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ker0senebunny · 2 years

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you've always had me✫*ﾟ･ﾟ(walking on a string ii)

steve harrington x fem!cheerleader!reader

part one

summary: steve misses reader a whole lot (dustin smacked some sense into him). now, how does he win her back? (angst, fluff, smut)

warnings: afab!fem!reader, language, angst, fluff, smut (18+), UNPROTECTED SEX (pls remember to practice safe sex!!), kinda soft!dom steve? but no use of sir or daddy etc, apology sex, loss of virginity, PRAISE so much praise, oral (f!recieving), fingering, p in v sex, use of pet names, size kink (for like one second), dirty talk, no use of y/n, a little bit of roughness at the end (but not degredation or anything like that!! cheerleader!reader likes to be called pretty and good while she's getting railed), all characters are 18+, discussion of insecurities, soft tummy steve rights, NOT BETA'D (seriously if anybody wants to, pls shoot me a private message!)

word count: 6,187 (wowza! was not expecting that)

notes: THANK YOU FOR 200 FOLLOWERS WTF!! when i published walking on a string, i had about 30 followers so thank you so so much for keeping up with my silly little writings. i'll do a little celebration party later - i’m thinking something along the lines of blurbs from a prompt list, so send in asks! without further ado, here's the second part! seriously, thank you all for all the love you've been giving me. it really keeps me motivated to write! i hope you all enjoy this part before i start my taylor swift trilogy and ballerina!reader oneshot!

p.s. i also got a couple of asks that have perhaps inspired a part three (!!!) in the adventures of steve and his cheerleader, so thank you to the anons who sent those in! lmk if you guys would be interested in that xoxo

the things you said are hanging in the middle of my mind, tonight.

i can’t turn them off.

you hadn’t been to family video in three weeks and steve desperately missed you.

winter had arrived in hawkins, bringing with it shorter days and longer restless nights. a tangy cold ran through the air, slipping under the door of the video store and creating a stupid fucking draft. steve watched the door anxiously as the stale air burned his nose. robin snorted. “dude, she’s not coming in,” she said. he huffed out a quiet “shut it, buckley” in response, keeping his eyes trained on the door. she rolled her eyes. “it’s your funeral, dingus.”

now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen you around town either. he never saw your sweet face at the grocery store. or in the park where sometimes, he'd catch you lying on a blanket, enjoying the pre-winter breeze and blasting duran duran on your walkman's tinny headphones. hell, he even went to the library to seek you out. but it seemed that you had just plain disappeared from his life.

only his life.

steve asked anybody who came into family video if they knew where you were; they always made some offhanded comment about seeing you at a party or at your favorite boutique. the one you always got your little low cut blouses from, where trina denman had made you cry once and so he chewed her out the next time she came in to rent a movie -- pretty in pink. your movie.

"steve, you are a dipshit."

steve rolled his eyes and turned his gaze away from the door to see dustin standing in front of the family video counter.

"tell me something i don't know, henderson."

dustin rolled his eyes right back before hopping over the counter to get into steve's personal space.

"hey! man, what the hell are you-"

"apologize to her."

steve was startled at dustin's sudden seriousness. he'd only ever seen the kid get serious about upside down stuff or d&d. or, when he talked about you. he knew that you two really got along when he introduced you to all of the kids, but your bond with dustin ran deeper. you both often met at the old creek to go look at the wildlife there. you taught him about the flowers and the moss that surrounded you both, palming crisp bark and teaching him to appreciate the world around him, inadvertently worming your way into steve's heart even more as dustin regaled him of these tales.

"dustin, she doesn't want anything to do with me."

"because you haven't apologized yet. jesus christ, steve. it's like talking to a toddler. i swear." robin let out a sharp cackle from where she was eavesdropping. steve flipped her off.

dustin sighed. he just wanted to see you and steve happy. he snapped his fingers in front of steve's face to get his attention.

"i'm not a fucking dog."

"i'd argue against that." dustin chose his next words carefully: "whatever you do next has to matter more to her than anything you’ve ever done before."

i'm in a twisted web,

and i can't pull my head from it.

that first day when you came in was one of the best days of steve's life. he couldn’t believe that you, the golden girl, were speaking to him with such softness. but then, the thoughts he tried to cram away constantly invaded his mind, clouding whatever emerging feelings he felt for you. steve decided for himself that you were playing a game - making him the fool. and so he decided on revenge - playing you right back. poking out his tongue whenever he looked you up and down (which was quite a common occurrence). letting you cuddle into him whenever the two of you were seated even remotely close to one another (this was definitely not for his benefit as well). posing for pictures that you’d take with your polaroid camera that was “so annoying” to him (he’d never tell you that the picture robin took of the two of you, your back to his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist, lives in his wallet - next to the first of your little notes).

steve liked to take his time with things and he knew you needed space, but three weeks was a long time, right? it was too long of a time for you to have not pranced into family video, excited to show steve your newest purchase. too long of a time for him to go without smelling your peach shampoo on his sweater after you’ve fallen asleep during one of your many viewings of pretty in pink. he missed the sting of your manicured nails on his forearm when you were so excited to tell him about a new trick that you landed, that you physically glimmered. he realized with a start that he missed your silly notes and the mirth in your eyes as you laughed at a dumb pun he made. he missed how you would light up even more than usual whenever one of the kids said hi to you outside of one of their hangouts that they'd taken to inviting you to. he missed you.

and he fucking hated himself for it. he felt stupid, used, and above all -- guilty. why would he feel guilty if he saved himself from whatever heartache you could bring him? your teary face flashed in his mind.

oh.

because you hadn't been trying to use him -- you actually liked him. a lot.

and he definitely was a little bit (a lot) in love with you.

and he only just figured it out.

robin watched her best friend as his face changed. she snapped her gum in her mouth before plunking down on the stool next to him. "i smell wood burning," she said, "what are you thinking about?"

steve turned to her.

"i fucked up."

i hang my head

and feel the oxygen drain.

agonizing hours passed as he thought about what to say to you. he almost missed the tinkle of the bell above the door, letting him know that there was a new customer in the store. from where he sat, all he could see where white sneakers. his eyes snapped to the top of the doorway, and he shrank in disappointment. walking through the door was chrissy cunningham, not you. she was holding pretty in pink, no doubt to bring it to you to cheer you up.

so, it seemed that you were just hellbent on avoiding him.

chrissy gave him a polite smile as she brought it to the counter. steve cleared his throat. she nodded at him in greeting. robin stood a little further back, entranced by everything in front of her (did she sort of want her best friend to get punched by chrissy cunningham? …yes).

steve handed chrissy her change and just as she left, he jolted to his feet.

“wait!” he said, as if the words couldn’t wait inside his mouth any longer. she hesitated, already knowing what he was going to ask.

“how is she?” he said, eyes honest as he searched chrissy for an answer.

she set her mouth in a grim line as she shook her head at him.

“steve, i’m not going to lie to you. she’s really hurt.” steve felt his mouth dry up instantly.

“would she even want to see me?”

chrissy sighed exasperatedly and gave him a shrug before looking at his wounded face. for however much he was hurting, she knew you were hurting way worse. she slammed her hands on the family video countertop, mustering up as much of a threatening tone as she could, pushing herself to the tips of her toes to look steve directly in the eye.

“i have never known someone as kind or genuine as her,” the tiny girl said very seriously, “so you better fucking fix this harrington, because even though you’re a dickhead for what you did, i know you care about her. and for some reason, she cares about you too. probably too much.” steve opened his mouth to reply but chrissy jammed her pointer finger into his chest. “fucking. fix. it,” she said through gritted teeth before waving to robin and swaying out the door.

you're never running out of ways

to worm your way back in.

the past few weeks have been hellish for you, to say the least. getting not only rejected but belittled by steve harrington, the boy you…love? yeah, love would be the best way to put it. you'd pined after that idiot since freshman year, your feelings only intensifying with time and your prolonged visits to family video. those same visits evolved into impromptu sleepovers due to your absent parents, nights out when the local carnival was in town, watching out for the kids on halloween.

you pretended to be fine in front of your friends, a group made up of jocks and the cheer team. you knew that lucas sinclair, one of the new basketball players, was friends with steve. so you avoided him as much as possible, but that didn’t help. everywhere you went, you felt like steve was following you. seeing the people he loved (because he obviously didn’t love you) caused the rift within you, one searing with pain and self-loathing, to deepen.

there was less of a pep in your step. your gentle attitude remained, but you were more melancholic than anyone had ever seen you. sure, you were always willing to lend a hand or a listening ear, but as soon as you were left with your own thoughts, it seemed like a shade had passed over your demeanor.

you hadn’t let anybody into your room since the pep rally, sinking into a cocoon made of your duvet and throw pillows for hours on end. your walkman was always pumped up on full volume. crumpled tissues blanketed virtually every surface - a palpable reminder of his words to you that continued to hang in your mind. you tried to block them out - to block him out - but steve had become so engrained within your daily routine without you even noticing.

his yellow sweatshirt lay on your desk chair, directly in your line of sight, which didn’t help with your attempts to wallow and just get it over with.

you didn’t even let chrissy in to talk to you - she had to resort to seeing you in public or talking over the phone. your room was your safe space: your zone away from anything (or anyone) else but you.

which made steve’s raucous entrance at 2 am all the more unwelcome.

anyone who knows what love is will understand;

you’ve always had me,

walking on a string.

you’d finally been pulled under into what could almost be described as sleep when you heard a thump and a quiet “fuck me!” you were alone in your parents’ large house (something about visiting your dad’s old boss — you couldn’t care less), which made the nighttime extra unnerving to you as a young woman, alone in the middle of fucking nowhere. that was something steve had known about, before he broke your heart.

you shot up immediately, rolling out of your bed and grabbing one of your sneakers to hold up as a makeshift weapon. your eyes were wide with fear and your voice shook as you spoke, “don’t come near me, perv!” you launched the shoe at the tall, dark figure, striking them in the shoulder. whoever it was taken aback and made a noise of pain. you were reaching for your other shoe when you heard your name. “it’s just me, sweetheart.” you lowered your arm as you took in his outline in the dark. you didn’t need light to know what he looked like; you’d spent long enough memorizing every freckle on his face. the slight gap in his left eyebrow from when he got cut in a fight and it scarred. how the right corner of his mouth used to be permanently curled in a smirk around you.

you squinted still.

“stevie? did you sneak through my fucking window?”

you couldn’t help but use his nickname. three weeks of the cold shoulder doesn’t exactly undo months (nay, years) of pining.

“you could’ve used the front door, you know. my parents aren’t home.”

he hadn’t said anything to you yet, allowing you to fill the silence with your half-awake rambling. he gave you a sheepish smile as you moved to stand in front of him, looking up at him with your arms crossed over your chest in worry.

“why are you here?”

you hated how your voice cracked.

he looked down at the floor and then back at you, meeting your eyes. you hated how you immediately got sucked back into the warm umber of his gaze. he sucked in a breath through his teeth, shaking hands in his pockets.

“i need to tell you something,” he said with as much sincerity as he could pour into his words. you rolled your eyes, turning to get back into bed. “i think i’ve heard everything i need to hear, harrington.” he said your name pleadingly, reaching out to envelop your fingers in his.

you hated how you let steve's warm fingerpads trace the inside of your wrist.

you especially hated that it made you feel better.

