a runner?”

“What’s with the English accent?!?” she exclaimed finally, looking at him in confusion.

He laughed and then…

“Ohmygod…” Elain just about screamed, her question forgotten.

Because they were inside a vast garage. A garage filled with every imaginable expensive, or rare car, as well as motorcycles.

Fenrys was amused by her reaction, not expecting her to be this excited about cars.

“A car enthusiast?” he inquired.

“I love cars!” she roared.

Under his breath, he muttered ‘Italians’ and then explained,

“American muscle cars and hotrods are Ruhn’s–he loves that shit and likes working on them too,” he waved to one wall of the garage.

Then, continued, “The Italian stallions are for his majesty, the Italian King,”

Elain smirked, murmuring, “Az…”

“Oh yeah, Ferraris, Maseratis, Alfa Romeos, no Lambos of course, because that’s ‘ for rappers and Paris Hilton ’,” he made air quotes for emphasis and she laughed.

“He isn’t wrong,” Elain noted. She then turned to the opposite wall, which was lined with motorcycles, Aston Martins, even a Rolls Roys, Minis and Bentleys.

“I am assuming that this is yours?”

He grinned proudly, nodding. He walked to a BSA motorcycle, hopped on it and patted the seat behind him.

“Hop on, princess!”

“A bike?” she moaned.

“A bike. Come on, now,” he started the bike and winked at her, “wrap those little hands around me, nice and tight.”

Elain climbed on behind him and gulped nervously. She’s never been on a bike before.

“Trust me, you’ll appreciate it when we don’t have to fight traffic,” he promised and they zoomed out of the garage and onto the street.

Elain has never been this scared. Not even when her father’s car was sprayed with bullets, and she was inside. Thank god for bulletproof windows.

But riding with Fenrys was an experience not for the faint of heart. He drove with complete abandon, zigzagging however he pleased, dodging trucks, vans and the sea of cars on a Tuesday morning in Manhattan.

“You are not allowed to kill me today!” she yelled into his ear, clutching at his waist, not caring if she was going to bruise his cartoonishly solid abs.

“Baby, there is a whole lot of fucking I want to do with you yet, for me to kill us today!” he announced jovially, taking a sharp turn.

“Jesus fuck!” she screamed.

She’s been steadily cursing into the back of his neck ever since they left the garage and he laughed.

“Didn’t know you were such a potty mouth!”

“I am not!”

“Is it because you swallowed a ton of my cum and now it’s coursing through your body, along with the essence of me?”

“You are gross and I am not swallowing anything of yours anymore!” she warned.

“Come on, I taste good! Pineapple juice every day,”

“What?”

“That’s right. I am a thoughtful lover. I drink pineapple juice–even though I am allergic to pineapples–to make my jizz taste nice for the ladies.”

“Seems kind of drastic,” she shrugged. “Especially if you are allergic. Though I am not sure I believe you,”

He was laughing, absolutely not paying attention to the road, while she kept trying to keep his head straight and make him look where he was going.

“Was your shower even broken today?” she queried with a frown.

“Fuck no!” he laughed loudly. “How the hell would my shower be broken and everyone else’s working? But I am glad you fell for it!”

“I hate you.”

“You adore me!”

About 20 minutes later–and really, it should’ve taken them at least twice as long, under normal driving circumstances–Fenrys stopped next to a posh boutique hotel. He gave the keys to a valet and helped Elain down. Keeping his promise, he gallantly offered her his arm, and there was no additional touching as they entered the lobby and he made their way towards the restaurant.

They strolled in and were greeted by a maitre’d, who ushered them to a table, but before they could be seated, Fenrys decided, “We prefer the one by the window,” and before the man could protest, pulled the chair for Elain. She sat down, hiding a smile and he sprawled across from her.

“Good man,” he addressed the maitre’d, “we’ll have a full English, black pudding and all,”

“Sir,” the man stuttered, “I must inform you that we don’t serve a full English breakfast on weekdays. Only on weekends,”

“I am sure you can finagle something,” Fenrys winked, “and I’ll have a cuppa, though my lady here, will have a coffee,”

“Sir,”

Ignoring the protesting server, and fascinating Elain with his accent, Fenrys continued, “something else to drink, darling?”

“Umm,” she reached for the menu, too taken with the entire exchange, but Fenrys asked, “something fruity?”

She hummed, but having nothing to lose at this point, she requested,

“I’ll have a Scotch whisky, single malt, neat.”

Fenrys’s eyes lit up and he grinned like a fiend, nodding his approval.

“As my missus said. I’ll have one myself, good fella, but make it Irish and a,”

“Sir, it’s not yet nine o’clock,” the man muttered with desperation in his voice.

“Well, right you are,” Fenrys glanced at his vintage watch and added, “we’ll start with the whiskeys and you see about breakfast,”

“Sir, I simply can’t,”

Another man hustled over, and quickly said,

“Mr. King, sir, good morning. A full English, as usual?”

Elain was amused, watching all these exchanges, especially when the second waiter just about dragged the first one away from the table.

“I gotta ask,” she said, once they were alone, “what’s with the English thing?”

He smiled and then declared, “That’s because I am English, darlin’.”

Elain looked at him, rolled her eyes and then muttered, “now he is English’.

The waiter brought them their whiskeys and Fenrys raised his tumbler to her, announcing,

“To my hot as fuck wife!”

He took a sip and muttered, “you know, that’s not half bad!”

Elain drank her whisky, which scorched her throat pleasantly and before she could say anything, Fenrys reached for her hand and took it in his.

“Let’s make this official,” he said, “shall we?”

He pulled something from his pocket and showed her a ring. It was identical to the other two she was already wearing, but there was a tiny blue sapphire amidst the diamonds on this one.

“Never wanted to marry anyone, until you, my Elain,” he whispered earnestly. “Accept this as a sign of my love and fidelity.”

Fen placed the ring on her finger and said, “the blue stone–that’s from my da. My gran’s ring. I wanted you to have that part of me. Of my heritage.”

Elain looked at her hand and rubbed the three rings with her thumb.

“Thank you, Fen. You are, like…my favourite person,”

He preened and smiled at her, wide and happy.

“Yeah?”

She nodded, “yeah. You make me feel…Like no one else makes me feel.”

She sipped her whisky and asked, “Now, stop weaseling out of the question. What’s with the English thing?”

