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hazelfoureyes · 1 month

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A Doe in Fall (Part 3)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦

Part 3 A tragedy

So enraptured with Alastor, you forgot how you left work on Saturday. Tommy didn’t forget. And he made sure you remembered. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for you, your paramour made a habit of helping quicken karma’s balancing act.

「warnings/promises: immediate physical assault (let’s be up front about that), allusions to sexual assaults having happened in the past to non-reader characters, HumanAlastor x FemReader, penetrative sex, Protective Alastor, bruises, somewhat graphic descriptions of murder, mentions to coerced prostitution, sex near a corpse (words that have the FBI watching me), stabbing, knife, bad burlesque names, gambling, my own new HC for the Radio Demon’s origins, another deer reference thanks to @n-after-me , chin quivering, Tommy doesn’t know French and it shows, posted early for @jazzmasternot, wrath」

Minors DNI 🤺

You walked into the theatre for rehearsals with a pep in your step, body still humming. It was like the usual adrenaline rush Alastor brought couldn't fade this time.

But it did, when Tommy grabbed you by the hair out of your makeup chair and threw you into the wall.

You couldn’t react, head ringing after it left a small indent in the drywall. Unlike before, you didn’t try to stand. Make him work for his second hit. And he did. Leaning down he yanked you off the ground by your arm and dragged you to your feet.

“Do you think you’re funny?” He shook you, you were sure you could feel your brain jostle. It was rhetorical, but you replied anyway.

“No, Tommy.”

“No. Exactly.” He backed you up onto the make up table, head pressed into the mirror. “Mr. Wilson was not happy. He pulled his contribution. I know you don’t have that kind of money. Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

His fingers dug into your cheeks, “No.” You genuinely didn’t. He was talking to you like you had been in the loop on whatever it was he had been doing on the side. All of this was as shocking to you as your actions were, apparently, to him.

“You’re gonna take whatever meetings I make until that money is back.” He let go of you and turned to leave but changed his mind. Coming back, he swung his fist and clocked you on the left side of your face.

You didn’t see it, but you heard the other girls running and pulling Tommy off of you, yelling and pleading for him to calm down.

“I worked really hard for you!” He shouted, jerking his shoulders out from under the hands of the other performers. What was he talking about? You hadn’t discussed any of this, asked for any thing from him. “I waited for a high roller for you. Real classy guy. Just wanted a private show! That was it!” He spit, “No, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is welcome now to ask for your time.”

You just held your face, unsure if you had the right makeup to hide the bruise before stage call.

“Well?! Say you’re sorry.”

You considered not saying anything. No response. When you looked at him, you could see the half a dozen other girls staring back at you, just say it. We have to rehearse.

“I’m sorry.” Eyes cast to the floor.

“For what?”

It hurt when you rolled your eyes, “For being ungrateful?”

He shoulder checked a few girls on the way out. A couple came to you.

“He’s got some gambling debt, he’s just using us to get ahead.”

“I have some stuff to cover that up for tonight.”

“He usually cuts us in.”

Tears stung your eyes, you were angry and humiliated. You could work elsewhere, with a little luck. Take a job at a diner out of the area where no regulars would stir up trouble. Maybe leave until Tommy got his debts paid off or whatever was motivating this recent streak of cruelty. But you didn’t want to run away. No one applauded waitresses. Maybe if you made yourself as unattractive as possible, no one would request you. Dirty your teeth, talk about other men, speak crudely.

“What exactly was he talking about?” you asked no one in particular. The girls were quiet for a beat.

“Well ya know, private shows for clients who can afford it.” High pitched and nasal, Florence spoke as she searched her make up station.

“That’s it?” Incredulous.

“Sometimes. You know how it is… woman left alone in a room with a man who has too much money or ego or drink. Doesn’t always stop at a dance.” Minnie had much more experience than you, “It isn’t our jobs. It isn’t normal. But, well, ya heard about New York right? They’re trying to make burlesque outright illegal…”

“Gotta enjoy the art while it’s just misunderstood.” Florence wiped down your mirror before setting her supplies down for you. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

By the time patrons began to stream in, you had blood staining the white of your left eye. Nothing you could do, but maybe at a distance it wouldn’t be noticeable. The bruise under your eye from his fist was easy enough to cover. The contusion from where your right cheek hit the wall was a little harder.

Luckily, the stage offered a buffer of space and the rest of the room was dark.

During your show, you tried to keep your eyes moving so the red sclera never stayed in one place too long. For the first time, the cheers did nothing for you. You felt your chin quiver, fighting back tears. You wanted to scream, to tell them to hate you and leave. Stop fucking clapping.

Ruth was naturally the first to come to you after your performance, “Want me to do the tour with you? Arm in arm around the hall.”

You took her up on the offer. It lightened the load, her taking charge of the conversation when people approached or bought you drinks. Luckily the bartender always poured the performers weak cocktails and watered down liquor to keep their heads on straight.

Ruth’s companionship afforded you precious time to plan, to consider how quickly you could find new work or at least a way out of this.

“What a treat. Two for one. Can I buy you both a drink?”

Ruth turned first to greet the customer, “Ooh yes sir! Gin and tonic, please and thank you. Autumn?” Your stage name drew your attention back to the world, turning finally.

“Alastor.” It fell from your mouth like a lead balloon.

He smiled down at you, his hand offering a little wave, “Hello. Surprise.”

Your face fell, a frown pulling down your chin. It took you too long to recover, batting your eyelashes and turning the corners of your lips up unnaturally.

“So you do have a beau!” Ruth slapped your arm, “I’m Skye, Skye Scraper. Pleasure to meet you, Alastor.” She extended her hand, Alastor planting a kiss on the back of it, concealing his smile at the name.

You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, head turned slightly away from him to obscure the neon sign of an eye shouting, ‘Weak!’

Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t an oblivious man. Unless he was dancing or drunk. “May I have a moment alone with her?” Alastor asked Ruth. Ruth looked to you for your okay, and you just nodded. She gave a little nod of her own to Alastor and slinked away.

“Are you unhappy to see me, dear? Did I overstep by coming by unannounced?” You hadn’t heard him worried before, it pained you.

“No, no! I am… so happy to see you. I just had a long day.” You scanned the room for the darkest area to bring him. A booth would be best, you could keep him on one side of you. You gestured with a nod of your head.

“Ah, I kept you out too late.” Alastor didn’t move.

“Not at all, come on let’s sit down.” You reached back for his hand without looking at him, but when you pulled he still didn’t move. He remembered the way you pulled at the hand of that man in the alley the first night you met. Desperate to escape somewhere.

“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”

Lie.

“Uh, no, I’m just embarrassed about this heavy stage makeup.”

Alastor paused, hand slipping from yours to adjust his sleeves. It was a nervous action, an attempt to self soothe, but you didn’t know that. “I should have asked before coming.”

“Alastor, it’s not…,” you kept your eyes down at your hands.

“Then look at me.”

Would he think you were incapable of protecting yourself? His pity would kill you. Perhaps he would decide a second rate burlesquer wasn’t worth making time for anymore.

You could intentionally wound him, say you don’t want to see him so he leaves. But that sword was double edged and you weren’t sure you’d survive that either. You weren’t making it out of this.

You finally looked at him. He leaned in, “What happened to your eye?” A slender finger gently tilting your chin upward.

Lie.

You thought too long for an answer. Why were you getting worse at lying? It used to be one of your best shields and swords but now you were so slow on the draw you were left defenseless. Vulnerable. His hand took yours, gently pulling you into the lobby and through the glass doors of the theatre.

Under the bright lights of the marquee and the street lamps, Alastor inspected your face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, wetting it in his mouth before wiping the makeup off of your under eye.

“Alastor, people are staring.”

His eyes fell down, soft hands lifting your arm where a bruise was already formed. You hadn’t noticed that one.

“What happened?” He wasn't looking at you when he said it, instead cautiously wiping the makeup off your cheeks in search of more marks.

“The truth or wh-“

“Always. Never give me anything else.”

You sighed, and explained, “Tommy, the manager, he’s been shifting tactics for bringing in money because he owes some big bads a lot of debt. Private shows with performers that sometimes get hands on…,” his hands stopped moving but his eyes didn’t meet yours, “I never asked to be included in it. I wouldn’t do it. I was rude to a man Tommy introduced me to and I ran off Saturday. Yada Yada. He got me as soon as I got to work.”

Alastor didn’t reply, just turned on his heels and marched back into the theater. You chased after him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles!” You tried to get in front of him but he walked right past you.

“Not about what you need, dear, it's about what he deserves.”

Alastor asked the bartender for Tommy, who pointed to the short but stocky man talking to a group of guests. Alastor approached so quickly Tommy didn’t have time to greet him, instead just backing up until he fell ass first into a booth. Alastor boxed him in, one hand on the wall and one on the table, towering over Tommy as he sat.

“I hear you sell dancers by the night.”

You paced the lobby nervously. Would you be fired? What would Alastor say? Would Tommy hit him, too?

He re-emerged, “Come to my car, please.” He didn't stop walking as he said it.

You followed a few blocks down to his car, parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for you and closed it behind you. You wanted to ask if you were going somewhere, but thought better of it. A tight u-turn, he pulled the car into the side street where you’d first met each other.

Wordlessly he got out of the car, you opening your door before he could. Popping the trunk, he set the folded canvas inside a paper bag. Checking first, he placed it inside one of the tin trash cans.

You stood, waiting for an explanation.

Finally he stopped and made eye contact with you. “You have a date tomorrow, with me. Bring this to the apartment above the theater before Tommy and I arrive.” Opening your mouth to speak, he didn’t stop to let you add anything. “Preferably near the bed.” He closed the trunk, “Wear red, please.”

You searched his face for some kind of discernible emotion but found none. Those constricted pupils again, an animal staring back at you from behind a pair of glasses. There was no reason to ask him, it was obvious what was going to happen. Did you want to stop it?

Did you want to see it? Alastor at work?

“Okay. On all the points.” You looked back at the trashcan, “Canvas hidden near the bed. Wear red.”

“The extra clothes can go anywhere out of sight.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your voice cracked a little, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

He nodded, “I can’t stay here.” Before getting into his car he turned and added, “Don’t cover the bruises tomorrow. He should see them.”

You nodded in return, “Are you doing this for me?” So quiet you almost hoped he didn’t hear it.