“please let me say this and then i’ll be out of your life forever.”

you nodded.

“i didn’t think that you’d want anything to do with me.”

your heart ruptured.

he continued: “you’re this stunning, whip-smart, sweet girl who everyone loves. and i’m just this washed-up guy who chauffeurs for six children and works in a video store.”

steve paused to look at you, not quite understanding the emotion pressed into the creases of your face.

“i thought that your friends put you up to this - to me. i thought you were just using me to get a laugh, so i thought i would use you right back.”

tears bubbled up along your lower lashline. your lower lip wobbled as he poured out the deepest, darkest crevices of his mind to you in your moonlight bedroom. your eyes adjusted to see him

“but then i got to know you. like really know you. and i realized that you were one of my favorite people ever. and then i felt like i’d fallen into your trap. and so i lashed out and i was a fucking dumbass and ruined whatever i could’ve had with the girl i love. what i’m trying to say is - i was an idiot and i really don’t want this to end before we even had the chance to start it, sweetheart.”

you let the tears fall unknowingly, but unlike the gym, steve cradled your face gently in his hands, swiping away the beads of saline that ran down the apples of your cheeks. you sucked in a breath, but it felt like the oxygen cascaded out of you instead; you brought your face closer to his.

“you’re so fucking stupid, harrington.”

and then you were kissing him.

it felt completely natural to you both - no hesitating, no waiting. he moved his mouth over yours, pressing your scantily-clad pajama-covered body into him. you felt the softness of his stomach and the hardness of his chest against you as you tried to get yourself impossibly closer. from where his shirt was slightly unbuttoned, you saw some of his chest hair. a path of warmth made its way down to the root of your core. he pulled away and you whined, chasing his mouth with yours.

he breathed out your name like it was a poem.

your smile was just as bright as it usually was, even through all of the salty wetness sliding down your face.

“i love you, stevie."

he looked at you like he wanted to bring the stars closer, just so you could get a better look.

"say it again," he teased gently as he nosed at your throat, prompting you to lift your chin and expose your neck. he started to pepper open mouthed kisses on your neck.

"i-i love you."

he sucked harshly on one spot, making you softly cry out. you pulled back and watched his pretty face form a pout.

"but you’re gonna have to make it up to me.”

he looked down at you with a boyish smirk, before dipping down to meet your lips with his once again.

“i can think of at least one thing that might help.”

he kissed you with a ferocity, a deep-seeded wanting. you sighed into the kiss and whimpered when you felt his tongue nudge against the seam of your mouth. you opened your lips in a surprised moan and he slipped his warm tongue in, licking the roof of your mouth. you let out another whimper, and he groaned. “those sweet little noises are gonna fucking kill me, baby.” his words were strained, his voice raspy, lips slick with a mixture of yours and his spit. you felt your face warm to match the heat emanating from your sex. he dove in to kiss you again, gently leading you toward your bed.

your back hit your cornflower-dotted duvet as steve caged you within his arms. your hands had made their way into his hair, mussing it far past anything that a few puffs of farrah fawcett hair spray could ever remedy. you felt the ache between your thighs grow and in your steve-induced haze, your hips jolted up to meet his. you were surrounded by him: the feel of his warm, wet mouth on yours. his smell -- lemongrass shampoo and pine cologne and something that just made him steve. steve tasted like promises and the cherry slushee he'd gotten with robin after work. his rough fingertips soothed over the spot at your waist where your flimsy tank top had risen. you maneuvered your hips over his groin again. the tiny bit of friction that his rough, tented jeans provided against your throbbing clit made you whine out his name.

“stevie,” you pleaded.

he moved his lips down your neck, lapping at your pulse and leaving a trail of bruises in his wake. the stimulation only made you move your hips more in desperation. you were already surprisingly close — not even nights alone in your room with your hands shoved down your cotton panties, imagining this very moment, were you ever close this quickly. one of his hands came down to squeeze your hip — not harshly, but as a reminder that he was in charge. he pulled away when he felt you move your hips again. he sighed. “pretty girl, i want to take my time with you. be patient.”

you looked at him through your heavy lashes, pouting a little as you grabbed for him to come back closer to you. “but i wanna feel you!” you exclaimed, pulling him down toward you to latch on to his neck and grind up toward his bulge. he hissed as you found his sweet spot, right between where his collarbone meets his neck. he panted out your name as the hand gripping your hip got tighter; you could see the hand near your face clench into a fist and he breathed shakily. “i want to feel you too, but i have to get you ready first, sweetheart. is that okay?”

your heart swelled so much you thought it might beat its way through your chest. you nodded bashfully as his hands finally slipped under your tiny pajama tank top. steve kissed you as his fingers danced over your ribcage. you shivered at their warmth and giggled when he intentionally tickled you. you felt him smile into the kiss (which did almost make your heart explode). but all thoughts of just how much you loved him went out the window when you felt his hand rub over one of the stiff peaks of your covered breasts. you arched upwards, pushing your chest into his hand. he chuckled at your eagerness and detached himself from your wanton mouth to remove your tiny top. your breasts met the air and steve looked at you in wonder, as if you deserved to be immortalized in the louvre. “god, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured.

you suddenly felt shy, his words bringing you back into the present. here you were, topless with steve harrington giving you hickies. you grabbed his bicep gently with nerves puddling in your still lust-blown eyes.

“stevie, wait.”

he immediately gave you space, asking you oh so kindly, “is everything okay, baby?” you nodded. “more than okay. i just…” your voice faltered and you looked at your hands. he put his hands on the sides of your face, letting you sink into their warmth and weight. “it’s okay, pretty girl. you can tell me anything.” you bit your already kiss-bruised bottom lip.

“it’s just that i’ve never…this is the furthest i’ve ever been with anyone,” you rushed out. you desperately hoped that you hadn’t ruined things with him again. he sponged a kiss to the tip of your nose before saying, “i won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” your eyes widened and you placed your hands over his on your face. “no no! i just wanted to let you know before we did anything else. i want it to be you, stevie. i love you.”

he smiled at that. “i love you too, sweetheart. god, i can't stop saying it.”

it was a miracle that your heart had still remained lodged in your chest at this point.

“kiss me, please,” you cooed, and he happily obliged, removing your thin pajama shorts in the process.

he left soft, wet kisses along the column of your throat, biting down gently on the top of your left nipple when he arrived at your tits. “perfect tits” as he called them. you squeaked and he laughed, the vibrations around your puckered bud heading straight to your pussy. you half-believed that your panties would be sheer from how wet you were.

he kneaded and pinched at your right nipple as he laved his tongue all over your left, giving you little nips that made you squeal and kisses that made you melt under him. he alternated between breasts and when your tits were sufficiently marked with imprints of his teeth, he placed his hand over your searing cunt. he watched your face change, your eyes rolling back, from the lightest of touches. you were equally as whipped for him as he was for you. steve groaned as he felt your thighs trap his hand, pushing the wet part of your panties into him. his eyes rolled back at the sight before him, your tits marked with his teeth, your eyes darkened for him, your pussy rutting into his hand, all covered in white cotton panties with a little pink bow. you whimpered when he took his hand away, searching for relief as your clit pulsed.

“what did i say, pretty girl?”

“that i have to be patient,” you answered shyly. he hummed.

“good girl.”

you burned from head to toe at his words.

he peeled your panties off of you, inhaling sharply as a string of your arousal connected you to the sopping cotton, only snapping once he had your panties partway down your thighs. “all for me, sweetheart?” you nodded shyly and pressed your thighs together, but he caught you and spread them again. “i wanna see you, baby,” he said before lowering himself to face your drooling cunt.

he licked a fat stripe up your slit, making you jump a little and let out a breathy gasp. steve grinned before spreading your folds with his hands and prodding at your quivering hole with his tongue. he moaned at your taste — tart and heady and you. you moaned as he sponged wet kisses to your folds, before moving up your thigh toward your needy clit. he looked you in the eye as he devilishly licked around the bud before latching his mouth onto you. steve sucked your clit into his mouth, gently brushing his teeth across your sensitive bud. you rushed your hips to meet his face and your hands flew to his head again. he gave a little laugh at your want. he kept his mouth attached to your clit as he gathered dipped his index finger into your folds, gathering your slick before pushing into your poor little hole. he muttered a curse under his breath.

“shit, sweet girl. you’re so fucking tight.” you contracted around his fingers at his voice, about to reply before he put his mouth back on your clit, sucking harsher than he had before. you felt yourself get impossibly wetter as steve began to pump his finger in and out of your entrance. you tried to move yourself on his hand, pleading for “more, stevie, more!” his middle finger slid in to join his index and you hissed at the stretch. he stopped to let you adjust and you marveled at how full you felt just because of two thick fingers. he eased the two of them in and out of you slowly, spreading you open for him. you were so lost in the pleasure that he was doling out that you almost missed his calls of your name.

“baby, can you take another one? d’you think you can?” his face had moved to hover over yours now; you could see your juices on his chin. you nodded frantically, shifting back and forth on his already dripping fingers. “please stevie — need it. need you.” he kissed you heatedly as he inserted his ring finger, swallowing your gasp with fervid swirls of his tongue. you keened as you felt the girth of three fingers inside of you; your fingers and imagination couldn’t do steve’s hands justice. he gave an experimental thrust, keeping up with his assault on your clit, with the heel of his hand. he kept kissing you, switching between gentle presses of his mouth to yours and hot, frantic swipes of his tongue. he noticed your cunt start to pulse, steadily getting tighter as you mewled. his fingers squelched as he slid them in and out of your sopping cunt. “steve, stevie, m’gonna-” you could barely get the words out before you let another loud moan. “gonna cum for me, sweetheart?” he teased, speeding up his ministrations. your voice was but a shred in the back of your throat at this point; the only response you were able to give him was a high-pitched sob. your mouth fell open and your head tilted back, renewing him access to your neck and chest. you felt yourself tighten even more as his lips brushed across the tender bruises he’d already made. the combination of his lips on yours, on your skin — his hand between your thighs — you were completely surrounded by him. he was knuckle deep by now, allowing your gummy walls to suck him in. your nails cut into his biceps as you breathed rapidly. “cum for me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth. at his permission, you let the taught string in your body snap. your walls tightened like a vice around his fingers, so tight that steve swore it could’ve cut off his circulation. your cunt fluttered around the fingers seated deep inside of you. your back arched off the bed and your gut tightened as the intensity of your orgasm washed over you in waves. your vision blurred as your body went limp, twitching with aftershocks. you said his name like a prayer through it all, finally blinking to clear your vision. you were met with his smug face as he gave you one last push with his fingers. you squeaked at the contact and he smiled at you, giving you a doting kiss on your swollen, bitten lips.

“all good, baby? you were so good for me. my good girl.”

you nodded, thoroughly exhausted, but also craving him. “stevie, i wanna feel you inside of me,” you said, giving him your best puppydog eyes. he gave you an easy smile, before searching the pockets of his jeans for a condom. “oh shit,” he said, exasperatedly. you sat up with a frown as he rooted through his belongings. “stevie, honey, what’s the matter?” he looked at you apologetically. “i don’t have a condom,” he said dejectedly. you reached out to kiss the corner of his mouth, to push the frown off of his face. you gave him a small smile and said, “s’okay! ‘m on the pill.” his pupils dilated, darkening his eyes so that only a sliver of hazel showed. “and i’m clean, because, yanno…”

“fuck,” he rasped out, “you can’t say shit like that to me, baby. i’ll cum in my pants like a fuckin’ dope.” you laughed your real laugh, his favorite laugh, and in that moment, he felt overwhelmed with love for you. so overwhelmed that as he pulled his cock out, he told you again. he called your name softly to get your attention.