“I am English,” he repeated with a laugh. “Why is it so hard to believe? I thought that the blond hair and the pale skin would be a giveaway?! You know a lot of Italians with golden hair? Who are 6”5?”

“Okay, not a lot, but?” she frowned, not comprehending. “You are a King. Their brother,”

“Cousin,” he corrected. “I am their cousin.”

Their food was delivered promptly–shocking, how the restaurant indeed managed to ‘finagle’ a full English breakfast on a weekday–and Elain whistled softly.

Toast and eggs and thick rashers of bacon and blood sausage and mushrooms and tomatoes and baked beans.

“I am going to be eating this until the Second Coming,” she grunted under her breath.

Fenrys was brought his own cute teapot, while she was given coffee, but Elain changed her mind, and demanded her own tea. Fenrys laughed, while the waiter scurried to get the order.

“About the second coming,” he began, a wild smirk on his lips, and she rolled her eyes. “Not at the table!”

“Okay, under the table?” he proposed.

“Oh lord, I can’t with you,” she complained.

“You can and you did,” he parried. “And my second coming will be coming up sharpish.”

She repeated, “sharpish” shaking her head.

“My ma was a King,” he explained at last, tucking into his food.

“This is good,” Elain moaned over the amazing bacon and the succulent mushrooms.

“She was the sister of the Old King, of your ever so charming father-in-law,”

Elain only grunted at that.

“She was a beauty–not surprising, I don’t think. She was engaged to the don of the Chicago Outfit, but before their wedding, she took a trip to England. Her first and only trip abroad.”

He poured Elain her tea and shrugged, “Don’t know why she chose England. She hadn't even been to Italy before that.”

Elain wondered, “And what happened in England? Something that I guess led to your birth?”

He chuckled and nodded.

“Knowing where she was going, her father of course gave her a little missive to deliver, to the Firm, since she was going to be there anyway. And the person she met with was Gabriel Moonbeam,”

“Your surname is Moonbeam?!” Elain couldn't contain her laugh.

“Listen, darlin’,” he warned her, “I’ve heard it all before. And I don’t care. That’s my pa’s name and I am a Moonbeam!”

She nodded with understanding, though she was still smiling, “So I am Elain Moonbeam King to you?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, some kind of pride and satisfaction glaring in his expression.

“I like that,” he decided, “I like it a lot. Elain King Moonbeam, I think it has a nice ring to it.”

“So, what happened?” Elain fearlessly sliced into a huge plump sausage, soliciting an appreciative humph from him.

“They eloped, in three days, after meeting,” Fenrys saids, smirking. “Da couldn’t wait and couldn't let her go. So they took drastic measures and got hitched,”

“And how did that go?”

“About as well as you’d expect–the Kings almost declared war on the Moonbeams. The Genoveses of the Outfit almost declared war on the Kings. The usual…” he shrugged.

“Literally WWIII then,” she sipped her tea.

“Literally.”

“And then things normalised because baby Fen was born?” she smiled.

Fenrys glanced out of window and called the waiter over and requested, “My good fella, another one.”

Though he was scandalised, the waiter nodded primly and then returned with another whiskey for Fenrys.

“Madame?” he asked curtly, but Elain decided not to add fuel to the fire and told the man that she was fine.

“For a period of time,” Fenrys said thoughtfully, taking a big swig of his drink. “Things were okay for almost a decade. But I suppose the Genoveses could never forgive the slight that they felt my mother caused to their family. When I was 10, they put a hit on my da and he was gunned down –problem was that my mum and my brother Connall got caught in the crossfire as well.”

Elain’s cutlery cluttered on the table.

“They murdered your whole family?” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Sucks to be me,” he chuckled mirthlessly.

She reached for him and took his hand in hers, squeezing tightly.

“Fen…”

“It’s alright, El,”

“It’s not alright!” she snapped. “It’s not alright at all!”

She gulped down all of her whisky in one go, angry.

“What happened then?” she demanded.

“I was shipped off here,” he said. “My uncle agreed to take me on, because I didn’t matter,”

“How do you mean?”

“I ain’t Italian, darlin’,” he opened his hands. “So I can’t inherit any of this. I’ve taken the King name out of respect to my uncle and my brothers, but I am a Moonbeam. So while my uncle lives and the old rules stand, I am just a third wheel. My uncle is an asshole, who brutalized my brothers, and shaped me into this thing,” he pointed to his chest. “This enforcer man, though he recognised my penchant for schmoozing and making deals and convincing anyone of anything,”

Elain smiled at that.

“And I guess here we are.”

“What happened to the Genoveses?”

Elain couldn't imagine that revenge wasn’t swift and merciless.

“Still in Chicago…The Moonbeams tried to deal with the situation, when I was…oh, I must have been 18 or so. Murdered the Genovese heir, Claudio.”

“Well, that’s something,”

“Not really,” he argued, “because they retaliated and attempted to murder Az. Az survived, but his girlfriend, Morrigan, blew up in the car,”

Elain’s eyes popped open in shock.

“What?”

Fenrys made a wide gesture with his hand and said,

“You ought to know– all of this, these marriages, none of it means anything, until,” he stopped abruptly.

Her brow furrowed,

“Until what?”

He sighed and rubbed the rim of his glass,

“Until the ties are solidified with a happy, healthy and male bundle of joy in your arms. That’s how it all works.

“Other clans, families are stacking up against the Kings. We are powerful, but we are alone here. The Moonbeams are allies, but they are in London. Then there is you–the Archerons–but until you produce a baby, there is no alliance or agreements,”

“Jesus Christ,”

“It would’ve been easier,” he scratched his head, “if you were just a girl.”

“And what am I?”

“Someone we feel so very strongly about,”

“ Fenrys King !”

A male voice bellowed and interrupted them.

Elain had many questions. She wasn't particularly surprised by the baby announcement, having assumed that she’d have to have a kid with Azriel at some point, but now…now things seemed personal somehow. It wasn’t just about marriage. It was about three males that she was now irreversibly tied to, and there was blood and vengeance and families all tied together, all vying for power and yearning to avenge their loved ones. And somehow, she was suddenly in the middle of it all.

“Vinny,” Fenrys said calmly. “Right on time.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you throwing a fit if someone was a minute late. Or is it the anal retentive Azriel?”

A heavyset middle aged man pulled up a chair and sat down at the table.

“Tardiness,” Fenrys announced, his English accent gone at once, “is a sign of weakness.”