He paused, one leg already in the car and his back to you, “No. I’m doing it for everyone.”

You watched his car light up and leave the alley.

It’s not that you felt abandoned, you felt…. Stranded. You had to go back in there, alone, and put on the normal act but under abnormal conditions.

So it was happening. You hadn’t seen the first time. Just felt it. You didn’t see the second. You were going to actually see a man die. Not just a man, someone you knew. Someone you used to consider a friend of sorts. Before he got into whatever trouble was driving him to act like a flesh peddler. Could you do it? Could you watch a man be killed? Was that even what Alastor had planned?

Tommy found you the second you were back in the room, hand pressing too hard on the bruises he left on your arm. “You have a meeting tomorrow after your show. If you don’t show up,” he yanked you close, putrid breath of dead teeth you’d never been bothered by before this moment and bad booze assaulting your senses, “I will fucking kill you.”

You almost started laughing, bringing your hand to your mouth to hide your smile. “Okay Tommy.”

Fuck it. He was going to die anyway, might as well make it a date.

Ruth saddled up beside you as soon as Tommy was out of earshot, “Look at that smile. Quickie in the alley?”

Disgust, “Jesus, Skye, I was gone like, 5 minutes.” She shrugged. “Why does everyone think — is everyone fucking their daddies* in the side street?” She nodded. “Well, I’m not.”

“Prude.” She joshed before linking your arm in hers again, “We’ve got at least another hour of schmoozing. Tits up!”

Your smile came effortlessly that night, a thrum of excitement keeping you light on your feet. Not excitement for death, but for the very concept of being closer to Alastor. Would you see it happen, in front of you? Or would he have you leave? Either way, you were an active participant with a task list.

He trusted you, even if in a small way. Trust was so rarely given from the people who mattered. Men trusted you often; to be sweet when they tell you they were embarrassed about something, to lie when they ask if you orgasmed, to not steal their cash when they blacked out with their pants still on. Pulling it from strangers was one of your greatest pleasures. But it was easy. You were skilled.

Yet again, like so often now, Alastor was the exception. He didn’t toss himself at your feet. He stood tall in front of you and on his own terms offered you the things you wanted. You didn’t have to pretend to be demure, you didn’t have sit on his lap in silence and nod and laugh. Just yourself, as much as you could allow yourself to exist in the world. No tricks. If his trust was presented wrapped in a bloodied bow, well, you would thank him dearly and wear the ribbon round your neck like a trophy.

Many men spoke to you, but luckily your participation in conversation wasn’t something they really cared about. As they spoke, your eyes were looking past them and into the future.

However there was a sense of dread when you lied in bed that night. The excitement of getting closer to Alastor had melted into the fear there was no going back from this.

Something in your chest stung, a thorn growing from somewhere unknown. Three encounters (that he knew of) and already it seemed your thoughts were more Alastor than yourself. No person had ever made such an impression before. You didn’t like it, but it made you happy. Which is why you didn’t like it. Tying your happiness to another person was a reckless thing to do. You’d seen your mother and half sister both use a man’s attention as a replacement for being happy with themselves and it made them brittle and hollow.

Thinking of what would happen the following night, oddly, you were reminded of losing your virginity. You were a “late bloomer” and were terrified you’d never be you again after. Like something would be taken from you. You fell asleep to that thought, of what you’d lose.

Then you woke, uncharacteristically early, feeling none the bit rested. No dreams. No nightmares. A few seconds of darkness and suddenly it was morning. With the extra time you had you wandered into a department store before going to the theater.

When a sales woman approached you, asking what you were looking for, you were too tired lie.

“A red dress.” You didn’t have the makeup at home to cover your marks, and gave up being worried about it.

Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t so odd of a sight; a woman with a black eye.

“What’s the occasion? Apology dinner?” The woman fidgeted with the hangers while looking at you.

You grimaced, “No, a murder.”

She howled, “You are a hoot! Don’t we wish, huh? Let me pull you some options.”

You put the dress on the top of the paper bag, having hidden it under your make up table the previous night. Your fingers were trembling, applying your makeup needing deep breaths and concentration.

“Ruth, can you do my lips?” You turned and handed her the brush.

“The eye looks better.” She took your chin in her hand and painted your mouth a pretty shade of red.

“Thank you.” You offered her a smile but she didn't let go, “What?”

“You ever seen a cornered raccoon? Like one got in the house and your mom boxed it into a corner with a broom?”

A nod, yes, actually, you had.

“Who’s got the broom?” She asked. You knitted your brow, not understanding. “Who’s got you in a corner? Is it Tommy?”

You took your chin back, deep breaths. “No brooms. No corners. Just rattled still from last night.” Not a lie, surprisingly. “You thought of a raccoon? Really? Is it because of the eye?”

When you took your bow for the evening and turned to escape the stage lights for the darkness of backstage, you found Tommy leaning just outside the dressing room.

“Get changed, doors unlocked upstairs. Room 504.”

Grabbing the paper bag you ran through your mental checklist. Wear red, take off your make up, hide the canvas by the bed. An odd to-do list for murder.

The theater had two floors of modest apartments above it, the owners keeping two of the open for the theater’s use. One was for the owners should they ever visit New Orleans, and the other was multi use. Storage and a crash pad for performers or Tommy when he worked late.

The bag crinkled as you hugged it, looking over the small apartment. Boxes, decorations, a modest kitchen and a bed. The bathroom was quite large, a tub and shower head. Was this where the other performers went?

Why hadn’t anyone said anything sooner? Why didn’t anyone leave yet?

Taking a second, you got to work. You opened the canvas and slid it under the bed, the smallest bit of edge sticking out for easy retrieval. Dizzy with the quickly settling reality of what you were doing, you sat on the floor for a moment. Trying to calm your breathing, you closed your eyes.

The fear of the unknown was suffocating you. There was a possibility Alastor failed and ended up hurt. Or, that he changed his mind and Tommy left you two to just hold hands on the bed for a sex-appropriate amount of time.

You patted your thighs and stood up. No time now for a panic attack. Alastor had a change of clothes in the bag, neatly folded and tied in twine. They were set onto the shelf above the closet.

And finally, yourself. Your dress was on and you stopped to wipe the make up off your face in the bathroom mirror. Still bruised, still nasty. The dress was nice though, carrying some of the weight for your battered mug. Red cotton, sailor neck and little gold buttons down the front. Flashy, brighter than the dark number you usually wore.

Would he like it? Most men looked for how a dress accentuated your curves (or hid them) but you had a feeling Alastor didn’t care so much about that.

You took your seat at the edge of the bed, thin mattress sagging from your weight.

The clock ticked, until finally the door opened and you saw something you hadn’t seen before and knew you’d never see again. Tommy and Alastor.

“Here she is. Autumn, this is Mr. Cerf. He's asked I stay in the apartment, apparently word of your attitude already spread among the upperclass.” Tommy wagged his finger at you in a playful way that was entirely out of place.

“Look at her. Pouting. Not very excited, is she?” Alastor smiled at you, softly. You felt for a second that maybe you entirely misunderstood. He looked calm, normal. Even peaceful.

“It’s always nice when they fight a little. But she won’t cause you any trouble.” Tommy patted Alastor’s back, who immediately shirked away.

“Do you like it when women try to fight you off, Tommy?”

A dry laugh, “Ya know how it is. They gotta act like they don’t like it so people still respect ‘em.”

A hum. Alastor’s smile falling entirely. A shadow settled over his face. “I see. That does make things easier.” He slipped on his short black gloves. “I always tell her she looks lovely in red. She rarely listens to me, but I’m happy to see she did tonight. It’s a special occasion.”

Once, you thought. You didn’t listen once.

Tommy nervously chuckled, looking from Alastor then to you, “What?” Alastor grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground and onto his knees. Hand fisted in his hair, knife pressing across his throat.

Alastor dug his knee into the small of Tommy’s back, “Tommy, I think you owe the lady an apology.” You let your feet find the edge of the canvas and slid it out with a kick. It glided across the wood and stopped where his knees met the floor.

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry.” Tommy was staring at the waxed fabric in front of him.

You felt your eyes sting with tears, a smile breaking out against your will. “For what?”

“I—,” his eyes searched the room for an answer, your words bringing a pulse of Deja Vu, “It’s about yesterday?” He seemed to relax a little, “Come on. I said sorry. ” Looking back to Alastor. “I didn’t know she had a guy.”

Alastor yanked his head back to look him squarely in his eyes, “Wrong answer.” He pushed him down onto his stomach, “Come on Tommy. I like when my victims fight a little, too.” Sensing the taller man towering over him with the knife, Tommy scrambled onto his back to look at Alastor. Tommy started shouting, “Hey!! Someone!” But there was no one to hear him. That was the beauty of the space he always brought his dates to; it was too loud to hear anyone scream.

Funny how that works both ways.

Alastor shrugged, “Well that didn’t last long.” As Tommy backed up, trying to get traction on the slippery canvas and failing, Alastor straddled him. Tommy’s hands came up, one pushing against Alastor’s face, the other against the arm holding the knife. Alastor put both hands onto the knife’s handle, staring down into Tommy’s eyes as he inched closer to the man’s neck. “You look scared, Tommy. Are you scared?”

The other man shouted, eyes trembling as he watched the knife come down.

Alastor pushed through, metal sinking into Tommy’s throat. No pause, he withdrew and sank it again and again. Tommy’s hands fell from Alastor’s face, flailing slightly at his neck before slumping down. He was frenzied, stabbing at his chest and upward with wide eyes. You recognized those constricted pupils. They made sense in this setting. Alastor was panting, taking a second to split the skin from ear to ear in the middle of his melee.

You brought your knees to your chest, watching the crime unfold. Was this anger for you or truly for everyone? No one ever got so angry for you before, if you could be so conceited as to say this was for you. Your mouth opened and you spoke without thinking, no filter. “You look like an angry God. A jazz demon of wrath.” You smiled, the morbidity not lost on you.

Alastor stopped, frozen as he stared at you. For a second, he had forgotten you were there. He was always alone during these hobbies of his. Until recently. You looked like an angel in red and gold. Had he dyed your heavenly robes crimson? Or had you been made that way?

He dropped the knife, peeling his gloves off and stepping over Tommy’s decimated torso before kicking off his shoes.