“i love you so goddamn much,” he said, pouring every drop of earnestness he could into his words. now that he knew that his words actually did matter to you.

“i love you too, steve harrington,” you said as you leaned up to plant a sweet kiss on his cheek. he chased your mouth with his to lay a series of quick kisses to your lips, muffling the giggles that tumbled from your throat. he rose to his knees above you and shucked off his jeans and his boxers.

now, you’d never seen a cock before in your life, but fuck, were they all as pretty as steve’s? his cock was just, so pretty: a red tip that gave way to a flesh-toned shaft, thick with a vein on the underside of his length. his head was leaking in frustration. your eyes widened as you took him in, wondering if his massive shaft would be able to fit inside of you.

he teased his ruddy tip through the wet mess between your thighs, stroking himself with your cum from earlier. he placed one of his hands on your hip, interlacing the fingers of his other hand with yours, letting your entwined hands rest by your head.

“are you ready, sweetheart?”

you gave a soft “yes” in reply and gulped down a breath. he noticed how you tensed up and squeezed your hip gently. “we don’t have to if-” “no!” you exclaimed, “i want to it’s just…what if i’m not good?” his heart almost shattered as he looked at the worry written across your sweet face. he brought his lips to the crease between your brows, pecking you there to tell you to relax your face. “you’re perfect to me already, baby,” he said, oh so honestly. and you believed him, because it was your stevie looking at you like you were the only real thing in his life. “okay, i’m ready,” you said, relaxing into your bed a little more.

steve guided his tip to your quivering entrance and kissed you as he slid the fat head of his cock in. you gasped as he breached your walls, arms winding around his neck. your jaw fell open, slack against where your chin rested on his shoulder, almost impossibly close to him. the fullness of his fingers was one thing, but this was totally different. the stretch was addictive as he slid into you inch by inch. he worked you open gently, and you wanted him to stay inside you forever. he noticed that you’d gone quiet and brought a hand up to comb through his hair in order to see you better. “everything okay?” you nodded fervently, wriggling your hips and mewling out, “stevie more, more.” at your words, he bottomed out, heavy balls slapping against your ass and you made a strangled noise into the air as he moaned into your neck. “fucking- holy shit, you feel so good.” your walls contracted around him and steve had an idea. he started slowly thrusting into you, allowing you to get adjusted to the feeling of his heavy cock inside of you. all the while, dripping praise into your waiting ears.

"you're doing so well f'me," he said, still thrusting into you slowly -- wanting to make this about you, not him.

but something inside him snapped when you said, “stevie, fuck me.” he started pounding into you, jackhammering his hips against yours, making your eyes roll back so far in your head that all you could see was black. his chest hair brushed against your nipples, meaty thighs brushing against you with coarse hair during every thrust. you choked out a loud moan at the sensation, clapping a hand over your mouth at the volume. he noticed that your sounds had become muffled and whispered into the air between you two: “c’mon pretty girl. i wanna hear those sweet sounds you make.” his balls slapped against your ass as he rolled his hips into yours; the sounds of flesh against flesh ricocheted off the toile wallpaper in your bedroom. the wetness between your thighs kept spreading, creating a lewd slap as he plunged into you over and over again.

his spongy tip pushed against your g-spot and you clenched around him desperately. he moaned at the sensation, muttering a curse under his breath and something about how tight you were. you bit his shoulder after a particularly hard thrust, causing him to hiss and shudder. your walls started to spasm around his cock as that big vein of his pummeled into your sticky cunt. your whimpers became faster and higher as you chased your orgasm, steve right there with you. “stevie!” you yelped as he continued his brutal pace. “’m right there with you, baby. let go,” he whispered, his lips covering yours. you did just as he asked, a borderline pornographic whine slipping its way out of your throat and plastering itself across his mouth. you clenched impossibly tightly around him, stuttering out, “want it inside, please stevie,” as you were pushed over the edge. your pussy pulsed and your body shook, muscles tense as he milked your puffy cunt for all of your juices. you sobbed while you came; it was the hardest you’ve ever cum, your intense love for steve amplifying every shockwave. your legs were wrapped around him, heels digging into his back as he gave you one lasting thrust, his hips stuttering. you felt a warmth extend through your weeping cunt as he painted your sweet walls. the feeling of his hot ropes of cum filling you caused you to tighten around him once again, riding out the last waves of your orgasm.

neither of you moved for a while as steve remained inside of you, both of you at a loss for words. he raked a hand through his sweaty brunette mop and gave you a kiss, pushing all of his feeling into it as he eased out of you. you whimpered at the resulting emptiness, reaching your arms out to keep him in bed with you. he smiled, dropping a smattering of kisses to your face. you giggled and held his head in your hands to catch his lips. he pulled away with one final peck to your lips, pulling on his boxers. you sat up with a melancholy look in your eyes, but he squeezed your ankle in reassurance, telling you that he was “just gonna go ‘n get a washcloth for you, sweetheart.”

he returned moments later from your ensuite with a damp cloth, kissing up your leg as he wiped down the apex of your thighs. he wiped himself off and grabbed his shirt for you, gently telling you to raise your arms as he slipped it over your head. he lay down and opened his arms for you, as you giddily landed on his chest. you reached over him to turn on your bedside lamp and he quirked an eyebrow up at you.

“just wanna look at you s’all,” you said delicately, as you let your fingers play with the curls at the nape of his neck. his heart stumbled at your words and he squeezed you tighter.

“i’m sorry,” steve said again, “i love you so, so much.”

you yawned and snuggled into him, throwing your other arm across his body, murmuring into the air shared between you two: “you’re the only one for me ever, stevie.”

he looked at you in the buttery light of your bedside lamp, half-asleep on him, drowsily babbling about everything you loved about him (his jokes, his freckles, his loyalty), nose squished into his neck as far as possible.

and he realized, in that moment, that he’d always walk on whatever string you led him on.

© ker0senebunny. all rights reserved. all original posts of writing are my own words, with the exceptions of quotations from songs, movies, and other media. my work is NOT to be crossposted to another platform, copied by anyone, or translated without my express and explicit permission.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 17 days

Text

Rosemary Kirstein’s “The Steerswoman”

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TONIGHT (May 4) in VANCOUVER, then onto Tartu, Estonia, and beyond!

For decades, scammy "book doctors" and vanity presses spun a tale about how Big Publishing was too conservative and risk-averse for really really adventurous books, and the only way to get your visionary work published was to pay them to fill your garage with badly printed books that you'd spend the rest of your life trying to get other people to read:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/04/self-publishing/

Like all successful grifts, this one worked because it wasn't entirely untrue. No, mainstream publishing isn't filled with corporate gatekeepers who relish the idea of keeping your brilliance from reaching its audience.

But.

But editors sometimes make bad calls. They reject books because of quirks of taste, or fleeting inattentiveness, or personal bias. In a healthy publishing industry – one with dozens of equal-sized presses, all commanding roughly comparable market-share, good books would never slip through the cracks. One publisher's misstep would be another's opportunity.

But after decades of mergers, the population of major publishers has dwindled to a mere Big Five (it was almost four, but the DOJ blocked Penguin Random House's acquisition of Simon & Schuster):

https://www.justice.gov/opa/pr/justice-department-sues-block-penguin-random-house-s-acquisition-rival-publisher-simon

This means that some good books definitely can't find a home in Big Publishing. If you miss with five editors, you can exhaust all your chances with the Big Five.

There's a second tier of great publishers, from data-driven juggernauts like Sourcebooks to boutique presses like Verso and Beacon Press, who publish wonderful books and are very good to their authors (I've published with four of the Big Five and half a dozen of the smaller publishers).

But even with these we-try-harder boutique publishers in the mix, there's a lot of space for amazing books that just don't fit with a "trad" publisher's program. These books are often labors of love by their creators, and that love is reciprocated by their readers. You can have my unbelievably gigantic Little Nemo in Slumberland collection when you pry my cold, dead fingers off of it:

https://memex.craphound.com/2006/09/25/gigantic-little-nemo-book-does-justice-to-the-loveliest-comic-ever/

And don't even think of asking to borrow my copy of Jack Womack's Flying Saucers are Real!:

https://memex.craphound.com/2016/10/03/flying-saucers-are-real-anthology-of-the-lost-saucer-craze/

I will forever cherish my Crad Kilodney chapbooks:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/19/crad-kilodney-was-an-outlier/#intermediation

Then there's last year's surprise smash hit, Shift Happens, a two-volume, 750-page slipcased book recounting the history of the keyboard. I own one. It's fantastic:

https://glennf.medium.com/how-we-crowdfunded-750-000-for-a-giant-book-about-keyboard-history-c30e24c4022e

Then there's the whole world of indie Kindle books pitched at incredibly voracious communities of readers, especially the very long tail of very niche sub-sub-genres radiating off the woefully imprecise category of "paranormal romance." These books are landing at precisely the right spot for their readers, despite some genuinely weird behind-the-scenes feuds between their writers:

https://www.theverge.com/2018/7/16/17566276/cockygate-amazon-kindle-unlimited-algorithm-self-published-romance-novel-cabal

But as Sturgeon's Law has it: "90% of everything is shit." Having read slush – the pile of unsolicited manuscripts sent to publishers – I can tell you that a vast number of books get rejected from trad publishers because they aren't good books. I say this without intending any disparagement towards their authors and the creative impulses that drive them. But a publisher's job isn't merely to be good to writers – it's to serve readers, by introducing them to works they are apt to enjoy.

The vast majority of books that publishers pass on are not books that you will want to read, so it follows that the vast majority of self-published work that is offered on self-serve platforms like Kindle or pitched by hopeful writers at street fairs and book festivals is just not very good.

But sometimes you find someone's independent book and it's brilliant, and you get the double thrill of falling in love with a book and of fishing a glittering needle out of an unimaginably gigantic haystack.

(If you want to read an author who beautifully expresses the wonder of finding an obscure, self-published book that's full of unsuspected brilliance, try Daniel Pinkwater, whose Alan Mendelsohn, The Boy From Mars is eleven kinds of brilliant, but is also a marvelous tale of the wonders of weird used book stores with titles like KLONG! You Are a Pickle!):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Mendelsohn,_the_Boy_from_Mars

I also write books, and I am, in fact, presently in the midst of a long book-tour for my novel The Bezzle. Last month, I did an event in Cambridge, Mass with Randall "XKCD" Munroe that went great. We had a full house, and even after the venue caught fire (really!), everyone followed us across the street to another building, up five flights of stairs, and into another auditorium where we wrapped up the gig:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulnlSRbH80Y

Afterwards, our hosts from Harvard Berkman-Klein took us to a campus pizza joint/tiki bar for dinner and drinks, and we had a great chat about a great many things. Naturally, we talked about books we loved, and Randall said, "Hey, have you ever read Rosemary Kirstein's Steerswoman novels?"

(I hadn't.)