“I do love me a lecture from a little stuck up prick,” Vinny said.

Fenrys did not react to the insult, but it made Elain wince, which in turn, attracted Vinny’s attention.

“Bringing your bitches now to meetings meant for men?” Vinny grabbed a piece of toast and bit into it.

Fenrys maintained his placid expression, which surprised Elain just a bit, though she supposed that that’s what made him such a good negotiator and, as he called himself. A ‘schmoozer’.

“Vinny, meet Elain King. Azriel’s wife.”

Vinny blanched a bit and coughed, chewing on the dry toast.

“Apologies for my tone, Mrs. King,” he had the good sense to say, his ruddy face flushing, but then turned away from her as if she wasn’t there and addressed Fenrys, “guess my invitation got lost in the mail,”

“Guess it did,” Fenrys agreed.

“What do you want, Fenrys?” Vinny asked impatiently.

He looked around, searching for a server, but Fenrys made a barely perceptible gesture with his hand and the servers all conveniently disappeared.

“Simple really,” the blond King said, taking a measured, relaxed sip of whiskey, “Az would like to know why you are poking your noses on our turf? The Marinos know not to cross into Harlem, and you and your boys have definitely been crossing,”

“We haven’t!” Vinny argued immediately and Elain didn’t need to look at his face to know that he was full of shit.

“No, you definitely have,” Fenrys insisted, and Elain nodded, having heard of the Marino family, a small-time gang that recently began making small waves.

“You have,” she piped and Vinny whipped his head to her and snapped,

“Shouldn’t you be painting your nails, honey, and let us big boys have a conversation,”

“A conversation?” she huffed dryly. “Using the big words I see?”

“Pipe down, girl,” he threw at her.

Fenrys’s beautiful face contorted with rage and he growled under his breath,

“Do not dare speak like that to my wife!”

Vinny glanced at him in confusion and grunted,

“ Your wife?”

Elain paled. Fenrys wasn’t supposed to have said that. Not now. Not ever.

“You just said she was Az’s wife?” the fat man continued. “Oh…” his flushed sweaty face broke into a lascivious smile, “ohhh, hahaha,” he laughed, “you crazy bastards. You are all sharing her!?? I’ve heard that about you,”

He grabbed another piece of toast and waved it about, asking, “How does it work? You all do her at once? Take turns?”

Elain blushed furiously, her hands shaking on her lap.

Fenrys snapped his fingers and said,

“Not the time or the place, Vin. Back to business,”

Elain was surprised by how easily Fenrys dropped the subject.

“If you want to play in our sandbox, you gotta play,”

“I don’t think he ’ll go for it, Fenrys,” Vinny protested.

“He needs to send someone who can negotiate on his behalf then,” Fenrys shrugged indifferently. “If you're not the man for the job, then I need to talk to someone who is. 20%, non-negotiable,”

“It’s not going to happen, Fen,”

“I think he’d rather talk to me, than Az. In fact, I am convinced that everyone would prefer to talk to me, rather than Az.”

Fenrys drummed his long fingers on the table, and Elain, who’s been sitting quietly, noticed that the tattoos on his fingers were names, written in Celtic script.

Gabriel.

Dahlia.

Connall.

Vinny got up and said, “I’ll pass the message to him. It’s in his hands,”

“Actually, it’s in ours, if it’s all the same to you,” Fenrys corrected him. He also rose to his feet, and took out a wad of cash from his jacket pocket, peeling off two hundreds and tossed them on the table.

“We’ll walk you out, Vin. Elain,” he extended his hand to her, and reluctantly, she took it.

She was mad. Mad at her silence. Mad at Fenrys for not putting Vinny in his place. Mad at how Vinny made her feel. She wasn’t ashamed of being the Kings’ wife before. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Downstairs, Vinny climbed into his Buick and said,

“Congrats on the marriage, boys! However it all works for you.”

Fenrys smiled mildly and said, “Until we meet again’.

The valet brought over Fenrys’s bike and Elain climbed in the back.

“You alright?” he asked, and tipped her chin up.

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“Liar,”

“Let’s go home,” she said instead, unwilling to argue.

“We have a stop to make first,” he said, climbed on the leather seat and then grabbed Elain’s hands and wrapped them around his middle. His hand smoothed over her thigh and he turned and winked at her.

“Chin up, darlin’!”

“Watch the road!” she yelled at him.

“Yeah, yeah,”

They took off, but instead of going towards their compound, Fenrys veered off, and as Elain peered over his shoulder, she noticed the gray Buick ahead of them on the road.

“You are following him?” she asked, when they stopped at the stop sign.

Fenrys stroked her thigh, slipping his hand under her dress, unconcerned by the curious glances that the people around them were throwing their way.

“You didn’t like how I handled the situation?” he inquired, stroking her skin.

“Not my place to say,” she answered flatly.

“Is it not? I took you on the job with me,” he reminded her.

“I thought it was just breakfast,”

“It wasn’t,” he said firmly. “So, let me know what you think,”

She bit her lip and said, at last, “No, I didn’t like it. He made me feel dirty and you should’ve put him in his place.”

Vinny apparently had a few stops to make, because he made the rounds, going from small shops, to restaurants, to convenience stores–no doubt collecting.

Fenrys and Elain followed him patiently and carefully, Fenrys excelling in being careful not to be spotted, telling Elain to snap photos of every location, which she did. It was exciting, doing something like this, something that Elain never thought she’d have the opportunity to experience.

A couple of hours later, Fenrys pulled into an alley, grimy, smelling of garbage and cat piss. Before that, he just waited on the street, but as Vinny made his way into a Chinese restaurant, Fen rounded the corner, killed the engine and got off the bike.

“Stay,” he warned Elain.

“Wait,”

He walked down the alley, almost to the street, but remained by the building, waiting. Finally, Vinny appeared again, and Elain, who didn’t listen and got off the bike, watched the portly man stop, once he saw Fenrys.

“What are you doing here?”

“I heard from Az,” Fenrys lied.

That’s when Vinny made the mistake of stepping between the buildings and following Fenrys down the alleyway.

“What did he say?”

In a lightning fast move, Fenrys turned around and Elain saw a blade in his hand. Vinny must have seen it too, because he attempted to turn and run, but Fenrys was faster. In one powerful move, he slammed his fist into Vinny’s throat, rendering him silent and fighting for breath.

The knife sliced into the man’s belly, while Fenrys growled,

“Don’t,”

Stab.

