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#even if it's very hard with cell shading
bastart13 · 1 year
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The more a character is a bastard, the more I like them unfortunately. You shoot a PC in the back two times and you gain some interest
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sanchoyoscribbles · 1 year
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as soon as I saw this mid episode card I knew I wanted to draw it with my ocs, it’s so cute!! I kind of expected it to be easy since I planned to just trace the original but I ended up free handing a bunch of stuff so that made it a little more difficult…and so I cut out the deserts to make it a bit easier on myself ;w;
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Dirty Work 1
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.
Characters: Loki
Note: Outta left field.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
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The brick facade stares back at you. You have to keep from gaping in awe. You're not a sightseer, you're there to work. A job. Your first ever. A bit late, but better than never.
You stop at the gate and hike up your kit as you shove your hand in your pocket in a cramped search. You slide out the flip phone and pop the top, clicking through for the email. The cheap burner is all you could afford and you needed a cell to get any sort of employment. Even just to live, it seems.
You click on the agency's email. A concise list of instructions for your first day. Alone. Last week, you shadowed a woman named Florence as she took you through an east-side home, but this week, you're on your own and uptown. The property is much nicer than any you've been in before. The sort you gaze at longingly in passing. A true urban palace.
You follow the first point on the list, keying in the code awkwardly with spaced-out punches. The last beep triggers a buzz as the mechanism releases and you turn the haandle to let yourself through the iron gate. You close it, pushing it to make sure it catches. You look around at the greenery; expertly trimmed hedges and a stone bench, flowerbeds clustered artfully in all shades. A mini Versailles in the heart of the city. The owners must be very well-off.
You gulp as you follow the stonework of the winding path along the curved driveway. Your shoulder aches from the weight of your kit and your spine is still rigid from the tense bus ride. You approach the front door and stagger to an awkward halt as you check the screen again. In all caps; DO NOT USE THE FRONT DOOR. You peer up over the stone steps and give a nod. Of course the help should go through the back.
You circle around to the rear of the house, the scent of pollen and the freshly groomed hedges clouding around you. You find the door nestled beneath a net of ivy and key in the next code. The very modern security contrasts the antique veneer of the house. You step into the silence of the grand home and listen. You're not sure if you're alone. What do you do if you aren't? It might be awkward to wash someone's floor without an introduction.
You move to the next directive; cover shoes. You squint and suck your lower lip in. You see the small box on the corner table tucked beside the door. You stay on the mat as you pull on the plastic shoe covers. It makes sense. You don't want to track in another mess to clean.
Again, your breath flies away from you. Even just the back hallway is divine, or maybe you're just brutish. You're not very hard to impress with what you're used to. A job won't cure it, but it'll make it bearable.
The next point; gloves. Okay. At least it's straightforward. The owners must be very particular. Or germaphobic. You let your assumptions write a story as you advance into the house. The email directs you to a closet where you are permitted to hang your things and where a mop, broom, and vacuum await you amid other supplies too big for your bag. Next point…
You proceed inside, slowly. The instructions are written almost to guide your every step. You move down the hallway with duster, broom, vacuum, and finally the mop. You're sweating by the time you get to the first doorway. The kitchen. Despite your employ, the place is already near immaculate. The only sign of life is a single black mug beside the sink.
It's eerie as you cross the tile, investigating with your eyes, almost too afraid to touch. You're going to have to if you mean to do good work. You continue down the list, doing your best to be thorough. When you return to the hall you're caught in place by a thought. There are no family pictures. It adds to the emptiness of it all. There are portraits of famous landmarks and imitations of reknowned artworks, though you wouldn't be surprised if they were genuine. But no family.
Next point. A bathroom just diagonal from the kitchen, spacious with dark wood and shining gold. You leave it smelling with the sterile scent of the cleaner. Back in the hall, you pause to drink from the water bottle in your bag. You head back down the hall intent on your next task. An hour already.
Another large room; a dining room that opens into a sitting room with a large fireplace. It really is amazing. Your father won't believe how nice it is here. You don't have time to worry about convincing him as you dive into your work. It isn't difficult work but you want to do a good job. You get this knot in your stomach just think of your boss, Clara, telling you otherwise or going home with bad news.
You finish the sitting room and go back to get your water. You nearly finish it. You check the time again, then the list. You can refill before you continue. You go back to the kitchen and cross to the fridge, pressing your bottle to the lever beneath the filter. It'd be nice to have something like that at home. You listen the hum of the fridge as you fill your bottle.
"Ahem," the clearing of a throat startles you and you jump, splashing yourself with cold water as you spin to face a tall man. He stares at you imperiously from the doorway, his figure lithe as he holds his chin up in dissatisfaction. "And who said you could do that?"
"Um," you swallow and look at your water bottle, fingers numbed by the water, "sorry, sir, I ran out--"
"Clean up your mess and get back to work," his lilted accent slices into you.
"Sorry, sir--"
"Bullet number one, A," he says tersely.
You frown as you struggle to understand. You replace the cap on your bottle and fish in the pocket of your black pants. You take out the phone and check the email. 'Do not speak unless permitted.' Well, he spoke to you first. It's the only reason you said anything. You're not very chatty yourself.
You keep from repeating sorry again and dip your head down. You take the cloth tucked into your pocket and bend to sop up the water from the floor. You don't look at him as he looms and you exit the room, sidling past him in shame. Oh no, you hope he doesn't tell Clara.
You replace your bottle in your bag. You'll go without. You look at your phone again. You can do this. No more mistakes.
You march back down the hall and dare a glance into the kitchen as you pass. He's already gone. That must be Mr. Laufeyson, the owner noted in the job description. Is it just him? He doesn't seem very fond of others. Or just you. You're just a maid, after all.
🧹
Your father's apartment is in the south. The fence is crooked and missing slats and the grass is patchy and yellowed. The porch groans as you climb the steps and let yourself into his side of the duplex. Cigarette smoke greets you with a cough in your throat. You open the window he shut in your absence as the TV blares in the next room. He's on the couch, puffing tobacco into the air in gray swirls. The place is even grimmer after a day amid your client's spotless halls.
"Hey dad," you say as you stand just beside the couch, "how was your day?"
He grunts and offers nothing else. That's about what you get from him. The effort of just that noise sends him to hack and his wrist tangles in his oxygen tube as brings his hand up. He knocks ash from the end of his cigarette onto the floor.
"First day alone went well," you say as he settles, breathing loudly as he tries to steady his breaths. "Think I did pretty good."
"Oh, big whoop, got a job, at last," he sneers, "about time. What're you? Thirty-three?"
"Thirty," you correct him, but don't add that your birthday is coming up.
"Same difference," he croaks and sucks on the smoke until he's coughing once more.
You try not to let him defeat you. It's just the way he is. You brought home A's from school and he wondered why they weren't A+'s. And when you got accepted to college, he asked you who was gonna pay for it. And when you filled out an application at the drive-thru window, he asked you if you were going to be another deadbeat flipping burgers.
"What, they got you scrubbing floors?" He spits, "you don't do it for free or something?"
He looks around venomously. You do clean but you can't get the yellow stains out of the wall or the stench out of the carpet. You won't say so.
"Did you eat yet?"
"Can't be near the stove with this thing," he taps the top of the tank on the other side of the armrest. He's also not supposed to smoke near it. Or at all.
"I'll heat up the hamburger helper from last night."
"Fucking dog food," he barks.
You wince. You love your father but he's a very picky man. Things must be his way or no way at all.
"Might have a frozen pizza," you suggest.
"Cardboard," he mutters.
You stand, silent and helpless. There isn't much else left in the fridge.
"Could afford better if you'd got your ass up ten years ago," he buts out his smoke and just as quickly, opens the pack to slide out another.
"I tried..."
"Not hard enough, eh," He takes off the oxygen tube and leans away from the tank to light the next cigarette, "not hungry. All your talkin' spoiled my appetite."
You apologise and leave before you can annoy him further. You're not very hungry either. Just sore and tired. Your feet hurt from being on them all day and your eyelids droop lower with each blink. You climb the stairs and drag your feet into your bedroom and shut the door gently. Your father hates when you slam. You don't like it much yourself.
You fall into bed as the musty air clings in your nose. You close your eyes and roll onto your side. You sigh. You figure if you can handle your father, you can handle Mr. Laufeyson and his list.
🧹
Your next job is in the eastside. It's not as precise or overbearing. The instructions are standard; a list of the rooms that need cleaning and a tip left on the counter. The email says the family is out of town. How nice it must be to come home to a nice, clean house. You pad out the three-day week with two more home in the northwest suburbs. The money would be better if you could work a full week but so long on you're in your probation period, you only get part-time hours.
Your second week starts again in the north, outside the Laufeyson property. The codes are different but the list is the same. You begin your work diligently. This time, you ration your water, and pay special attention to each step. Once you're through this week, you get your first check. Dad should be happy about that.
As you get to the front room, a living room or what some might call den, you set first to dusting the ornaments on the high mantel. You find the more you do it, the work is almost soothing. It's simple and mindless. You admire the silver candlestick, careful not to loosen the tall candle placed in it.
"Shiny," the slither frightens you. You quickly replace the candlestick at the corner of the mantle and face that man; the presumed Mr. Laufeyson. "Somehow, I feel it wouldn't belong in wherever you call home."
You lower your eyes. Florence says most clients are friends but she warned you about these ones. Those who deride you and the work they don't want to do themselves.
"The previous one did think they were lovely," he muses as he struts forward, his long steps like a cat's, "too bad they were too big for her bag."
You flick your gaze back up and blanch. "Sir, I wouldn't--"
He tilts his head as his eyes flash dangerously. You snap your mouth shut and give an apologetic frown. You press a finger to your lips to say, I'll be quiet.
"She was chatty too. You girls always are."
You nod and listen. Your throat constricts as you wring the cloth in your hands. You think you might not be very forgiving if someone tried to steal from you either.
"But..." he looks at his watch, "you are quick."
The comment drips from his mouth as if it tastes bitter to him. It isn't quite praise, only a fact, but it isn't a reproach. He smirks and snickers.
"And you do look rather terrified. We're understood then."
You give another nod. You think you understand. You wouldn't think to steal but you can't blame him for putting down rules. You squint and your brow twitches as your ears tinge.
"Point one C," you whisper to yourself; 'Do not steal.'
He pauses as he goes to pivot on his heel. He lifts his chin and shifts as if he might look at you. He doesn't as he carries on to the door.
"You may refill your bottle once per shift," he pauses by the door, tapping the frame before he leaves you.
You stay stuck to the floor, wavering as you watch him go. He wasn't nice, but he didn't dismiss you either. You can stomach his disapproval if it means you still have work.
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DRABBLE: WHEN YOU WEAR GLASSES (MHA) (for Black!Fem!Readers)
Writer's Note: My very first drabble!!! I had this idea after my boyfriend told me how sexy I look in my glasses. Enjoy! -Jazz
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PRO!BAKUGOU – He swears to the Lord, something happens to him.
It’s like a switch in his body that controls how hard his cock gets automatically switches in his body the minute he sees you in those glasses. They’re the cat-eye kind and seem to bring out the pretty, brown shade of your eyes even more. 
He barely noticed them the first day you came in after the weekend. He truthfully didn’t notice much when he was at work since shit around his agency ain’t ever done right. But when he was fixing himself some coffee in the employee breakroom, it was impossible to notice. It took him a while though because he was so hellbent on finding his favorite mug in the cabinet above the sink. 
“Goddammit,” he grumbled. He was already irked from going hours without his morning fix of caffeine; now some dumbass was moving his shit? “Where the fuck is it?” 
“Good morning, Bakugou,” you cheerfully said as you walked into the room. Though the sound of your sweet voice perked him up, he only gave you a grunt of acknowledgment. “Everything okay?” you asked, confused. 
“Fuckin’ people keep movin’ my shit,” he growled, slamming the cabinet shut before looking in the one next to it. “You know where that All Might mug is?” 
“The limited edition one?” you ask, a light giggle in your voice. He made a mental note to chew your ass out about making fun of him later. “Try the dishwasher. I think someone was here late on Friday cleanin’ up the dishes.” 
Bakugou nearly ripped the dishwasher open and, sure enough, there was his favorite mug sitting on the top rack, nice and sparkly. He breathed a sigh of relief as you went about your business, taking a mug from the top cabinet to make your coffee. “Thanks,” he grumbled, turning to acknowledge you finally. 
But as he did, he got one look at you in those cat-eye glasses that seemed to make you prettier and all of his brain cells seemed to explode. His eyes widened and his lips parted dumbly at the sight of you. It was bad enough that you looked so damn good in your blouse and pencil skirt, but the glasses set the whole look off. You looked like a secretary. One he’d love to boss around before punishing for not doing as he specifically asked; maybe bend you over his desk, pull up that skirt, and eat that pussy until you cried. 
“You okay?” you suddenly asked, blinking at him in confusion. He realized he’d been staring. “M’fine,” he growled. “Where’d you get the glasses from?” 
You blinked at him dumbly before going to touch your frames. “Oh, these? They’re new! Had to get new ones ‘cause the other ones weren’t doin’ what they were supposed to for my vision.” An almost insecure look crossed your face as you chewed on your bottom lip. Bakugou nearly jumped you right there. Were you trying to make him hard? “Do you…like them?” 
Did he like them? All Bakugou could think about was cumming all over the frames and fogging up your vision even more when he finally bust all over your pretty face, your kissable lips and tongue coated in his nut. 
“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, flustered, and turned towards the counter to avoid you seeing his hard-on. “They’re…nice.” 
The shy but happy smile that passed your pillowy-soft lips was enough for him to cum about three times into his hand hours later when he was finally alone in his office. 
PRO!MIDORIYA – He is a little more discreet about his horniness when he sees you in your glasses.
But when he sees you, oh, boy, it takes everything in him to not fuck your ass all the way up. 
When he first realized how gorgeous you look in glasses, it was a day after you spent the night at his place and you had a luncheon with your fellow pro hero friends in half an hour. “Baby?” he called from his bedroom, frustration taking over him. 
“Yeah?” you called back from the bathroom. You had been in there for twenty minutes already. He wasn’t too sure what women went through to get ready for a special occasion, but you must’ve been doing something right to always come out looking absolutely perfect. 
“Have you seen my wallet?” Deku asked, panic creeping into his voice as he tore through his nightstand drawers. “I swear, I had it last night but I can’t find it now.” The last thing he remembered from last night was coming home after dinner with you and ripping his clothes off before proceeding to fuck you into his mattress. 
“You did,” you replied above the sound of TLC playing from your phone. “Check under the bed. That’s where your jeans were.” 
Deku did as you said and, sure enough, there it was lying under his bed, all credit cards and money still there. “Ah!” he sighed in relief. “Thanks, baby. I would’ve been tearing my entire penthouse apart.” 
“No problem,” you chirped as you suddenly walked into the bedroom. “What time are Shoto and Bakugou showin’ up at the restaurant? I still need to put some clothes on.” 
Deku had looked up at you and his brain fucking shortcircuited. Anything he was about to say fades in his mind as he gets a look at you wrapped up in your towel and your bonnet with some very new glasses on your face. He swore you’d never had them before. Where the fuck did they come from? And why were they making him so hard? 
You scowled down at him, confused. “What?” you asked. “Somethin’ on my face?” You went to glide a hand across your mouth. 
Deku slowly shook his head, still staring up at you, dumbfounded. “Um…are those glasses?” he weakly asked. You eyed him confusedly, nodding. “Yeah; I had to switch to glasses ‘cause I didn’t like my contacts anymore.” You fixed the spectacles on your face. “Do they look okay?” you shyly asked, peering down at him with those big, brown eyes that looked so much prettier with the glasses on your face. 
Deku didn’t answer. Instead, he used his actions to give you all the answers you needed. Minutes later, your towel was off and you were on your stomach, ass tooted up and pussy filled with his veiny, thick cock that stroked your walls so good that you began sobbing at the pleasure. “They. Look. Fuckin’. Perfect,” Deku growled, each word punctuated by a thrust that had your glasses nearly falling off your face from the force. 
Lunch with Bakugou and Todoroki turned into dinner, let’s just say. 
PRO!TODOROKI – To him, you look goddamn angelic. Like the prettiest teacher in the entire world. 
And you are! When he first met you, you were teaching at an elementary school that he volunteered to visit for the school’s career day celebration. He didn’t mind as Todoroki had a love for kids; especially ones that wanted to become a pro hero. 
He showed up earlier than was necessary–like, a whole hour earlier–, decked out in his hero gear. As soon as he walked into the colorful and inviting classroom, he was taken aback by the gorgeous woman standing at the whiteboard with the most beautiful skin and hair he’s ever seen. When you turned toward him, pausing in your writing, he went still. 
The glasses you specifically chose that day were red and matched your pretty blouse and complimented your skin. It’s all he could do to not pop a hard-on. He knew if you were his teacher, he’d do nothing but stare at you, daydreaming about how beautiful you were when he should’ve been paying attention to the lesson. 
“Mr. Todoroki?” Your voice, sweet like honey, pulled him out of his trance. You were giving him a concerned look that made a cute little wrinkle between your eyebrows. “Is everything okay?” you asked. “You’re very early. The kids won’t be here for another hour.” 
Todoroki dumbly blinked at you and then flushed under his gear. Here he was, ogling at you like a horny schoolboy when he had a job to do! “Apologies, ma’am,” he said, bowing to you much to your shock. “I had shown up to prepare for today’s class and perhaps see if I could offer my hand in any help you needed.” 