You scooted back onto the bed and opened your arms, welcoming a strange after-kill cuddle. Your reward.

Alastor took off his bowtie, then his shirt. It took you a second, not realizing what was happening until he began to unbuckle his belt. “Now?!”

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“What the fuc— okay,” your hands flew to unclasp your stockings and roll down your panties. You mumbled to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

As he crawled over you, warm gloveless hands tracing along your legs, hips, waist, you looked at up him with your now dilated pupils, “It’s murder? You need murder?”

He laughed, embarrassing you a little, “No it isn’t that.” His face nuzzled into your neck, “You’d go to hell? For me?”

You froze, you hadn’t really seen it like that.

“You’d damn your eternal soul,” his hips pressed into you, an unfamiliar hardness there that made you gulp, “just to spend time with me?”

How were you so heated over an erection? A dime a dozen, men practically threw them at women who offered them the slightest smile. Yet feeling him so hard against you, something you had been practically praying for, made you weak. A trembling virgin all over again.

Don’t lie, he always told you to be honest so you decided to try it out even if it made you feel at risk of harm. Your hands slid up and into his hair, gripping gently, enough to elicit a groan from him, “Well I was worried heaven wouldn’t have jazz, so… yeah.” You had to always say something a little in jest, to hide from the vulnerability of honesty, “This seemed like a better option.” The truth was, if you had to state it plainly, you would dive head first into hell in exchange for his smile. To hear his laugh. To feel his breath over your mouth. You were quite sure hell was more your scene, anyway.

“I’ll be sure to fill your afterlife with jazz every day, dear.”

How could he make hell sound so sweet?

“It’s a deal.” Fingers playing with his hair, basking in the warmth of skin on skin.

He leaned up, eyes scanning your face as he always seemed to do in these intimate moments. The feeling spreading down his chest was one wholly foreign to him, one he was struggling to put into his own words. You hadn’t run away. You opened your arms for him even still, welcoming your own damnation in exchange for… affection? Attention? Him? The reason didn’t matter, not to Alastor, and not now to his growing need. You didn’t even push him for more than he wanted to give, not yet needled him for details, secrets, sex. Could you really just be there for Alastor? Take him for what he was and what he wasn’t?

His mouth was salivating at the thought you’d give him anything. Reality was, you already had. His finger caressed the purple welt on your cheek. You were given pain and he returned it ten fold to its owner. A demon of wrath. He felt his cock twitching, underwear tented around him.

You smiled up at him, wiping a little streak of blood from his jawline, “You look quite pretty in red yourself.”

His head came to rest on your collarbone with a shaky sigh.

Had you said something wrong?

“Please, you’re already pushing me to my limit.”

Making a show of it, you zipped your mouth and pretended to toss the key. You wanted to reach down and pull off his remaining bit of clothing, to rub yourself against his manhood. But, you weren’t sure if that was something he would appreciate. You didn’t want to ruin his experience, to make him regret offering you something he so clearly didn’t need to give.

He removed his underwear, watching you unbutton your dress and pulling your arms free. Your bra, garter, and stockings were still on. Somehow he found it more scandalous than if you were completely naked.

Your breath was shaking, uneven as the excitement took control of you. There was a not totally unfounded fear you'd black out from hyperventilating.

Alastor lined himself up with your heat and pressed in, making a hard to decipher face as his brow knit up and he bit his lip. You were already so wet, not a hand or mouth needed from him. He wondered if you shared more than an acceptance of justified homicide; your body so relaxed and welcoming to him.

With a few shallow thrusts, he was fully sunk into you. You may have let out a cry. An emptiness you hadn’t clocked was suddenly gone. Was this what Zeus meant when he said the two souled humans were too powerful and tore them apart to weaken them?

Was this sex, or love? The word made you nervous. But—- if he offered it to you in both palms, you’d suffocate yourself in his hands.

He began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out slowly. You had expected the frantic moves of a horny virgin. Instead he was moving with control, hips rolling into you like waves gentle and steady where the lake met land, not slamming like many men before him.

Had it been any other dick, you’d whine and begin moving yourself against it for that needed speed. This was Alastor. Dripping pleasure into your open mouth like a drought-breaking summer shower.

You didn’t recognize your own sounds, already panting and moaning as a warmth spread from the place where his cock was sliding around inside you.

Alastor tried to keep calm. Even when his body was sensitive, he wasn’t used to the mental work needed to fight off his orgasm. Usually he had the opposite issue, struggling to stay focused enough to finish. Mind wandering to more productive chores.

But you were so wet, so accepting in body and mind. He watched your eyes close, one hand gently clawing at the blankets, the other reaching down to touch his lower stomach every time he thrust back in. For the first time in a very long time you really truly wanted to remember who was at the other end of the dick you were enjoying.

Languid moves. Swollen cockhead hitting the bottom of your walls, the top, the end, pushing still a little further.

“I’m sorry,” Alastor leaned down over you, kissing at your jawline, “For making you wait so long for so little.”

His rhythm picked up then, burying himself deeper into your sopping cunt and dragging out enough to pull back that quiver of his release.

You shook your head, lips tingling. “Nothing little here.”

He attempted a laugh, losing his breath. He wanted to last longer, to make the experience worth your while but he could feel you dripping down his balls and it weakened him with alarming efficiency. Finally the frenzied speed you witnessed earlier was turned to you, you brought your legs up, holding at his sides. “Darling I need to-,” he moaned into your ear.

“Please stay.” You clung to his neck, nails grazing at his shoulders.

Alastor’s voice was soft and sweet, a small moan and a gentle grunt. His legs spread more, trying to get every centimeter of himself into you. Hips now grinding in a small circle, but not losing any of the comfort of your warmth. You felt him still pumping that welcomed heat into you, and you tightened around him, drawing out your own moan. He hissed, “Sensitive.” Your legs were shaking like leaves in a storm, no orgasm but the pleasure nonetheless intoxicating.

The front of your brain felt like static, perhaps from the lack of oxygen as you had uncharacteristically lost your breath under Alastor.

Like losing your virginity, after the fear faded and you were able to find a moment for introspection, you found yourself larger than before. The edges of your canvas expanded out, new parts of yourself unfurling for you to explore. Nothing had been lost, only gained.

Alastor kissed at the dark circle under your eye, at the bruise of your cheek, he lifted your arm and kissed gently at the purple and blue spots there too. He had lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but maybe he’d find the will to admit it to you someday.

He had left yesterday to keep from strangling Tommy in the center of the theater, finding himself in a rage. He rarely felt anger. His killings always about retribution, about karma, about righting the scales. He needed to leave to keep from losing his composure.

He lied to you in the alley, unable to look you in the eye when he did it for fear you’d see it. You always seemed to see him with a clarity others didn’t despite such a short time together. He struggled to hide from you and it was as exciting as it was frightening. A testament to your similarities.

He hadn’t done it for everyone. No. His personal moral code fell to pieces when he saw your bloodied eye and bruised skin. He would have killed Tommy even if he had been a good man, even if you’d been the instigator. None of his murderous rules mattered. And it scared him.

(Next Part Next Week, orz)

*slang for boyfriend, often a rich one

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay /

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader smut #hazbin hotel smut #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x you #hazbin #the radio demon #human!alastor #human alastor

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filthgarbage86 · 11 months

Text

I JUST HAD A THOUGHT

Okay so think about it; I’m sure Eddie doesn’t hang out with a ton of girls, not on purpose, he just mainly hangs out with the hellfire club and his band members.

Then you show up

And you fit right in with everyone. It’s so easy to talk to you since you both have similar interests and you’re very chill about everything. Sure you get excited and into the game play but overall you just like to hang and talk about similar interests! You hang out, listen to music and what not. He loves spending time with you, he feels so relaxed around you.

Maybe a little too relaxed. You don’t mind of course because you know, Eddie is just your friend. He’s made that painfully clear that he just sees you as another one of his guy friends, which is fine.

Then one day, he’s walking around town and he sees you in the video rental store talking to Robin. You guys are going crazy over something and he realizes you’re giggling and there’s something else… he can’t put his finger on it but he knows he’s blushing. He better go say hi and see what’s so funny.

He walks in and Robin greets him half assed as soon as she recognizes who it is and gives him a witty one liner.

“Whatcha guys talking about?”

“Oh Robin was just telling me about the new Tom Cruise movie that just came out. Apparently Nancy is reeeaaalllyyyy into him but he’s not really my type”

He stands there a bit dumbfounded

“You’re… you’re talking about.. Tom cruise? And your type?”

“It sounds silly but Robin says it’s a good movie! Maybe I’ll have to watch and see what Nancy sees in him” you and Robin both laugh at the thought a little bit

Eddie is just staring at you, realizing he’s caught you talking to your friend.. about boys. and he would have this ridiculous epiphany. “You really are a girl”

You stiffen a bit and it doesn’t go unnoticed “Uhh yeah… last time I checked Ed, what have I been this whole time? An alien?” You’re not dumb, again, you know exactly how Eddie saw you but this just drove the knife a bit deeper.

“No that’s not- I didn’t mean- no I just-“

Robin let’s out an exhausted sigh “look dorky ozwad, just because she plays dnd with you and goes to concerts and knows how to hang doesn’t make her any less of a girl. It’s the 80s dude, girls can like fantasy and metal just as much as they like romance”

Eddie stands there dumbfounded, he’d feel like an idiot. He knows it shouldn’t matter and to him it still doesn’t. He just never realized how “bro-y” he had been towards you. And it makes him feel silly. Now everything makes sense as to why he always likes to watch you smile and laugh (he’d do anything to make you laugh) or why he always wants to hang out with you. He likes you. More than just a friend, and not even just because you’re a girl- because you’re YOU. He just forgot that sometimes to get the girl, you have to treat her with a bit more rizz than he would a guy friend.

He’d be standing there an awful long time and your also standing there in silence, blushing profusely at everything that just unfolded. Of course you told Robin about feeling just like another one of his friends which would have been FINE with you.. but it wasn’t really. You wanted him to look at you differently, not entirely, but just enough to see you in a different light.

After that day he does. He notices the way you greet everyone with a bit of a pep to your step. How you always make sure you have a good outfit, even when you’re just lazing about. You always are prepared for every situation, and most of all, he notices every kindness you share to those around you. You’re sweet, you’re nice, and you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous. He’s been so blind this whole time because on top of all that, you go into battle every week during hellfire with no mercy. You go to metal concerts and are in the middle of most mosh pits. You are able to stand your ground in any argument big or small, and you can out do any of the guys in any random prank or dare.