"They're incredible. All these different people kept recommending them to me, and they kept telling me that I would love them, but they wouldn't tell me what they were about because there's this huge riddle in them that's super fun to figure out for yourself:"

https://www.rosemarykirstein.com/the-books/

"The books were published in the eighties by Del Ray, and the cover of the first one had a huge spoiler on it. But the author got the rights back and she's self-published it" (WARNING: the following link has a HUGE SPOILER!):

https://www.rosemarykirstein.com/2010/12/the-difference/

"I got it and it was pretty rough-looking, but the book was so good. I can't tell you what it was about, but I think you'll really like it!"

How could I resist a pitch like that? So I ordered a copy:

https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-steerswoman-rosemary-kirstein/7900759

Holy moly is this a good novel! And yeah, there's a super interesting puzzle in it that I won't even hint at, except to say that even the book's genre is a riddle that you'll have enormous great fun solving.

Randall wasn't kidding about the book's package. The type looks to be default Microsoft fonts, the spine is printed slightly off-register, the typesetting has lots of gonks, and it's just got that semi-disposable feel of a print-on-demand title.

Without Randall's recommendation, I never would have even read this book closely enough to notice the glowing cover endorsement from Jo Walton, nor the fact that it was included in Damien Broderick and Paul Di Filippo's "101 Best Science Fiction Novels 1985-2010."

But I finished reading the first volume just a few minutes ago and I instantly ordered the next three in the series (it's planned for seven volumes, and the author says she plans on finishing it – I can't wait).

This book is such an unexpected marvel, a stunner of a novel filled with brilliant world-building, deft characterizations, a hard-driving plot and a bunch of great surprises. The fact that such a remarkable tale comes in such an unremarkable package makes it even more of a treasure, like a geode: unremarkable on the outside, a glittering blaze within.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/04/the-wulf/#underground-fave

#pluralistic

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girlsdressingrooms · 3 months

Text

Iris Barrel Apfel, Decorator and Fashion Stylist

(August 29, 1921 – March 1, 2024)

Ms. Apfel was one of the most vivacious personalities in the worlds of fashion, textiles, and interior design, she has cultivated a personal style that is both witty and exuberantly idiosyncratic.

Her originality was typically revealed in her mixing of high and low fashions—Dior haute couture with flea market finds, nineteenth-century ecclesiastical vestments with Dolce & Gabbana lizard trousers.

With remarkable panache and discernment, she combines colors, textures, and patterns without regard to period, provenance, and, ultimately, aesthetic conventions. Paradoxically, her richly layered combinations—even at their most extreme and baroque—project a boldly graphic modernity.

Iris Barrel was born on Aug. 29, 1921, in Astoria, Queens, the only child of Samuel Barrel, who owned a glass and mirror business, and his Russian-born wife, Sadye, who owned a fashion boutique.

She studied art history at New York University, then qualified to teach and did so briefly in Wisconsin before fleeing back to New York to work on Women's Wear Daily, and for interior designer Elinor Johnson, decorating apartments for resale and honing her talent for sourcing rare items before opening her own design firm. She was also an assistant to illustrator Robert Goodman.

As a distinguished collector and authority on antique fabrics, Iris Apfel has consulted on numerous restoration projects that include work at the White House that spanned nine presidencies from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.

Along with her husband, Carl, she founded Old World Weavers, an international textile manufacturing company and ran it until they retired in 1992. The Apfels specialized in the reproduction of fabrics from the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, and traveled to Europe twice a year in search of textiles they could not source in the United States.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art��s Costume Institute assembled 82 ensembles and 300 accessories from her personal collection in 2005 in a show about her called “Rara Avis”.

Almost overnight, Ms. Apfel became an international celebrity of pop fashion.

Ms. Apfel was seen in a television commercial for the French car DS 3, became the face of the Australian fashion brand Blue Illusion, and began a collaboration with the start-up WiseWear. A year later, Mattel created a one-of-a-kind Barbie doll in her image. Last year, she appeared in a beauty campaign for makeup with Ciaté London.

Six years after the Met show she started her fashion line "Rara Avis" with the Home Shopping Network.

She was cover girl of Dazed and Confused, among many other publications, window display artist at Bergdorf Goodman, designer and design consultant, then signed to IMG in 2019 as a model at age 97.

Ms. Iris Apfel became a visiting professor at the University of Texas at Austin in its Division of Textiles and Apparel, teaching about imagination, craft and tangible pleasures in a world of images.

In 2018, she published “Iris Apfel: Accidental Icon,” an autobiographical collection of musings, anecdotes and observations on life and style.

Ms. Apfel’s apartments in New York and Palm Beach were full of furnishings and tchotchkes that might have come from a Luis Buñuel film: porcelain cats, plush toys, statuary, ornate vases, gilt mirrors, fake fruit, stuffed parrots, paintings by Velázquez and Jean-Baptiste Greuze, a mannequin on an ostrich.

The Museum of Lifestyle & Fashion History in Boynton Beach, Florida, is designing a building that will house a dedicated gallery of Ms. Apfel's clothes, accessories, and furnishings.

Ms. Apfel’s work had a universal quality, It’s was a trend.

Rest in Power !

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honey-flustered · 1 year

Text

You’re Not The Boss Of Me (MDNI +18)

Dom!Eddie Munson x Bratty!Sub!Reader

Summary: After showing your true colors to Eddie, you use this to your advantage, being as bratty as you can to get a rise out Eddie. But understand that how ever mean you are to him only allows him to be just as mean��maybe even more.

A/N: this was in my drafts for some long and now im just deciding to release it even though it’s not exactly what how I wanted it. I’m continuing to have issues revising my work over and over and never publishing so i figured i’d let this go. First part is in reader’s POV then of course goes in second POV. A sequel to Come Again

Word Count: 2.8k+

Warnings: smut, established relationship, hinted bully!eddie, mean!reader, mean!eddie, dom/sub dynamics, fake nice!reader, panty fetish, mutual masturbation, finger sucking, cum eating, handjob, some ass/body worship, reader and eddie are in love but f*d up, tattoo artist!eddie, reader has piercings (nipple play)

Power comes in all forms and positions. Even if you’re a submissive. You’d probably look at someone like me, seemingly so sweet and docile, and think “Awww, she doesn’t have not an evil bone in her body.” But that’s what we, “good girls”, want you to do: underestimate us. That’s what makes us so powerful because eventually we get what we want.

Here’s where I was able to exercise my power with my dear boyfriend, Eddie Munson. Two weeks ago, I was able to break through to his innocent act with me. Call it great minds thinking alike but we’ve both held up this facade of being good when around each other because of the shame to act on our most carnal desires. But quiet mouths don’t get fed and, frankly, I had enough. So I called him out on his shit.

“You’re vanilla as FUCK.” I said.

And that moment truly became the beginning of what’s become of our relationship today:

Two sick fucks who enjoy getting a rise out of each other.

—————

Oh, the power you get from being a pampered brat in public and treated like a whore in bed. It was the best of both worlds and Eddie sure knows how to treat a lady. With him, you could truly be the mean bitch you’d hoped to be. Of course, this was only behind closed doors as you still could see the benefits of being a good girl in everyone else’s eyes. Only Eddie got to see your true nature. You’re a bitch and you made it evident that you didn’t care and it actually got you off being one to Eddie. This was fine, though. He loved it, too. In return, he gets a succubus disguised as a sweet beauty in his arms to dominate as he pleases.

You’d like to think the power’s evenly distributed amongst the two of you. You’re both unfiltered, whorish, and wicked. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship of sexual energy.

At times, you feel like Eddie’s giving you a run for your money as his wickedness proves to outweigh your own. The annoying pervert. He really likes to tease past the point of suffering and what’s worse…he still hasn’t fucked you yet. You were so sure that he’d give in by now after the nights you’ve shared but it never goes beyond second base. Even when you’ve put on your ‘bitch girl pants’ and laid down some rules.

Oh, well. If you don’t get to drain his balls, the least you can do is drain his pockets.

“What do you think of this dress?” You say, twirling around in the mirror in front of you. Currently, you were both in the dressing room of a French boutique. You’ve been shopping all day, hopping from store to store. Eddie’s clearly impatient but he takes it like the good boyfriend he is.

“I think this is the one,” He says, low on energy. “You look hot.”

“I’d like some more poetic-ness to your words.”

“Okay,” He raises to his feet, gripping your hips from behind. “Then, you’re as fucking hot as a thousand suns.”

“I know right,” You beam then quickly wave him away from your personal space. “Buy it for me.”

He examines the price tag attached to the seam of the dress then looks up at you with a deadpan stare. He’s followed you store to store like a mindless zombie all day, receiving zero affection from you and now you’re looking to buy a dress for an even higher amount. If he hadn’t been so distracted by watching your sexy ass try on all these clothes that accentuate your curves, he’d have called it quits long ago. The only thing he held onto was that you’d eventually reward him with your touch in return.

“This would cost me my entire dealer’s earnings for the week!” He exclaims.

“Yeah, but you have that check coming in for the tattoo shop. You’ll only be poor— for what— a day. You want to keep me happy, don’t you? Then you’ve gotta fund your popular angel girlfriend’s expensive lifestyle. It shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal! I’ve bought you plenty of dresses throughout the week and you haven’t even worn some of them.”

“And you’re still complaining like you always do.” You say while rolling your eyes.

“You may not be a good girl anymore but I’m going to make it my mission to correct this little behavior of yours.”

“What? You’ll spank me again? You don’t get to touch me unless I get what I want. We have rules for this relationship. Unhappy girlfriend = blue balled boyfriend. But if you’d have just fucked me already maybe I wouldn’t be such a bitch. You scared you’ll cum in one stroke or something?”

“Actually, I’m scared you’ve got teeth down there and, with your personality, it doesn't seem that far fetched.”

“Say what you will but I’ll always be Hawkins’ sweetheart. Even being in a relationship with you couldn’t tarnish that image sadly. Ah, well,” You remove the dress, now in your underwear as you begin dressing in your own clothes again. “Being good has its perks nonetheless.”

“How long do you think that’ll last? What do you think your friends will think of you when I show them all the naughty little footage I have of you in my camcorder? I’m sure they’d love to hear how much Hawkins’ sweetheart loves choking on the freak’s giant cock.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Depends on my mood. But don’t be sad, you might find out how envious your friends are of you now that you’re with someone like me. I did rock a lot of worlds.”

“You’re disgusting.” You hiss with slightly hidden jealousy for the very fact that he’s slept with other girls. But why not you?

“Maybe I can get you the dress but I’ll want to do something in return.”

“Everything is so transactional with you.”

“Look who’s talking.” He scoffs.

“If you were to simply buy me shit without expecting anything in return, would it really be transactional?” You retort.

“Are you going to accept my terms or not?”

You stare at the hot pink tube dress in your hands. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Let me give you a wedgie.”

“Are you legit high right now? That’s so idiotic, it’s almost comatose inducing. Why?”

“Because it’d be really funny.”

“I’m wearing really expensive underwear right now that costs more than those shoes you’re wearing. Like hell would I let you tear at them.”

“Then, you can forget the deal.”

“Exploitation is what you’re doing. People wouldn’t take kindly to those who participate in such things.”

“Good thing I’ve never been known to care what people think of me.”

He’s right. He’s never given a fuck. That’s what makes him so terrifying… and so very hot.