You giggled at his words, making his cock surge in his pants. “That’s very sweet of you,” you cooed, a sweet smile curling at your glossy, soft lips. “But that’s really not necessary! You’re a guest, after all.” 
But Todoroki was persistent. “It’s really no trouble, ma’am. I’m honored to even be here. After all, I’m taking time away from your teaching.” 
You pursed those lips up at him, giving him naughty flashes of his cock between them. “Well, if you want, I need help putting the crayons out on the desks. And you don’t need to keep callin’ me “ma’am”. Ms. L/N or F/N would do just fine.” 
Todoroki smiled then, happy with the icebreaker. “Of course; then you can just call me Shoto.” He stuck his hand out for you to shake and you took it, causing a zing of electricity to shoot through his body at your touch. “By the way, you look nice in glasses.” 
That little comment was enough to sweeten you up to give him your number once the classes ended. 
AIZAWA – He fucking loves it, man. 
He just can’t help but picture you in a little schoolgirl outfit, on your knees with his dick deep down your throat and your glasses fogging up every time he thrusts into your mouth. Or maybe even as a teacher, your glasses perched on your nose and one heel of your pump pressing lightly into his chest as he fists his cock. 
Yes, Aizawa is a fucking pervert. But he’s very discreet about it. You didn’t know what he was thinking at all when he first saw you pull the spectacles out of your clutch one night at dinner. He was sitting across from you at the steak restaurant he insisted on taking you to on your first date. 
He could barely keep his eyes off you, forcing himself to stare strictly at your face and not at your breasts that insisted on showing themselves off in your low-cut dress. “So what are you gonna get?” he asked, his menu in his hands. 
“Hmm…” you hummed questionably as you took your menu and squinted at it, hilariously, Aizawa would add. “Hang on a sec,” you suddenly sighed. “I didn’t wanna wear these ‘cause they ruin my outfit, but…” You dug into your clutch and took out a pair of big, rimmed glasses that reminded Aizawa of an old woman’s. 
When you put them on, you looked downright embarrassed. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?” you sighed. “I just can’t see the menu too well without them.” 
When I see Aizawa was gone, he was fucking gone. He wanted to tell you how adorable you looked in the vintage glasses, but he couldn’t get passed the part about wanting to bend you over the table, fuck you in front of everyone to show them you’re his, and cumming all over those cute little glasses. Why were you so damn cute? 
“Shouta?” you asked, scowling at him worriedly. “Are you okay?” Still, Aizawa said nothing, too entranced by how you looked. It was as if the glasses brought out the cuteness in you even more, making your brown eyes even bigger. And making him so goddamn hard. 
A frown suddenly crossed your lips. “Sorry,” you weaky said, staring down dolefully at your menu. “I knew putting these on was a bad idea. I look horrible in ‘em.” 
You went to pull them off, but Aizawa stopped you with a hand on your wrist and a firm, “No.” You stared at him, shocked. “Don’t take ‘em off,” he said softly, pleading with you. “You look…amazing.” 
The joyful and bashful smile that crossed your pillowy-soft lips adorned in red shook him to his core. The rest of the night was filled with passionate kisses, endless praise, and him fucking you stupid to show you just how beautiful he thought you were.
Whether with the glasses or without.
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olderthannetfic · 29 days
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I don’t know if it's appropriate on this blog but I'm just going for it. How do people make friends in fandom? How do you all manage it? I've been bouncing from fandom to fandom for more than 15 years and have been mostly lurking for the better part of those years. It has been very hard to find friends just in general because of my shyness and all this antiship/proship discourse is making it even harder to even consider putting myself out there. Everyone just seems insufferable. Even the ship and let ship crowd.
A thing I've noticed is that while the proship spaces have better attitudes towards fiction/fandom/fanfic in general there exists this weird hate boner about people with canon ships (in my personal experience, just last week I stumbled on a tweet from a self identified proship account telling people that they shouldn't read fanfic of their blorbos because they are canonically together which made me go huh) and there exists this strange superiority complex, a "you're not enlightened like me" attitude (it's very strange and especially prominent among people who identify as proship and ship the big m/m ship in fandoms of material catered towards male audiences, ik this because I was guilty of this superiority too at one point). Honestly, this "enlightenment", the hypocrisy of preaching ship and let ship but only the way I deem correct (last week I saw a big a proship account shade shippers of a specific rival ship right under their thread about how we shouldn't generalize and I think I lost brain cells) and condescending attitude of "I am not boring like you" and "You're doing fandom wrong" is one of the reasons that has turned me off those spaces more and more. I've noticed it once and can't unsee it because it all gives off this mean girl (gender neutral) energy and puts me off interacting.
On the other hand a lot of the ship and let ship spaces that prefer the canon ships tend to be very anti adjacent even if they actually practice ship and let ship (screaming and crying about sexualization of minors, throwing out phrases like porn addict around). I've seen some very strange sentiments about Europeans there (like thanks for informing me that all of us are monstrous bloodthirsty cannibals I guess) and Japan (which is ironic because it's mostly anime fandoms doing it). It doesn't make me wanna associate with them either.
--
*dying*
Nonnie, do you know how staggeringly often I get this question?
A big part of the answer is to not be a lurker. There are reasonable people out there, but they're much less visible than loud assholes, so the best way to find them is for them to find you.
Many of my closest fandom friends are people I met offline, either because they live near me or because we went to cons together. Others are people who turned up in replies on tumblr regularly. You need repeated contact that's memorable enough to recall the person as a distinct individual. I sometimes find that hard online. It really depends on frequency and them having something to say plus a good writing voice.
I know lots of people are shy or prefer to be lurkers. I get why. But you'll rarely meet anyone that way.
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beanlot · 2 years
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03
ellie williams x f!reader
you basically find a hot girl at the strip club.
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word count: 3.4k
genre: smut
warnings: stripper!reader with subtop!ellie - usual lesbian shenanigans like oral/fingering/facesitting, mentions of alcohol, ellie refers to you as ‘miss’ and other things that aren’t so vanilla
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you’d watched her for half an hour now through the glowrings. a face that, although perennial in remaining innominate, highlighted it’s unaccredited self in psychedelic neon. you can’t decide if it was the way she looked around, eyes mind-altering, or just quick wedges of having worked here for over a year; growing accustomed to older faces that new ones became refreshing.
but even with serving drinks from one booth to another, she’d never looked your way - adhesive to the bar with eyes of timidity that stayed concealed; a face on your list of priorities for tonight.
fishnets suffocate your arms, desirable twirl of fabric that sheathed your chest yet had left your shoulders bare and at the mercy of the lambent. and eventually, you came to terms with the appetency of the taste of liquor against your tongue as much as your skin wanted to be a metres distance from hers.
so you’re traipsing over to the bar, pleather shorts sweltered against your thighs amongst your netted body stocking; carbonados scintillating against your stomach in the fiesta spotlights.
but you feel hedonistic optics leer your way from an approaching booth, a woman shuffling towards the end of the foam seat when you observe them. “excuse me, is it okay if we can get 3 more of the red wine?” her hand enveloping some notes, which empty into your palm when you flatten your hand out.
“yeah, of course.” you nod, scents of apple cider and root beer clouding the ambience when you advance towards the bar, a disarray of empty glasses and decks of cards amongst the elm. you shuffle beside her, and it’s intoxicant - musky firewood contaminating each skin cell in your cheek with lechery, although ironically felt sanctifying when you inhaled. you lean over, sliding the notes across to the bartender. “3 reds please.”
he nods, and you try to inspect the nitery around you - flaxen beams that concentrate to a seductive vermillion against the stage of stripper poles, but your eyes are more obdurate than intended within trying so fucking hard to not look at her. but impulsively, you’re examining her side profile before you can register, unable to escape this hypnotic pool of looking at her that looking away seemed paradoxical.
“hello.” your voice divulges that curiosity you wanted so badly to secrete, and you can’t repress the interminable searching of how perfectly fuckable her face is - eyes that you could decipher were the shade of dresden, framing an intangible sensation of inclination in your stomach when they are too shy to look at you. “hey.” her voice dry and gutless, a creamy tone that anchors at the very pillars of your hips.
her hands superlunary against her glass, fingers that scream they were made for this; your limbs weakening under how godly-structured her veins were along her knuckles. “you don’t look like the type to come to strip clubs.” you smile, and although you felt pathetic for generating ludicrous fantasies of her lips on your body already, you were complacent when you saw the corners of them turn upwards for a second.
“my first time, miss.” she swivels her drink, and you realise how extraterrestrial she made you feel upon the realisation that you were always the grand prize here; having people at your knees for a taste - but now you were the one yearning for just a quick lap of what was infront of you. you watch as she swigs the rest of her glass, lips dewy when her tongue skims them; it’s sexually aggravating to watch, sampling the taste of the bitterness of not being able to lick them dry for her rather than the alcohol she’d drank, amplifying when her sleeve rolls up to exhibit an adorned arm of tatted leaves that fade in the incandesce.
“do you wanna see my tits?” you tilt your head, and she’s wide-eyed at you; almost thankful that she’d swallowed her drink mere seconds before. eyes of eau de nil that are diluted to such submission it catalyses the excitement in your clit, unworldly irises that bite the bait of flickering down to your cleavage every now and then.
she’s about to speak after her train of thought, lips of delectability parting until the bartender calls your order. “3 wines.”
but you feel irked at the epiphany that unfortunately, you were at work, and had some serving to do. so you slide the platter towards your chest, before delving into her with a sultry glance. “it’s free.” you whisper teasingly, which wasn’t contrivance, you couldn’t fabricate the fact you wanted to pay her to lay you bare; unearth every fragment of your body that possessed the most sensitivity and utilise it however she desired.
but once you’d distributed the orders and amassed your own multitude of tips through the art of availing yourself to get what you wanted, your irises blew hot and cold around the club when you’d cottoned on that something just wasn’t right - your coworker ambling towards you.
“someone’s requested you..”
“but i’m not stripping tonight?”
she shrugs. “someone in 03 ordered some stuff and specifically wanted you to deliver it or something.”
“what’d they look like?”
“i don’t know, like.. awkward, freckles, brownish red kinda hair..”
and amongst the blether, your eyes were rifling through the bar; running short of the customarily lascivious vigour of interest it gave you before, stools void of the figure you were hoping to see. at first, you’d thought she’d been intimidated by your valiant act - but you’d read intertextually through the lines of kinda hot, cute freckles, brownish red hair that
never mind, you were stripping tonight.
she was a whiskey drinker, something that was cavernous incongruity to the velvety timbre she had. but she was duality altogether - maple tennessee and vanilla bourbon, the spicy grain of japanese scotch; even the woody and rich malt of scottish barley. you’d chaperoned yourself towards 03, a room in which was enshrouded by rosewood curtains, and a beam of what felt like tuscan sun whenever you’d take a step; with one hand supporting the platter of glasses, the other drapes the curtain to one side.
you step in, walls of boysenberry suffocating you momentarily - that familiarised furore of carnality in your stomach when you inhale her, earthy lemongrass and sage. it’s slightly quieter, stifled music orchestrating in the background as you look around, adjusting to the sentimentality of the onyx sofas; the rhythm of fuchsia and apricot lights against the metal pole situated in the middle of the room.
and then your eyes meet with ones of juniper, so soft and succulent. she doesn’t maintain eye contact for long, staring ahead at the floor - but she’s so divine that it dilutes how fucking awkward she can be. “i take it you accept my offer?” you smile, situating the platter against the table, pouring the rye whiskey she’d solicited into a glass.
she doesn’t answer, only looking up with doe eyes of sheepishness when you hand the glass to her with delicacy. you want her to feel ameliorated with you, because quite frankly, you’re feeling morally profane and unprofessional from wanting to ride her face so fucking bad. “what’s your name?”
she’s intrepid enough to ogle at your body piece, not only the glints of obsidian on your skin, but how your skin embraces the curves. “ellie.” she mumbles, her skin otherworldly with flares of honey and marmalade.
ellie. it was simple elixir, marshmallow and purification sizzling on your tongue. “can i sit on your lap, ellie?” you whisper, fingers tracing the sewing outline of her jacket, calibrating to the faint sturdiness of her shoulder.
she nods after a few seconds, and you feel erotic when you hitch your leg over and plant yourself on her thighs. it’s humid between you, and you can admire the texture of her skin - skilfully formulated freckles along her curved nose as if they’d been saintly sculpted with intense precision, framed with hues of rose on her cheeks that compliment her lips, so inviting and fuck you’re staring at her.
she’s getting flustered, and only amplifying the brewing anticipation in your clit when her thighs rub against yours; with fern globes flickering over your body, you reconstruct what you’re really here for, dipping out of the spellbind she’d put you in when you realise she keeps peeping at your cleavage.
so you swathe the straps of your bra off, glacial wisp against your bare shoulders; your skin feels hounded by taffy fog around you, and the magnetism oozing from her ironically enough to put you at the bottom of the food chain - your breasts recoiling from the material when you slowly pull it down, exposed to the experimental tints of the room.
you hear her exhale, hips tensing when she admires how your fingers grope at them. “you can touch them.” your whisper is reassurance, and you feel the levitation on your knees when angular fingers that you’d pedestaled oh so well tenderly stroke your skin, an epidemic of goosebumps on your netted arms when they reach your breasts. you observe how her pupils dilate, irises surrounded by hankering pits of jade only erupting with predilection when her fingers brush up your stomach.
she’s reluctant, but when she notices the indistinct smites on her fingertips from your cudgelling heartbeat, she brushes over your nipple. “they’re so soft, miss.” she whispers, observing how your nipple erects between her fingers.
you’re unbeknownst to your helpless grinding on her thigh and the lewd arousal between your folds; she’s getting confident, gently rolling your nipples between her fingers with ascendency - it’s astronomical, enough to skyrocket you into seventh heaven, and you hadn’t even taken your pants off yet.
“can i put them in my mouth, miss?” she whispers. you feel as though you’re under hallucinogens, the narcosis that was she, but she’s solemn when you blink at her. your fingers caress at her shoulders, a scorching sterilisation when they touch at her neck, and your fingertips feel so holy upon her skin that you could hear the symphony of each skin cell celebrating. “don’t ask, just do.”
maybe she wasn’t that shy at all, her tongue plumose against your breasts, tactically twirling around your nipple. it’s only when she envelopes it with her lips and gingerly sucks that you distinguished how wet you were, the fabric of your underwear thick with your arousal with every thrust against her thigh. but something’s different, something that was truly incorporeal, your clit blitzed in a way that feels foreign. “fuck..” you whisper, because you’ve clocked that you’d never been this fragile before.
everything is nirvana, the sensitivity in your clit only intensifying when you can feel her lips slurp at your other nipple; tongue flicking against it with enough expertise to force your legs into tremor. you can feel the clarity of the explosive latchstring in your hips as much as you can decipher how desperately you’re rocking against her, and with every sound of her lips leaving your tits with a pop, it’s almost as if fresh nerves that you hadn’t known built you up were being elicited.
you look down to see the blooming disorder she’d made of your breasts, nipples that were swollen and torrent with callous red; unrelentingly vulnerable to the masterly manipulation of her tongue stroking against them, glossing them with her spit. “you like sucking on a stripper’s tits, huh?” you exhale, and feel your limbs tingle when she hums.
you’re still twitching on her in waves of rupture when she looks up, lips glistening so pornographically; lashes that fan against her lacy cheeks so innocently that you feel as though you’re being made fun of.
you can’t comprehend anything through the overload of indecent fantasies - fantasies that became fuelled when you were victim to her hands, staring at how obscenely her knuckles contracted; raunchy veins of lapis operating her fingers so seductively. she notices how you feast your eyes on them, and teases you by slithering them down your stomach, a feathery stroke that explores the ebony pearls on your waist. “do you want them inside you, miss?” she whispers, tongue still fondling over your nipples.
please.
you feel your organs molten inside, and you’re nodding under automatism. you want to appreciate a sneeze-like high; head a carousel with the addiction that she provided, that only she provided, because you’d never nosedived off such a tremendous cliff into such heavenly bliss like she had done just by wrapping her pretty lips around your breasts.
your hands mount her jaw tenderly, because you want a lick of that addiction - her lips a gleam so vivid that it made a dullsville of the neon authenticity. you lean in, slotting in the key with the lock when she tilts her head for you; it’s mellow when you submerge her lips, and although the tempo between you was simpatico, you found that you were the one initiating. so you sink into her, tilting your head to enhance her taste - she’s smoky, with subtle tints of citrus and cedar on your tongue. but it’s medicine, warm and stimulant on your tongue, gentle laps that create a string of spit when she’d part from you - and you’d be quick to swallow, desperate to be polluted by her fluids.
she’s becoming assertive.
“please just fuck me with your fingers.” you whisper against her lips, hand mechanical to glide the fabric shielding your cunt to one side; you can tell by her eyebrows dipping in foreboding and the way basil optics bleach with daunt that her blood’s running cold about this. “i’ve never done this before, miss.” she whispers, and you’re about to ask her if she wants to stop if it wasn’t for her boldly slewing her finger through your folds, the texture of your slick glossing her skin deliciously - you couldn’t only feel it, but you could fucking hear it.