“Ever,”

Stab.

“Look,”

Stab.

“Or talk,”

Stab.

“To. My. Wife.”

Stab.

“Again.”

Blood was flooding the dirty asphalt, while Vinny was gasping for breath, his stomach a sieve of gaping stab wounds.

He was clutching and ripping at his throat, unable to make a sound, grunting and gurgling blood, his eyes wild, as he experienced the coming of his own death.

Fenrys watched him impassively from his towering height, and then he opened his arm and Elain slid under it, wrapping her arms around his torso.

“Thank you, husband,” she murmured, watching the horror that once was Vinny, as the man still clawed at his jacket, the brick wall, watching them with terrified eyes.

Fenrys turned her face to him and crashed his lips to hers, taking her in a wild, hot, passionate kiss. Hit tongue battered through her lips and he licked on her tongue with an animalistic groan, grabbing her hip with his hand that was still clutching his knife.

“You are mine,” he ground out into her mouth, biting her lower lip, “and no one will ever walk away alive from insulting you. Ever.”

He pressed his lips to her neck, to her violently beating pulse point, feeling the hot blood bubbling excitedly in her vein.

She cupped his face and smiled at him, just as Vinny took his last gasping breath at their feet.

“Elain Moonbeam,” she vowed.

“Elain King Moonbeam forever,” he nodded, kissing her hands, her face, her lips, her hair.

Once they finally separated, Elain looked down at the corpse on the piss-stained ground and sighed.

“What are we doing with this? Are we disposing of the body?”

Fenrys’s eyes twinkled with delight.

“You are a bloody fierce one, aren’t you, darlin’?” he chuckled, switching to his English accent.

She laughed.

He bubbled his lips and said, “Well, since I only have the bike, I think we’ll need some additional manpower to handle our friend Vinny here.”

He took out his phone and dialed.

“Cass. Cleanup on aisle seven, mate.”

[tahitianmangoes]

After I (a mixed race, nonbinary masc queer person) was recently shut out out of a space to discuss mlm writing by straight white women, I've had this anger and resentment simmering. And although I know in fandom and fiction, this space is traditionally taken up by women, which I generally have no objection to, it pisses me off that queer people, men and male aligned people and poc are not just ignored but actively spoken over.

I'm tired of unconventional characters or actual people being shit on for being shipped or written about in a romantic lens or a sexual one. Seeing those characters or people be labelled as gross or having people go "eww" at the thought of them having any sort of relationship or relations makes me want to tear my skin off and scream.

Romanticise queer love but not just between those you find conventionally attractive which is served up from a white hetero gaze usually for hetero white people that we have all somehow internalised. Not just young skinny cis white boys with idealised bodies. Romanticise old queer love. Romanticise nonwhite, non Western centric queer love. Romanticise fat queer love, ugly queer love, hairy queer love, trans and nonbinary queer love. Disabled queer love, neurodivergent and non conforming queer love. Romanticise it and fucking normalise it. Jesus H Christ look beyond mainstream media, look at real queer people and couples and not just gender conforming, aesthetic bullcrap to put in your Pinterest mood board!

[platypanthewriter]

Unless...? (Ch. 8)

Previous | Fic Masterlist

Steve Harrington wants to be best friends with Billy Hargrove.  He wants to marry him–as friends–so they’ll always be together, and he’s going crazy, trying not to be weird about it, and scare Billy off.  Also he’s in a band, and they run a bar.Billy’s buckling under an onslaught of friendly Harrington flirtation.  Also he’s just been hired as the new bartender. For Day 2 of Febuwhump, “I can’t take this anymore.”

In this chapter:  Billy's pretty drunk when he comes back to Steve's hotel room, and he wants to see Steve wear the thongs. 

Billy eventually hauled Steve back out of the bathroom—Steve was content to stand there forever, with Billy’s earnest, alcohol-redolent breath in his face, listening to him proclaim his undying affection—but Billy yanked his arm. “Come on,” he slurred. “Max’s gonna...give up on us.” Steve splashed some water on his hot face, and then trotted after his fiance.

“Did you just bone my brother on the bathroom counter,” Max asked crisply, not looking up from her menu as they approached the table.

“You know it,” Billy said, laughing, and squeezed Steve’s hand.

“Fuck no, that counter’s covered in like ten layers of old hand soap,” Steve said, making a face. “Billy deserves better than old hand soap.”

“Like the alley out back,” Billy muttered, dropping into the booth, and Steve sat too close, elbowing him.

“Like a honeymoon suite,” he countered, and got to hear Max and her brother groan, and watch Billy’s ears turn even redder.

“So I hear Steve has been proposing for like. Months,” she told Billy, who glared at Steve. “You never said a word.”

“He was letting me pine,” Steve said, grabbing the soju away as Billy poured more, and tossing it back.

“Yeah, no more for you,” Max said, grabbing the bottle, and filling her cup. “How come you were still dating that shithead, then?”

“Not enough brain cells,” Billy sighed, and Steve slid an arm around him, then pressed his luck, and a kiss to Billy’s temple, feeling it heat.

“We’re hoping our combined six brain cells are a little smarter,” Steve told Max, and she snorted a laugh—and then smiled a little softer, he thought, watching Billy as he leaned into Steve’s shoulder with a grumbly noise like a drunken bear.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, silently, and Steve flushed. “Be good to him or I’ll kill you,” she added, in a creepily sibilant whisper, and Billy mumbled inquiringly. Steve hugged his head, nodding back at her.

Steve had to half-heft Billy into his hotel room that night, full of barbequed meat and more liquor than was good for either of them, and then help him undress, sliding his hands down Billy’s ass and thighs to get his too-tight jeans off, and crouching between Billy’s knees to pull at his boots. Billy dropped back onto the mattress with a long sigh, and then Steve had to haul him back upright to tug at the buttons on his sleeves, and run his hands over the muscles of Billy’s shoulders to push the shirt off them. He kept pausing to look at Billy’s tattoos, or a couple times because the feel of Billy’s skin was distracting, warm, muscled, a little hairy on his arms and legs, and softer over his stomach and ass. Billy curled away from Steve’s hands on his abs.

“Quit it,” he mumbled. “You don’t care if I do my crunches, right, if I’m not...cut,” and Steve shook his head, running his knuckles over the soft curls that crept out of Billy’s pajama pants toward his bellybutton.