“Alright,” You pout. “But when I say ‘stop’, your hands should be off me.”

Turning your back to Eddie, you wait for Eddie to begin. He studies the bedazzled words written on the back of your pants of your matching pink tracksuit: “Princess”. He rolls his eyes at this. Could you be any more predictable?

Your thong peeks out at the top of the low rise pants as a style that you’d adopted just enough to show the public the color of your underwear. Also pink.

“A pink goddamn fanatic.” Eddie thinks to himself.

Your jacket is a crop top, exposing the new belly ring piercing Eddie had done for you when you asked via your rebellious stage. Then there’s your silky smooth back that you plan for him to tattoo a tramp stamp onto the lower section. It’s so much skin. Too much skin exposed but he doesn’t mind how you dress. After all, he can fight and honestly he loves seeing you show yourself off while men envy him for obtaining you.

Eddie tugs on the sides of your pants, accessing just enough of your underwear for the top globes of your ass to peek out as well. He bites his lips to keep in a groan, not wanting to give you the satisfaction. His cock is semi-hard and he makes sure to keep his hips at a safe distance so she doesn’t realize his game.

“Bend a little.” He says, voice hoarse from arousal.

You obey, having a slight arch in your back. Massaging the peeked out globes of your ass, he can’t help but to close the gap between your bodies. Your ass was just so soft and round in his hands.

“Hey! You can’t touch me like that unless you get me what I want!” You attempt to wriggle from his grasp but a large hand fists whatever little piece of fabric your underwear has, stilling you.

With a free hand, he smacks your ass causing you to let out a soft whimper. He grinds his cock into the side of your thigh, humping into you like a dog in heat.

Eddie lets out quiet moans in your ear, tugging on your underwear hard after each moan he lets out like following a rhythm. “Unh, ugh, fuck. You’re so damn pretty.”

You grow wet with each tug. The panty strip in the front slips between your labia, rubbing harshly against the clitoris. How embarrassing that you might actually cum from this. He’ll laugh and tease you for sure once you do.

Maybe you should take some power back and make him whimper so you sway your ass a little which earns you another smack on another cheek.

“I didn’t say you could move.” He growls.

Then, you felt it. His bare cock rubbing between the plush globes of your ass, the back thong strip wrapped around the base for further friction.

“Eddie, no. Please…” You put a hand behind you, placing it on the ‘v’ of his abdomen to halt his actions.

“Move it.” He threatens.

“No.” You say defiantly only to shift into a whining hum, when he takes both of your wrists in his hands to pull behind you and brings them beneath the band of your panties. With your hands cupped in a perfect tubular shape, he uses them to jack himself off. You tighten your grip around him, taking control.

“You’re so good with your hands. Why would I need to fuck your greedy little pussy if these could get me off just as good?”

“Unh, fuck…you.”

“Is that always on your mind?” He chuckles.

You're clenching around nothing, knowing that friction on your clit will not be enough to satisfy the aching between your legs. This was purely for his own twisted pleasure but you enjoy it despite priding yourself to be a selfish person.

“I’m so close, princess. Gonna cum all over your pretty hands, your sexy back, and this tight little ass.” He groans.

“Oh god.” You whine, throbbing profusely at his words. You were so close, too.

He notices your hardening nipples poking through your thin jacket and pinches one between his fingers, while the other steadies your hips as he grinds himself into you. You whine almost as if you’re in pain even though he’s not pulling on them roughly. Lowering the zipper to your jacket and one cup of your bra, he pulls out your breast revealing a newly pierced nipple…that he hadn’t pierced. He pulls your hair, lifting your head enough so that you can see his angered expression through the mirror.

“What the fuck is this?” He slaps your breast and you cry out.

“None of your business. It’s not like you’ll do anything about—oh shit!” You scream out as he continues to pull and pinch around the stainless bar. They were so sensitive even after two weeks.

“You're doing things without my knowledge now.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“You’re right,” He laughs darkly then pulls so harshly on your underwear you swear you felt the fabric go up inside your core. “I’m not your boss, I’m your master. So go on and beg for master’s cum.”

“I don’t want you to cum on me.” You mewl, knowing you desperately wanted him to.

“I know you want it, slut,” He growls in your ear. “You want daddy’s cum dripping all over you. To getchu all nice and sticky. Hm? That what you want, pretty girl?”

“Yes, please master,” You give in. “I want you to fucking cum all over me and my slutty ass.”

He cups a hand under your chin from behind, stroking faster into your jerking hands. “That fucking filthy mouth of yours will get you into big trouble someday.”

“Shut up and cum for me already. I wanna taste you.”

“Aw, shiiiit,” He’s getting close but he needs to make you cum. Partly because he loves getting you off and another part is because he knows you’ll give him grief if he doesn’t. “Want you to cum, too, princess.”

He pulls hard on your underwear, using an up and down motion to frantically rub against your sensitive nub and your orgasm takes you by surprise. Your mouth flies open and he slaps a hand over it to keep you from screaming and alerting the staff as he nurses you through your orgasm. The mirror image of you cumming along with your writhing against him triggers his orgasm, cumming hard and seeing stars.

He gropes your hips with both hands, the rings on his fingers bite into your skin as he gives his final thrusts. You feel spurts of his cum everywhere soaking through your underwear as well. You feel a tension between your legs then a release. He’d torn your underwear off your body.

“What the f—-“ You began but Eddie shoves a middle finger coated in his cum into your mouth. Your fury dissipates for a moment as you suck on it earnestly like you would his cock, your skillful tongue tracing over the engraved silver of his ring. The salty-sweet taste of him elicits a satisfied hum from you.

“That’s it. Just like that. Just like how your Master taught you.” He coos, petting your hair. When he senses you getting carried away, he pulls his finger out with a wet ‘pop’. The glistening finger held up to his face so he can study it, making sure you suck it off clean.

“Um, Eddie, your cum is starting to get cold. Can you please clean me off? Also, I’m pretty sure we were loud enough for us to get a few stares the moment we leave this dressing room.”

“I’m sure we turned a lot of people on, too.” He says before putting a finger to his lips so that you can quiet down and focus on the shuffling and thudding going on in the dresser beside yours. Your mouth drops in shock and he laughs.

Eddie lifts the torn underwear in his hands, bringing them to his nose to inhale. God, you’re intoxicating. It’s a wonder for Eddie to have gone this long without burying his cock deep within you. But he enjoys torturing you, hanging it over your head despite it being torturous on his end as well. Somehow your suffering far outweighed any pain he felt. He wants you sobbing for his cock even more than you did two weeks ago. He doesn’t care when or where it happens. You will beg for his cock.

Using the torn fabric, he cleans up his mess then helps you fix your hair and adjust your prim and proper appearance as if nothing had happened. Eddie tends to himself last, tucking his third leg back into his jeans. In the corner of his eye, he could see you watching him and the bulge. You play it off, helping him fix himself when you were really looking to get another glance at his anaconda.

“So…about the dress…”

“What dress?” He smirks.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Munson. I want my dress. You said that you'd buy them if I did this.” You narrow your eyes at him.

“I said ‘maybe’.” He retorts.

You seethe, feeling so angry that steam could shoot out of your ears. “You’re a dick.” You turn to leave when he grabs your wrist and pulls you against him.

“I was just teasing you, sweetness. I would’ve gotten you the dress even if you didn’t go through with it. But it’s so much more fun that you did.” He smacks your ass and you let out a small gasp.

“You’re the best,” You litter his face with multiple kisses, your lipstick staining his skin all over. You kiss the corner of his mouth and it makes him hungry to feel your lips on his but he doesn’t pry. “While you’re buying my hot dress, I’m going to the van to rest my aching feet. I had a loooong day.”

You pat his back, unaware of Eddie staring angrily at you once again at your oblivion to his situation.

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bullet-prooflove · 15 days

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Proposing: Dean Archer x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989@helsinkibaby@hufflepuffgirl@mimi-8793

Based on an ask about how Sean, Dean, Alden & Dwayne would recieved from my babe @mandy426. Each one of these got really long so I decided to publish them as individual posts.

With Dean, the whole thing is a whirlwind romance. He falls completely in love with you from the first time you spent the night together, your bring out the fun side of him, something that died long before his first marriage did. His rough edges get softer and his world a little brighter. His mornings are spent tangled up in you, his evenings full of happiness and laugher.

Never in a million years did he envision getting married again after what happened with Leanne but he starts to think about it, he thinks about it a lot especially after that accident in the morgue. He knows how head injuries can go, how close he could have come to losing you.

He starts to visit jewellers looking for the perfect ring but it takes a long time to find it. He doesn’t know what specifically he has in mind but he knows instinctively what you wouldn’t want. You’re a practical person and everything he comes across is too gaudy, too loud, too glittery. He’s on his way to Molly’s when he comes across the small pop-up boutique, he walks past the window and there it is, staring him straight in the face. A silver wave band, set with tiny diamonds. It doesn’t cost him much but that’s not the point. He knows the instant you lay eyes on this ring you’ll love it.

Dean spends weeks trying to plan the perfect proposal but he gets caught up on all the different scenarios. Nothing seems to fit. You’re a low key person, demure. The idea of something like that would be a nightmare for you. He decides to go simple, personal.

The next morning you wake up to an empty bed and a white rose on Dean’s pillowcase. It’s a symbol of dedication, deep affection and genuine love. There’s a white ribbon affixed to it, threaded through a silver ring. You smile as you pick it up, inhaling the scent from the delicate petals. Dean watches from the doorway before he sits down on the bed, he unties the bow attached to the stem before he takes your hand in his and slides the ring onto your finger.

“Will you?” He asks, his voice a little rough.

“Yes.” You whisper before kissing him.

The two of you spend the rest of the morning in bed celebrating.

Love Dean? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#dean archer #dean archer x reader #steven weber #chicago med #one chicago

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iridescentpull · 2 months

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Gatos e Rosas will be on hold for a week or so since I have a VERY busy week ahead of me and won't have time to write the new chapters.

As an apology, I did a thing on twitter that for every like the tweet received, I would post one fact about a character of the GeR universe (mainly fitpac ofc).

So here's part one of those facts, hope you enjoy :) lmk if you want more!

Ramón was adopted by Fit and Spreen when he was barely 3 years old

Pac lost his leg in an accident (will be explained in the story) when he was 19

Fit went to the army straight when he was fresh outta highschool, thinking he knew everything (he didn't)

Pac's amputation is an above knee one, also known as a transfemoral one

Phil and Missa are in a queerplatonic marriage

Tina works in the fashion industry and has dreams of owning her own boutique and line in the future

Quesadilla City is a small city in a fictional island located in the Northern Hemisphere

Ramón is autistic, and he goes nonverbal whenever he's extremely stressed or overstimulated. He and Fit communicate through sign language when that happens

Pac has diagnosed depression and anxiety and takes meds for it

Cellbit and Roier met when they were called to the school because Richas and Bobby had a fight

Fit figured out he was gay when he was in his teens, but didn't accept it until he was in his late twenties/early thirties

Roier does drag, aka Melissa

Quackity HATES Chayanne, and the feeling is mutual with Chayanne. Their hate-relationship started since Chayanne was a toddler

Missa works in a really famous orchestra, which means he often has to travel around for concerts, leaving his family behind for long periods of time

The first few weeks after Pac was alone in his new apartment for the first time, he fell into a rough depressive episode. He slowly got better after adopting Xereta

Ramón's special interest is the Krebs Cycle. Fit has no idea when, what, or how his son even learned what the krebs cycle is, but he's happy to listen Ramóns infodumps

After Pac and Mike immigrated from Brazil, Mike searched high and low for somewhere they could stay that would be cheap until they could get back on their feet. He met Bagi, who was searching for more roommates at the time. They moved in, and the Favela Five apartment was born

Death Family live in the more country side of the city, around the same area as Mike and Mine

Fit lost his arm up until the shoulder, also known as shoulder disarticulation

Pac and Mike met in the orphanage at Brazil when they were both seven and five, respectively

Fit and Phil met just when Fit was discharged and lived together as roommates until Phil met Missa

Quesadilla City is a VERY diverse city, with immigrants from all over the world having their little communities spread around. The Favela is one of the most popular communities, though!