“that’s okay..” you whisper, shuffling against her, your fingers hallow against her wrist as you orient them with your entrance. “i’m gonna ride them.” you hum, and you know she’s taking a shine to the idea by how her other hand harmonises your hip; fingers supporting your weight against her.
and she commends how ravaged you look right now - disordered stray hairs adhesive to the sides of your face, scleras that had adjusted to the holiness of being able to stare at her tongue glossing your body.
it’s euphoria when you slowly descend into her fingers, feeling her fingertips massage your walls when you sink. the raw-boned chords that you’d known were her knuckles stroking against every explicit hormone surrounding your hips, and you can taste the crisp grass from the promised land when she twines both of them inside; it’s not enough to bullseye that spongy target, and so you whisper to her. “just a little more, babe.”
she’s supervening, serenity boiling inside when she wreathes her fingers just a little more for you - that spongy target fondled under her influence. you can’t repress the pathological trembling of your thighs against hers, nor the psychosis of feeling as though you’d been hovering in the untainted vapour of afterworld clouds. “your cunt feels so good inside, miss.”
is she fucking dirty talking?
you’re instinctual to start bouncing on her fingers, that inflammable sponge being hammered with every rock, some more dynamic than others. “fuck, that’s it, babe.” you whimper with breathless difficulty. and she watches how your body reacts, the sensitivity in your clit augmenting whenever she cunningly rubs her palm against it; the way your tits bounce with such sap before her very eyes and how her palm radiates how fucking thickly drenched your cunt is - her tongue ready to onslaught you, sour to stay in her mouth.
she wants to ask you if you want to sit on her face, but upon remembering your don’t ask just do stratagem, she’s conflicted - it still felt wrong for her to assume. so she glissades her fingers out slowly, browsing how your discharge oozes out onto her palm, and looks back up at you. “please let me taste you, miss.” she whispers.
but you want her to lose patience; you want to activate whatever barbarity is concealed in those flaming fucking eyes. so you whisper,
“earn it.”
“please, let me, miss.”
you slowly shake your head with a smirk.
“i’ll make you feel good, promise..”
you shake your head again, and you can see it melting away, irises narrowing with pique - but she tries her luck again.
“i’ll be good to you, miss.. i’ve been so good..”
and when you shake your head and tut, you clock that something’s different in her expression, nefarious globes that pierced through you with such warped lechery and belittlement.
oh, that’s good.
you feel her hand frame your jaw, and it’s claustrophobic when she presses her forehead against yours. she’s not hostile with you, her touch so sincere, and that’s what’s starting to make you feel so hot inside. you can see her eyes look around for the words, but they seem to flow out so instinctually despite the internal struggle.
“you feel this?” she whispers, her tongue wheeling up your cheek, and you nod.
“i’m gonna use it to lick your pussy dry, you hear me?”
bingo.
“and i’m not gonna stop until i can feel your cunt come in my mouth.”
what have you done to this girl?
“so let me taste you, miss.” she’s stern, and slow, and it forces your leg to lift slightly; reserving that special vip seat you were hoping she’d fill as soon as you saw her.
her eyes are venomous when your slit is before her, damp fingers that clamp your thighs and are tender yet so hungry to plummet you down to her face. you can feel her nose brush against your mound, and your legs brandish against her when you feel her tongue flick your clit, your hips can’t repress the pathological shaking; it’s transcendental, the wetness of her tongue making you feel like morphinism. with every swipe against your clit only magnified how eager your back arched, yet had deteriorated the strength in your limbs.
but what was aggravating taps was only a dip in the waters, becoming one long interminable lick - you’re rocking against her tongue tenderly, the planetary strokes of her lips contagious enough. and if the coil in your hip wasn’t assaulted enough, it’s at the edge of the cliff when she teases your entrance with two fingers, your slick glossing the tips. they stream into you slowly, and she goes deeper than intended with how silken you feel inside.
“shit.” you whine, feeling higher than the fucking himalayas when they wreathe into you, searching for that fucking spot.
you’re about to give her a helping hand, but after a few seconds, she finds it by herself - fingers twining into that extraterrestrial latchstring, waiting with anticipation to detonate.
good girl.
she grows accustomed to how it feels, how it moulds itself pathetically around her, impulsive fingertips thrusting against it as your thighs wreak havoc against her shoulders. “fucking dirty talk me.” you exhale, and the saturated slap on your clit was enough to make you squeak.
your cunt leaking onto her fingers, how the skin of your folds slaps against her hand with desire; it’s getting too much, that savage corkscrew spiralling your hips at velocities that seemed inhumane. “you’re gonna fucking come on me, aren’t you?” she hisses against your folds. “i can feel you getting tight, you filthy whore.”
you hear it, translucent and crystal clear. “you like being used as a sex toy, huh?”
oh, you have no idea.
“dripping all over my face, you fucking prostitute.”
you spurt cum onto her tongue, body tense as everything tightens; you can’t bleach the blemishes of beryl in your vision, swimming in rhythms of seraphic orgasm. you hadn’t even noticed how smeared your face was with tears, having being recent since they were still freshly running.
your hips dynamite, thighs shuddering against her violently - you’re catapulted into cloud nine, clit feeling as though it had exploded from the gritting assault of humping against her fucking lips. “fuck.. you just..” you try to speak, but your breath is jagged; prioritising instant relief to alleviate your havocked pulse. “made me come..” you whine, only registering throughout the dopamine that you’d been clawing at her hair, your fingers numb from nipping at her with such hankering. “made me come..” you repeat dreamily, and blink through the haze.
she sits beside you, legs spread and patting the space between them. you can’t decipher her expression through the amaranthine and your smushed cheek against the sofa, only her voice in your ear. “was that good, miss?”
thank god you came to work tonight.
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paddockbunny · 2 years
Text
We're All Friends Here - Part 2 -
Read Part One Here
Summary : You were Pierre's friend first and then he had to go and introduce you to one Mr Charles Leclerc, and what happens with you two couldn't exactly be described as friends. But then Pierre goes and complicates things even more by walking in on Charles eating you out..... Rating : 18+ Pairing : Charles Leclerc x Reader & Pierre Gasly x Reader & Charles Leclerc x reader x Pierre Gasly Word Count : 1,265 Trigger Warnings : 18+, NSFW, Male Masterbation, Threesomes, Fingering, PinV sex, Unprotected sex, Dirty Talk, Pet names, Oral male & female receiving, adult language & dom! themes 💞 *Authors Note : I thought it was important to the plot to include Pierre's POV a little so you know what happens to allow him to be a part of the actual threesome itself (which is coming in part 3) Gif found : @gcsly
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Pierre excitedly waited for what he knew he would receive any second. His cock twitched under the covers. The lingerie was nice but he wanted to see more, he was desperate to see more. He had worked fast. They had only just met that night (a few hours ago in fact) and due to his lame friends sleeping a few metres away, here he was with a hard cock and no mouth to ease it with. This girl was hot and Pierre knew if he had an extra twenty minutes he would have been back at her hotel and she would be bent over her bed right now. Then the image he had been waiting on finally appeared and Pierre had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from moaning. His face illuminated from the glow of his phone as a smirk appeared on his face. He bit on his bottom lip hard. Her body was insane. Tight and taught. Her boobs were perfect. Her nipples the brown-y pink shade matched the beautiful colour of her skin. But it was hard for Pierre to spend more than a fleeting glance on all of the other bits of her when the part he wanted to see most was on full display for him. His cock twitched again when he wished he were currently satisfying his hungry taste buds with the taste of her dripping pussy. And he gave himself brownie points for guessing correctly. She was waxed totally bare - freshly, if the lighting was really telling the truth. He lowered the bedding and was just about to pull his rock hard erection free from its confines in his tight boxers when he heard a distinct grunt and it made him pause. He thought initially he imagined it. He had to have. It was only him and Charles that could have made such a low throaty groan and he almost chuckled at his own ridiculousness. It wasn’t Charles, it was his imagination. He shook his head. After all, Charles hadn’t spoken to any girls all night and he had zero game recently so who could he be groaning for? He laughed again when he thought that Charles may have been taking care of himself too just like he was. And with that thought dancing in his brain cells he noted to mock him for it tomorrow. But then, just after he pulled his cock out and was away to snap a very uncouth dick pic to send to whats-her-name, he heard a loud female gasp. Charles was watching porn, crossed his mind instantly. The dirty fucker was watching porn loudly with no earphones when he had houseguests. Pierre thought he really hit the jackpot with joke material when suddenly there was another noise which sounded a lot more like a pleasurable moan and Charles’ name. And then it fully hit him that indeed Charles was having sex…and the only person he could possibly have been having sex with was YOU!
He waited a little longer and swallowed when he thought of you having sex with anyone, not just Charles. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t fantasise about it sometimes. You were hot, more than hot, you were practically on fire and Pierre wanted to blur the friendship lines between you both many, many times. You had this aura about you. This passion that lurked beneath a very beautiful surface that tempted him nearly every time you were in his presence but he would never threaten the friendship he had with you. So then suddenly it dawned on him how angry he should be at the fact you were fucking his best friend only a few meters away from him. Charles! Of all people it was Charles. Sure Pierre could see the appeal in a guy like Charles but he wasn’t your type. He heard what sounded like a muffled moan again and for some reason his cock seemed to quiver and he realised that he actually enjoyed thinking about you having sex – not who you were having it with – and was actually kind of jealous.
Pierre waited for a few minutes. Listening intently for any more noises that may have passed through Charles’ far too thin walls. Every noise seemed more muffled as if you were trying hard not to be loud and were simply struggling with the task. What was Charles doing to you that had you so moaning for him so quickly? Pierre’s hand had wrapped itself around his cock and he paused for the briefest of moments. Was it right that he got himself off to the sound of two of his best friend’s fucking in the next room? He doubted himself but he slowly pulled his hand back towards his base before pausing and pushing back up toward his tip. He repeated the motion slowly a few more times before he realised he had nothing to loose by leaving the bed he was lying in and knocking on the door. Charles wouldn’t ask him to leave. He might be a little pissed he had been interrupted but he wouldn’t chuck him out. You would maybe stop talking to him for a little while but you were best friends, you’d work it out. But regardless of what the implications may have been when he left his room and knocked on the door to Charles room, Pierre decided he wanted in on it. Nudes from a random girl were all fine and well but he wanted nothing more than to fuck.
So he swallowed, pulled the duvet back, pulled his boxers back up his tanned thighs and got out of bed. Making his way to the door he was confident in his decision. Pausing only for the briefest of moments when he finally opened the door to the pitch-black hallway and took the few steps to Charles door. He listened again and now he was pretty sure that Charles must have had his head between your thighs, tongue dancing on your pussy. He knocked gently but it went unnoticed and so he turned the handle and slowly opened the door. Where his mind had gone was exactly what greeted his eyes when he finally got to gaze upon the scene. Charles on his knees on the floor with your legs either side of his head. He had never seen such a heavenly sight before. Your eyes were screwed tightly shut and your bottom lip was between your teeth, purpling at the harshness of you bite. And before he realised it, he was staring into your eyes. They had flickered open and he couldn’t even blink if he wanted too.
“Charles…” Your hand tapped the back of his head. “Stop.” And like a safe word, it triggered Charles instantly to stop what he was doing and look up at her. French words trailed from him – asking why she had stopped him, if she changed her mind and begging her to continue because she tasted so good when she came – before his eyes followed hers and were met by his blonde compatriot. Hesitation built in Pierre. He felt wrong for standing there watching them now. But then again, his cock had never felt harder in his life. “Mind if I join?” It was bold of him but as Charles’ eyes left his to look back at you, legs still spread wide on the bed, it dawned on him that Charles was game and was looking at you for your confirmation. And with a nod and a smirk, Pierre realised he was in for the night of his life.     
💞TAG LIST : @buendiabebeta @cersti-mo0 @lovelynikol16 @teddyluvs @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @vergilsthighs @bisexual-desi @lizziebitch33 @humongoussandwichcomputer
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deep-fried-egg · 7 months
Text
I need you for the oxytocin
This fic includes: g!p, a/b/o, alpha! Billie, Omega! R, r was a little hesitant at first, cockwarming, rut/heat cycles
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SMUT BELOW THE CUT
Sometimes being the assistant of a big musician has it's perks! for one you get to meet a famous person and two... you might be able to help them through a very poorly timed rut.
That's actually what happened tonight. I'm pretty nervous since I'll be helping out the most beautiful woman I have ever met. she's got light blue eyes with a darker shade of blue around the edges of her irises. also she recently dyed the roots of her hair bright red! it looks amazing on her.
I can't stop thinking about her either. She is so beautiful and so talented. I'm so lucky to be allowed to be her assistant!
I had to stop her from going out on stage though. I mean she was going to go into rut SOON. I could smell it on her. and she had an extremely long set! I didn't want her to go into rut on stage and embarrass herself. plus I'm sure there is tons of omegas in the crowd that would go crazy if they smelled her going into rut. I just couldn't let her go out there.
I couldn't betray her like that! not after all of there years working together . It was too late for me to turn back. I had already made the decision to go up to her and tell her to stop.
"Hey Billie I- what are you doing?" I had definitely come into her dressing room at the worst time possible. she was grinding up against the handheld mic.
I guess she hadn't realized that I had walked in yet, so I waited for her to smell my presence. then when I noticed she did, I took a small step back. hoping to hide behind the door to give her some space to finish.
As soon as I took a step back she spoke up.
"I can feel you staring. quit it and help me out. aren't you supposed to be my assistant?" The alpha's voice had gotten deeper, more seductive, more... sexual.
She eventually decided to ignore me and started to grind down again, But now she was making a lot more noise than before.
I think the audience wanted to hear her, they must've been really excited. but it didn't seem to matter to her anymore.
"Billie!" I yelled, "What do you think you're doing!?" I grabbed her by the shoulder and tried to move her away from the mic. she shrugged me off.
"Do you not want to help me? do you want me to ask someone else to do it?"
"Fuck it." I replied. I wasn't going to lose this opportunity to touch THE Billie Eilish. So I moved closer to her and grabbed the handheld microphone she was holding and set it on the counter the alpha was sitting on right in front of the big mirror Billie had in her dressing room.
I took my other hand and cupped Billie's cheek. the alpha's face lit up even more. her skin was soft and warm. it felt amazing to be touching her like this.
she put one hand on my hip and brought the other down to her black and white shorts and pulled them down and off without hesitation. she then started to touch her hard cock through her boxers, looking away from me so she can pay attention to her throbbing dick.
I watched as she rubbed her hand over her shaft and slowly started to stroke it.
after a few seconds she paused so she could slip her boxers off too. then she turned back to me with those ocean eyes of hers. she still had one of her hands gripping my hip tightly, she needed something to ground her to reality while she was in this rut. or perhaps it was just another form of control. I couldn't tell. all I could tell was that the scent of her arousal was overpowering me, filling every cell of my body. it was like the air was thick with lust, sex, and raw animal instincts. it was intoxicating.
"Y'know what? I want you to cockwarm me. let me sit down in my chair." Billie said and pushed herself off the table towards her chair where she sat. I immediately followed suit. she looked up at me through her eyelashes, trying to read the look on my face. I just stared right back at her with my mouth agape. it was like I couldn't take my eyes off her.
I quickly regained my composure and undressed so I could slip her twitching dick inside of me. she groaned and ran her hands over my now bare hips making me flinch from how cold her rings felt against my skin.
I placed one hand on the back of her head and I wrapped my other arm around her waist pulling her into me and burying my nose in the crook of her neck. I gripped the back of her
Chicago Bulls jersey and inhaled deeply. She had to go on stage in about 30 minutes so things had to speed up. I knew that she would just take her suppressants after this so I need to enjoy this while it lasts.
"Could you do my hair for me? I don't know what style to do." Billie asked, pulling my head from her neck, "I always end up doing something weird."
"Sure." I answered, reaching around her to grab the elastics she had on the desk behind her. It'll be hard to focus with the way her dick is throbbing inside of me. she leaned back on the chair as I began to put her hair into two messy little buns on each side of her head.
Billie sat patiently as I tied them off. it took me a bit longer than usual, mainly because Billies huge dick inside of me was distracting me from the task at hand.
Billie softly trusted her hips up, pushing her dick deeper into me. I stopped tying the buns and slid my hands over her thighs, gently rubbing
she moaned "Oh, oh, I'm getting close baby. you feel good." she purred.
It seems like shes trying to mess me up at this point. does she want her hair to look bad? or is she just enjoying her current predicament?
Billie continued to buck her hips up, trying to make my job even harder for me. she's clearly trying to distract me. Its working.
Suddenly I felt billies knot slide out, pressing right against my pussy as she tried to shove it inside of me. we didn't have enough time to wait for her knot to go down though! I mean we only have 25 minutes until she needs to go onstage and perform. I didn't have enough time to tell her that though. as soon as I opened my mouth to ask her to not knot me she did the one thing I didn't want her to do. she fucking knotted me.
I felt all of her cum filling me up, going straight into my womb.
Is it too late to tell her that I'm not on birth control...?
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psychokittycat101 · 17 days
Text
(Wriothsley x fem reader) Warnings: Mentions of injuries (treating them), 612 words count
Note: Sorry for not posting as much but this for one of my friend’s birthday lol
|A Gift for you|
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Being the head nurse of a prison does show your skills more often than you think. Though a place of restraint and punishment, there are times when things could go haywire.
For example, a fight had gone loose in the prison cells earlier today. You don’t know the details of it, but many were left injured, with bruises, and open cuts from impact you assume. While your coworkers were tending to prisoners who were caught in the crossfire, you were left to tend to the one and only Prison Administrator, Wriothesley.
You must admit, his tall physique and multiple scars do seem intimidating, but he is a very kind and smart person. You have to admit you do have a small crush on the administrator, but he doesn’t know. That’s all you and your coworkers have been talking about lately. They deemed you lucky to be tending to Wriothesley’s cuts.