“Nah, you’re perfect,” he said honestly. “You’d be perfect if you turned into that blueberry from the Willy Wonka movie, y’know.”

“...s’weird you don’t give a shit,” Billy sighed, his whole body flushed with alcohol as he watched Steve’s knuckles stroke his side softly.

“If you’re too pretty, people are gonna keep following you home,” Steve told him. “And what if I just like, see you when I’m onstage, and I drop my guitar?”

Billy burst into cackling laughter, his eyes wide. “You think I’m pretty?” he asked breathlessly, and Steve snorted a laugh.

“I have eyes, man,” he told him, and Billy’s smile widened, lazy and delighted.

“You think I’m pretty,” he mumbled, still giggling.

“Of course I do,” Steve told him, reaching up to tuck Billy’s hair behind his ear, and cupping his warm, stubbly cheek to feel him smile. “You’d probably look way better in those thongs,” he sighed. “I look like a moron who forgot to wash his own underwear. Or like, those bastards at the laundromat, you know, that just steal whatever, and you’re like ‘what the hell did you want with one of every sock’.”

“Y-you put them on,” Billy choked out, pushing himself back upright to stare at Steve’s face, and Steve scrambled back, licking his lips. “You wore them?!”

“Uh,” Steve said, his cheeks heating. “I mean, just—just in case you were serious, I wanted it to fit.”

“...I wanna see,” Billy said, drunk and sincere, and Steve couldn’t believe those wide, hazy eyes were lying to him.

He grimaced. “Whatever you’re imagining, it’s probably gonna look more stupid than that.”

“It’s gonna be a religious experience,” Billy said, patting around the bed for his phone, and Steve groaned, rubbing his face.

“Why don’t you wear ‘em,” he tried, “—if you like the damn things so much.”

“You said,” Billy huffed, still slapping the bed for his phone, and pouting, so Steve sighed, grabbed Billy’s phone, slapped it into his outstretched hand, and dropped his pants. Billy made a noise like he’d swallowed a leaking helium balloon, and Steve heard the camera shutter noise.

“You send anybody that picture and I’ll—” break your face, was Steve’s first thought, but then he remembered Billy’s bruises. “—I’ll order pineapple and anchovies on every pizza for the next year.”

“...hurting yourself to hurt me,” Billy huffed.

“I can gag it down,” Steve told him triumphantly, and yanked his briefs off, to another strangled sound from Billy, and more shutter noises. “...I mean it, though, don’t send blackmail pictures to Robin.”

“...blackmail pictures,” Billy said weakly, as Steve set his jaw, closed his eyes, and pulled on the blue thong. His t-shirt partly covered it, thank god, he thought, because his dick was aware there was somebody on his bed even if Billy was a dude, and the friction of the satin was weird, so he had kind of the beginning of a hard-on. He sighed. Billy swallowed, his throat clicking like he needed something to drink. “...take the t-shirt off,” he whispered, and Steve stared back at him.

“Seriously?! You can see how it fits!”

“Come on,” Billy whispered, and Steve groaned, but yanked his t-shirt over his head to more shutter noises. He tried to ignore his stupid cock thinking fancy underwear meant anything on him, and stared past Billy at the ugly 80’s pink and grey motel art. “...you look like somebody’s pulling your teeth,” Billy said.

“...the hell you want,” Steve gritted out. “I look like an idiot.”

“Well, they got me to fucking...agree to marry you, right, you could look like it wasn’t the shittiest day of your life,” Billy said, glowering at his phone, and Steve sighed.

“Okay, what then? Should I like. Pose,” he asked, flexing half-heartedly, and Billy took a weird jerky breath.

“...you really...think you look bad in those,” he rasped out, and Steve snorted a laugh, frowning down.

“I’ve got elastic up my ass,” he said, squirming. “I’m not even sure how I thought they were sexy on women anymore, jesus.”

“You look like a centerfold,” Billy said hoarsely, and Steve—who’d spent nearly a year wondering whether he wanted to be around Billy or just be Billy—felt better instantly.

“...really?!” Steve asked, staring down at his untanned (compared to Billy’s) stomach, and his uninked arms. “...yeah, I’m hot, right?” he asked, laughing with relief. “I know I’m hot, huh, not everybody can look like you.” He twisted his body into a tits-and-ass superheroine pose, pursing his lips at Billy, who made a noise in his throat like he was dying. Steve snickered, and stuck his arm out and up to the side like he was Superman. “Truth, justice, and the American way,” he said, and Billy snorted a high-pitched laugh.

He’d half-covered his face, but he was still snapping pictures, and Steve couldn’t help wanting him to laugh harder, because Billy was cute, pink-cheeked with drink, giggling. Steve spread his arms, hearkening back to a long-ago role in the school production of My Fair Lady. “I have often slept/in this room before,” he began, throwing his arms wide, “—but the carpet always stayed beneath my feet before. All at once am IIIII/several stories hiiiiiigh/knowing I’m in the room where you aaaaare—” he sang, and Billy burst out laughing, letting himself fall backwards on the bed cackling, his hands over his face.

Steve climbed up on the bed again, sitting on Billy’s legs like they were five, and kept going. “AND OHHHHHH, THE TOWERING FEELING,” he belted out, “—JUST TO KNOOOOW/SOMEHOW YOU ARE NEAR—”

Billy shoved at him, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, and turning a little to bury his face in the pillows.

Steve beamed, taking a quick breath. “THE OHHHHVERPOWERING FEELING/THAT ANY SECOND YOU MAY SUDDENLY APPEAR—” he paused, because the neighbors were banging on the walls again, and put his hands on his hips.

“Oh my god,” Billy wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Stop, stop, before they throw us out, jesus christ you fucking loon.”

“Maybe they prefer Elton John,” Steve said thoughtfully, opening his mouth to try some of Your Song, and Billy tackled him to the bed, both hands over Steve’s mouth, which was suddenly kind of awkward, as Steve remembered he was wearing only a thong. He tried to sort of hum that he was disarmed and un-dangerous, but Billy glowered suspiciously, leaning harder to hold his hands over Steve’s mouth, his mouth still quirked as he shook a little with suppressed snickering.

Steve tried not to squirm. Billy’s pajama pants were soft and thin, and Steve could feel thigh muscles through them. Billy’s butt hovered right over his dick, barely bound by the scrap of satin and lace, and it was hard to think of anything but that couple of inches of space between Billy feeling safe as friends, and finding out Steve got idiotically turned on by people thinking he was funny and hot.