Cellbit works at Ordo Theorita’s Publishing House, and he dreams of publishing his own thriller book in the future

Pac is transmasc, and had his top surgery in his midtwenties after the Favela Five managed to scrap enough money to pay for it

Ramón's biggest fear is his dad being lonely. His second biggest fear are heights

#GeR AU #qsmp au #fitpac #pactw #fitmc #qsmp ramon #aynee writes

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wri0thesley · 1 year

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disciplinarian - prosciutto x reader (3k)

you have made a mess of things - and prosciutto is not going to let that pass without punishment.

cw: yandere prosciutto. dubious-consent/non-consent (reader is well on the way to stockholm syndrome if not already there). afab reader referred to as 'spouse', no other gendered terms used. captive reader. spanking, exhibitionism, allusions to prosciutto using his stand on reader in the past. use of pet names, use of 'slut'. minors dni, not sfw.

[a/n: a fic in which a random number generator was allowed to choose some of my favourite kinks and characters for a little birthday event i did for myself! this one threw up 'prosciutto', 'impact play' and 'yandere!' it's been a while since i published jojo but oh, i could never forget about my love for One Old Man Mafioso!]

It’s your own fault.

You stare at the ruined dinner and feel your breath start to come in short little pants; a tell-tale sign that you’re about to panic. About to start crying. You should have checked on it more often! You should have double-checked all of the temperatures, stayed in the kitchen instead of going into Prosciutto’s study to read and imagine you were somewhere else--

The front door swings open. Prosciutto’s voice, warmth seeping from every syllable, calls out into the hallway;

“Tesoro? I’m home.”

That warmth will quickly dissipate when he sees what you’ve done. Even now, as he calls out your name once more, you can hear a mounting frustration; Prosciutto likes you to be ready to rush up to him when he comes home from work, peppering his cheek with kisses and chirping questions about his day, every inch the adoring little house spouse that he has mercilessly drilled you into becoming. You ought to be fussing over his jacket, stroking his cheek and telling him you missed him with heat in your cheeks - offering to fetch his slippers and a whisky for him to unwind with . . .

Instead, you are in the kitchen in front of ruined dinner, your apron a mess and tears rolling down your face as you face the facts; Prosciutto is not going to be happy with you.

“There you are.” The mafioso’s voice has a sharp edge to it as a shadow falls across the doorway. You start guiltily, trying to hide the tray of burnt food from his ice blue gaze, but there’s no real escape from a man like Prosciutto. You know he’s seen it the moment that his elegant lip curls and his eyes flicker back to you. “ . . . Really. Is this how you greet your husband, amore mio?”

You want to bite back at him that he is no husband of yours - that it is hardly husbandly of him to have snatched you from your life and installed you into his like you are an asset to be owned and bossed about, a caricature of what a traditional man would expect from a spouse. It is hardly husbandly of him to have taught you to cook and clean and serve him by belt and by threat and by the strange power that he possesses that you hope never to experience again--

(You can still remember it, at night, when Prosciutto is still on a mission and you are alone - how it had felt to have your bones age and crack all rapidly at once, your skin sag from your frame, your heart to suddenly have years and years of use and wear piled upon it in what felt like moments. You never want to feel it again. You’d promised him, afterwards, tears still drying on your face, that you would be good from then on in.)

“I’m sorry,” your words all come out in a rush. “I-I didn’t mean to, Prosciutto. Amore. I--I just got distracted, it burnt, I’ll cook it all again--”

His expensive shoes (gotten for a bargain, or so he claimed, though you know that half of the boutiques in the city cower when he steps into them and rush to offer him staff discounts and anything he desires) squeak on the tiled kitchen floor as he steps closer to you. You force yourself to breathe.

“And waste another day’s worth of ingredients?” He asks you, calmly. “Do you think I am made of money, amore mio?” The pet names are a deliberate choice - they serve only to make you even more frightened. He casts his eye over the spread again. “It’s good for nothing but the trash now. Tell me--” And then your chin is being grasped by hands that have murdered and killed and God knows what else. “What did my pretty little tesoro have to occupy their mind that was more important than being good and taking care of their husband, hmm?”

Your voice cracks.

“I-I’m sorry--”

“Not good enough,” he says, his voice still calm. Prosciutto is cool and calculated in all he does; he does not shout and rage at you. His quiet seething, his way of keeping his handsome face a visage of serenity even when he is doing depraved things, is far more frightening than anything else. “Come. Leave the food for later. I think you need a reminder of your place.”

Your breath catches. You know what he means by this, and as if your body is already protesting the coming punishment, you feel last week’s almost-healed bruises on your buttocks sting. And, too - because Prosciutto has trained you to be that way - you feel a heat low in your abdomen, a clenching of the part of you between your thighs that Prosciutto equally adores to torment.

Prosciutto senses your hesitation and clicks his tongue at you, motioning towards the upstairs of the little home you two share (some holdover from his family connections, though it is not quite as well-maintained as it ought to be).

“I’ll give you five more strikes for every moment you dawdle,” he says, and he gives you a smile not without a hint of his teeth. When you had first met Prosciutto, you had thought his overbite and the gap between his teeth handsome - now, you wonder if they are on display so often if only to warn you that this is a man who will bite if he is threatened.

You pass by him - and on cue, one of Prosciutto’s hands comes down and squeezes your ass as you walk, his hands strong, fingers digging hard into the plush of your rear. You whimper, and Prosciutto lets out a hiss of pleased breath through his teeth.

“So soft,” he murmurs to you, slapping you on the rear now as if he is urging you to move faster. “Mm . . . as much of a shame as it is to punish you, tesoro, you’re such a very lovely canvas for the discipline.”

Despite your will, the compliment makes your insides clench once more. Heat gathering between your thighs in hot little shocks - there’s something about the clipped way that Prosciutto speaks that makes you want to get on your knees and do exactly as he says, even if you do hate him. Even if you do wish you were somebody else, somewhere else, away from here.

(Hate is a difficult thing; you hate Prosciutto. You hate what he has done to you. But his fingers are clever and his mouth is tender and the frissons of danger being his give you are more of a lure than you’d like to admit. Even if you could escape, sometimes you fear that you are so thoroughly under his spell that you would miss him).

He chuckles as if he can tell what you are thinking - his hands rest upon your hips as you walk, guiding you upstairs, the movement at once gentlemanly and possessive. Those are two things that the mafioso excels in.

Prosciutto’s bedroom.

He leaves you standing in the middle of the floor as he slowly, leisurely, crosses the room to sit upon the bed. You stand there for him, tension brewing, even as Prosciutto lets out a slow sigh and removes his ascot with elegant fingers. As he unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off shoulders, showing the sculpted muscles of his scarred chest. You barely stop yourself from trembling.

When the jacket is shed, he rests back upon the heels of his hands and looks at you with that handsome, disaffected air - mouth parted, eyes half-lidded. His command is simple.

“Strip, and then come here and bend over.”

Prosciutto likes you to look the part of his little spouse. You wear clothes that are well-made and prim and a little old-fashioned, with fiddly little buttons and awkward zippers that you sometimes need his help to get into in a morning. He offers you no such help now, as your fingers slip on the buttons and you miss the catch of the zipper three times from your clammy palms. He breathes out through his nose in a flare of irritation, and you make a squeal of apology as you finally manage to shed the last layer of your clothes and you stand before him in nothing but your underwear, white satin patterned with deep red roses that Prosciutto had picked out for you. He looks at you in satisfaction, noting the damp patch at your gusset.

“My underwear too, amore?” He likes it when you use pet names for him - when you call him ‘my love’ or ‘my soul’ or ‘husband’. He likes ‘Signore’, too, but he prefers that when the two of you are playing one of his favoured little roleplay games. Right now, he is a husband disciplining a wayward spouse, and he wouldn’t react well to it. You hope the little term of endearment softens him.

“Just the top,” he decides, and you obediently reach behind yourself and unclip it with only a little difficulty. You feel your cheeks heat as Prosciutto looks at how your chest is released from the satiny cups, but manage to keep your composure. “Ah. How lucky I am to have such a pretty spouse, hmm?” He reaches forward, pinching one of your nipples roughly. A soft noise of surprise falls from your lips as he continues to pinch, twisting it just enough for it to edge the line between pleasure and pain, forcing the bud to pucker and stiffen beneath his ministrations. He repeats the process with the other, making you press your thighs unconsciously together. “Maybe I should use a cane on these, one of these days.”

“N-no, please,” you breathe out, but you’re already losing track of the thought of anything but Prosciutto’s fingers upon you. He chuckles, tugging at your nipples again.

“Maybe some pretty jewelry, then?” He suggests. “One of my associates is very skilled with metals--”

You whine as he pinches just a touch too hard, and, satisfied, he lets go of the sensitive buds - stiff and already aching from a mixture of fear and arousal and the pressure he had exerted.

“Very well,” he says in amusement. “Come bend over my lap and let me give you your punishment.”

You have no other choice, really - you arrange yourself exactly the way you know Prosciutto likes you, bent over his lap, your ass in the air. Your sore nipples uncomfortably rub against his slacks and the bedspread, and you know that they will chafe between both as you move with every hit of his hand or his belt or the hairbrush, chest swaying with the pressure--

His hand rests lightly on the curve of your ass.

“You’ve been well-behaved other than today,” he muses aloud, rubbing warm circles onto the heated skin. The touch of his calloused palms on your soft ass sends more little electric shocks to that place between your thighs, satin sticking to the folds of your cunt. “Just my hand, hmm?”

“Thank you, amore,” you say, automatically. For his mercy. He chuckles, rubs his thumb over the seam of your ass through the underwear and stops just before your sex.

“No more than you deserve,” he says. “You’ll count, yes?”

You nod, and Prosciutto seems satisfied enough with that. You hear the sound of his hand pulling back - the displacement of air as it whooshes back towards your ass, and then the calloused meat of his palm collides with your bare flesh. You cry out in surprise at the feeling, despite knowing it was coming.

“One!” You say. “Th-thank you!”

He pauses, hand still upon your ass. Heat radiates from the spot he has just touched, like waves lapping upon a shore.

“Thank you, what?” He asks, his voice dangerous - and you know it is a test. You take a great shuddering breath.

“Thank you, carissimo--?”

You hope you have made the right choice - that the pet name will soften him and soothe him and remind him that he is your husband and you adore him (or, at least, you do because you know what is good for you). The question hangs in the air for a moment that feels like it lasts for an eternity, before Prosciutto lets out a grunt of pleasure.