As you were disinfecting some cuts near his bupper abdomen. Wriothesley hisses in pain as you apply disinfectant to the cuts. “I’m sorry boss, just need to get a few more spots,” you mutter. “It’s alright, it seems you're doing a good job as well, no wonder you were promoted to head nurse,” he said in return.
You giggled as you began applying bandages to the areas that had cuts. Though he thought you were being professional and calm about this situation, it was hard not to be at the same time. In addition to treating his cuts, you couldn’t help but ogle at his very seductive biceps, muscles, and toned abs.
The scars all around his upper body just made him even more sexier. “Do you feel any pain anywhere else on your body sir?” He shook his head as he put back on his shirt. It was fun while it lasted to see him shirtless. “Also I saw that today was your birthday, is it not?” he asked. You looked towards as you were putting your supplies away, “Yes it is how did you know Sir Wriothesley?”
“I put it on my calendar, that way I wouldn’t forget such a gorgeous girl’s birthday,” he winked. Your face started turning to a shade of pink, he laughed as he saw your expression, “And don’t I didn’t see you ogling at me while treating me.” You only became even more flushed as you started profusely apologizing.
As you kept apologizing a sudden object came atop your head. You looked up to see Wriothesley smiling with a gift box in hand. “This is for you, also are you free after this, maybe we can have a nice birthday dinner together?” he asked. You wanted to mess with him a little for embarrassing you earlier, “Are you indirectly asking me on a date Wriothesley?” you giggled and gladly accepted the gift Wriothesley had presented to you.
“And what if I am,” he said as he took my face in his hands. You blushed hard as he went in and kissed you. You were stunned dropping the gift box, it falling to the floor. The thud had brought Wriothesley back to his senses as he pulled away.
“Sorry I just couldn’t wait to do that until tonight, unless you don’t want to go to dinner with me,” he says in a low voice. You only pull away for a second, until you go in to kiss Writhesley on the cheek. He reddens as you say, “Yes I’d love to go out to dinner with you Wriothesley, it’s better than celebrating alone anyway,” you sighed. You both did nothing but smile at each other and went in for another kiss, you couldn’t wait until tonight either.
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acidcasualties · 3 months
Text
Katchi, ch 2
AO3 link: Chapter 2: Gaunt, Angular, Pale Anorexic
Chapter 1 tumblr post Chapter 3
Katchi masterlist
in which we get to meet the sultry god himself; though not in all of his glory. But who would be, jailed for a crime he didn't commit?
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Teuta woke up one of the next mornings, feeling like seven different hells. Well, nine; one for each of the Realms in this hell of a universe. Her solitary confinement was too small. The blanket on the floor didn’t disguise the hard metal much, so her back hurt as well as her hips; and the cold had seeped through her bones, bringing that dread of pure hopelessness. It’s not the first time she’d harboured these feelings, and had to dig down through the layers of the cold, and the angst, and the depression to find that seed of courage. So she got up, forcing herself to stretch thoroughly, for at least an hour, controlling her breathing and focusing on the barely perceptible swoosh of blood through her veins. Or something like that – which she’d now begun hallucinating after the long days of her cherry-on-top punishment.
Videlicet, she’d allowed herself to fall asleep with the stolen quarnyx battery in her hands; right in the middle of the shared prison space, where the guards saw her immediately upon entering.
The absolutely atrocious stupidity of the act left even her shocked, and the rest of the inmates indifferent; seeing as how nobody was surprised that a Kylosian would do something like that.
She was thrown into isolation for the ten days. With barely any food. Or space. Or light. Or air.
There isn’t much to say about not differentiating between day and night and trying to guess what the thick, mustardy fluid was (soup, obviously), or what the slimy sloppy piece of sponge was (overcooked vegetable of alien disposition); not much about the occasion at all. Using the strongest titbits of her imagination, she fashioned herself a hermit’s ritual of creating rhythm in the vapid surrounding, and tried to hibernate all other sensations to deal with later. So, she fell asleep in the night she fashioned this darkness around her to be.
A thud of metal woke her, with a guard instructing her to get up. Guiding her through the walkways and hallways, he brought her back to what used to be a prison, but now seemed a luxuriously, lavishly decorated oasis. She was blinded once again by the amount of light, and covered her eyes for a few seconds, just as something grabbed her shoulder.
“Mistress Lamaria! Your stench is far greater than it was before. It is akin to a dying animal which defecated herself after being stabbed through. Perhaps like a garbage eating creature, a raccoon.”
“You’re the one to talk shit, you excrement-coloured Nimrod,” replied a very familiar voice behind Drachiri. Teuta’s breath hitched, and she forced her hands off her eyes and squinted, waiting a bit before the images focused enough for her to recognise the triangular, furry silhouette. It was her friend. She felt a wave of painful relief and fell down on her knees, starting to sob violently.
“Rock-et… Ro…” She tried speaking, but failed at it miserably. He approached her, holding her by the shoulders with his small hands, an unusually sympathetic expression in his large, friendly eyes.
“Hey, idiot girl, calm down. Drachiri isn’t lying, you smell like Quill’s toilet after a chilli eating contest.”
She let out a snort of something akin to laughter. She held his wrist for a few minutes more, her painful eyelids closed and breathing, calming down slightly.
Loki was sitting on the bed in his cell, the third one from the exit/entrance, calmly reading a book and chewing on Zarg nuts when the doors opened and a guard allowed a female prisoner in. She was a tall Kylosian with crinkled, tattered prison garb, covered in various stains; no doubt bodily fluids. Her skin wasn’t even a normal, hueless Kylosian shade of ugly, it was almost as red as her markings. Obviously fresh from detention. The other Kylosian who was strangely friendly to him ran to her, followed by the only inmate he had a normal conversation with; the speaking Midgardian raccoon. Which was the reason they had conversation; he had never seen that sort of an animal talk before. Quite witty, cynical, and full of underlying hatred, which only meant he could be a possible commodity in these dire circumstances. The woman cried like she was dying, and kept pulling at the raccoon, sobbing and trying to speak; a scene so desperately hideous it kept drawing his attention away from his reading material. They knew each other well, judging by the loving expression in Rocket’s eyes, and the softness with which he patted the matted jungle of the brown Kylosian hair on her head.
Teuta required a shower. Evading it earlier, when the concern for her disguise outweighed the self-disgust, no longer mattered: for the stench and the state of her skin and her precious openings longed for the normally cold Centaurian water and that excuse for a soap which now seemed a bathhouse specialty. Drachiri helped her call the guards. They wouldn’t normally rush the process of dragging prisoners to the showers and back again, but this one was so truly repulsive they couldn’t resist it. She was grateful for every drop and scrubbed even the magicked hair clean, holding the dark strands in her hands. She started to miss her own, usually blonde, hair. The process was longer than needed, and guards kept rushing her, but not even that dampened the enjoyment of reaching a semblance of normality. Braiding her hair messily back on top of her head, to make it look as matted as it usually did, she pulled on clean clothes and endured the pain in her newly moving feet to walk back to the cell.
Drachiri helped her to her bed. She told him to leave her alone for now.
“You okay?” Rocket asked, squinting.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just need a few hours to adjust. This is your fault.”
“Right. Why did you have a useless battery anyway?!”
“It was supposed to be a gift for you.”
“Oh. Figures.”
“You’re late, rat.”
He grinned at her.
“You got sloppy. Can’t handle even a single jail without my majestic help.”
“It’s Tungsten A. Nobody can handle this.”
“I can.”
She grinned back, though weakly.
“What did you do to end up here?”
He looked around himself one more time, making sure nobody was listening in on them.
“I wrecked that Skrull ship. You remember that idiot Raksur?”
“No way!”
“Way, my dumb human friend. It was piece of cake. The Andromedans reached me before they did, not suspecting a thing. I’ll tell you all about it. Right before I pull one million units from down your lyin’ throat for making me go to that polyurethan breather.”
Teuta laughed heartily now, a first real laugh in the longest time. The chime of it echoed through the entire cell block, reaching the ears of Loki, who frowned.  That doesn’t sound like a Kylosian laughter.
“Shh, don’t call me that.”
“Yeah, I was about to get to that. A Kylosian, are you for real?”
“Who else, with my height?”
“Well, you’re truly ugly now. Not your usual ugly. This is assaulting my eyes. And what’s the deal with that beast? Is he your boyfriend?”
“Who? Drachiri? He’s been useful in protecting me. They’re incredibly loyal to their kind. It’s… Could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Are you letting him be loyal to your tattooed cu-“
Teuta grabbed his skinny neck. He hit her hand and she let go.
“Obviously not, fur-face.”
“Whew. Good. I was worried I was getting into another hot boozy mess. Like Quill. Remember Quill?”
“Rocket…”
“Fine, don’t get your panties in a bunch, I won’t mention him. Geez. You’re sensitive. Are you… doing that thing dumb females from… your home world do monthly?”
Teuta sighed loudly.
“Yes.”
Rocket looked around, trying to change the subject by finding something in her cell to talk about, when his eyes landed on the inmate sleeping a bit farther away, on the floor of the shared block.
“Anybody useful around here?”
“Some. Drachiri is strong. There’s the Kree, seems a traitor, could provide distraction. Also, another Centaurian called-“
“Kree in cell three? With Frode?”
“With who?”
“Frode. The Asgardian; gaunt, angular, pale anorexic?”
Teuta frowned, fully confused. Then it dawned on her, with a flashing image of that sleek black hair in her mind.
“Oh! Right. No, haven’t met him. He arrived the evening I… fell asleep with the battery.”
“Wait, you fell asleep? Laid your big ass down on the floor, closed your eyes and fell asleep? You are even more stupid than I remember, Tea. Not even Groot would do that, and he has the brains of a tree!” Rocket hunched over, laughing loudly and tapping the bed with his fist. Her eyelids dropped down half-mast as her nostrils flared. She didn’t know what to say. Battling between choking him again and hugging his annoying person for she was so happy to see him, she got up and walked out, leaning on the fence and looking down. After five minutes of insulting her, he joined her, looking down on the chattering inmates.
“Oh, man. Tea.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Right, right. Mistress Lamaria. Honestly, it suits you more. You’ve chosen a near perfect physical image to accompany that slow-firing bundle of nerves inside that huge head-“
“Rocket.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop. Oh, this was worth the entire process of getting here. I haven’t laughed this hard in months.”
“I’ve missed you too, fur-face.”
She smiled at him. He winked at her.
There was the brief alarm signalling meal time.
“Shit, I’m starving.” Teuta spoke, before running down to get a seat on one of the tables. Rocket joined her. Drachiri saved her a seat, crouching in that horrible manner of respect. She caught herself almost smiling, before shaking her head. Could it be that she was actually endeared by this creature?
She ignored Rocket for a few brief moments before trying to grab the stew she normally ate, so fully hungry that she didn’t even dread the horror that awaited her taste buds – when Drachiri caught her by the wrist.
“Mistress Lamaria, in honour of the suffering you’ve experienced, I’ve saved you pork. Including my share. It is well deserved.”
“Uhh, thanks, but I’m good. I think my stomach needs adjusting first, so I’ll-“
“Mistress Lamaria, it’s the holy food of your honourable peoples. You have to accept it. Oh, hey man, sit with us.” After inviting the stranger to their table, Rocket smirked at her, trembling with barely held back laughter.
He knew full well how much she hated pork. One time, in a Sakaarian pub, she intentionally lost a bet to a Skrull just so she evaded having pork. That was a deal breaker. If somebody wanted to subdue her, break her every resolve, get all the answers out of her – all they had to do was push pork down her throat. She endured beatings, being pierced with various instruments, being drugged, kidnapped, schooled, silenced and made to wear pink ballgowns, but she drew the line at – pork. Now she glared at Rocket with the strength of the thousand despising suns.
Suddenly, she realised she was so intently focused to trying to shred Rocket to pieces with her gaze, she hadn’t even looked at who had joined them at the table.
Turning her head to her front, she was met with the pair of the greenest eyes she had ever seen.
No, not eyes; glowing poisonous forest pools.
Priceless emerald facets in the deepest caves on Earth.
The seaweed reflecting sunshine at the moment of its ripest existence. Sounds died out, she was alone now again, only aware of that colour.
She actually held her breath, her expression turning to a blank one, her head cocked to the side. When she managed to break the connection to his eyes, she saw the sunken dark circles underneath them, the gash on his pristine white cheek, the breaking of light underneath the chiselled cheekbone. He looked tired. Disconcertingly unable of not holding attention on his persona, but very, very tired. His hair was braided, resting on his back where she could not see it.
“Huh?” She asked, again hearing the sounds of her surroundings; realising Rocket was speaking to her. She looked at him.
“Are you picking up what I’m putting down, dumb girl? Hello?”
“What? Sorry, I’m not focused.”
“Pork. Eat it. You love it. Amen.”
Her eyelids dropped down again; she was gritting her teeth. Ignoring the stranger for a moment, she turned to look at Drachiri, taking his hand into both of hers.
“Drachiri, no. You can have my share.”
“I understand it is a grave insult to your nation to refuse a meal of pork given out of free will.” The stranger spoke suddenly. He had a dark, lustrous voice. A ridiculously true statement poured from it, so it was equally pleasing and annoying her.
“And who the fuck are you?” She said sharply, now glaring at him.
“Frode.”
“And should that mean something to me?”
His eyebrows lifted up, he seemed shocked by this.
Loki was shocked by this. This must’ve been the first Kylosian ever to utter a simple statement which contained more thought behind it, rather than an elaborate sentence without a nook or cranny of further meaning hidden inside. She seemed to be stunned by him for a full minute earlier. Not that this was a surprise to Loki. All manner of intelligent creatures and the ones less so were either attracted to or afraid of him. More of the first, generally. But never, and this needs to be well understood, never had a single Kylosian thought (or said) anything other than a horrid insult to the qualities which made him different from them. Even his first night here, when the giant Drachiri dragged him to his cell, he said something about the flakiness and the slimy white of his skin before dropping him to his bed. Who was this woman?
“And who are you?”
“Lamaria. It would be a true pleasure to make your acquaintance, Asgardian, but it was marred by your brave attempt at explaining the customs of my own people to me.”
He smiled for a split second.
“My apologies. Please, do not let me interrupt your meal.”
She nodded brusquely, before holding Drachiri’s hand. Another weird gesture.
“Drachiri, my noble Drachiri, I am…” She seemed to be looking to the floor, thinking. That was again bizarre. “On a fast. Yes! A fast! Umm… I am… fasting… until… umm, yes, that’s right. I’m fasting until the moment I rip the spine out of the last of the warriors who dared murder my husband. Yes.”
“Your speech is slurred; you’re sounding more stupid now than before. It is a sacrifice, I see, fair mistress. I understand.”
Rocket’s eyes were watering from how hard he kept laughing, banging his little fist on the table, making the cutlery jump up and down. Loki wondered what was so funny. The woman, certainly, but why?
It was probably due to her unusual nature. Yes, he noticed them hiding in her cell and talking. They were acquaintances of some sort, perhaps a criminal nature. Maybe, most likely, he needed her brutality for a heist (he was obviously a thief), and used her slightly elevated mentality for reasons yet unknown. Yet. Meanwhile, she slouched with obvious relief (what was that about?) and began lapping at the stew like a hungry dog. He dared a look at Rocket, who winked at him.
“And some Zarg nuts. That’s all I need.” She said, mostly to herself, before rising out of her chair and walking back to her cell. The nuts were not in the hole in the metal wall, carved by someone before her time. She frowned, searching the rest of the cell. Nothing. She hurried back to the table.
“Rocket, where are my nuts?”
“What nuts?” He looked genuinely confused. She looked at Drachiri.
“Did you touch my nuts?” She asked.
“Did you touch his nuts?” Rocket added, guffawing. She grabbed him by his throat. Nobody else even flinched. Teuta was about to say something else, when Drachiri spoke.
“I gave them to the Asgardian.”
“You what?!”
“I gave them to the Asgardian. You told me to be of help to him. And then you were taken away. So I took care of him until you’ve returned.”
Teuta couldn’t help herself, she looked to the ceiling for a moment, before taking a deep breath.
“Not literally, Drachiri. Just to take him to his cell.”
Drachiri frowned, truly not understanding a syllable.
“Ok, fine, whatever. You, Frode, give me back my nuts.” She looked at him, trying not to look too hard at the green of his eyes.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her red eyes were gigantic now, as she got closer to him. He kept blinking, obviously trying to understand why it seemed she was a more intelligent race than she was. The outrage of a Kylosian is followed by an old-fashioned demand and quite a literal threat. She was just waiting for him to explain himself.
“I quite like them. They’re the only balanced food in this cell block. And they’re mine now.”
“No. They are my nuts, and you were not supposed to get them. It was a misunderstanding, Asgardian. Give them back.”
“No.”
She jumped on her feet, banging her palms against the table and looming over him. He didn’t move an inch. Rocket held his spoon mid-air, looking back and forth between them with intent amusement.
“I will gut you like a fish, you haughty fucking skeleton!” She yelled loudly now. Ahh, there it is. She might be dumb after all. He grinned at her. For a split second, she was distracted at how wide that smile was, showing his perfect set of teeth underneath those thin, pink lips. It was a smile of a… no. She can’t be thinking about that sort of a smile now.
“Ooh… what will you do now, Te-Lamaria?” Rocket asked. Loki didn’t miss a hitch in his voice, storing it in his memory for later. Teuta did what she did best. She assessed the threat. Long fingers: blades. Good. She was good with blades. The best.