You are perfect to him. He knows this. Now he has to figure out how to make sure YOU know he thinks you’re perfect.

He has no IDEA where to start

“I NEED ADVICE” as he slams the doors to the video rental place, to see not only Robin but also Steve. Perfect.

“Whoa dude okay are you finally ready to listen to other things besides screaming for 10 minutes?”

“For the last time, it is music, and no that’s not what I’m here for” he’d look at Robin and she’d smirk “ahh.. you’re finally here for lady advice I see”

“Lady advice? You? Who’s the lucky gal? Is it y/n? Took you long enough-

“I KNOW I know but I don’t know what to do.”

“Just you know.. treat her like a girl

Robin elbows him “dude, come on, what era are you two from? different wording. Treat her like she’s special. Treat her like you would do anything to make her happy”

“I would do that, but I don’t know HOW that’s why I’m here”

Robin groans “look, you guys hang out ALL the time, SURELY you’ve noticed SOMETHING she wants a guy to do for her”

something a guy could do for her…

—————————————————————

The next morning you’d be making your way to your locker when you notice Eddie is already there.

With his hair pulled back into a low messy bun. And he’s wearing a button up. And he looks like he’s either going to freak any second or faint in the process.

“Good morning Eddie. What’s with the get up? I’ve NEVER seen you this formal… are you wearing cologne?”

“Haha yeah uh- um- I am. I was trying to smell nice compared to the normal weed, beer, and cornflakes-“

“I like your normal smell”

“What? No that’s not- we’ll come back to that” You’ve been there all of 10 seconds and he’d already be flushed. you giggle and only just realize then that he’s holding something behind his back. He pulls out a bouquet of flowers, beautiful and bright

You feel so bad for trying not to laugh. He notices immediately and starts to regret everything. Of course you wouldn’t like this, or him. He puts them away but you’d grab his arm back out and take the flowers, still giggling to yourself

“I’m sorry, sorry, I’m being so incredibly rude. This is VERY sweet of you, but this is SO out of character for you. What’s going on?”

“Well you know.. after the other day with Robin I realized I’ve never really shown you.. how.. I feel about you? And like sure we play dnd together and you come to my concerts and we are together all the time because I love being around you but you.. deserve to be treated like you’re special. Because you are.. to me..”

He wishes the ground could swallow him whole

You look at him with those gentle eyes and you look back at this bouquet he’s brought you and you just smile so big. “Well.. you certainly have made me feel special right now. But next time, just know you do not have to dress up like a job-monkey. I think your jacket is hot enough”

He lights up “really? You like my jacket?”

“Duh. I like everything about you, even the nasty things, and believe me you’ve got those. But I like that you treat me like me. Like a person. Not just a playtoy or separate species. I will admit though, it would be nice if you held my hand or showed any kind of affection”

He’s looking at you dumbfounded. You’d just take it as your cue to grab his hand and start walking towards your English class together. You stop by his locker though so he can change and eventually the two of you are just as you were, but a little bit more. He gets more comfortable with you and eventually everything works out as you planned it- after all, flirting with boys especially Eddie isn’t rocket science.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #stranger things 4 #i dunno I was just like thinking about dorky Eddie

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giveamadeuschohisownmovie · 1 year

Text

If the rumor is true that Tom Holland!Spidey is going to show up in “Across the Spider-Verse” (I think it’s likely given that the trailer referenced NWH), I can see Tom showing up in two ways:

1) Miles is at his lowest point, leading to him transporting to a new universe in order to escape Miguel O’Hara and the Spider Society. This universe turns out to be the MCU (Earth 199999), where he encounters Tom. The two have a conversation and Tom gives Miles a pep talk. Something about how even though he lost Uncle Ben, Tony Stark, and Aunt May, as well as being forgotten by all his friends, he still continues to fight. So, Tom becomes the Spider-Man who represents what Miles fears will happen to him, losing his loved ones. But Tom is also there to tell Miles that life didn’t end for him despite his losses.

2) Tom appears as the mid-credits/post-credits scene surprise. Either it’ll be a funny gag or a tease to live-action Miles Morales. Or, even a tease to Spider-Man 4.

#across the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman #Peter parker #mcu #marvel #tom holland #miles morales #ultimate spider man #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #uncle ben #aunt may #tony stark #iron man #spiderman no way home #sony marvel #sony spiderverse

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tropes-and-tales · 4 months

Text

Alone Time

Day 13: Masturbation (Frankie Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Frankie is mildly creepy and a thief; pining; smut (masturbation, male; Frankie's imagination; a pinch of voyeurism); 18+ only.

Word Count: 2415

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s not rock bottom, but it’s damned near close.

Other men Frankie’s age have so much more: family, a mortgage, a steady job. What does Frankie have? An ex-wife, a suspended pilot’s license, and a shaky year’s worth of sobriety. He’s got a head full of bad memories—his time in the service, Tom’s death, the implosion of his marriage. He’s got a tricky back that aches in bad weather and pinches his sciatic nerve if he breathes the wrong way.

The sum total of his personal belongings are stored in your garage and in your spare bedroom, where Frankie has been crashing since…well, when he sits and counts out the months, it makes him feel like the world’s biggest asshole loser, so he doesn’t dwell on it.

It was supposed to be a temporary thing. It’s been ten months.

Hell, it takes less time for a baby to be formed and born. Frankie Morales? Ten months of crashing at your place and he’s no closer to launching on his own. Rent is too high, his credit is abysmal, his mechanic job pays next to nothing, and he’s so damned broke that he’s technically owed alimony (though his pride will not allow him to accept it).

But if he sits and ticks off all the reasons why he hasn’t left your guest room yet, there’s a couple of reasons he won’t voice.

That you stopped calling it your guest room and started calling it his room almost immediately after he moved in.

That you integrated his stuff into the wider home—his chipped coffee mug in your kitchen cabinet, his beer in your fridge, his scuffed work boots lined up neatly beside your shoes in the entryway—so he’d feel at home.

That you cook for him, that you wheedle his favorite meals from him and have an uncanny ability to know when he’s having a rough day and needs the comfort of a good meal.

That you eat his paltry attempts at cooking for you, a poor stab at repaying you, that you smile and thank him and pretend not to wince when something is burnt or too heavily salted.

That the casual intimacy of living with you—even platonically—has knocked something loose in him. That seeing you early in the morning, mussed hair and sleepy eyes, rumpled pajamas as you get the coffee started…or seeing you before bed, after you shower, your skin soft and damp and smelling like your herbal soap. It all makes something warm unfurl in his chest, and when Frankie starts to think on it, it makes him feel out of control. He has no right to develop feelings for you. You’ve been nothing but generous with him, and he cannot repay your goodwill by being a creep.

So he doesn’t dwell on it.

-----

He doesn’t dwell on it, and he doesn’t give it voice.

He sits on the couch and listens as you dart between your room and the bathroom, getting ready for a work holiday party. He listens to your muttered curses, your bathroom mirror pep talks you give to your own reflection. He listens to the patter of your bare feet as you bounce between dressing and doing your makeup.

A moment later, you appear, a clutch in one hand and a pair of heels in the other. You stand in the doorway and fix him with a nervous smile before you ask, “do I look alright?”

Frankie has a beat to study you—the dark green dress, the tasteful amount of cleavage, the skirt that flares just above your knees. He looks closer and sees that you’re in stockings, subtly patterned, and as he watches, you brace yourself in the doorway and slide your heels on one at a time. You usually don’t wear much makeup, but for this party, you’ve gone all in: dark lashes framing your eyes, velvety red lips.

You look beautiful. You look like a damned present just begging to be unwrapped and ravished, and Frankie clears his throat roughly before he answers you.

“Yeah, you look alright.”

You snort, shake your head. “Jerk. Seriously, is it too much? Not enough? Give me something to work with here, Francisco.”

“You look nice.” He swallows hard, amends it by adding, “you look beautiful.”

“Alright, nice, beautiful,” you laugh as you pull on your coat. “Good adjectives. Thanks, Frankie.”

He gives you a mock-salute. “Anytime.” And because he feels like a sulky asshole now—he can never strike the right tone with you, tries too hard to hide his feelings and so swings too hard the other way into sullen indifference—he adds, gentler, “no, you look great. Seriously.”

That earns him a hug. You walk over to where he sits, and you lean over to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Even the brief press of your body against his is enough to fuel a month of fantasies, because you look feminine as hell—dress, heels, deep red lipstick on your kissable mouth—but you’re wearing a warm, almost masculine perfume. You smell like tobacco and rum, undercut with the sweetness of vanilla, and the juxtaposition makes him perk up at a cellular level.

“Be good,” you tell him once you release him from the hug. You walk towards the front door and gift him one of your sweet smiles. “Enjoy your alone time. I’ll be back late.”

“You be good,” he replies. “And drive safely.”

-----

You leave, but your presence haunts Frankie. The ghost of your perfume lingers, as does the click of your heels as you walked out. The image of you in that dress feels like it’s burned on the back of his eyelids.

He tries to settle. He tries to relax. He orders in, puts on a mindless movie. He picks at his food, drinks a beer, then a second beer. Hours pass and he still feels jittery, and it’s like the early days of his sobriety, but he’s not craving cocaine. He’s craving you, which is stupid because he’s never had you, so it’s all conjecture—pure imagination, pure pining. Pure want. But the fact remains: he’s not hard, exactly, but he’s at the point of near-arousal, the ghost of you just in his periphery.

Frankie puts his picked-over food in the refrigerator. He cleans up a little. He should go to bed, try to sleep, and so he makes his way back to his room.

But in the hallway, he pauses by his doorway and glances towards your bedroom. The door is cracked. Frankie has been in there before, has sat on the edge of your bed once when you were sick with a migraine and he nursed you back to health. Alone, with you out of the house, your bedroom feels like something in a gothic novel: the forbidden chamber, your sanctuary.

Be good, you told him, and Frankie wants to be good, but his feet lead him the few steps to your door, and his hand pushes your door open wider. The scent of your perfume is stronger here—the incongruously masculine scent that reminds him of a dark-lit jazz club, even though he’s never been to a dark-lit jazz club. The scent curls around him, fills him up, and he steps inside your bedroom.