“You’re welcome. Don’t forget next time.”

So you don’t.

You do not forget to count or to thank Prosciutto or to call him all of the sweet things you can think of; thank you carissimo, thank you caro, thank you amore, thank you mio re, mio amato--

And Prosciutto’s blows do not stop coming, each one slower and more lingering than the last. Palm slapping against your rear and thighs until you are all over sore, fingers digging into tenderised flesh, Prosciutto’s hand taking delight in the way you whimper and whine and your voice goes high and reedy as you reach seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .

At twenty, he leaves his hand upon your ass for a beat longer. Luxuriously and slowly slides it down, further than he had before - and laughs a little meanly as his fingers dip between your thighs, feeling just how wet your underwear is.

“Oh, amore,” He breathes, in that damnably low and seductive voice. “You like being punished, don’t you?”

There is no real argument to what he’s saying. With every hit of his hand, you had felt those sparks and shocks that had resonated all through your body and landed squarely in your cunt, between your legs. With every number that had fallen from your mouth, you had felt yourself pump out more slick, until the satin was utterly saturated and it was a wonder you were not dripping all over the floor.

“You’ve made a mess,” Prosciutto breathes against your ear. “Mm . . . I’m going to have to replace this nice lingerie. Do you know how much it cost?”

“. . . I . . .’m sorry--”

“Oh,” another chuckle. “Don’t be. It’s nice to know what a little slut my pretty spouse is.”

“I’m not. . .”

“Ah. So you’re not desperate for me to do this?” He slowly, deliberately, presses his fingers against the seam of your sex, rubbing it through the satin. Against your will, a whine falls from your mouth - the pressure is perfect, his fingers so good against your heated core. “You’re not moaning like a bitch in heat?”

“Prosciutto . . .”

“You’re a very lucky little slut, at least.” Prosciutto’s fingers begin to rhythmically slide backwards and forwards, over your cunt - you whimper as he finds your clit, rubbing the satin against the swollen little nub in a way that makes you squirm and hot tears spring to your eyes. “I don’t mind that you’ve gotten off to me punishing you. In fact . . .”

He doesn’t bother to go beneath the fabric - just finds your clit, swollen and stiff through satin as thin as spider silk, and begins a rough, mean assault on it that has you gasping and panting.

“I’ll even help you along.”

It’s too much. It’s all too much. The position - blood rushing to your head. The way that your ass aches and stings from his discipline, the way he’s practically trained you to get turned on by being hurt, the confusion that you feel about all of this . . . Sometimes you want nothing more than to be the thoughtless little whore of a spouse he wants you to be. Things would be so much easier, wouldn’t they?

Your breath comes in short sharp pants as Prosciutto increases his speed, roughly circling your clit. You squirm hotly as the pressure follows suit. All of the feelings inside of you - the confusion and the heat and the arousal and the hate and everything else - all tangle together in your mind like old embroidery threads, a mess impossible to unravel--

Until they do. The threads are all suddenly pulled apart in different directions, and your insides explode in an orgasm that is partly pleasure and partly pain. Prosciutto’s fingers do not slow, hot hard circles that guide you over yet more hills and more peaks. You don’t know if it’s good or if it’s overwhelming, all of the sensations creeping up on you at once like ivy overtaking an old house. You sob out a dry, whimpering noise that makes Prosciutto sigh.

He slows his fingers as the last ebbs and flows of your peak flow from your thighs to your feet to your fingertips and out of your body and lets you lay there limply upon him, breathing hard.

You are suddenly aware of every part of your body.

Your underwear clings wetly and uncomfortably to your folds, the gusset utterly soaked from the painful orgasm that Prosciutto had wrung from you. Tear tracks are drying on your face, your ass aching from every spank of Prosciutto’s hand. Your nipples ache from how they had rubbed against the fabric of Prosciutto’s slacks with every body-shaking hit you had taken.

“There,” Prosciutto says, pushing you off of him so you land in an ungainly sniffling heap on the floor. Beads of your arousal and release are streaming down your inner thighs. He acts as though what he’s done has had no effect upon him, though the stiff tent of his erection tells a different story. You will get that particular part of your punishment later, caged underneath the unending snap of his hips and snarl of his voice about what a good little thing you are, taking your husband’s cock like you were made to do. “Now. I think it’s dinner time, don’t you?”

You sniffle again and look up at him with beseeching eyes.

“I-- I burnt dinner--”

“Well,” he says. “I suppose you’ll have to make it all again, won’t you?”

It’s almost a pardon. You nod frantically at him, and go to reach for your abandoned brassiere, your other clothes - only for Prosciutto to stand up and bring one well-heeled foot right down upon the pile of fabric.

“I don’t think you deserve those, tesoro. Do you?”

“B-but . . . the window--”

He looks down at you with a glint in those deep blue eyes, a devilish smirk playing about his lips.

“You should have thought about that before you made such a mess of things.” His eyes slide over your figure - your bare chest, your rapidly bruising thighs and ass, the thin and soaked excuse for underwear you’re currently wearing - and he sighs in satisfaction. “Don’t you dare close the curtains, amore mio. Maybe this will be another lesson for you.”

#prosciutto x reader #prosciutto smut #jjba x reader #jjba smut #yandere jjba #yandere prosciutto #writing #not sfw text #yandere for ts #dub con for ts #non con for ts #jojo postin

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xtremeservers · 6 months

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Boutique video game publisher Annapurna ... https://www.xtremeservers.com/blog/cocoon-publisher-annapurna-buys-south-africas-largest-game-company-24-bit-games/?feed_id=104270&_unique_id=655659f5683d0&Cocoon%20Publisher%20Annapurna%20Buys%20South%20Africa%E2%80%99s%20%E2%80%98Largest%E2%80%99%20Game%20Company%2C%2024%20Bit%20Games

#NewReleases #PC #Reviews #acquisition #Annapurna #announced #Boutique #feeBased #Game #games #publisher #undisclosed #video

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 6 months

Text

Baby I wasn’t there

Maison du diable - Chapter one

Warnings: see this post before reading

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!

The morning is dark, and foggy. New Orleans, Louisiana, is just recovering from a harsh downpour. The streets are covered in small puddles and light drops as it's people carry on with their day. You must work, especially in this harsh economy, no matter the conditions. It's an early morning when Alastor steps into his usual coffee shop, the smell is one he's grown familiar with, and in just a few short moments he's already at the front flirting with the barista.

"I'll have my usual, thank you Anne." He says with a smile, before Anne gets to work quickly with a blush on her cheeks. In this day an age a lady can easily be won over with the charm of a successful man. The men must work, provide. Their goal; to run a household, bear children, and be a guide to his wife, to make her the perfect woman. All women want are pretty clothes, and useless things. What good is a woman if she isn't on a man's arm?

" Here you go sir." Anne says, placing his cup of coffee in front of him, made just the way he likes it. Or at least that's what she thinks. Alastor reads the daily paper, paying a whopping twenty five cents to see todays news. He reads through the sections, flips through the pages, and glosses over the words just as he does every morning. He glanced around the shop for a moment, seeing the usual faces he does this early in the morning. Everything is swell. As it should be. He looks back down to his paper, 'there's nothing like this', he thinks.

Until he finally comes across the hottest topic of the week. A new store has opened in town. A boutique, which would seem nothing out of the ordinary. If it weren't for the name.

Maison du diable.

In bold letters, he sees the picture of a shop. It's a woman, her hair is tied back, and she has all sorts of jewlery on. She stands in front of the store window, her smile wide. Behind her, Alastor notices the shadows around her. He finally realizes the commotion behind this new shop. Maison du diable is french, it means house of the devil.

The community is small, living in the French quarter, everyone seems to know everyone. But word travels quick, just through word of mouth alone. This woman must be mad to have it published in the paper. He sees the reporters words on the bottom of the page. 'Any store run by a woman is doomed to go bankrupt! Stay clear from this store! It's cursed!'

Alastor sits in silence for a moment, before taking another sip of his coffee. Something new to talk about on air today, he thinks. He finishes his coffee, earlier than usual, before folding the paper back up and tucking it under his arm. He leaves with a nod and smile to Anne, leaving her a blushing mess as he exits the shop.

'Today could be exciting' He thinks.

-ˏ͛⑅　‧̥̥͙‧̥̥ ̥ ̮ ̥ ⊹ ‧̫‧ ⊹ ̥ ̮ ̥ ‧̥̥‧̥̥͙　⑅ˏ͛--ˏ͛⑅　‧̥̥͙‧̥̥ ̥ ̮ ̥ ⊹ ‧̫‧ ⊹ ̥ ̮ ̥ ‧̥̥‧̥̥͙　⑅ˏ͛-

"We'll I'll be~" Maxine says, pushing past the curtain behind the counter. Y/n smiled, leaning against the cane she holds.

"I don't understand, I did tell everyone I would be opening a shop..." Y/n said confused, not sure why Maxine was so amazed. " Unless you all doubted me of course..." She said quietly, before Maxine waved her hands.

"No no not for a second, 'jus that, well you know how tight money is." Maxine said nervously, twirling her curly hair. She was a short girl, around 5'4, with long brown curls. She was pale, with a light beauty mark under her right eye, but no one could ever really tell thanks to her glasses. They were large and round, black blazer, and there was a small crack in the left lenses.

"You know very well money is never the problem for me." Y/n said more serious now, her face going back to its stoic look.

"It's just a tough thing to do that's all!" Maxine said trying to find a way out of this. She needed this job, and she knew Y/n was not one for mercy.

"So you did doubt me." Y/n says, getting closer to the counter. Maxine froze, unsure of what else to say.

"Y/n, I'm-"

"Oh please!" Y/n said letting out a laugh. Maxine stood confused as Y/n let herself fall into a fit of laughter, walking around the store as she spoke to Maxine. " If I'm anything it isn't dense dear. Don't look so scared." Y/n said, before picking up a mask and placing it over her face as she laughed, taunting Maxine.

Before she could continue, a ring was heard as someone stepped into the store. It was a small woman, no more than five foot. She smiled happily as she glanced around. Quietly, Y/n made her way to the back of the store, behind the counter.

"If she gives you a problem, tell me." Y/n said, before Maxine nodded. Y/n pushed past the curtain before it was just Maxine and the woman in the store.

The woman walked up and down the aisles, at first grabbing nothing, just simply looking around. However, when she went back again, she began to grab all types of things. Sage, crystals, bowls, wind charms, thread and candles, and by the time she made her way to the counter she had so many items she couldn't even hold them all.

" I trust you found everything you needed?" Maxine asked with a smile, before the woman nodded happily.

"Yes of course, I read about this place in the paper and thought I would come by. Now I don't need to go to lakeside for my supplies." She says with a smile, before pulling out a pouch to pay with.

"First time buyers get half off, and as a complementary," Maxine said, turning around to grab the small thank you bag Y/n had prepared herself, "You also get this." She said, placing the bag in front of her.

"Oh thank you. Are you the owner of this place?" The woman asked, before Maxine laughed.

"Heavens no, I just work here. My friend is the owner." Maxine said, before the woman handed her the amount she owed. Maxine counted it before placing it into the register, grabbing the difference and handing it back. " Would you like a bag for all of this?" Maxine asked before the woman nodded happily.