Billy was panting, still out of breath from laughing, his chest and abs flexing right before Steve’s eyes, so he closed them, feeling the heat spread over his face. “You gonna behave?” he hissed, and Steve considered shaking his head, so Billy would just...stay on top of him, maybe, maybe fell asleep there, while Steve spent an agonizing night trying not to squirm and Billy breathed contentedly into his neck.

He nodded, instead, and Billy pushed himself up to stretch.

“You’re insane,” he commented.

“Everybody serenades fiances,” Steve said indignantly. “I could read you poetry instead.”

“Holy fuck, no,” Billy hissed, reaching to slap a hand over Steve’s face again, and Steve kissed his hand. He snatched it back like Steve had burned him, swinging his leg off Steve to curl his whole body into the pillows, groaning. “Why are you like this,” he sighed, still laughing.

“You love me,” Steve pointed out, biting his lip uncertainly, and Billy sighed again.

“Yeah.”

Steve dropped down next to him, his shoulder against Billy’s back, and imagined he and Billy in their suits. “We got a fitting tomorrow,” he said softly. “For the suits.”

“...yeah, I know,” Billy said, leaning back against him. “You gonna wear the blue thong? Something borrowed and everything?”

Steve laughed. “Oh. I was thinking white lace. Weddings. Y’know.”

“You...thought about it,” Billy mumbled.

“Dude, I’ve done nothing but think about it,” Steve told him, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I keep thinking you’re gonna say it was all a joke. Thongs, seriously? I’ll wear ‘em every damn day if it keeps you around, man.”

“...bro,” Billy said, laughing into his pillow with kind of a whine.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, grimacing. He swung his legs off the bed, and grabbed his jeans off the floor. “I’m gonna shower,” he told Billy, who was sounding sleepy, and saw what was probably a nod.

In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror again, and felt less shitty about being a man in satin and lace, because really, people could just...wear things, he figured, it wasn’t like the fabric cared. Billy’d looked happy as he laughed, and Steve smiled at the thought, and flexed again in the mirror. He was half-tempted to get a little apron or something and make Billy laugh his ass off again.

His dick still hadn’t gotten the message that it wouldn’t be getting any action, and he tried to ignore it fully peeking over the top of the elastic, and the damp spot from his reaction to getting thrown down on a bed. It’d be actually and metaphorically hard to sleep next to Billy without taking care of it, though, and he let himself thumb over the tip, biting back a groan, and trying not to think anything weird about Billy’s weight on him, or the muscles of his forearms as he held Steve down by the face.

He reminded himself of Tommy shoving his hand away, and stalking out of his life, and tried to think about tits as he climbed in the shower, his shoulders hunched.

The feeling wasn’t really the same, he told himself—he knew what he was feeling, watching a woman squeeze into a dress, and thinking about peeling her out of it, but it’d never been clear, as he tried to dress up like Han Solo, what exactly he wanted—to kiss him, or be him, or just be...as cool as him, or maybe just to have a janky spaceship to share with his very best friend.

He peeled out of the thong, his cheeks burning, and stepped into the shower, soaping his hand up. It only took a few yanks before he came over his fingers, thinking annoyingly neither of Billy nor an anonymous woman’s mouth, but ofTommy, how he’d shoved Steve against the doorjamb, and said “Yeah, why shouldn’t I go over to Carol’s again? What you got that’s better than her, huh?”

Steve had been bewildered when Tommy started yanking at his pants, but also drunk, and horny from the porn. The woman onscreen was still panting and begging, her tits jiggling, and it was hot with the heat of an Indiana summer, but their beers were cold. The sound of distant frogs nearly drowned out the grunting on the screen. Tommy’s hands were hot and tight, and at nineteen it didn’t take much. Steve’d woken deep under the surface of a hangover, looking around at his limp, sticky cock half out of his pants, and taken a shower before he even remembered what had happened the night before.

Tommy’d never picked up his calls again.

It hadn’t even been his idea, Steve didn’t think, scrubbing at his hair as his brain went over the familiar ground—Tommy’d yanked at his jeans, while Steve stared like a drunk idiot. He tried to remember—again—whether he’d leaned in too far, or seemed too willing, and growled, sticking his head under the showerhead.

After he towelled off, he slid into bed behind Billy, and slid an arm around him. Billy snorted powerfully, smacking his lips, and rolled over to grapple Steve in closer, smacking a kiss to Steve’s jaw. “...love...babe,” he mumbled, nuzzling his head into Steve’s neck, and tossing a thigh over his legs.

Steve lay motionless, his heart pounding, staring at the ceiling.

In the morning, Billy insisted they couldn’t be fitted together, and see each other before the wedding. Then he drove home.

After the gig the next night, Steve drove home after him. He slowed as he passed Billy’s apartment, but it was four-fifteen in the morning, and he was pretty sure that was grounds for divorce.

He couldn’t stop grinning, and typing text drafts to Billy he didn’t send, and checking the time, so finally he just cleaned—he scrubbed the whole fridge, and pulled all the popsicles and discount steak out to defrost the freezer. If he’d been female, he thought, with kind of a shivery feeling in his stomach, he’d have eaten the popsicles when Billy was over—just sucked them down until he gave himself brain freeze, leaning his head back so Billy could see the muscles working in his cheeks and throat. Steve bit his lips together, sighing, and gripped the counter, wishing the stupid, useless image wasn’t stuck in his head.

The sheets smelled kinda stale, so he washed them, and put another load of laundry in, before checking the time again, seeing it was too early to take Billy any breakfast, and flopping face-first on the couch with a groan.

He awoke to his phone ringing, and answered in a grunted slur of syllables even he couldn’t identify. It was Joyce Byers’ voice, he registered, his brain feeling like its tires were spinning in mud.

“Billy’s sick,” she told him. “He sounds awful. He’s by himself.”

“Enh,” Steve said. “Grungh.”

“...I thought you might be on the road,” she said. “Weren’t you coming back today?”

“M’I’m,” Steve mumbled, and rolled half on his side to prop himself up. “M’here. Drove...las’night.”

“Sorry to wake you, sweetie,” she said, sounding suspiciously like she was laughing. “He’s just as impatient to see you, hon. That’s why I called. He was smiling all night. I had to pinch his pink cheeks.”

“...my pink cheeks,” Steve muttered indignantly, and she laughed again.