You’re neat but not painfully so. A neat stack of books are on your bedside table. A basket of freshly folded clothes sits on the bench at the foot of your bed. He steps further inside and studies the top of your dresser: the little dish that holds some of your jewelry, a half-burned candle, a row of lotions and perfume bottles. He leans against the dresser and looks at your bed, and of course he pictures you lying there, which leads to him imagining more.

You lying on the bed. Naked. No, in that green dress. He imagines unzipping it, pushing it off your shoulders, dragging his nose along your warm skin and smelling the perfume on you, your fingers threaded through his hair as he—

No. He rewinds it in his head, starts over. You lying on the bed. In the dress. He imagines pushing up your skirt, imagines you in garters, imagines shoving your skirt up—

No. He shakes his head, goes back to the first scene. Stripping you slowly. Yes, that’s better. Frankie was always the kid who unwrapped his Christmas presents slowly. His mother saved the paper, so it was a contest between him and his brothers to see who could unwrap it the best while saving it for future Christmases. He could strip you just as carefully, his fingertips dancing over your skin, making you twitch at too much sensation, moaning out his name—

No. It’s still not right. He switches the two of you in his mind, imagines himself on the bed, you perched over him. Your hands undoing his belt, his zipper, grasping his cock and stroking it before lowering your head, wrapping those red fucking lips around him, your dark-fringed eyes gazing up at him while you—

“Fuck,” he breathes out, aware of how he’s passed the threshold of near-arousal into outright excitement. He’s hard just from imagining it, and his erection presses painfully against his jeans.

He turns to leave, but his gaze falls on your basket of clean clothing. Christ, he could swipe a pair of your panties, and the thought tempts him but it’s going too far…so he reaches out and swipes one of your t-shirts instead—a soft cotton one you wear around the house. He’s still crossing a line but it doesn’t feel quite as bad, so Frankie flees to his own room with your shirt clutched in his hand.

But not before he pauses, hesitates. He snags your bottle of perfume and spritzes your shirt with the scent.

He has no plan; he’s operating on lust alone, but he figures he can just wash it on the sly and give it back to you, give you some tame lie about it getting mixed in with his own laundry.

-----

In his room. Door locked, just to be safe. Lights off, naked in his bed, the soft scented cotton of your shirt clenched in one hand and held up near his nose.

His other hand gripping his cock, stroking himself. Eyes closed. Pretending it’s your hand and not his own.

Frankie tries out the fantasies from in your room. You on the bed, you in the dress, you with your skirt hiked up around your waist. He tries out other fantasies he’s entertained in the past: taking you against the kitchen table, taking you on the couch. A million positions, a million scenarios, and he can’t settle on one. His orgasm feels far away, unattainable. He’s never been good at just imagining things, has usually relied on a handful of tried-and-true porn clips he’s saved on his laptop, but he doesn’t want that now.

He wants to imagine you. He sighs, refocuses. He reaches over to his nightstand and squirts a fresh dollop of lotion into his palm, then grips himself again.

You….you wouldn’t rush it. You’d go slow. If it was your hand and not his own, you’d go slow, so Frankie goes slow. Strokes his cock slow and steady, imagines you pressing those kissable lips to his neck, his chest. You’d leave smudges of dark red lipstick on him, a trail marking him as yours.

“Good boy,” you’d whisper to him. “Such a good boy for me, Francisco.”

“Yes,” he whispers in the silence of his room. “Always for you.”

“Such a big cock,” you’d whisper to him. “So thick I can barely get my fingers around you.”

Frankie tilts his head back, brushes his nose against the bunched-up t-shirt. He takes a deep inhale, feels the answering throb in his cock as he strokes a bit faster. He imagines you whispering more to him, imagines you telling him how you can’t wait to feel him inside you, his big, thick cock splitting you open, your pussy molding to the shape of him, how wet you already are for him just from jacking him off—

“Always wanted to do this,” you’d breathe in his ear as you stroke him faster, harder. “Touched myself at night thinking about you, Francisco.”

His orgasm, so far away initially, takes him by surprise. He feels the hot coil of anticipation snap, and he groans out your name over and over in the darkness of his room as he comes, spurts of cum painting his belly and thighs, coating his hand. He lays there a long moment, his blood and heartbeat roaring in his ears, his harsh panting slowly calming.

Frankie lays there a long moment, and the post-orgasmic bliss fades too quick. Masturbating is a release, but it always leaves him faintly sad afterwards. He’d rather have the real deal, obviously, but he’d rather have all of it. He wants the afterglow of sex with you, wants to fall asleep beside you. Wants to wake up too early and take you again. Wants to know how that smoky, whiskey-tinged perfume of yours pairs with the scent of sex.

Frankie wants all of it, and when the post-orgasmic bliss fades, he despairs that he’ll never have it. That he’ll be stuck contenting himself with these pathetic moments, jacking off to the smell of you, your soft shirt laid against his skin. That he’ll be stuck at rock bottom.

But the nice thing about rock bottom, as they cliché goes, is that there’s nowhere to go but up. Frankie has hit his bottom and is on an upward trajectory—he just doesn’t realize it yet. It’s the final moment of him not realizing, of feeling maudlin about himself. When he stands up and reassembles himself enough to leave his room and clean up in the bathroom, he’ll run directly into you: standing outside his door, high heels in hand, eyes wide at what you’ve just heard.

You’ve heard everything. Frankie and the obvious sound of him masturbating. Frankie and the sound of him groaning out your name over and over as he came.

Frankie so wrapped up in his fantasy of you that he failed to hear your car in the driveway, the click of your key in the door. Frankie so wrapped up in his own world that he hasn’t realized that hours have passed; that it is late and you’re home when you promised.

#frankie morales #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales #catfish morales imagine #catfish morales x reader #triple frontier #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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runnning-outof-time · 1 year

Note

Ohh hi❤️ blurb requests yeah!! Can I please request Back Hugs back hugs back hugs with Tommy? (Maybe with the added addition of nuzzling the nose into the back of his neck?😂) have a great night!

Hello anon!! 👋🏻👋🏻 thanks so much for sending this in! This idea came to me almost immediately. I hope you enjoy it! Also quick shoutout to @thomashelbyswhore who also sent this one in!

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! :)

———

Some Motivation

Tommy Shelby

Warnings: none

(Y/N) lets Tommy know that he’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be.

Tommy stood at the front side of his desk. He’d just come back from a meeting and was feeling the pressures of everyone’s expectations weighing down on him. Piles of papers were scattered around his desk. He didn’t know what he should do first. Instead of making any moves to get started on it, he rested his hands on the desk and let out a sigh.

He was so encompassed by the thoughts in his head that he didn’t hear the office door open, or the footsteps coming his way. He tensed up at the feeling of arms encirling his torso, and was about to act when he looked down and saw the glimmer coming from the wedding ring that he immediately recognized as (Y/N)’s. How could he forget the ring he’d shakily placed onto her finger a handful of years ago now? He offered many times to buy her a newer, bigger, one, but each time she refused. Another sigh escaped his lips, this one of content, as he felt her rest her cheek against his shoulderblades.

“That could’ve been dangerous, love,” he remarked, his hands dropping to gently hold onto her wrists as she hugged him tightly.

“I’ll take my chances with you, Tom,” she whispered back, not making any moves to let go of him. Instead of trying to break out, Tommy accepted the hug and let her stay pressed against his back. “You seemed stressed after that meeting,” she commented after a few quiet moments had passed.

“There’s a lot on my plate,” he answered her, his eyes falling onto the piles of papers again. I should get started on them, he thought. “A lot of people are coming to me; needing me to do things.”

“You’ll get them done in due time,” she assured him, craning her head upwards so that she could nuzzle her face into his neck. His scent immediately overcame her senses, and she let out a content sigh as she breathed it in. He always smelt like home.

“Maybe I’ve taken on more than I can handle,” he said after a few more moments had passed.

This sentence made (Y/N) lift her face from his neck and finally unwrap her arms from his middle. This allowed Tommy to turn and face her. He was only able to hold her gaze for a moment before he looked to the ground. (Y/N) pursed her lips as she studied his features. It was obvious that he was stressed; that he was overwhelmed by the amount of work that needed to be done, and she couldn’t help but feel slightly happy at the fact that he was willing to show her these emotions. He usually kept them bottled up and close to the chest.

“I don’t think you have,” she said to him, her voice making him look up again, “you know what you can handle. You’ve dealt with much more before, and you’ve came out of that successful. This time will be the same,” she assured him, hoping that her little speech would spark some motivation within him. He said nothing in response to her pep talk, the solemn expression still lingering on his features. “I could help you with the papers, if you’d want,” she offered then.

“You wouldn’t want to be dealing with that,” Tommy was quick to point out.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t…” (Y/N) responded, not masking her true feelings. She hated doing paperwork of any sort, but it was part of the nature of the job, “but I’d do it for you. Anything to take some of the weight off of your shoulders,” she ended her statement with a smile.

Tommy tried his hardest not to let the smile break through onto his straight faced expression. He knew he was lucky to have (Y/N) in his life, but it was days like today, and moments like this, that just hammered that sentiment home. “I’ll give you the papers I’m finished with…to make sure that they check out,” he told her the plan, and she nodded before grabbing one of the chairs facing his desk so that she could drag it around to where his chair was.

They both sat down and got to work; Tommy filling out the papers and (Y/N) checking over them. Time went by quietly for a bit before Tommy stopped and looked at (Y/N). Feeling his eyes on her, she also stopped to look at him.

“What?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Thanks for this,” he told her, his words coming out quietly.

But she heard them loud and clear. “You’re welcome,” she smiled at him, the expression alone telling Tommy that he shouldn’t be worrying so much about all of this. Things would be ok.

———

Tagged: @mgcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21 @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @notyour-valentine @shelbydelrey @december16-1991 @onlydeadcells @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @midnightmagpiemama @cillmequick @rangerelik @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @raincoffeeandfandoms @itscheybaby @gypsy-girl-08 @lora21 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @dragons-are-my-favorite @sunsetbeachesandwriting @forgottenpeakywriter @cilliansangel

MASTERLIST

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby blurb #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders x y/n #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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radaverse · 7 months

Text

I finally got a couple of new pages! Yipee! Let's-a go! TO THE NEXT CHAPTER!