…Perhaps he was better. Asgardians were notoriously long-lived. More time to develop skills. Tall, very tall. Taller than her. Physical advantage – both the general strength and probably speed, considering she was still extremely weak from her malnourishment and the stiffness of her limbs. This was not a fight she could win. Right now, that is. Normally, yes, of course. It brought her great pleasure to see the look in their faces when she would almost always win.
Loki observed her. Her eyes were fleeting, looking him up and down, her splayed fingers on the table twitching, as did her full, bland lips. Lips that could’ve looked quite shapely if they weren’t that colour. No matter. She was thinking again. Weird.
Then she slouched and sat back down, asking Rocket to give her his nuts. He cackled several times and drew out his own pack. She opened it slowly, too slowly for a creature of a Kylosian rage (un)control, before eating one at a time, never taking her eyes off of his. He squinted.
“I need to rest.” She said, slouching all the way down in her chair. Loki remembered that she did, in fact, spent ten days in the punishment that the Centaurians deemed proper for this sort of a prison – quite an uncomfortable experience. One cannot understand the qualm of not knowing whether, in the pure darkness of the room, your shit hit the bottom of the bucket or the floor from where it most certainly shan’t be picked up by the guards. She truly did need the rest; and for a reason still unknown to him, he decided to reschedule the teasing he planned for her and not enact it now, in the perfect moment of weakness. Loki told himself it was due to the time needed for the scheming, and not the glaring obviousness of how confused he was by this surprising creature.
Loki was not surprised very often anymore. That’s why this event didn’t raise concern to him. That’s why he was here in the first place.
Three weeks ago, on Proxima Centauri b:
The Ravagers got there before him, which was entirely Loki’s fault. Had he not gotten into another reckless, chaotic indulgency trying to recreate his lost sexual art, he would have been there sooner. Sadly, as he was standing in the burning room of the ship, he was so full of loathing for what he had become that he hadn’t even noticed a shift in the atmosphere where the officers had landed a bit farther away.
The face of Ronan’s greatest mediator was covered in splotches of what used to be cerulean skin and quite beautifully carved true-blue insides. It was distracting. His body felt distracting.
The sensations running through him, the hangover, the disappointment, an onset of depression even – were so strong that he didn’t react at first.
He knew of the cure; Gullveig, a cast out, an immensely powerful witch who confronted Odin (and won) had told him of it. He found her at the capital of the Andromeda, Shangri-La, at the haven for pardoning souls. A free nation, tied loosely together by a series of aesthetic principles. Not that there weren’t any crimes; however, all of them had a truly natural way of being resolved: they melted into obscurity as the collective disapproval of the established, mellow, and soothing flow of life cast the perpetrators out. To the garbage bin of Alpha Centauri, with their steel-enforced law gravitas.
All in all, Gullveig resided there, host to a practice which helped all manners of creatures get better. From illness, from obscurity, from incompetence. The prices were… undeterminable. Often arcane, vague, illogical; but always attainable. Sometimes it took decades. But every single treated soul was compelled to pay it, for Gullveig had found a way to tap into the largest pool of riches the Universe held: the need for balance in the status quo. For a cure of the manipulated mind, she might have sought the very magical item causing it. For mending bones, there would certainly be obtaining a rare metal (gold, always gold, she couldn’t get enough of it). If a woman seeking pleasure entered, she gave it to her, considering her own pleasure a price paid. For wounds, the price depended on the form: a cut would require capturing a wild, beneficial animal; a stab heralded fixing a deflated zeppelin; and a bite from a demon required rare medicinal equipment.
When Loki entered her shop, she squealed and hugged him. He had been her favourite student, back on Asgard. A truly smart boy who understood balance, for he always tipped it the favour of Chaos, something rarely appreciated in the heavenly domain of Odin (which is a story for another day). Loki had qualms about revealing his issue, but there was no point in embellishing it:
“Gullveig. I can’t get it up.”
He expected laughter and wittiness which could only come from a woman who took truly immense pleasure in a solely male weakness. She didn’t laugh. She ran behind her billowing eggplant died curtain, gasping. There was a noise of glass clanking against glass. She came back with four jars of soil and a vial of red ink.
“Gullveig.”
She started opening the jars and mixing the dirt in a large wooden bowl, not paying attention to him.
“Gullveig.”
She sighed. He sighed, looking at the jars on the shelves. Frogs, flowers, dirt from various worlds, vibranium shavings, an undeterminable paper crumple, acid rain drops, angel tears, charred bones, healthy bones, cod’s liver, Viagra (didn’t work), painkillers, lizards’ tails, and finely ground single origin Arabica. Nothing that could help him. He had tried it all. Gullveig finished completely stirring the soil and covered it with saran wrap (which was apparently a multiversal item).
“Gullveig?” He asked, immediately taking a step to his right to avoid the impending slap of her bony hand contorted with the weight of the golden rings upon it. There was a faint whoosh of air past his left ear where she missed him.
“I heard you, gelding.”
“I’m not-“
“Shut up and listen to me. You must go to Una-Rogg-“
“Oh fuck that Kreean cunt-“
“You did, unsuccessfully. Shut up. A bionic needle from her custom-made antimatter laser, inserted to the hilt- to the HILT, gelding - should solve your issue.”
Loki’s expression of disgust melted into that of disbelief, his arms disentangled from their position across the chest as his jaw dropped down.
“How can anyone- why should- there is no taking such pain, Gullveig. You’re playing with me.”
“I’m not. There’s no blockage in the matter of life and death and sex that cannot be pierced by that bionic needle.”
“I have never heard of this.”
“You mother was lenient with your studies. I told her this, often. You were lazy. Prone to idiotism. Too impulsive.”
Loki took a deep breath.
“Very well. Now, I wonder what the price for this extravagant treatment of my best feature could possibly be. Or is the pain enough?” He asked, immediately ducking her next swing.
“Believe me, my poor boy, if you don’t go immediately, you’ll find yourself longing for something as sweet as pain.”
He frowned. Her amber eyes were suddenly glassy.
“Never mind. She’s on Proxima b. Pass me that vial.”
She said, and he held the red ink.
“I’m supposing this soil has something to do with me.”
“No, this is for another idiot of your calibre.”
“You do tribal tattoos now.”
“It seems I do.” She said nothing more, and for a while, there was only silence disturbed by the sound of dirt being soaked in magical ink. Loki stared at the mixture, thinking about the impending pain his beloved prick will soon go through. He nodded to himself and turned around to exit.
“Loki?”
Gullveig wanted to warn him about a number of things to come, or to give advice about how to handle incoming uncertainties – she was compelled by how much she loved the boy – but she knew not even he could understand, so she shook her head and said, vaguely, but with a wise smile:
“Do not resist it too much.”
“Resist what?”
She grabbed his throat, squeezing tightly to punish him for the question, all the while smiling serenely.
“The law, or the love.”
He frowned as she released him, coughing and observing the doors of her shop closing in front of him.
In a few days he was on the burnt ship of Una-Rogg, watching her body that had been mauled by the Ravagers while Centauri officers were cuffing him. It was quite futile trying to convince them it wasn’t him. They knew who he was, they knew how much he lied, and were adamant this was a revenge of some sort, considering the relationship with this woman in the past. He did feel sorry for her, despite how they parted and how she tricked him (if anything, a good hoax, or a swindle of his persona would only make him hard as a rock and as wanting of a good fuck; alas, that was also lost now); because she had fallen in love with Ronan and all her powers and charms were lost to the mindlessness of his fanaticism. So maybe she was better off dead anyway.
Now, right now:
Loki wasn’t certain he cared about the state of his flaccid sex. Not now, after the beating and the process. He was depressed again, a most cumbersome state of mind; something rarely penetrated by any of the usual excitement. A state of being which equalled enduring life. Not that he hasn’t laughed or been excited - it sliced through the humdrum of breathing, grazing the upper layers of connecting with the world -but never, never, never shaved off the thick fur of complete stillness he craved all the time.
It always took a long time to get through it. He sighed in his cell, heavily. Luckily, his cellmate, the Kree woman, was very silent. She never even spoke to him, existing like a ghost. It was comforting, that he was able to ignore her. After the first two days of restless sleeping while he tried recovering from his wounds and painful joints, sleep didn’t come regularly. He would get up and sit in front of the luckily opened southern wall, to stare into the numerous stars of this otherwise hideous planetary system. It brought stillness and unmovable sensations, something which provided a bland semblance of comfort.
So, he went there.
Forgetting even the momentary laugh of annoying the weird Kylosian inmate, he slouched on the indentation on the floor. It was an ass-shaped pitting, from a very, very large ass. Apparently, an obese giant fell there before accidentally falling into space. Nonetheless, it made it more comfortable to sit on.
Teuta couldn’t sleep. She was still hungry, still annoyed, still in pain. For a while she lay on her hip, holding her palm on Drachiri’s forearm, finding comfort in a touch of a relatively friendly creature after ten days of nightmares and heavy breathing. But dreams evaded her, her mind fearing she’d wake up there again. Deciding to go let the vast universe bring possible peace, she got up and wanted to jump down to go sit there, in her place.
Teuta was proud of how quiet she could be. Decades of training to be a spy gave her the ability to move about unseen. And when she grabbed the fence of her upper floor, she saw him there. Him there. On her spot. The Asgardian.
Teuta smiled.
Slowly moving down, she went to the right, instead of to the left, where the opened wall was. She went in the direction of his cell. Making absolutely sure he wasn’t looking, she sneaked in, seeing the Kree awake.
A kind of kinship existed between them. Teuta felt bad for a creature betrayed by her own race, a woman who seemed to be awoken from their fanaticism and military ways. They made friends months ago. She even considered revealing her disguise, wanting desperately to have anybody see her for who she really was. So now, when she entered, the Kree smiled lightly at her, extending her arm to point at the foot of the Asgardian’s bed, silently. Teuta grinned, lifting the mattress of the bunk to see the large bag of nuts there.
It wasn’t even hidden. She frowned, expecting there to be a challenge of some sort. She was slightly disappointed, even. Sprinkling two handfuls of them into the Kree’s hand, and winking, she took her bag and exited, silently making way back to her cell. Lifting Drachiri’s snorting head, she flattened it in his bumpy, contorted pillow. He never woke up.
Now what? Teuta licked her lips, not being able to resist it.
Loki thought he felt something. Not farther away, how he normally felt it, but the faintest whoosh of soft air right next to his ear, very warm, moist. A breath. He flinched and turned around, seeing the Kylosian woman’s grinning face.
She laughed loudly, before sitting down right next to him.
“Not many people can sneak up on me.”
“Not many people can see me coming. At all. And then they’re dead. So not even then. Maybe they become ghosts, so then. Perhaps. We never know, do we?”
He smelled heavenly. His hair was full of the long-lost scent of pine trees and frost. It was so intoxicating that she let out a breath, alerting him to her crouching behind him.
“Frode, you’re in my spot.”
“This is my spot.”
“You could’ve been mistaken, while I was in detention, but that is definitely my spot.”
“What do you do here?”
“Sit and stare out. What else is there to do?”
Loki blinked at her, confused.
“But you people don’t think.”
He said, straightforward, knowing that wasn’t an insult only to the Kylosian. She shrugged, chuckling.
“I don’t. I just stare out.”
“Oh, figures.”
“Yup.”
He looked out, his concentration interrupted by the heat emanating from her thigh which was almost touching his. He looked at her leg, seeing the wide prison trousers lifted up slightly from her height, revealing a red-marked ankle. It was unusually bright. Yes, that was it. The markings were flashy, glistening crimson, instead of the faded rust they normally were, considering they got them as children, after a series of rituals. Maybe she underwent them later on in her life? Weird.
Suddenly, his thought was cut off by a sound of crunchy chewing. He looked at her face. She was chewing. Staring right into his eyes, she brought a Zarg nut to her mouth and put it in, slowly. Chewing, her full lips were full of tiny crumbles which she licked off; first the upper one, then the lower one. Loki didn’t know what he was thinking. He was aware of the fact those were his newly acquired nuts, but that wasn’t the issue here. Why was he staring at her lips? Greyish, dark in this night here, they wouldn’t be noticeable to this extent. Normally.
He lifted his eyes to meet hers, full of mocking and daring. He laughed, before looking back out. It was a true laughter. Weird.
“My nuts, thief.” She said, eating on. He couldn’t keep the smile completely off his face, nor had he wanted to.
Teuta observed the silhouette of his face lit by the faraway stars, the perfect cheek slightly lifted in a smirk. She wanted to kiss it, wondering if it would be as smooth as it looked.
She shook her head, dismissing that urge, and got up.
“Well, I’m not hungry anymore. Good night, Asgardian.”
Before she turned around, he grabbed her ankle. She looked down at him.
“Why didn’t you eat the pork?” He rubbed his thumb on the inner side of the ankle, noticing how incredibly thin it was. Too thin for a Kylosian.
“It’s disgusting. If you want a nut, be a good boy, do me a favour, and maybe you can have one.”
He laughed again, letting her go.
Before she fell asleep, Teuta felt the heat of his hand still radiating through her leg for a long, long time. It was incredibly soothing.
Taglist: Hop on, hop off, just let me know - thanks! @superficialdomina @liminalpebble @annoying-leftist-donkey @peacefulpianist @kikster606 @dangertoozmanykids101 @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @november-rayne @muddyorbsblr @eleniblue @chokeanddagger @redfoxwritesstuff @alexakeyloveloki @smolvenger @holdmytesseract @sweetsigyn @wolfsmom1 @admiralatthebowofnails @loz-3 @huntressandlioness1 @teka04 @litaloni @literatureatthebowofnails
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owmylasagna-blog · 3 months
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Ed is Thicker Than Mud
Warning: Character development arc may take a couple years to take full effect.
Some random musings on post-BPS Eddy growing pains.
You can also read it over on AO3.
Each mechanical tick of the outdated relic of a wall clock reverberating through the office makes his skin crawl. Wriggling uncomfortably, the naugahyde of the chair releases a series of unnatural whines of protest beneath the restless teen. Don’t they know precious moments of his youth are slipping away with every infuriatingly useless second spent shedding dead skin cells in this room? It doesn’t help that his jeans are still damp. He’s pretty sure his new sneakers are wrecked too.
If being detained wasn't bad enough, they’re probably on the phone with his mom right now, and he isn’t exactly looking forward to his folks tearing him a new one over tonight's chicken francaise. Just as he imagines the yelling match his mom and pop are gonna inevitably start the loose doorknob rattles behind him.
“Here we go,” Eddy grumbles into the collar of his long sleeve polo. He slumps down into the armchair.
The door groans on its hinges, open and then shut. Footsteps click in time as the middle aged man slowly makes his way around the office furniture and sits. All the while Eddy keeps his eyes planted on the linoleum tiles between the desk and his feet. He feigns disinterest as a manila folder and a few slips of paper are shuffled.
“So. Edward McGee…”
Eddy squints, not exactly appreciative of the pause for dramatic effect, nor the emphasis put on his last name.
“Would you care to explain why you're in my office, young man?”
“No.”
“No ‘you don’t care’? Or no ‘you can’t explain’?”
In response, Eddy crosses his arms and slouches even further into the depths of the worn leatherette, the heels of his sneakers squeaking as they skid forward. The principal sighs.
“The silent treatment won't get you very far-”
“You know what I did.”
Boy was this interrogation a bunch of bologna.
“Yes, I certainly do. I’m well aware of the damage to school property you’ve caused, not to mention the cost required to repair it. What I want to know is why.”
“Principal Howard, I didn’t-”
“We’ve already heard your excuses. This is your last chance to plead your case as to why you felt it necessary to tamper with-”
“I didn’t tamper nothin’!”
Eddy shoots to his feet, looking the principal in the face for the first time. His heart thrashes against his ribcage.
“I find that hard to believe.”
Yep. Totally pointless.
The teen and the man exchange steely glares before the elder shifts his gaze behind the younger.
“Please sit, Edward.”
Rolling his eyes, Eddy parks his keister back down, resuming his previous slouch. He watches as Principal Howard leafs through the papers on his desk. Most are a familiar shade of detention slip blue, some more faded than others. It’s a suspiciously sizable stack considering he’s only been in high school for three months. Sure, his track record hasn’t been… great. He’s never been the morning type. Missing homeroom three out of five days in a week will do that. As does skipping out on a detention here and there. Compared to junior high, though, Eddy considers himself a freakin’ angel so far. Barring today of course… just his luck.
But the slips have Eddy curious enough to raise a brow at, sitting up a bit straighter in an attempt to sneak a peek. He’s caught off guard when the name written on the top edge isn’t his own. Well, not entirely. Eddy’s muscles flex with immediate recognition, flashing a fierce look up to find the intent gaze of the older man peering down his sizable nose through his glasses.
No ‘effin way.
“You remind me of your brother.”
Eddy sputters, feeling the air rush out of his lungs. It makes it hard to speak. His brain fills with static. It makes it hard to think.
“Wha- you- you can’t-”
How’s he allowed to say that?
“Before I became principal I taught at this school for many years. Don’t think I could forget a kid like that so easily. Bright, creative, one might say underchallenged, but misguided, difficult, trouble prone. Unfortunate really. I didn’t have much control of the situation then nor the authority. But things have changed, except for the fact that I’m tasked with ensuring another McGee boy doesn’t slip through the cracks.”
“Cool headed” is an accolade foreign to Eddy. It takes every fiber of his being to bite his tongue, stopping himself from spewing expletives that will land him right back in the hot seat for the umpteenth time. More than anything he holds back to prove that he isn’t anything at all like…
“Which is why I’m requiring that you join an extracurricular student activity effective immediately.”