“Go take him some cold medicine, okay? Maybe something hot to eat?”

Steve slapped his face a few times to try and get his brain back online, blinked, and frowned worriedly. “Is—is he okay?”

“Sounds like a question for the man himself. We’ve got this, if you don’t want to come in tonight,” she said. “Tell him not to worry about anything, and feel better!”

“O-okay,” Steve said, nodding.

“Make him take a nap too, sweetie,” she said, and hung up. Steve blinked at his phone, and then called Billy.

He didn’t answer.

Steve grimaced, sat down to work on the chords for his nearly-finished song, couldn’t focus, and cleaned the garage. He tried again an hour later, and got no response, so he waited a couple more hours, did all the dishes, and scrubbed the stove.

He kept thinking about being sick, and he started to want soup, so he rummaged through his cupboards, and then pulled out the cookbook Joyce had helped him pick out when he first started living on his own. It had chicken soup in it, and Steve studied the ingredients carefully, jotting them down.

When he got to the part of the recipe that said ‘if using noodles, add them now,’ he stalled out, staring helplessly. He side-eyed the phone, and didn’t call again—Billy was probably asleep, he reminded himself, and there Steve was, waking him up every god damn hour.

He went out and bought sick-person groceries—the soup ingredients, obviously. Kleenex, benadryl, cough syrup, cough drops—and popsicles in case Billy had a sore throat. He got two whole boxes, resolutely not thinking about either of them actually eating them. He got a loaf of bread to slice for thick crunchy toast, and a carton of eggs to soft-boil. He threw some fluffy slippers by the register in, and then circled around again when he remembered tea.

When he knocked on Billy’s door, he kept it fairly quiet, and busied himself setting up a bag with all the things Billy might want—there was no point in giving a sick person the raw carrots for the chicken soup. Just as he was trying to remember whether Billy had a toaster oven, the door opened, and Billy stared down at him, wrapped in a blanket. His nose and lips were red, chapped and peeling.

“Sorry I woke you up, I’ll go away,” Steve told him, standing up, and grabbing both bags of groceries. “But I just need to ask, rice or noodles?”

“Why are you going away,” Billy croaked.

“I, um,” Steve stumbled, uncertain. “But uh, I’m—I’m making chicken soup, so: rice, or noodles?”

“...you’re making me soup?” Billy sighed, leaning against the door jamb. “...what are you doing out here?”

“I brought you stuff,” Steve told him, wincing. “Uh, is it—can I come in?” Billy backed away, tottering over to blow his nose, and Steve came in and kicked the door shut with his feet.

It was both humid and cold, and Steve grimaced into the dim light, watching Billy curl up on the corner of the couch in his jeans and the sweatshirt from their work. He was surrounded by used kleenex. “...I brought…” Steve trailed off, as Billy tried to tuck the blanket over his toes, and not pull it off his head. “...why’s it so cold in here?” he asked, and Billy’s head jerked up.

“It’s fucking cold, right?! I knew the fucking thermostat wasn’t working—” he stopped, sighing.

“Okay, no,” Steve announced. “You’re coming to my place. I promise not to make you sign any, like, prenuptials, come on.”

“...I’m sick,” Billy told him, petulantly, as Steve found his shoes.

“That would be why,” Steve told him, battling to get one arm out of the blanket at a time, and push Billy’s arms into his coat. “You can figure out the thermostat later—I’ll call and fight with them, if you want—but I can see my breath in here.”

Billy submitted to being bundled down the stairs in untied shoes, his coat on, and his blanket wrapped around it, and Steve loaded the groceries back in, handing Billy the box of tissues.

“So,” Steve asked, as he shifted into reverse. “Noodles or rice? I bought both. We could try both, I guess,” he said, considering, and then realized Billy was trying to cover a laugh, which turned into a racking cough. He sounded like the seals at the zoo.

“I don’t give a shit,” he said, finally, when he could talk.

All my Harringrove fic!

[bi-kisses]

People are allowed to have turn offs, my point about you saying it about men is a) I bet you don't react with such anger if a man says that well most people wouldn't anyway and b) people have preferences! What's it to you if she doesn't want to have sex with someone with hairy toes? It shouldn't go as far as to say its gross or people SHOULD shave them but christ let the woman be turned off.

1) I do react with that much "anger". I think it's gross when there's the expectation for women to shave off their natural hair or else be looked at as unclean. Stop putting words in my mouth for the sake of strawmanning my position because you can't fathom someone caring equally about men and women.

2) this was a blog that did a survey of thousands of women's top turn offs for men during the summer, the hairy toes thing being specifically "when men wear sandals but have hairy toes". It wasn't some randos opinion.

But would you react like that if a man said women with hairy toes are a turn off? 🤔

[thegreenmeridian]

I too have noticed what you said about people justifying hostility toward trans men with the notion that trans men aren't as oppressed as trans women. On the ethnic side of things, I get the feeling that people like Azealia Banks—who called Zayn a "hairy curry scented bitch" and (I think) has made antisemitic comments too—are operating under the similar assumption that Asian and Jewish people are "model minorities" and thus privileged. (For extra controversy, one might even draw parallels between the terms "transmisogyny affected" and "BIPOC"!)

Re: BIPOC - I’ve seen woke Europeans using that term in reference to things happening in their own countries, and I’ve also seen woke USians getting pissy about Europeans NOT using it. And like... ok, how exactly are you expecting “indigenous” to be used here because I tell you now, Saami people would be called White in the US, and the Welsh and Irish can be considered indigenous in a literal sense, if not in the socio-political sense that word has come to hold. “BIPOC” as a term is not at all fit for use in European contexts.

And frankly, the idea of imperialism and “settler colonialism” being entirely related to skin-tone racism doesn’t work here either. And I’d imagine the history of Leftists outside of the USSR’s long history of Soviet apologism is very much tied into that. The USSR very much inherited a lot of its attitudes towards its constituent parts and its expansionist goals from Imperial Tsarist Russia. The Holodomor and accompanying actions such as the liquidization of the kobzars were imperialist, genocidal acts. The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan was an expansionist military action, not some good-hearted attempt to liberate the Afghans. But under this black-and-white, Pokemon Type Chart view of morality, the capitalist West is Bad and the USSR is Good, so any criticism or claim levelled against the USSR must be a lie. And besides, Ukrainians/Tatars/Finns/people being purged are White and therefore can’t possibly suffer things like genocide or state brutality...