Chapter 2: On My Own - Page 1

Tower of Mistakes

...Is it?

Reblogs are appreciated

<<< Previous Chapter - Falling Apart | Next Chapter - Alone Together >>>

|| Go to Chapter Menu ||

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the-dumpster-fire-of-life · 8 months

Note

Heyyyy me again so I had requested the mini Thems right for Tom and bill and I love reading dance mom bill so how bout dance mom bill and dance mom Tom???!!! So like the girls are always on the same team always having duets messing with eachother while getting ready for comps help ing eachother get ready ? I LOVE THAT IDEA!!! So you don’t have to do it but I think it’s a cool idea 😎

(Hello! Glad to see your back and of course! This is very cute and all and I love it!)

Dance!Moms!Bill & Tom

Bill is obviously very good at this shit

He's been at it for a very long time

But Tom somehow manages to be even better

He had no clue what he was doing half the time and somehow ended up doing hair better than Bill

You guys were raised like twins just as Bill and Tom were raised

So it's very much given that both you and your cousin do almost everything the other does

Including dance!

When you guys got invited to be on the show Dance Moms, you were very excited and so was your cousin

Mainly for the friends and just the dancing

You and your cousin loved competitions

You guys are always each other's duet partner

You both look very similar, due to your dad's being identical twins so you guys have a lot of the same features

You guys compliment one another so well on stage and the chemistry (platonic, weirdos) is very natural

And there is already that level of trust within one another they makes it very easier

Tom didn't think he would be very much in dance or be the father to spend money, time and tears on watching his daughter on stage

But now he is in the crowd every time, getting you the best costume along with Bill, song both of your hair and him and Bill giving the best pep talks

Tom has definitely shed some tears and Bill never lets it go even if he was also crying

They love the fact that y'all have that one specific thing just for the two of you

It sorta reminds them of themselves as they grew up in the band

The fact that you both share that and grow up together with it just gives them that extra bit of comfort

#tokio hotel #tokio hotel imagine #tokio hotel x reader #bill kaulitz #bill kaulitz imagines #bill kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz #tom kaulitz imagines #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz x you

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tommarvoloriddlesdiary · 1 year

Text

By the time it’s through, Harry is a panting victorious mess.

He swears some Gryffindors get dumber by the year. They were pulling the same stunt at every start of the term. I mean, Harry scoffs and thinks to himself, they couldn’t even have been bothered to pick a different corridor. It astounds Harry how persistent their hatred of Slytherins—of him especially, remains even after all these years.

Like, so what? He can talk to a few snakes, and he’s alright at quidditch, and, yeah, he defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort when he was a baby and then sorted Slytherin at eleven. It’s not like anyone told him it was some cultural taboo to accidentally end a war and sort into the mass murderer’s Hogwarts House.

Honestly, Harry has a sneaking suspicion that even if someone had told him, he’d of ended up in a similar, if not worse, situation. So he’ll take the yearly Gryffindor smackdown any day.

Surveying his handiwork, Harry gives a pleased nod to nothing in particular. These six definitely need the medi-wing, but, seeing as Harry was slighted from the Head Boy position and finishing off his final year at Hogwarts as a mere seventh-year prefect, he figures this can slip under his radar. Of course, it’s not good to slack on the first week back, and usually Harry frowns at anything of the sort, but six to one is his new personal best. So, this little lapse in duty can be a small treat for a job well done.

The pep to his step and smile on his face certainly agree with Harry’s decision as he does an about-face and walks a few paces only to come toe to toe with their latest Defence professor.

Shite.

Harry’s face shutters and he freezes in place. There’s no way he can talk his way out of this. But, more importantly, what the hell is he going to do about a bloody witness.

In the haze of panic, Harry has enough sense to correct his posture quickly. He straightens up, shoulders back, hands clasped behind him, and speaks politely, if a little blandly, “Professor Riddle.” Harry bows his head in what he hopes comes across as a sign of respect and not the blatant attempt to hide his wince that it is. How could he have been so careless?

Professor Tom Riddle is the hot new thing in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not only for the ne’er-do-well gossip mongrels but also just- generally. He’s incredibly attractive and incredibly unknown. Sure, he has more than enough qualifications for the position, but no one has any useful information on the man other than the fact that he might have been a Slytherin in another life. And that’s only because he’s got a pet snake slithering about, allegedly.

All of that to say: Harry has no idea how his new professor will react to this. But it’s vital that he keeps his head down this year; nothing can come between him and freedom from the Dursleys. Especially not a little roughhousing with a few morons. If Professor Riddle punishes him with a detention or eight, it will be a low blow but bearable— and if he brings what Harry’s done to the Headmaster…

Harry is certain expulsion will be considered with a heavy hand. Headmaster Dumbledore did not like Harry one bit.

“Harry Potter,” Professor Riddle’s voice is deep and just on the edge of lilting. It’s a nice voice, Harry’s shocked to acknowledge. His lessons will be a huge step up from Snape’s temporary claim of the role. Thank the gods they forced him back to Potions. Though, Slughorn’s lessons and overall attitude were pleasant while they lasted.

They both stood without saying another word in tense silence. Well, tense for Harry. He’s not too sure what’s rattling around in Professor Riddle’s head that’s keeping him so quiet.

Actually, Harry couldn’t imagine being on the other end of this scenario. Like, what would he do if he’d come upon some kid, who by almost all accounts was the supposed saviour of the wizarding world, beating the shite out of six Gryffindor students? Harry doesn’t think he’d handle it as well as Professor Riddle seems to be. In fact, maybe they should both take a cue from Fake-Professor-Harry and just pretend this never happened.

Harry’s neck is just starting to strain from its lock level with the floor when Professor Riddle speaks, “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

His head snaps up at the pleasant, almost jolly tone. Professor Riddle is staring out into the courtyard, eyes glued to something far, far in the distance. Completely ignoring the six injured students mere metres away.

Dumbfounded, Harry replies, “It’s evening.” And it is evening. Harry tries to look out at whatever has Professor Riddle’s steadfast attention and can’t pinpoint a damn thing. It’s dark as all hell out there. Finally, in the awkward pause, Harry finds the wherewithal to look back and tack on a belated, “Professor.”

Professor Riddle’s eyes slip to Harry’s face, but his head remains still, and Harry comes to the startling realisation that this is meant to be an act. Anyone passing by, or any nosey portraits, would still believe him enchanted by the courtyard and not confronting a rogue student.

“I know you’re socially inept, Mr Potter. But you are not stupid.”

And with that charming, hissed comment, Harry turns about-face once again to also fake watch the courtyard. “Why yes, sir. Very lovely.”

“It seems,” Professor Riddle starts up again, “in my vacant-minded appreciation for this beautiful day, I have forgotten some paperwork in my office. Could you spare a moment to accompany me?” Harry hears the loud and clear statement as what it is: a demand.

“Of course, sir. I happen to be returning to the common room and going that direction regardless.” Harry is oddly proud of the truth of this. He is technically done with his prefect rounds now, anyhow.

“Very good. Come along.”

The walk to Professor Riddle’s office is long. It’s made longer by their run-in with a few of the Hogwarts Ghosts. Peeves has always had this odd tolerance for Harry that he’s gladly taken advantage of more times than he can count. Something about his father and his father’s friends, the best group of pranksters to ever walk these halls! or whatever. Harry’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, their slight distraction with Peeves has nothing on the Grey Lady’s interaction with Professor Riddle.

She never takes an interest in anyone outside of her little Ravenclaws if Hermione is to be believed. And Hermione is rarely ever wrong. So Harry is on the deep end of surprised when she floats down the other end of the fifth-floor corridor, sees them coming, and waits. Ghosts can’t really be described as warm— unless you were talking about the Fat Friar, and only then because, even as a ghost, he appears to be wearing too many layers for this time of year— but the Grey Lady’s soft eyes for Professor Riddle is a near thing.

“Tom,” she starts as Harry follows his professor’s lead and stops to greet her. “You’re back.”

Harry tries to keep as quiet as a mouse because he very desperately wants to know what she means by that, and he doesn’t think she’s even realised he’s here yet. Harry doesn’t even think he’s ever heard her speak before, either, but her voice is as soft as her eyes. Dainty like bells.

“Yes, Lady Ravenclaw. It has been a long time.” Professor Riddle seems pleased she remembers him. But… Harry can’t put his finger on it. Something just feels off. His neck prickles with that alert sort of awareness, the kind he’s never really been able to break since he was a kid—that prickle of danger.

Grey Lady nods, “Nearly three decades.”

Three decades? Hell, that’s a long time. How old is Professor Riddle anyway? He doesn’t look a day older than thirty, but unless Grey Lady knew him pre-birth, Harry would have to reevaluate his perception of wizard ages.

Harry is vaguely aware that this is all none of his business, and he really shouldn’t be standing here listening closely and pondering on whether or not Professor Riddle was a good Ravenclaw back in the day. But knowledge is power, right? As an obvious Ravenclaw Alumni, Professor Riddle would appreciate Harry’s retention. And since Harry still has no idea how he’ll react to the little skirmish from earlier, looking out for possible blackmail wouldn’t be amiss.

Professor Riddle looks surprised, “I don’t recall speaking with you the last time I was here.”

“Because you didn’t,” her reply is simple and to the point. Not said with any ounce of anger. It’s undoubtedly spoken with a fair amount of weight, however.

Harry hasn’t spent six, going on seven, years in the snake pit not to pick up on her clear underlying message: you didn’t see me, but I saw you. And even though it sounds like a threat, Harry is confident she only means it as a warning. A warning for what? Harry hopes to find out.

“How terribly remiss of me,” Professor Riddle shakes his head as though ashamed. “We should rectify this, of course, and speak at length when you have the time,” his accompanying smile is bright and charming. Harry almost wants to whistle in appreciation. That is some fine schmoozing if he says so himself.

But Grey Lady doesn’t respond. Instead, she floats on, and as she passes Harry, her shoulder phasing through his, he can’t help noticing her stricken face. The purse to her lips and the translucent grip of her hands, it’s almost like she’s scared.

Harry watches her go, still for a touch too long, and Professor Riddle clears his throat, “If you’ll continue following me, please, Mr Potter.”

His attention snaps back to the professor, “I had no idea you were a Ravenclaw, Professor Riddle.”