“WHAT!? WHY?!” Eddy finally blows his top. It’s a relief to scream.
“You need discipline, structure, responsibility, teamwork - whatever it takes to preoccupy your idle hours.”
“Believe me, Teach, the mathletes don’t need me screwin’ up their squared roots or whatever.”
“Then choose something else that interests you. D’you like sports?”
Eddy shrugs. Lately, nothing really interests him. Let alone anything school related. Not even marathons of The Ed Sullivan Show or wearing out the grooves in A-tom-ic Jones can seem to pull him out of this slump. And he sure wasn’t jumping at the opportunity to get towel-whipped by the meatheads, that's for sure. The thought of the foot smell that wafts from the locker room like a thick miasma alone makes him shudder.
Eighth grade graduation, the start of high school, and the abysmal summer between them had been a strange fog. Beyond his two best friends, Eddy avoided the other cul-de-sac kids like a plague. Oh yeah, this was cruel ironing as Double Dee put it. All that time vying to get their attention? Ever since they got front row seats to his bro’s assholery on full display, they’d been acting real nice. Too nice.
The remainder of seventh grade, after the groundings ended, was filled with an unprecedented number of invitations to movie nights, birthday parties, and sleepovers. Even though he’d sworn off the scams it somehow felt like he still needed to perform every time he made an appearance. Suddenly, everybody wanted to get to know him more. And that scared Eddy: what if there wasn’t more? He felt he hardly knew himself these days.
“You have until the end of the week to decide, so start asking around. And when you do find a team or club, I will personally speak to the coach or teacher running it to ensure that you are immediately enrolled and actively participating. Do you understand?”
The principal receives a noncommittal grunt as a response. He’s more stern the second time.
“Do you understand, Edward?”
Eddy finally gives a reluctant reply, hoping that this is the end of the conversation and he’ll be off the hook.
“Yeah. Capeech.”
“Good. Because this sort rebellious behavior will not be to-”
“And it’s Eddy.”
The balding man blinks a few times, brows twitching.
“Well, Eddy, another stunt like today and I bring your parents in. Capeech?”
Having his own phrasing thrown back at him makes Eddy feel even more patronized than he already is. Which is saying something, considering this whole freakin’ ordeal feels like it was designed by the universe or some malevolent god to humiliate him to no end.
“Yeah…”
Double doors fly open when the compact teen barrels through. He’s moving fast, on a mission, so focused on getting as much distance between himself and this stupid school that he hardly notices the two figures sitting side by side on the stone stairs anxiously awaiting his release. The leaner of the two jumps to his feet, calling out through the bothersome crack his voice has acquired thanks to puberty.
“Eddy!”
He whips around, jabbing a finger square between Double Dee’s eyes. The taller boy flinches back at the accusatory appendage.
“I aint talkin’ to you, snitch! Let’s go, Ed.”
The eldest of the bunch complies to the command, joining Eddy by his side. Edd huffs, shaking his fists, and with an indignant stomp of his sneakered foot is hot on the trail of his two friends. Seeing as there is a nasty storm cloud over Eddy’s head Ed opts to not ask too many questions. Instead he shares the exciting news:
“Double Dee and me saw two squirrels fighting over a nut while you were gone.”
“Sad story,” replies Eddy, inflection flat as a sheet of paper.
Meanwhile, the speed walking boy approaching from the rear isn’t so quick to change the subject.
“Come now! You can’t seriously think my intention was to smear your academic reputation!”
Eddy keeps stomping the pavement, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, and rolls his eyes in disbelief. The balls on this guy…
“Eddy, please,” Edd pleads, finally gaining, “The entire first floor was flooded. Given my proximity I responded in a manner that anyone in their right mind would. Honestly, are you suggesting I had a plethora of options?”
“Bull! Ya coulda kept your big. Mouth. Shut.” Eddy snarls through gritted teeth, shoulders tensing up to his ears.
“And be a complicit bystander? I think not,” replies Edd with a pout.
“Why do you make it out like I wanted that to happen!?” Eddy spits back, keeping his sights focused on the cracked cement.
“Who says I’m blaming you? It’s causality. You flushed an entire cafeteria tray and its contents down the toilet.”
“Ain’t my fault the lunch sucked mega balls! And why’s the school got plumbing from the Dark Ages? You saw that casserole.” He throws up two skeptical air quotes, “Would have been better off eatin’ rubber cement.”
“I think I saw it move,” Ed adds excitedly, grinning ear to ear.
Ed had eaten his serving of casserole with much relish, though, not before dunking it into his trusty thermos o’ gravy. It’s too bad that Eddy turned down the offer. The mental image of the subpar cafeteria slop alone makes both Edd and Eddy’s stomachs churn, let alone the gusto with which Ed manages to devour it.
“Yes. Well. I must say I was glad to have packed a garbanzo salad sandwich today based on the looks of things,” the teen in the beanie admits, punctuated with a nervous chuckle.
Eddy can’t help but look his friend in the face despite the stubborn front he’s working so hard to put up. Edd’s got a small smile but otherwise he looks ill at the recollection of the foul lunch offerings, his tongue peeking out through the gap as it presses against the back of his teeth. The husky boy cracks his own smile and stifles snort at his pal’s pathetic expression.
“Food so bad, even the crapper couldn’t stomach it,” Eddy throws in just for a kick.
It works - at least he and Ed chuckle over that and Edd shakes his head incredulously - burning off some of the uncomfortable tension that has been growing since the afternoon. The trio continue walking a few yards in the direction of home, lulling their arguing for just a moment to the sound of gravely footsteps, rustling leaves, and the jingle of Eddy’s wallet chain thumping against his thigh.
Sidewalks aren’t exactly wide enough to walk together in a line so it's unavoidable that every now and then, if they don’t split off into a triangle formation, that they bump shoulders. Eddy feels his shoulder nudge into Double Dee’s arm, then awkwardly clears his throat and sniffles against the chill fall air.
“I thought you weren’t talking to me,” heckles Double Dee with a pretentious sideways smirk.
Before he knows it, Eddy feels the back of his neck burning. For that alone he gives the wiry and historically uncoordinated teen a solid shove, causing him to stumble over his own two feet and step squarely into a soggy pile of street gutter leaves. The feeling of cold damp permeating through his shoe upper and soaking into his sock makes the boy yelp and shudder in disgust, a shiver running up his spine.
“Wet!” Edd wails. He shakes his sodden sneaker like a cat that's stepped in water and skips to catch up.
Of course Eddy laughs at Edd’s theatrics, very openly, which just sets Ed off to join him. Reveling in his buddy’s harmless misfortune, Ed throws an arm over Eddy’s shoulder which the shorter teen roughly shrugs off.
“Very good. I’ve received my comeuppance.” Edd sighs, wincing as his sock squelches with every other step.
A few tsks of disapproval are made by Ed seemingly out of the blue. Edd and Eddy are surprised to see their happy-go-lucky Lump looking uncharacteristically forlorn.
“How sad it must be to be a squirrel without a nut. What cruel, hostile world we must live in where there are not enough nuts to go around.” Ed punctuates the thought with a heavy sigh.
“I’m lookin’ at a nut right now.”
“Oh yeah?” Ed perks up, head whipping violently in search of it as though he can rectify the injustice he’d witnessed.
“Yeah, TWO of ‘em!“
Just as he says it, Eddy’s fist finds its way to the tall redhead’s vulnerable groin with an empty punch.
“DOH!”
Edd puts a bit of space between himself and Eddy.
“Fear not, Ed. Every squirrel has their day.”
“Good for them,” Eddy growls, his earlier gloating soured by envying, of all things, a fuzzy rat.
Seeing as his vapid positivity hasn’t exactly resonated with Eddy, Edd decides to take a more direct approach.
“So, what punishment has befallen you? Another detention.”
Eddy’s brows drop down over his eyes with a snarl. He sees a pebble a few steps ahead and when he reaches it gives it a good solid kick. It skitters wildly into the street.
“No.”
“Suspension.”
“No.”
“Disintegration?” Ed chimes in.
“I wish.”
“You’d make a fine puddle, you would.”
“Thanks, Ed,” Eddy rolls his eyes, shoving his chin down into the collar of his jacket.
He nearly jumps at the shriek-like sound of Edd’s gasp. It looks as though he’s doing a decent impression of that weird painting of the screaming guy.
“Good lord, please don’t tell me you’ve been… expelled!?” Edd can hardly say the word.
“No! Worse! I gotta join some bogus extracaricature.”
Double Dee’s hand flies, grabbing Eddy’s bicep. The sudden physical contact makes Eddy reflexively flinch.
“What a relief! You had me worried for a second.” An offended look on Eddy’s face does worry Edd and he realizes it’s because of the grasp he has on his arm. He swiftly releases it, putting his hand in his jacket pocket.
“Ah- A generously lenient outcome considering the extent of property damage. Participation in a peer activity? Hmm… Why, you could always join me on the junior debate team. What you lack in research skills you certainly make up for with your argumentative temperament.”
“Kill me already.”
Eddy sags under the weight of such a nerdy proposition.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Craning his neck, Ed peers down curiously.
“Join me! We could always use a uh-” Ed pauses, counting on his fingers, “a third member on the team. You could even go by Mr. AV-Eddy.”
With a rough tug, Ed’s head snaps down to match his short-statured friend’s eye level, Eddy’s fist full of the pilling and frayed green jacket collar.
“Call me that at school and I’ll shove an 8 millimeter where the sun don’t shine.”
“Norway?”
“NO way. Don’t even try it.” Eddy threatens before letting go of Ed.
“You got it, Mr. Cool Guy I’d Never Ever Call AV-Eddy, uh, sir!”
To show his deference, Ed removes his monobrow and swears it over his heart.
They keep walking. It’s about a half hour trudge back to the cul-de-sac, but it sure beats the torment of the public school buses. Bottom of the food chain means getting the crappiest seats, or worse even, becoming completely separated. Much better to brave the biting wind for now: Eddy’s ears and nose are already ruddy. Come winter they might reassess.
It’s hard not to think he might be cursed: born with the dark mark. Maybe somewhere down his family line there was some cardinal sin committed that’s the root to all this. If he has to place bets it was probably those damn pilgrims that sold Peach Creek to the Kankers, the lot of inbred nitwits. Eddy sorta gets why his brother is the way he is. He knows deep down his parents treated him different from the jump. That he’s had it better, at least in some ways. Despite his bad luck he’s technically the lucky one. But there is still so much he doesn’t know. Stuff that when he brings it up mom just starts blubbering. He won’t even bring it up with dad. So teachers thought he was smart?
Over the last year, Double Dee has fretted over Eddy’s drawn out silences. Just like the one now. He can’t help but read far too deeply into whatever might preoccupy Eddy’s mind so much to leave him speechless. A more contemplative and reflective streak could be good for Eddy. Except Double Dee knows from personal experience how quickly things can go south inside the echo chamber of one’s own thoughts. He chews his lip as the worry gnaws away at him.
“Eddy? Was there… anything else you wanted to talk about?”
Eddy sniffs his running nose again, scowling. He shrugs.
“S’nothing. Everyone at this school’s got it out for me.”
The feeling of a gentle hand between his shoulder blades makes the back of his eyes burn. Dammit. He blinks hard, sniffing even harder.
“Not everyone.” Double Dee earnestly assures. Ed wraps another arm around him in a lax half hug and this time Eddy doesn’t shrug him off. Instead, he leans in.
“Okay, okay. Fine. Almost everyone.”
And that’s good enough for him.
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Eddie Munson x Rockstar!Reader
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Eddie got into the nearly nonexistent line, hours before the show he’d saved up for so long for, the sidewalk behind the black rope soon to be filled with your adoring fans, who’ll wait for you to enter the stadium, hoping for autographs. You were so kind, Eddie knew, that you’d give some lucky people your presence! Or the ones who were good attention grabbers, and oh was Eddie skilled at that! Easily he made his way to the front, and he stayed there after being one of the first in the row, and through intimidating the many people who tried to barge in front of him. Body firm as he held tight to the rope, and stuck in place.
Until you came out of your car. Eddie’s body went through a rush then, every cell in him firing up and making his body soar, as he became just another part of the cacophony of screams, jumping up and down in place while you headed down the line to the stage doors, waving at everyone who screamed your name.
He couldn’t believe he was seeing you again! He’d seen you a bunch of times, but he’d never gotten this close! You were so... amazing, this close up, and not just on a poster or record art. This was you, in all your glory, pumped before a show with that intense surge he knew all too well from his smaller gigs. And Eddie was not only starstruck, but lovesick...
You signed two people’s books, who were closer to your car, before you reached Eddie. His smile beaming as he realised you were stopping! And then you took off your shades, just to smile and look into his eyes. Just for him. His mouth dropped open.
“Hey! I think I saw you this morning, outside of Brent St? I recognised your hair. It’s soooo pretty on you!” You genuinely compliment him, seeming enthused at his looks. Asking him, like this was just a normal conversation between two warm strangers. And that was Eddie. You remembered him...!
Eddie literally can’t help but cry. Fat tears blocking his vision of his dream girl, so he swipes them quickly away from his face, even as they keep coming. The charm bracelet he made based on titles from your albums, scratching at his cheek. Eddie nodded hard, his voice loud and eager. “You’re right! That was me! I’m Eddie! I’m your biggest fan I- I’ve been to every show!!! Thank you so much! You’re the pretty one!” He hopes that last one was okay, swallowing a lot of spit as it blurts out. After he tried to cram every thought into his small one on one time with you. Nervous, but you making him higher than any drug in his stash back home would do to him.
But you keep smiling at him, and his breath stops, as you lean over, and so tenderly play with his hair. “Don’t put yourself down pretty boy. You’re beautiful Eddie!” Your fingers are still teasing the roots in his hair and Eddie just about melts. It felt so good. Eddie couldn’t remember the last time someone played with his hair, someone touched him like this. And you’re touching him! You! Trying with near pain not to close his eyes from your caress, your petting, because he wanted to watch you holding him so fondly!
You sign the little autograph book Eddie can barely keep a hold of, that’d he’d almost forgotten about, and he’s thanking you over and over, just word vomiting about how he’s been following your music since day one, how much he worships it! Mentioning an underground concert basement he saw you play in, which he sees your body light up at, knowing it was one of your very first professional gigs. While you keep on signing.
But then you take his hands, cooing audibly over his rings, before letting your fingertips play over them, up to his own pads. “These are guitar players hands, right Eddie?”
Eddie nods, eagerly informing you all about the model he plays, knees trembling as you’re holding his hands. His eyes flitting between how beautiful you are this close, and what you’re writing into his skin, as you take the pen cap lid between your dark lipstick, and focus on his hand. He swears he’ll get it tattooed. Whatever it is, as soon as he’s home.
Eddie looks as you finally (unfortunately) let him go. It’s not only your autograph on his skin, but some random word. Fleeting panic bubbles up in Eddie for a second, was he supposed to understand some kind of reference? But you explained straight away, “It’s a password.” You had leant in to whisper, ducking your hand and your mouth under those pretty curls to press your cheek to his ear. Giving you two some privacy. “Give it to a backstage manager before the show. But don’t worry, I’ll still remember you again, like I did today.” When you finally leant back, you winked at Eddie. A few fans behind you screaming into his ears at the display. But almost like only you and Eddie existed, you stroked those gorgeous curls you couldn’t believe you’d only seen today, knowing you wouldn’t forget them now you had been so blessed.
Eddie can barely nod, his hands gently holding onto yours as it starts to softly slip out his grip. His eyes as wide as his lips were thick, mouth on the floor as Eddie watched you slink away. Not taking your affectionate eyes off of his until the final second, where you put your shades back on, and turned around to sign one more picture. Before ultimately waving to everyone, and heading inside. Disappearing from public view, behind heavy doors, and butch security.
Eddie’s puppy eyes could finally leave you, head slowly creaking down to his hand that was just trembling. Especially as he looked and saw the black ink still there. That just really happened... Now Eddie wasn’t running to get to his front row place through the auditorium’s doors. He was running to any stage door, any, so he could obey you. To see why you gave him this password and why you wanted to see him! And so, just like you wanted, he could go follow his star...
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asmilethatshines · 23 days
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More pixel drawings coz last time Bel praised me <3 (and I love cell shading! It hides most of my flaws and easier and quicker for me)
1/ Safety first: Initially I wanted to draw something simple inspired by this specific part of the fanfic "In Roger's office"
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But then what's the point in wanting to improve while I keep drawing simple things. So I changed to this =v= Hard poses for me, the stupid helmet, and Near's expression. I fixed it like a million times and I am still not happy yet ==
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2/ Kick in the head: This is a very hard theme for me although the name is very clear! Who is gonna kick who?? I was clueless for a while until I related it to the fanfic "Getting a second chance". There is a scene where Mello stood in front of Near to block the view of Light so that he could not see Near's face. And here is my drawing
Yeah Mello kicks Light in the head (well more precisely the face lol) for trying to write Near's name on the Death Note xD Silly I know lol I even had to use my chibi style for last resort. Oh I referenced their facial expression from the manga so even my chibi Mello looks scary ._.
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sinsandsweetness · 11 months
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Obsession (sex and zombies- chapter 9)
pairing- {Rick x fem!reader}
summary- You can’t even look at him without blushing. And he knows it too.
warnings- 18+ content MDNI! filthy library smut:)
notes- one of my favourite scenes in this work tbh...
You walked your way down to the library, with the intent to find something you hadn’t read yet. Which was hard since you’d read basically the entire room. But you were on a mission to find something new. While flipping through a book, you heard the door open and close behind you. 