Sorry, went off on a tangent rant there. But it’s emblematic of the same issue. Categorising people into “moral” and “immoral” based on demographic does not work. Nether does categorising people as “incapable of causing harm” and “incapable of being harmed”. On the small scale, we ignore and justify individual acts of cruelty such as the ever-awful Azaelia Banks (Christ, every time I hear something about her it’s something like that) and whatever bigoted thing she feels like tweeting. On a grander scale, we’ve got the long history of American and Western European leftist denial of Soviet genocide and imperialism (and whitewashing of oppression in Cuba), terfs crying misogyny and lesbophobia to demand the rolling back what little progress we’d made in trans rights and healthcare in the UK, and both resources and legal recourse for men and boys being borderline non-existent.

[jomiddlemarch]

Music shall untune the sky

Randy stopped howling after about eight hours on the I-15, once Debbie finally caved and rubbed his gums with some bourbon, the way Sam had been telling her to since about forty-five minutes in. Forty-five minutes into the trip, not the howling. He couldn’t blame the kid, he felt like screaming himself, but he couldn’t resort to the booze until it was Arthie’s turn to drive. Justine had jammed her headphones on after telling Sam to get on the I-15 and drive for eleven hours “or else.” Or else what hadn’t been specified but there was plenty to pick from for a Tuesday. It had been hairy getting out of the city—the streets were crowded, the visibility in the haphazardly packed Cadillac “less than ideal,” as Debbie had put it in the brief silence before her toddler started his blood-curdling screeching.

“He wants his pacifier, he’s overtired,” she explained, like Sam gave a fuck. “I’ve been trying to wean him off it, I don’t have a spare with me.”

“Fucking bad timing,” Sam said. “Seems fitting today’s the day I quit smoking.”

Debbie had started making little offended sounds, huffing and muttering and Sam wished he’d been alone in his office when the alarm had gone off, or maybe with only Justine there, but this seemed about what he could expect from life.

“Don’t take it personally, Debbie. If that’s at all fucking possible,” he said, letting his lower register carry his voice over the waning cries of her spawn. Justine could not possibly have been as annoying at the same age. In the rear-view mirror, he saw Debbie’s pursed lips, the tightness in her jaw that made you aware that just underneath that pore-less skin she had a mouth full of perfect, white teeth. Christ, fucking her would be like sleeping with a machete; her douchebag ex’s pursuit of Ruth suddenly made a lot more sense. Debbie hadn’t taken off her sharply cut blazer before she got in the car, still ready for a phone-call from a studio or an agent. Like they were even on that same planet.

“Fine,” she said and then Arthie asked her some moronic question about the baby or the show, something he blessed Arthie for asking because it meant he didn’t have to say anything else to Debbie for the next hour and a half and by then, the sound of the kid crying had melded with the vibration of the wheels on the road and the few words that cycled through his brain like the stations on Noni’s rosary: go, now, fast, Ruth. The radio stations were nearly all silent or static. (He’d quickly turned off the one the classic rock station that was a man’s increasingly panicked, increasingly soprano screaming.) There was no point in trying to drown anything out.

*

They’d stopped at his place on the way out of the city after an argument he won by announcing it was his fucking car that was their fucking ark and Noah was calling the shots. Also, he knew a half dozen ways to get to his house from the television station versus getting lost listening to Debbie give directions to her palace in Santa Monica. He’d parked the car in the garage, making sure the door was closed tight before venturing out with Justine and told her they had ten minutes to pack up her winter coat, a toothbrush, and whatever other shit would be useful. She had opened her mouth to protest he couldn’t expect her to know what that was but the clock was ticking and he was already in his bedroom before she got the words out, throwing a change of clothes and as many clean socks and briefs as he could find into a canvas duffle, along with his latest screenplay, his heaviest, least holey sweater, and a king-size bottle of aspirin. In the kitchen, he managed to find some crackers, an unopened box of shredded wheat, a couple cans of chili, a jar of olives, and a string bag of oranges; it wasn’t much but he hadn’t been planning on an emergency road-trip with three women and a toddler. He grabbed the untouched Sicilian torrone he’d meant to bring to Rosalie’s and shoved it in the grocery bag along with all the remaining bottles of liquor (which seemed sadly few given what was ahead of them.) Justine came into the kitchen with two minutes to spare, her bulging backpack over her shoulder, a flashlight in one hand and the baseball bat he kept by the front door in the other. In the last thirty seconds, he had a brainstorm.

“I’ll grab the axe,” Sam said. “Get the afghan off the sofa and whatever spare blankets you can find.”

“We have an axe?” Justine exclaimed, but she was muffled by the godawful crocheted granny squares in mustard and rust that had graced his couch for about twenty years. If Randy threw up on it, it couldn’t look any worse. At least, Sam thought that was true and that they’d probably be finding out for sure around hour sixteen.

He was only off by an hour. Waste of a fucking orange.

*

Arthie almost hadn’t come along. She’d made a bunch of noise about needing to find Yolanda, while Debbie had been leaving messages for Mark, her mother, Bash, and Cherry, Randy scuttling around like a crab under foot, until Sam had interrupted her.

“Yo’s a big girl and this is a goddamn fucking apocalypse, so either get the hell out and find her or shut up and see if there’s anything you want from your locker or anyone else’s—you have five minutes. And not for nothing, but I think your chances are shit if you try to find her yourself.” He added a shrug for good measure. She was a bright woman and it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have someone in the car who had some medical training but he wasn’t going to fucking beg.

“I guess you’re right,” she said. “I just—I didn’t think something like this could happen.”

“You’ve got a lot of company—way I see it, we have about an hour to get the jump on everyone getting the fuck out of LA. After that, we’ll be stuck here and then we’re screwed and I don’t have enough bourbon or blow to deal with that scenario,” he said. It’d make a hell of a short film, but who’d be around to watch it? Arthie’s dark eyes widened, like she was actually letting herself imagine it, and he felt something catch in his throat.

“Leave her a note on the door. If she’s looking for you, she’ll come here at some point,” he said. And tell me you can drive stick without stripping the brakes.” Like they’d be hitting the brakes once they were on the freeway. All they had going for them was speed and the fact that he’d spent his career getting cozy with monsters—and then taking them apart.

Somehow that was enough—not one of the women asked where they were going. Randy just fucking stared. Little bastard had probably already guessed.