Professor Riddle looks very amused for a moment. Then, he continues walking and asks, “Whatever gave that away?”

Harry is immediately suspicious, “Ravenclaw’s Ghost. She doesn’t speak with anyone outside of her House. Even the professors have a hard time catching her attention unless they are one of her past students.” When Professor Riddle doesn’t respond right away, Harry adds, “For example, she didn’t acknowledge me once during your conversation.”

“That is true,” he nods, and that strange amusement lingers on the edges of Professor Riddle’s lips. They don’t speak for the remainder of their walk, though it isn’t without Harry trying.

Really, Harry hasn’t met anyone this paranoid in his life— maybe Moody, but the Auror is in a league all his own. However, Professor Riddle isn’t far behind, acting as though even the floors have ears. Or, at least, Harry assumes it’s paranoia stopping the Professor from answering. Maybe he’s just fed up with Harry’s questions…

As they enter the Defence classroom, Harry takes in the changes. Each Defence Professor certainly came with their own flair. Lockhart with his vain decor and opulence, Remus with his purely educational and scientific creatures posters and skeletons, Moody with his nearly claustrophobic clutter of dark curse detectors and jars of worms and bees, Umbridge with her bare-walled bleakness almost as though she could be the only thing of note in the room, Snape with his… well… Snape-ness—no one was surprised to come into the drawn curtain, candle-lit, gruesome pictured room last year.

Professor Riddle is an interesting mix, Harry thinks. Not over the top with gold and silver or anything like that, but there’s definitely a lustre to everything that speaks of fine quality. There’s a nice variety of defence posters, all topics from creatures to spells to stances to potions. How refreshing after the gloom of Snape. It’s brighter in here, Harry notes. Even in the late hour, the warm glow of the room is inviting.

Harry carefully tucks away the sight of a large empty vivarium for later questioning as Professor Riddle shows him up the staircase to his office.

“Have a seat, Mr Potter.” Professor Riddle rounds his desk, a simple wooden piece, large and already strewn with papers, and takes a seat. Harry follows suit, taking in his office with much less attention than the classroom. If only because it seems Professor Riddle hasn’t finished setting it up to his standards. Piles of books sit abandoned by the many bookshelves covering one wall, and a fair amount of boxes are open and unopened in each corner.

Harry takes a deep breath and readies to defend himself. He thinks he’s got a pretty reasonable defence (pun intended) for his Defence Professor. Even if the man has heard of Harry through gossip rags like Witch Weekly and the hardly-a-news-source Daily Prophet, Harry figures he’s still got the benefit of the doubt.

Unless, of course, Professor Riddle had strong affiliations during the war. That could always go either way. Harry’s met some pretty chill Voldemort supporters over the years and some pretty not-chill ones. The Malfoys, for instance, treat him like a second son, and Harry’s mostly sure that’s only because they think him the next Dark Lord or something. Whereas Theodore Nott, and probably his whole family, definitely hates Harry’s guts for killing Voldemort.

“Professor Riddle, about what happened earlier, I can explain—“ Harry starts and is near immediately cut off.

“You’re quite gifted in spell casting, aren’t you, Mr Potter?” Professor Riddle leans back and crosses his legs, hands in his lap. Okay…he doesn’t look like he’s about to get Harry expelled… And is that a compliment?

“Uh,” Harry stutters. He’s still not good with praise; it’s still so foreign to him. “I wouldn’t use that word, Professor. But thank you.”

Professor Riddle shakes his head, “It is nothing to thank me for if it is a fact. When I was accepted for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, I first requested a list of all the students and their academic placements.” He pauses to shuffle the papers around on his desk until he pulls out one long parchment, “Four years straight, you held the top of the list in Defence for your year, and your Ordinary Wizarding Levels were exemplary even though you appear to have barely scraped by in fifth-year with a Dreadful.”

Professor Riddle glances up at Harry with a world-weary look, “I have speculations about why you placed so low the last two years. A Troll for sixth-year? With the casting I saw? Highly unlikely.”

Harry blinks, “Oh,” is all he can muster. Welp, that answers how much of the duel Professor Riddle had seen. And, surely he didn’t have all the Hogwarts students’ placements memorised so thoroughly? Is it just his seventh-year classes? Is it just Harry?

For the first time all evening, Harry is struck with the sudden question: why was Professor Riddle in a random seventh-floor corridor, anyway?

Now, Harry can say what he likes about paranoid people being paranoid. Unfortunately, it didn’t mitigate the fact that Harry was a touch paranoid himself. And, even though Professor Riddle hasn’t come off as anything less than concerned-professor-addressing-his-student, Harry still hasn’t quite gotten over that prickle of danger back with Grey Lady. It would be absolutely batty to think Professor Riddle was following him, or whatever, but now that Harry’s thought about it, he can’t stop thinking about it.

“That is just Defence. You have placed consistently in the top 10 of almost all your other classes since you arrived at Hogwarts,” Professor Riddle rolls up the parchment and sets it aside. “Divination and you do not seem to agree, however.”

Harry can’t tell if Riddle is impressed, surprised, or both. Honestly, he’s kind of busy scoping out any easy exit points now that he’s spiralling down the my-new-defence-professor-might-be-stalking-me rabbit hole. Harry lets out a strained laugh and hopes that’s enough of an answer.

“You appear to be a bright young man, so why did you feel the need to fight six Gryffindor students after curfew, Mr Potter?”

Indignant, Harry decides to shelf his panic attack for later, “I didn’t feel the need. This is a yearly thing they like to do. They’ve decided they are within their rights to punish me for my audacity to sort Slytherin when I was eleven and enjoy cornering me during my prefect rounds.”

Riddle arches his brow, “This has been going on for years?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve not gone to your Head of House?”

Harry nearly scoffs, “Snape and I do not get along.”

“Professor Snape, Mr Potter,” Riddle’s amused smile is back in full force.

Harry presses his lips into a thin line and counts backwards from ten. Twice. “Of course, sir. Professor Snape and I do not get along. He tolerates me on the best of days and probably plans out my murder in vivid detail on the worst.”

Peeves may love Harry’s father. Snape decidedly didn’t. Hardly fair, if anyone asked him, that he has to take Snape’s shitty abuse just because he looks like a man he’s never met.

Riddle nods and tilts his head. He’s silent for a moment before he asks, “And do you like Slytherin House?”

It’s such an out-of-left-field question that Harry gapes for a moment. He pulls himself together enough to give it some serious thought. Does he like being a Slytherin? He’s never been anything else, so it’s hard to say. It was pretty shitty in the beginning. Being ostracised for doing something he didn’t even remember or know about until a month before school while also adjusting to a totally new concept like magic being real was kind of awful. And he wouldn’t recommend it. Still—

“Yes,” Harry answers passionately and wholeheartedly. “I love it. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

And he means it. Because even though first-year had its fair share of torture, it was also magic. It was walls that opened with a whispered word revealing a room with a sea-floor view and green velvet sofas, it was his very own room after years of sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs, it was his first friend and his first laugh, it was wands and potions and spells and charms and magic.

Riddle does seem surprised now, as though he expected Harry to give a very different answer. His quiet turns thoughtful for a long, long while, and Harry wonders how long their meeting will drag out. It’s well after curfew and prefect hours now, isn’t it?

A dragging sound pulls them both from their silence.

Harry’s eyes quickly lock on a stack of precariously stacked boxes. They move slightly as though pushed and wobble dangerously. After a few moments of nothing, a large snake head appears from around its corner.

And that answers Harry’s question about the empty vivarium in the classroom.

The snake’s scales against the stone floor are what make the dragging sound as it carefully moves closer and closer to Harry. A quick glance at Riddle shows that he has no intentions of stopping it; great. In fact, that amusement is far too obvious once again.

Belatedly Harry realises the snake is sort of massive, far longer than any snake he’s ever seen. Including that one ball python at the zoo. The snake’s body gracefully adjusts as it creeps up and up and up until its head is level with Harry’s. A cool forked tongue quickly brushes against his cheek. Harry blinks, wide-eyed.

“Excuse Nagini, Mr Potter. She’s just curious.”

Harry knows he shouldn’t say anything. He knows it’s too risky to reply because he can’t quite control his parseltongue in front of snakes, but he can’t just sit here and not say anything. He’s still trying to get out of expulsion and maybe even a few detentions, after all. So he looks very hard at Riddle and desperately hopes the man won’t act too cruel if Harry slips up, “It’s-s fine, s-sir.”

Harry winces. Even he can tell his s sounds were a little too harsh just then, and Riddle’s brown eyes sharpen at the curious drag of his voice.

Riddle leans forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped together, and tilts his head. “That’s right. As a Slytherin, you must not mind snakes. Comes with the territory?”

“You could,” Harry swallows, “s-ay that.” He grits his teeth. Hope is a lie. He needs to get out of here.

Somehow Riddle leans ever so closer, “It’s interesting. I was under the impression that her presence here might cause a great disturbance. Headmaster Dumbledore was very worried about student safety and their reactions.”

Harry pauses. His eyes drift back over to Nagini. What? Wait, “Student safety?”

Suddenly Riddle is up and standing. It startles Harry more than he’ll ever admit, and while he’s distracted by that, Nagini rests her large head on his shoulder and inches her way behind his neck, “A speaker? You speak parseltongue, young child?”

Riddle quickly rounds to the front of his desk, his fingers tapping a pleasant little rhythm across it. He finds a comfortable spot and casually leans back against it, arms crossed. Harry’s thigh is almost brushing the long line of Riddle’s legs. Harry wants to die, just a little.

“Mr Potter, Harry,” Riddle says his name like a curse and a blessing and very, very different from how he’s been saying it all evening. A chill runs down Harry’s spine.

Nagini interrupts before Riddle can continue, “Are you cold, young child? Tom, the boy is cold. Warm him.”

“My snake seems rather taken with you, Harry,” Riddle carries on, completely ignoring Nagini and her demands. Which makes sense because Riddle doesn’t speak parseltongue, but Harry is sorely tempted to laugh at how she sounds so used to bossing Riddle around. He doesn’t scream doting pet owner, but maybe Harry’s got a bad read on him. Or maybe the fear and adrenalin are making Harry fucking crazy.

And when did he become Harry and not Mr Potter?

Harry coughs, focusing all his attention on Riddle once more, “Cool. What concern did Dumbledore have for the children?” Nailed it.