It was Rick. 
You quickly glanced over your shoulder and saw him, button up shirt with rolled up sleeves. Only furthering the attention you pay to his arms. 
You didn’t say anything. Instead went back to your book, reading the synopsis on the back. 
“I’ve been looking for you,” you heard his deep voice behind you. 
“Oh?” You knew that. Glenn had told you.
“You’re avoiding me.” 
“I’m not.”
“Really? Then what is it? ”
When you turned around, he was much closer than a moment ago, leaning against the bookcase beside you. 
“I just…” your gaze started at his arms, then traveled to his waist, his belt, his hands. Oh god, his hands. 
“Just…?” he was waiting for an answer.
“You seemed busy. I didn’t want to…impose,” 
“If you know I’m looking for you then it’s not really imposing is it?” He took the book from your hands, that you’d been fidgeting with, and placed it back on the shelf. 
He licked his lips. Looking you up and down, and settling his gaze on your face. 
“I like this dress,” he changed the topic, pointer finger brushing the lace hem of your sundress. Inspecting the little flowers covering its delicate fabric. 
“Gotta find you some sunscreen hey?” His hand made its way up to your shoulder, your tan now a little red. All that help gardening in the summer sun. 
His touch was doing things that you used to only dream of. You craved the nights that he would sneak into your cell and kiss you all over. But the busier he got with work around the prison and little baby Judith, the less time he had for you and your personal needs.
You were understanding of course. But you still wish he'd try a little harder to get you alone like he used to, pulling you away after the sun set, hushing your giggles and moans with the palm of his hand.  
“Or maybe just less gardening shifts. You could let me take the watchtower more often.” You suggested. They were always shaded. Plus, you were a good shot. 
“No, I like having you in the field with me.”
“With you? Or just not with him?”
He smirked and raised his eyebrows. You could see it click in his head. Why you’d been avoiding him. 
After the whole watchtower situation, you’d felt a little… used, for lack of a better word. Like you were some tool to boost his ego. To prove to Daryl, and maybe even himself, how loyal you were. How well you listened. How absolutely wrapped around his finger you really were. 
And it wasn't like you didn't enjoy it. The exact opposite, actually. You couldn't even look at the two men without blushing, especially not when the others were around. You wanted a round two. Badly. It was constantly consuming your mind and memory. So you figured you could use Rick's ever-growing, busy body nature, to your advantage. As a feeble attempt to tame your very sinful desires.
The goosebumps on your arms snapped you back to Rick's attention. His hand brushing down your arm, lower now, fingers tangling in between yours. 
His voice got really low. A whisper even though you were alone. 
“Definitely not with him,” A playful grin spread across his face.
He was cornering you now. Into the book shelf. Your back hit the wood shelves. 
“But mostly, I just like watching you in those adorable overalls I found you,”
You had made a point of wearing them a lot since he gave them to you. His hands moved to your waist, giving you a slight squeeze. Your breath hitched slightly. Earning another grin from the man in front of you. 
“It's hard not to watch you all day. Looking like this. I know that he can’t help but stare. Cause I can’t either.” He admits. 
“Maybe you should be on watchtower then,” you tell him. “That way you could really watch me all day,” your hands were making their way to his belt, tracing the buckle with your nails, then pulling slightly at the dark leather. 
“But then I’d have to put you on watchtower too so I could keep you right next to me.”
His lips were close now, his knee started to nudge your own, settling in against you. 
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you were almost out of breath. The way his hands were running up and down your sides, threatening to take your dress off. It made your head all foggy. The way it usually did. You could feel your eyes fluttering shut at his touch, daring him to take you, right there in the library of the prison. 
His lips pressed to yours and your hands snaked around his neck, pulling him in even closer. He added more pressure on his thigh between your legs, letting a quiet moan leave your mouth. Almost grinding down on his leg. 
He lifted your dress, and his hands pulled at your thighs, dragging you up onto him. Wedged between him and the wall, you wrapped your legs around him, and his hands went straight to your ass. Lips still moving against yours. He noticed the strap of your dress had fallen, and his attention moved to your exposed neck and shoulder. Attacking you with sweet, wet kisses. The stubble on his face tickled your sensitive skin. 
“I really like this dress,” he repeated against your skin, hands now toying with your panties, under your dress. Ready to strip you of them. 
“Rick…” you whispered, arching into his touch. 
“Mmm, you smell so good,” he kissed your neck again. 
“…Taste so good,” Another kiss. The feeling of his bulge against you was driving you insane. And his teasing remarks didn’t help either. 
“Please… “ another whimper escaped your lips. 
He let out a dry laugh against your skin and moved the two of you over to the table, sitting you down, but still pressed in between your legs. You started at his belt. His eyes closed as he let your foreheads come together. Savoring the feeling of your hands, pushing the fabric down. Just enough to take him in your hands. Pumping a few times. 
A little groan escaped him and you decided to do a little more. For your perfect leader. He deserved to relax. He never failed to make you feel good. So it was time to return the favor. You slipped off the table, down to your knees, and took him in your mouth. As soon as he felt your tongue on his shaft, his hands were in your hair, and a swear under his breath. 
“Fuck,”
You sucked and licked, still pumping with your hand as he guided your head back and forth, creating a rhythm. After a few moments, you looked up at him through your eyelashes and he swore. 
“You look so pretty like this...” he groaned again. 
You kept your pace up, eyes starting to water as he involuntarily bucked his hips further down your throat. He was already close. 
“C’mhere sweet girl,” he tugged gently on your hair, pulling you off of him. You go to stand up and he turns you around, so that he was pressed against your ass, and you were pressed against the table. 
His mouth found your shoulder blade and he ripped your panties off in one fluid motion. Earning a pained squeak from yourself. He chuckled against your skin while stuffing the lacy item in his back pocket. Anyone could walk in. But that was part of the fun. You heard him tear open a condom and roll it on behind you. His kisses scattered your shoulder and neck as he lined himself up, rubbing his tip against your wet entrance. Teasing you. Always fucking teasing. 
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered. 
“Rick…”
“I wanna hear it.” You were throbbing at this point. Hot and bothered. No other way to put it. It had been way too long since you'd had him alone. 
“Come on,” you whined.
“Just say it,” another kiss on your neck as he pushes the tip in only. 
“Please Rick, god,” you arched back into him. Hoping for more. He chuckled and you sighed. 
“Just fuck me. Please I need you so bad it h-“ you started to give in but he shut you up quickly. He pushed himself into you all at once. Making you gasp a little. That earned another laugh into your skin. His body was fully pressed up against yours. Your dress lifted and bunched up above your ass, with his hands pulling at your hips, urging you onto him. 
He gave you a moment to adjust before he started to pound into you, over and over. 
A palm on your back pushed you down slightly, bending you over, hands catching on the table. Rick continued his rough pace, effortlessly earning repetitive moans and praise from you. His thumbs dug into the dimples on your back as he fucked you hard. 
Right when you thought you were close, an arm wrapped around your torso, and pulled you up against his chest. He started pounding into you even harder. You couldn’t even help the whimper that left you. Being held by him, forearm pressed against your breasts, pulling you into his warmth. It made you weak.
“You have no idea,” his breath was shaky in your ear, “what you do to me,”
Everywhere that your body was touching his, was on fire. Not even being able to concentrate on his words as he pounded into you. Your own hand coming up to stop yourself from screaming out loud. The other one clawed at his forearm. 
You came undone and your core began to shake, but he didn’t let up, instead lifting the back of your knee up, propping your leg against the table, deepening his angle even more. Your orgasm never even stopped as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He continued to fuck you into the table, his hands grabbing roughly at your skin, leaving marks for him to kiss and trace later in bed. 
Finally you felt his hips stutter and in a few slow thrusts, the arm wrapped around you had moved to your face. Grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look back at him as his lips caught yours.
“Fuck.” He gently let your leg back down, now shaky. He tossed the condom in the trash, tucked himself back in his jeans, and started buckling up his belt. You turned around and leaned against the table, facing him. Catching your breath. He came up close and pressed against you once more. His hands went straight to your face and he kissed you again. For a long moment he didn't let you stop. Tongue tracing your lips, hands still holding you close. You grasped at the collar of his shirt. Letting him know how badly you will always need him. 
When you both stopped to catch your breath he didn't leave your space. Instead, he ran his hands down your dress. Smoothing it out. Pulling it down and adjusting it. Then he moved on to your hair, smoothing it down and tucking a strand behind your ears. 
He looked at you and opened his mouth as if he wanted to tell you something. But your attention broke away to look at the doorway.
There were footsteps from down the hall. With an annoyed sigh Rick moved out of your space and grabbed the book off the shelf. Handing it to you just as the door opened. 
“Oh sorry! Um…” Carol looked at the two of you. Rick's shirt untucked. You adjusting the strap that had fallen off your shoulder. And remembering quickly that you weren’t wearing any panties. Not that anyone would be able to tell. Other than that, you were both dressed. Presentable even. 
“I need to have a word with you,” she directed at Rick. 
“What’s up?”
She kept looking at him but didn’t answer. After an awkward moment of silence you spoke up,
“I’m gonna go… find Daryl,” you wave your book at the doorway. “Did you happen to see him?” an attempt at escaping in the least awkward way possible. It was clear you weren’t invited into this conversation. 
She gave you a sweet smile. “He’s in the yard, sitting around the fire,” 
“Thanks,” you smile back, heading for the hallway, looking back only for a moment, you could feel Rick's gaze still on you. 
“What the hell are you doing ?” You could hear Carol ask him when she thought you could no longer hear. But the rest was too quiet and you were now too far to eavesdrop. Not that you would anyway. Still, it left you a little curious on what was such a secret.
-------------------------
Later that night Rick climbed into your bed, snaking an arm around you. You nestled into him quickly. 
“You smell like smoke,” he whispered. 
“You missed a good fire,” you replied. 
For a moment you laid there. His thumb rubbing circles on your skin. 
“What did Carol have to talk to you about?”
“Oh nothing. Just uh… council stuff.”
“Oh.” you wanted to know what he told her. What his reason for you being together in the library was. 
“I didn’t lie to her,” like he could read your mind, he answered. “I didn’t tell her the whole truth but…”
“-she knows,” you finished for him. 
He nodded from behind you. Pulling you in even closer. 
“You’re not a secret,” his voice was so quiet. “Just so you know.”
His hand made its way between your legs, underneath your pj shorts, and you bit your lip so as not to make a sound. 
“You’re so perfect,” his lips were on your neck, right behind your ear. “Everything I'll ever need,” Fingers rubbing your clit over your panties. In all truth, you didn’t care if whatever you two were doing was or wasn’t a secret. That didn't matter to you. All you cared was that he would never stop touching you and whispering those sweet, sweet nothings in your ear.
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satorutini · 3 months
Text
goldwing - gojo satoru ; geto suguru
pairing: gojo satoru/reader/geto suguru
summary: If you weren't mine, I'd be jealous of your love. Or-; you're an up-and-coming screenwriter, a late bloomer in your career who has suddenly found herself shaking hands with Hollywood's elite. when your idol upends your entire reputation at an award ceremony, how much are you willing to risk to set things straight?
rating: mature; eventual smut
wc: 4.3k
ch: 1/?
this was supposed to be a one-shot but it just. spiraled out of my control so quickly so here's a multichapter fic yay! I'm so excited, I can't wait to try my hand at writing unhinged gojo. it soothes a certain spot in my soul idk. no beta reader yet, just my two brain cells and Grammarly. happy new year! <3
read on ao3
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The night was alive with the glare of camera flashes, the buzz of excited chatter, and the unmistakable air of glamour that draped the red carpet. Tonight was a celebration of the industry's finest, glittering beneath the spotlight of fame. Directors, actors, and actresses alike slunk across the strip of velvet, limbering out of long, jet-black limousines that line the block along the venue with all the practiced ease and grace that eluded you. You watch from behind a crowd of interviewers and paparazzi that line the roped-off walkway like over-excited attendees at a zoo as each star pauses to pose, preen, and bless a few poor reporters in the press pit with a bit of small talk in front of the onslaught of cameras.
Shoko Ieiri hides a laugh behind her cigarette-holding hand as the lead actress competing in the drama category trips over the train of a gown in a very unflattering aquamarine shade.
"Don't laugh," you admonished, albeit both secretly tickled and relieved to see a bit of humanity in an environment with such an intimidating aura. You don't think you've ever even been near clothes this expensive in your entire life. The passing thought makes you itch in your borrowed slip. "That could have just as easily been you."
Your famous friend, who had just completed her turn down the red carpet and was now hiding in your company for a quick smoke break, simply dismisses the thought with a scoff. She knows just as well as you do how unlikely it would be. She was practically nursed and weaned at these kinds of events. You glance around at the eager-eyed reporters, the influencers, the fresh-faced actors that climb out of the next limousine, and then back at your companion. A red carpet walk at an award ceremony to her was like what you imagine attending Sunday service was like to some people. Familiar, ritual even.
You can't help but blush when she catches you gazing at her pensively, grinning as she turns her amusement towards you. "You look good like this. In all of this, I mean," she gestures vaguely towards the dress she generously lent you, and then about the venue. "You look good. It suits you. I know I've already said this but…I'm seriously glad we met up again under these circumstances."
"Oh," You glow at her praise, her generous honesty anchoring you in this larger-than-life moment that's felt like it could slip away in an instant. You're afraid to breath too hard or blink too slow. It's probably evident that you're nervous, but you don't tell Shoko you've been feeling so out of place since you arrived that you're half expecting to be carried out by security at any moment now. You're doing your best to keep your composure. "Thanks…seriously."
You and Shoko had been good friends – best friends, even – in childhood until she was picked up by a popular family sitcom in your last year of elementary school and fast-tracked into stardom. You don't remember the exact circumstances of the situation, maybe just that you had felt a little slighted once you had returned to school after the summer break to find that your friend had picked up and moved to L.A. with little warning. Communication was strained, and inconsistent, and then eventually petered out as years passed. The sitcom had eventually become internationally beloved, and it's cast along with it. Shoko always existed in your periphery, but never long enough for you to gather the courage to reach out again. She was a star, in every sense of the word. So, when she came by the studio one day to surprise the lead actress for your short film, Utahime Iori, with a visit, you were pleasantly surprised as well.
Your brief reunion revealed that Shoko had been living the whirlwind, if not a bit traumatic, life of a typical child star. She and Utahime, a talented indie film starlet, were a very welcome presence in your life as you navigated your own late-blooming career.
Tonight, your Western short film was in the running to receive its very first accolade.
Well, not very first. A flurry of positive reviews and first-place prizes at film festivals is what led you here. But here, this-
"Ah, hell. Here comes the clown car."
You're startled out of your musing by Shoko's ire and a rise in the clamor from the crowd in front of you. Like a disturbed ant hill, the reports swarm to the front of the carpet, crying out for the newcomer's attention before they've even propped open the doors to a sleek, matte black foreign sports car with a brilliant baby blue racing stripe that glides to a stop at the start of the carpet. For a moment, anticipation rolls over the crowd and reflexively, you hold your breath. It feels as though time itself comes to a stop.
I've seen that car before; you think to yourself. Where have I seen that car before?
The car doors lift – lift – and out steps Satoru Gojo, the nepotism-blessed scion of a bygone Hollywood era. With a disinterested tilt of his head, Gojo straightens and adjusts his shades once, and the crowd erupts into chaos.
Gojo's rise to directorial prominence had been swift and tumultuous, his wealth and power inherited rather than earned. His family's name, etched in the golden annals of old Hollywood, had bequeathed him not just an unimaginable fortune, but also a reputation of mystery and privilege. He was first introduced to the industry during a failed attempt by his family to get him into acting as a kid. But Gojo quickly realized he didn't take to following directions too well – he preferred to be the one giving them. Thus, after a few years long hiatus in school and a very public downward spiral, the young starlet reemerged on the scene with a break-through fantasy thriller that would go on to become one of the most recognized film franchises and successful book-to-movie adaptations to date.
His shockingly white hair and startling blue eyes made him a rather memorable character. To those who worked within the film industry, he was well respected in his field but known to be prideful, cocky, demanding, and overly ambitious. But boy did he know how to work a camera. The contrast between Gojo's charisma on camera and the whispers of his notoriously cold, borderline demeaning, arrogance on set had set him apart in an industry that thrived on eccentricities. The tabloids did well to keep tabs on him. Gojo was often deemed reckless, uninhibited, and entitled, but most of all, Satoru Gojo was your fucking hero.
You would give anything to experience the way you felt watching Gojo's debut movie again for the first time. You remember the day so vividly, remember settling into the theater and griping to a classmate who accompanied you to see the movie that it wasn't fair that someone like him got to direct a big-name film just because he was rich. And then you can recall being effectively shut the hell up as your mind proceeded to be blown over the course of an hour and forty minutes.
You nearly float off of your toes trying to catch a glimpse of the shock of white hair over the crowd. "That-that's-,"
Dressed in a tailored black suit, Gojo pretends to shield his eyes from the relentless flashes, granting his on-lookers a smile that's all teeth. Even from where you stand, it looks a bit menacing.
At his side stands his enigmatic best friend and former child actor Suguru Geto, who grants the frenzied crowd an easygoing smile as Gojo slings an arm around him.
You notice Shoko tense beside you, quiet displeasure radiating off of her stance. She absently flicks away her dead cigarette bud. You catch the scowl marring her typically unperturbed demeanor as she turns sharply on her heel. "Let's head inside."