"Yes please. I informed my son to meet me here so he might be able to carry it for me." She said, before Maxine smiled. Just then, Y/n came from behind the curtain, and smiled at the woman.

"Oh hello. I hope Maxine is taking good care of you. Wouldn't want to scare off our first costumer." Y/n said, walking out from behind the counter. The woman laughed as Maxine placed all her items in a small cloth bag.

" This is the owner." Maxine said gesturing to Y/n who was busy looking at the aisle signs.

"Maxine." Y/n said, before she let out a 'hm?'

"Where are the candles again?" Y/n asked, leaning on her cane.

" I believe it's aisle four...?" Maxine said hopefully, before Y/n grinned.

"You would be correct." She said, tapping her cane on the floor before going to the aisle. Maxine let out a sigh of relief before handing the woman her things.

"Oh, I hate to be a bother, but would you mind helping me take this out. I believe I see my son out front and I wouldn't want to keep him waiting while I struggle to hold this." The woman said with a laugh, before Maxine nodded. Even when she tried picking the bag up, it still remained incredibly heavy.

"Trouble?" Y/n asked, staring at the two ladies with two white candles in her hands. Maxine nodded before Y/n placed the candles down on the counter, before picking up the bag.

"My my, what did you buy?" Y/n laughed as she picked the bag up, before walking ahead of the woman. She followed quickly, while Maxine took her place back behind the counter.

" Just a few things, you did have a wide selection." The woman said, before Y/n grinned.

"Correct, as wide as we may be however we do not sell skulls, or ghost items." Y/n said, turning to look at the woman over her shoulder. The woman only smiled at that, giggling a bit. Finally reached the front, Y/n opened the door and let the woman pass through first. Then Y/n followed after her.

"Be a dear and take that from her." The woman said to the man, who Y/n assumed was her son based off his appearance. He wore a bright smile, almost so wide it hurt. He took the bag from Y/n, before the woman turned back to her.

"You don't sell them, but maybe you should. It would get me in a lot more often." The woman said, before Y/n nodded leaning on her cane. Even though she really didn't need it, it was fun to have around.

" We just might with this trick." Y/n said with a grin, before the man interjected.

"Mother was this the shop we saw on the paper?" He asked, looking down to her. He was tall, really tall. Almost seven feet tall. His skin, like the woman's, was darker, almost a caramel color. His hair was short, but neat all the same, and he had glasses that rested on the middle of his nose. He was a lanky man so it seemed, yet he carried the bag with little to no effort at all.

'Power of the man I guess' Y/n thought.

"Yes it was. She's the owner." His mother said, before he placed his hand out for a handshake. Y/n shook his hand, before he smiled. His grip was tight, but nothing Y/n couldn't deal with.

"Pleasure to meet you." He said smiling, almost trying to swoon her. Y/n remained serious, before nodding.

"Pleasure is mine thank you." She said curtly.

"Well, since I'll be a regular here, my name is Helen. This is my son, Alastor." Helen said smiling, before he nodded.

"That's a beautiful name. I do hope I see you again." Y/n said, before she smiled. " I trust if you read the paper you would know my name." Y/n said knowingly, before Helen chuckled nervously. She did not remember.

"Y/n." Alastor said before Y/n nodded. Helen looked at him surprised.

"Ah, then you did read." Y/n said before he nodded.

"Of course. I always read the daily paper." Alastor said proudly, before Y/n laughed.

"Y/n, we have a problem." Maxine said, before there was a crash heard in the store. Y/n sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Maxine I'll handle it, just stay at the counter. I'll be inside shortly." Y/n said clearly annoyed.

" We'll take our leave now. We wouldn't want to keep you busy." Helen said smiling, before Y/n nodded to her.

"I do hope to see you again. Both of you." She said, looking to both Helen and Alastor, before stepping back into the store.

"You can stop digging your nails into me mother." Alastor said, helping Helen walk down the street. She sighed, finally allowing herself to relax. Alastor couldn't deny he felt the same.

"She most certainly is not from around here." Helen said, before Alastor nodded.

"She doesn't seem to be. She speaks like those from up North." Alastor said, before Helen nodded.

"Still. There's something off with her." Helen said, before feeling herself get dizzy.

"Mother, she's drained you. Please, let's get you home." Alastor said, before Helen nodded, letting her son walk her home. If anything was for certain now, it was that she would be seeing her more often.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin vaggie #hazbin demon #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel rosie #alastor

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impala-dreamer · 8 months

Text

21 Summer

A Supernatural Story

~ Remembering Dean Winchester...~

Sam Winchester, Reader, Dean x Reader

1,243 Words

Warnings: Bittersweet Angst

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

Sam rolled down the window, let the cool breeze chill his sweaty forehead and brush the hair from his eyes. His knuckles blanched on the wheel, nails digging into the soft leather, nearly tearing as he pushed the Impala to eighty, ignoring the limits and exit signs in favor of mindlessly rushing through the miles. No thoughts, no worries; pushing past the tears and the pain in his chest, the heavy grief on his heart.

As the sun began to set over Richmond, he pulled off the highway and slowed the engine, crawling through a small town that seemed familiar but wasn’t. They all looked the same now anyway. Trees lining Main Street, historical signs hanging from lampposts boasting about how long it’d been since the town was founded. There was the post office at the corner, and a hardware store nearby. Maybe a bar or two fighting across the way from each other, and a few mom and pop boutiques.

He saw the neon before he knew he was looking for it and pulled up to the diner just as dusk took over the sky, shooting shades of pink and orange across the horizon.

Y/N freshened the coffees at the counter and wiped a spot of cream from Mr. Hasting’s spot. He always missed his cup on the first try.

The big clock was ticking behind her and she counted the seconds until another patron waved at her, butchered her name even though she’d grown up in the small town and everyone knew each other. It was as if they did it on purpose to shame her for being in the same job since she was a teenager.

There was a comfort in routine. Nothing ever changed in that town. Nothing exciting ever happened. Not since that summer anyway.

Y/N heard the engine and memory slapped her across the face like an open palm. She startled, nearly pouring decaf on the floor. The rattle, the roar, it was too familiar, too perfectly the same. It couldn’t be, but- it had to be.

She looked out of the big window and watched as a long black hood appeared, sliding into the space in front of the diner. Her heart leapt and her breath caught as she tried to peer inside.

The driver’s door opened and a tall man got out. He was just a little too tall, his hair a little too long.

Her heart sank.

Sam grimaced as he walked into the diner. The lights were bright and his head was aching. He wouldn’t have stopped at all except that he knew by the throbbing at his temples that he was dehydrated and starving. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d eaten anything. Days, maybe. A week, more likely.

He stepped up to the hostess station and smiled politely at the woman behind it. She stared at him, wide-eyed and vacant; a pot of coffee clutched in her left hand.

“Hello?” He laughed because it was awkward but the joy never made it to his heart. He wondered if he’d ever laugh again for real.

Y/N cocked her head as if confused by his greeting. Her mind was elsewhere, stuck in a memory of that car, that gorgeous, ridiculously sexy car.

Sam waved a hand in front of her and Y/N snapped back to life. She shivered and cleared her throat.

“Sorry. Hi.” Her eyes moved finally from the car and locked onto Sam. “H-how many?”

His stomach dropped. “One. Just… just me.”

Y/N nodded towards the empty booth by the window. “I’ll be right over with a menu.”

“Thanks.”

Sam scooted into the booth and closed his eyes, hating the empty space across from him. He jumped when Y/N appeared with a menu.

“Sorry,” she said meekly. “Seems like we’re both somewhere else tonight, huh?”

Sam gave her a half smile and nodded. “Seems like it.”

Y/N bit her lip as her eyes flew back to the car. “I heard the engine and I- it was like deja vu or something.”

He nodded, wondering just how many people knew the car, how many over the years equated it with help, freedom, safety. It felt like a coffin to him now. His gaze followed hers.

Red neon danced across the roof and their faces reflected on the window.

“It’s like…”

Sam turned, but Y/N’s voice died away.

“Like what?” he asked, curious and tired.

“This is going to sound crazy,” she said, chewing her bottom lip like a child, “but is that- that’s… That’s Dean Winchester’s car.”

It wasn’t a question anymore, it was a fact. Truer than anything Sam had heard in weeks. The only thing he’d heard in days.

He dropped his chin and looked up at her. “It was, yeah.”

If she caught his tone, she had no reaction to it. Her mind reeled with hope and pictures of him, flashes of his lips, his startling green eyes, the freckles that chased each other down his smooth chest and back.

Y/N took a deep breath and stared down at him, face flooding with recognition. “You’re… Scott?”

“Sam,” he corrected softly.

“Sam! That’s it! You were… off in college I think. Yeah, Dean’s little brother.”

Tightness wrapped around his heart. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“My God. It’s been like twenty years. How- how are you? How’s Dean? What’s-”

Hazel eyes dropped away and Sam’s jaw clenched tight. Y/N’s heart sank with him and she sat, perching on the edge of the seat across from him.

“When?”

Sam cleared his throat and pushed back the tears. “Three weeks ago.”

Y/N pulled in a heavy breath. “God, I’m- I’m so sorry. Did- I mean… I know what… What got him?”

He looked up and saw the pain in her eyes, knew she knew the truth. “We were…” His voice cracked and he cleared away the lump. “We were on a hunt. Some… vampires. It uh… He…” Sam lost his voice completely and slumped forward in the seat, hands resting on the table.

Y/N reached for him and lay a hand over his. He flinched but didn’t pull away, savoring the first human touch he’d felt since laying Dean’s body on the pyre.

“I’m so sorry, Sam. He was…” She smiled as her mind drifted again, back to that summer when she was twenty-one and the Impala rolled through town.

Dean had sat at the counter, pounding coffee after coffee and complaining about the lack of pie. He’d smiled at her then and winked, and that’s all it took to send her rushing into his arms.

For four days they did nothing but cruise around in that big old car, spending the days on the road and the nights in each other’s arms. She grew to love that bouncy backseat, the smell of oil and leather haunted her forever.

“He was a really great guy.”

Sam turned his hand and pressed his palm up against hers. “Yeah. He was.”

The chef called her name and Y/N jumped up, leaving Sam’s fingers reaching at the air. She shook herself and fixed her apron, righting her uniform.

“Be right there!” She looked down at Sam, tears still visible in her eyes. “Can I get you some coffee or-”

“Pie,” he said softly. “Any kind is fine.”

Y/N smiled and nodded, heartache easing a tiny bit. “You got it, Sam…”

2023 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@aditimukul @agirlwithdemonblood @amanda-teaches @akshi8278 @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @b3autyfuldisast3r @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @because-imma-lady-assface @bloodline1632 @charred-angelwings @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @covered-byroses @djs8891 @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @deansyahtzee @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @iamsapphine @idreamofdeanie @ilsawasanacrobat @impalaspixie @iprobablyshipit91 @jawritter @justcallmeasmodeus @kazsrm67 @kittenofdoomage @leigh70 @lovealways-j @lyarr24 @mariekoukie6661 @maggiegirl17 @mistressofallthingsgeeky @pandaxo79 @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @roseblue373 @sacriceria @samwellwinchesterthebrave @sexyvixen7 @spideysimpossiblegirl @spnexploration @stevekempscocktails @the-wounded-healer05 @thoughts-and-funnies @vulgar-library

#dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #angst #spn fanfic

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