Riddle’s answering smile is large and closed-lipped. He’s not laughing, but it sure as hell feels like he is. “Headmaster Dumbledore, Harry. And it is nothing to worry about, as I have taken measures to keep you all safe. Nagini just happens to be rather poisonous; her venom is capable of killing a man in less than a minute.”

Huh. Harry suddenly doesn’t feel all too thrilled about having Riddle’s rather large, potentially man-killing, and weirdly mothering snake getting all cosy on his shoulders. Even now, she’s still hissing nonsense words of concern and praise, and really, Harry’s not been paying too close attention to her out of fear of messing up again.

Harry nods as slowly and carefully as possible. “I get why he’d be a little worried.”

Riddle hums, not necessarily agreeing, not necessarily disagreeing. “Back to our original topic, I will not be reporting your altercation with the Gryffindors.”

The fierce surprise waging a three-way war with suspicion and hope in Harry’s chest is enough to leave him breathless. How the hell did he get this lucky? “Thank you, I really appreciate it—“ Harry stops himself from adding an instinctual sir.

Harry sits uncomfortably in the realisation that Riddle is definitely laughing at him as Riddle’s brows inch up. Harry sighs and says, “s-sir.” He clears his throat.

“Apologies, Harry. It is quite late, is it not? I wouldn’t want to keep you; the term officially starts tomorrow, after all.” Riddle straightens up from his lean, and he’s closer now than he’s ever been to Harry.

“One last thing,” Riddle says, and his hands curl around either side of Harry’s neck. Harry is dizzy in the stifling nearness. Riddle’s not touching him, but the warmth radiating off his body and hands burns until Harry is certain there’ll be blisters.

Riddle carefully takes Nagini from her perch on Harry and wraps her gently across his own shoulders, “In exchange for my silence, I expect us to meet here once a week. Outside of our class time. I shall wait until you get your timetable before picking something suitable for us both.”

Harry’s eyes are glued to the floor when he says, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Harry.”

Harry’s neck whips up at breaking speed, and for just a split second, hardly a blink, Riddle’s eyes are a scolding red.

Harry blinks once, twice, three whole times before he manages a desperate, “Yes, Professor Riddle.”

Riddle’s answering smile is the cat’s canary, and Harry certainly feels like prey to a predator right now.

#tomarry #harrymort #tomarrymort #pov: harry #4.1k words #chapter 1 #my fic #slytherin!harry #professor!tom | voldemort #fic: what's lost (what's gained)#i have nothing to say i don't even know where this came from

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guessimwritingficsagain · 10 months

Text

(Not) Entertaining the idea of (fucking you)

Summary : Joel's fixing a toilet in the Bison's ladies' room. He overhears something.

Warnings : Mature content, MDNI, masturbation.

Tags : Just ask. ———

The Bison’s bathrooms are divided. One for men, one for women. In each bathroom, there are two different toilets, which is why Friday night found Joel on his knees trying a fix the goddamn toilet that kept on breaking in the ladies’ room. It should be an easy fix, but he still had locked the door to give the giggling ladies who came in an out to use the other, functioning, toilet, a bit of privacy. The apocalypse hadn’t changed that : women still went to the ladies’ room in flock and turned the place into a gossip room. He’d fixed that thing so many times in a year being in Jackson that he’d heard it all - the pep talks, the compliments, the bitching about boys and girls.

Janine had a crush on her neighbor, except she never realized she was into women before that. He knew the neighbor, Lydia,a no-nonsense woman Joel liked enough to go visit at the bakery even though it was just to say hello.

Janine’s neighbor, Lydia, had a thing for Janine too.

Apparently that Tom guy Joel’d often seen at the stables was not good in bed. Details had been given, and Joel hadn’t been able to stop from quietly humming in agreement as the faceless, nameless woman had recounted what had clearly been an embarrassing moment for both parties involved.

Joel remembered when you’d came in, once, with Mrs Turner. The old lady had given you the secret ingredient to her famous apple pie, because you’d wanted to do something nice for some kid’s birthday. He’d take that secret to the grave.

Somehow, his bad ear didn’t seem that bad when he listened to gossip, hidden like some pervert spying on women.

He heard the door open and close, bringing him back to the task at hand. A voice he couldn’t place shouted a drunk and enthusiastic :

‘Girl, Jason is so into you !’

Giggles, then - Joel counted three or four women.

The lack of answer prompted another remark.

‘Come, Jul. She’s on patrol with Joel fucking Miller. She doesn’t care about Jason.’

‘Joel’s hot’, added another voice. ‘I mean, I’m sure he has a big dick. Like, you know, huge. Right ?’

Another fit of giggles. Then Joel froze, because you started talking, and if there was one thing he could do without, it was knowing how uninterested you were.

You were a young thing, early thirties maybe, and Joel had never once entertained the idea of trying anything but he was a man with eyes. And every time he looked at you, he saw something real pretty. You’d started patrolling together a couple of months ago after Tommy had stepped down to take care of his baby. You were quick on your feet, smart, funny. Pretty.

Joel had never entertained the idea but he was also a man with an ego and he didn’t want to hear what you had to say about him.

‘Listen, we work together. I don’t think about him like that. Y’know… I don’t think about like, his dick or whatever.’

Your words were slurred - he pictured you, with your cheeks flushed from being drunk and being hit on by Jason. Pictured you, hip leaning against the wall, arms crossed, shaking your head the way you had done that time when Tommy had suggested to switch patrol partners so Felicia could be trained by Joel.

‘She can come with us, but I’m not leaving Joel alone with someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing. I’m his partner, and he’s mine. I get a say in this.’

Your words had left no room for discussion and Joel had felt himself relaxing into his chair, legs spreading slightly. That night, he hadn’t given a damn about not entertaining the idea when he’d fisted his cock thinking about he’s mine.

‘Yeah, whatever.’ The woman answered, bringing Joel back to the present. ‘I think you’re full of bullshit. His dick has to be huge, right. Like, painfully huge.’

Joel was not a shy man by any means, and he knew from Tommy that he was pretty popular with the ladies here, but hearing a bunch of women fantasizing about the size of his dick was something else entirely. It was not something he wanted to hear and yet, he could not come out right now. It would be embarrassing for everybody. Would be embarrassing for you. So he stayed put, his work long forgotten.

‘Okay.’ That was you again. Joel turned his good ear towards the door. ‘I’m gonna- Gonna level with you here. If I thought- I mean if I did think about his dick, even though I don’t, and if- I thought it was painfully huge- and of course I don’t because I don’t think about his dick at all. But. I mean. If I did …’

You trailed off, then. There was just a second of silence, and Joel got worried you all could hear his heartbeat because he was pretty sure he was having a heart attack, right now. He heard you take a breath.

‘If I did, and if he was all of that, then, I guess I wouldn’t mind a little bit of pain.’

Laughter irrupted in the room and whatever was said next was drowned out by Joel’s mind going on repeat-

He’s mine.

I wouldn’t mind a bit of pain.

He’s mine.

When you all left, Joel was so hard he jerked off right there before finishing the job.

Ten minutes later, he walked out of the bathroom to see you leaning against the counter of the Bison, being chatted up by Jason. Joel’s feet dragged him to your side before he could reflect on what he was doing. His right hand found the small of your back on its own volition and his mouth asked :

‘Mind if I talk t’you for a second here, darlin’ ?’

Your eyes were so wide when they turned to him that he had no doubt you were drunk. Your beaming smile was the prettiest thing he’d see today, and your ‘Hey, partner’ the best thing he’d hear. One of your hand shot up to his bicep to steady yourself as you both took a couple of steps back, still close enough to Jason that Joel had to lean in and whisper in your ear to be heard.

‘I’ve been thinking’, Joel started, feeling more in control of himself now that he was grounded by you and you grounded by him, relishing in the way you were leaning on him for support. ‘Sunday we’re goin’ the long way round. Why don’t we take our time ? You can make that apple pie of yours- heard the kids loved it.’

He couldn’t resist, then, brought you just a little closer. Watched your eyes widen as he turned your face so your were looking right at each other. He knew the whole scene was one of possessive display, from the way he held you close to the way his hand was holding your jaw, thumb right below your ear.

‘Maybe’ He started, voice low. Stopped when he saw you gulp and felt your fingers slightly grab his shirt, your fingernails grazing his skin through the fabric.

‘Maybe’ He started again. ‘Maybe we can stop by that clearing, y’know ? The one where we saw that deer. I recon’ the weather’s better now. Ground was all wet then, but on Sunday, we can stop, eat some pie, y’know. If everythin’- you know. If all goes well.’

Your only answer was a nod, your eyes even wider than a second ago. You looked- He didn’t know. Dumfounded ? A tiny bit wrecked ?

‘Got somethin’ to show you.’ He added, probably fucking out of his mind. He was suddenly glad he was ancient because otherwise he’d be hard again, with the way you were pliant in his hands, Jason in the back completely forgotten. But that was also a stark reminder that you were not quite in your right mind at the moment. So he laid the offer, with an out, his hand discreetly leaving your jaw to rest on your chest, right above your breasts, naked skin on naked skin.

‘Somethin’ you’ll like. Show you a little bit o’ pain. Heard you like that.’

He heard you gasp but went on.

‘You got company, right now. And you’re drunk, pretty girl. You do your thing, tonight, and I’ll do mine. You don’t like the offer ? Just don’t bring the fucking pie, I’ll get the message.’

He turned you around, then, before he did something stupid like sneaking a hand in between your legs to see if you were wet, because you were in the middle of the Bison and you were drunk. He guided you back to Jason, a fake apology on his lips as he saw the weary look on the other man’s face.

‘Sorry, just heard the next patrols might be a pain in the ass- sights of runners and all. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I’m her partner, y’know, and she’s mine.’

He gave Jason a smile as he felt you tense next to him, and one hand went to squeeze the back of his thigh.

Joel walked away then, but before leaving, he did something so unlike him he’d deny it until the day he died. He spotted Lydia at a table, whispered Stop stalling, ask Janine out and walked out.

On Sunday you showed up on patrol with a shy smile, an apple pie, and you said as a way of greetings :

‘So the craziest thing happened after you left. Lydia kinda pushed Felicia against a wall and kissed her.’

Joel only smiled and motioned you forward.

———

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