Shoko and Geto starred in the same sitcom for years, until they eventually aged out of their roles and the show was terminated after nine seasons. There had been a time, in your late teens and early twenties, when you saw the three of them in tabloids quite frequently. Satoru, with his impulse and daring, Suguru, with his brooding intensity, and Shoko, with her sultry, laidback charm, formed the trifecta of an unconventional trio that thrived on exclusivity and recklessness. Rager parties. DUIs. House raids. In the interim years between his schooling and his first film debut, Satoru Gojo and the company he kept were a menace to L.A. society.
You confess…there may have been a smaller, less important, more alternative reason to why reuniting with Shoko had been so serendipitous.
You're not entirely sure what their relationship is like now, but judging by the look on her face, it wouldn't work in your favor tonight. So, in the spirit of being a good friend, you force your feet to follow Shoko into the venue, even as your heart tugs in the direction of the man who inspired your career. As you retreat inside, you think you can hear him laugh.
--
Despite your best efforts, it is hard not to look a little starstruck while you sit through the award show. The audience glitters with critically acclaimed stars and new heartthrobs alike. The actors are wonderful but it's the screenplay writers whose every word you hang off of when they're brought to the stage and the directors who you fawn over when they squeeze past your section with a preoccupied, "excuse me."
At intermission, Utahime gasps from her seat beside Shoko. In her hands is her phone, unlocked and open to some social media feed.
"Fuck…shit!"
You learn over your friend, an eyebrow raised. From what you know of Utahime, she isn't one to sling vulgar language around carelessly. "Is something wrong?"
But Shoko is already one step ahead of you, prying the phone from her friend (girlfriend??)'s fingers and skimming over the opened post. She must not like whatever she sees, because the look on her face turns grim. "Fuck indeed."
"Can someone-, can one of you please just tell me what's going on?" You struggle not to feel exasperated, fiddling with your own phone to see if maybe it'll pop up on your own feed.
"It's Gojo," answers Utahime with more disdain than you're used to hearing associated with that name, which is quite a lot when you think back on it. "He mentioned our short film. In an interview."
All at once, your heart soars in your chest and your brain struggles to comprehend those words in the same utterance in real, real life.
"Gojo? Satoru Gojo? Said something about our short film?" You short circuit. "He's watched our short film?!"
Joy doesn't even begin to cover the immense feeling inside you. For a split second, you're overwhelmed with astonishment, veneration, and gratitude. You could rejoice-!
But then.
Then you pick up on Utahime's tone.
You notice how quickly Shoko is skimming through posts. The furrow in her brow. That oppressive force you'd felt outside has followed you into the venue and hovers over the three of you like a storm cloud, threatening to suck the air from your lungs. That bright, shining feeling in your gut suddenly sours in apprehension.
"What - um…What did he say?"
The lights in the venue lower, signaling the resumption of the award ceremony. When Shoko tilts the screen in your direction, the headline nearly blares back at you in the dim lighting.
Red Carpet Update: Satoru Gojo Calls Breakout Western Romance Short Film Blander than Triscuit Crackers
You rush out of the theater and into the bathroom quickly enough for no one to notice you almost vomit. In your haste, you finally give a name to the cold feeling you felt beside Shoko outside and in the venue. The expression that clouded her face and snuffed out the warmth in her eyes.
Resentment.
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A hotel hosts the after-party. The interview took place a little over two hours ago, but the damage is done. That much is evident as you scroll through your flooded mentions, holed up in a cushy stall in the glitzy women's bathroom. Sat on the toilet and despondent. You've replayed the 30-second clip of the actual interview enough times tonight to recite his comments word for word by now.
The gleam in Satoru Gojo's smile is as bright and disarming in person as it is on camera.
"A Netflix original? Yeah, I can tell," he scoffs, then mutters more so to his companion – who stands quietly, looking uninterested at his side – than the interviewer, "They're really just giving these away to just about anyone now these days, huh?"
The words rattle around in your head like marbles in a tin jar. Loud, concussive. The weight of the moment settles on your shoulders like an unforgiving burden. While it's not enough to break the internet and go viral, your reputation is about to take a brutal hit. You press your phone to your forehead and try not to spiral. The cacophony of judgment online, the concept of failing your idol – it all threatens to swallow you whole.
Boring? Bland? You poured your heart and soul into writing that screenplay. What did Satoru Gojo, a director of fantasy films based on a series that was already written, published, and well-beloved, know about good writing? Or Westerns and romance for that matter?
As your grief churns into rage, a text notification from Shoko pulls you from your festering thoughts.
The text reads you can't hide in there forever, you know.
You open the message and scoff, smiling watery as you type your reply. Bet.
Tears threaten to overwhelm you again. This should be the best night of your life. You won! You actually won in your category, your first real award. And instead of living it up and celebrating with the wonderfully talented cast and director, instead of collecting your congratulations and basking in the revelry of your accomplishment, you are here. Excusing yourself from the party to slip away into the bathroom every few minutes because the mortification was unbearable.
Every well-wisher you had received greeted you with a slight look of pity in their eyes. Their voices are a little too high. Their handshakes are a little too eager. But you knew; they all knew. The only thing keeping you from ditching was Shoko's steadfast presence and the obligation to celebrate the cast members. This night was for them too.
With that in mind, you gather your resolve and slip out of the bathroom. Only to collide straight into someone waiting just outside.
"Fuck, are you okay?"
Whoever you bump into is like rushing at a solid wall of soft flesh. You stagger backward with the force of your collision as Suguru Geto, the infamous partner of the bringer of your demise, reaches to brace your shoulders.
"Ah-no, no!" You smack his hands away and then hold up your own as if to ward him off, feeling a bit childish and miffed that he hadn't stumbled at all. Your face is still flushed from remembering Gojo's biting comments. "Don't touch me! I'm good, thank you."
The man that hovers over you is tall and well-built. The world watched Suguru grow up on television, filling out a gangly little boy into this intimidating, silent force. His lengthy, gorgeous, inky black hair, quick wit, and sly smile earned him the title of heartbreaker at a young age. You would swoon at the way his muscles shift under that suit if only you weren't so fucking humiliated.
"Hey," Geto says, his renowned stoicism momentarily replaced by a flicker of concern. He murmurs your name. "You look like you could use a breather."
Your guard is up, but his peculiar sincerity breaks through the walls you've hastily erected tonight. Besides, he's not the one who made shitty comments about your work. He just stood there and watched in amusement as the real instigator did. His low-lidded gaze meets yours, and for a moment, the air crackles with unspoken tension.
"Yeah, maybe," you respond, your voice carrying the weight of frustration. You eye him warily.
Suguru steps aside, allowing you space to pass, but instead of letting you walk away, he falls into step beside you. The relentless rhythm of the party pounds in the background, nearly vibrating your skull as you squeeze your way through the glittering crowd to a quieter corner of the bar. At the far end, you spot Shoko and Utahime with the rest of your cast and figure it's better to keep your distance while you entertain your dubious follower.
"Look, about what Satoru said," Suguru starts, his tone low and apologetic. "He can be…reckless with his words. I wanted to apologize on his behalf."
The actor seems to crowd you into the bar counter, propping himself up on the surface and resting his cheek on his knuckles.
You raise an eyebrow, a mixture of skepticism and curiosity dancing in your eyes. What the hell is even happening tonight? How do you even know who I am?
"Is he making you do this, or do you just really feel that bad for me, after watching your friend publicly humiliate my work?"
You wonder why he's not apologizing to the actors, to the director, or maybe he's already gone out of his way to do that already, in your absence. And then you think of Shoko and figure that's an unlikely case.
Suguru has paused as if weighing his words carefully. "A bit of both, maybe…"
He takes in your disheveled appearance and exasperated expression. You figure your makeup hadn't fared well after the first onslaught of tears at the award show. Despite a night of what you can only assume has only been full of drinking and partying – Satoru walked away with six awards – there isn't a hair out of place on Suguru. His long tresses swept back into a slick bun, Suguru manages to make even a custom tailor tux look effortless and easygoing. As he scans your face, you can only imagine what you must look like to him.
Your new companion gestures the bartender over.
"Whiskey?" he offers, as if it's a universal remedy for wounds inflicted by Satoru's sharp tongue
You wordlessly accept the offer with a nod. The pair of you sit in uneasy silence until your drink arrives. Taking a swig from the glass as the warmth of the alcohol courses through you, you find yourself at least a little less likely to send the next white-haired person you spot to high hell. Distantly, you think you hear your sound producer cackle with glee above the noise of the party, obviously a few drinks ahead of you since your retreat to the bathroom. You down your drink with a grimace. I need to catch up.
"Not a whiskey girl?" The actor beside you simpers. The pleasant buzz of liquor makes it a little less annoying when his shoulder bumps into yours.
You ignore the question, deflecting with one of your own. "So what, are you like his clean-up crew or something? Your boyfriend pisses somebody off and you…"
You gesture vaguely at his stance, his teasing smile.
"…charm my way into their panties?"
"I was going to say good graces, but I'm sure that works out fine for you too."
Suguru laughs into his glass, warm and genuine. He's so close, you can feel the way the sound rumbles through his chest. You blame the blood rushing to your cheeks on the drink. Begrudgingly, you can't help but grin a little too.
Not one to be put on the spot, you ask him how he knew your name and how he recognized you. Rather sheepishly, Suguru admits that the only reason Satoru knew of your short film was because of him.
"I was already watching it, but he came in on the other half and-,"
"You mean he didn't even see the whole thing?" Your exclamation comes out sounding more like a squawk, feeling the effects of your second glass. "You're not doing a very good job of defending his case."
When Suguru chuckles, the warm air brushes the tip of your ear from where he leans over you, no longer wanting to yell over the volume of the party. "Satoru is…he can be pretty opinionated."
You catch the hint of adoration in his tone as he speaks about the man and subconsciously lean away in an attempt to widen the space between you - trying to throw yourself a life raft. You think back to how he didn't deny it when you referred to Gojo as his boyfriend and feel an inkling of discomfort.
As if noticing your unease, Suguru leans against the wall behind him, and the conversation shifts from apologies to shared experiences – Suguru's tales of the ruthless film industry before he came to work with Gojo, your shared struggles of creative expression, and the thin line between success and failure, which seems to be the theme for the night.
The more Suguru talks, the more you find yourself lowering your guard. Throughout the night, you find yourself wanting to make him laugh and glow at the results. His smile humanizes him. Gradually, a mutual affinity begins to form between the two of you. A shared understanding that transcends the chaos of the party, stemming from your shared admiration of Gojo. A deep admiration, you explain to your new acquaintance as the party dies down a little, that makes his ruthless comments and public dismissal hurt more than any loss at an award show.
"I can't help but feel like I disappointed him, y'know?" You murmur, resting your chin on your free hand.
When a singular, long finger extends to tilt your head in his direction, you nearly jump back at Suguru's sudden proximity. The whiskey has you feeling loose and easily flustered and god, when did he get so close to your face?
His thumb brushes your lower lip, and he freezes you with that low-lidded gaze. This close, his cologne tickles your nose, pleasant and intoxicating. It's not hard to sense that something else prowls beneath his easygoing demeanor. Something predatory that itches to catch you in its maws.
"You did," says Suguru, and you purse your lips, eyes glued to the bar counter. "But I think we can fix that."
You laugh but don't bother asking him how. Gojo has made your place in this industry, amongst your peers, incredibly clear tonight.
He leans in, and again, you wonder where Gojo is.
The same thumb that had traced over your mouth now encourages your lips to free.
"He's not my boyfriend, y'know," Suguru murmurs.
You grin, somehow both feeling spiteful and as though you know better. "If you say so."
Your lips brush, and then Suguru is pressing you into the bar, one hand resting on your hip, the other on your chin, molding himself into you. His kiss is short and sweet and tastes like whiskey. He sighs into your mouth and you think you catch a hint of cigarettes and spearmint too. The actor's grasp on your chin is both tender and assertive. For a single moment, the world narrows down to the feeling of his lips on yours.
Until your phone vibrates violently in your pocket, startling you from Suguru's hold.
"Oh, shit," you fret, whipping out your phone to see the caller ID. "It's Shoko."
Before you answer, Suguru swipes the phone from your hands and lets it emit its final ring before opening the contacts on your phone. You watch in disbelief as he adds his number and then drops the device back into your open hands.
"When you're ready to earn your keep, call me,"
With a wink, he slinks into the remnants of the crowd, disappearing as though he were simply a figment of your imagination to begin with. Dumbfounded by what just transpired, you're slow to remember to call Shoko back, who is armed and ready to give you an earful once you finally do.
"Where the hell have you been? I've been blowing up your phone for the past thirty minutes, and Utahime is sick, and our ride is here, we need to go-,"
In the background, you think you can hear Utahime moan something about her stomach. You wince.
"Sorry," As you make your way toward the exit, you can't help but scan the crowd of retiring partygoers. "Someone wanted to apologize to me."
Shoko either doesn't hear you or doesn't care as she argues with her chauffeur over the correctness of your address, but promptly hangs up after a sharply delivered, "Hurry!"
There's a lightness in your step as you exit the hotel that wasn't there when you arrived. Emotionally and physically exhausted after tonight's conundrum, a smile dances on the edge of your lips when you think about the number on your phone.
You think you can accept that maybe you won't be receiving that apology in person, from the person that owes it to you the most. You can accept that if this is what you get in return.
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A pair of brilliant blue eyes track your every move between the bar and the bathroom behind a precariously set pair of shades. Satoru watches with rapt curiosity from his section at the corner of the party. After the third time you had excused yourself from your cheerful crew and cast, he had pointed Suguru in your direction.
Throughout the night he had observed the dynamic between you and his best friend, not at all surprised when you're quick to fall for his charm. When Suguru bends to kiss you, Satoru takes his leave for the night, feeling thoroughly satisfied.
You didn't really know it yet, but you had something Satoru wanted. And he had every intention of getting it, even if it meant getting his hands a little dirty.
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thegodthief · 4 months
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A bit random, but do you happen to have any personal particular feelings about railroads and trains, particularly in a magical sense? I am living in a train town now and wondering what to make of it like spiritually and energetically
For a while, I worked in an active rail yard. My answer prior to that employment would be drastically different than after.
At the time, I was trying not to be wooish at all. But now, looking back? Rail yards are wooish as fuck and are not only an ecosystem unto themselves, but have a personhood that I will fight anyone that claims otherwise.
I wasn't a conductor nor an engineer. Just a clerk. A "gopher". Go fer this, go fer that, take this crew, deliver these goods. But it meant I drove, walked, and sometimes crawled all over that yard. I knew where it was safe to drive and where that barely concealed well hole was. I always had a sense of which engines were moving and where were the safe spaces when the runaway car alarm sounded (spoiler: nowhere in the fucking yard, that's for sure).
When I had a new clerk shadowing me for training, after going over what the book said, I would tell them what I've learned the hard way. Which tracks were never safe to walk and why you never park your car under that particular tree in the parking lot no matter how much shade it gives. What kind of sounds you expect to hear at 2am in the rail yard and which sounds should not only have you moving quickly to a safe area but also calling the yardmaster because there might be a bigger problem than anticipated.
Certain trains had certain personalities. I'm sure the engines did for sure, but I didn't work in the roundhouse so I was never acquainted with any particular engine. But there were certain dedicated routes from one city to another, cross-country, and certain trains always had certain problems regardless of the crew or engine. My job involved getting the crew's paperwork for those trains so I saw certain patterns after a while. I'm sure each observation could be explained individually, and when I was working there, I accepted the mundane explanations at face value.
But as for the rail yard itself?
Haunted.
Embodied.
And because of the trauma that happened to even make the rail yard and the way it can and will devour the careless: Feral.
Looking back, I can see that the rail yard accepted me as part of the ecosystem within it. Moments that went better for me than expected and a certain sense of... presence... during those times when I was the only person within the literal mile. By the time I left that employment, it had given me gifts that I still keep with me. Especially now that I know what they mean.
But that's my story.
You have a different perspective.
I would advise you to treat the rail yard itself as a person. The tracks are its arteries and the yard crew are its blood cells. The roundhouse is its liver and stomach while the main tower is its brain.
Respect it. Don't go climbing past the fences and ducking under chains. Once you become accustomed to the sounds of an active rail yard, it is very easy for a train engine to bear down on you with little warning.
You likely won't get timetables of which trains are traveling through on which routes, but you can sit a safe distance away and just... listen. Feel. Trains don't want to sit in one spot, they want to move.
Commuter/passenger trains want to be looked at as they pass. Freight trains just want you to get out of the damn way. The feeder trains that carry stuff to and from the local industries tend to have more character to them.
When it's night, listen for the trains. Not just their horns, but the sound of their wheels on the tracks. When it's cold and damp, that sound will eerily carry over miles and miles. The trains will sing, sometimes to each other in greeting and sometimes to themselves. Sit long enough and you'll hear the difference between a train singing because it's required to sound off at a crossing, and a train singing because the acoustics are just right and not all howling comes from wolves.
If you decide to leave offerings, don't leave anything that would be a mess for a yard crew to clean up. The yard crew is an extension of the rail yard after all, and annoying them will set the yard itself against you.
Greet the trains when they cross the road in front of you. Listen to how they sound in the wake of their passing. The rail yard will teach you its language.
And if you go for a walk one day and happen to come across a railroad spike in an area no spike should be, that's not happenstance, that's a gift. If you take it, you're part of that rail yard's ecosystem now, even if your role is that of spectator and observer. Hold it and let the song of the rails rumble through you. It might lead you to something else.
Take care.
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