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#extreme trimming for now!
salamispots · 4 months
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on to the next gift wip
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bosspigeon · 9 months
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some strange kind of euphoria
Rating: M Words: 6230 Pairing: Amir x MC Warnings: references to past homophobia, bullying, and emotional abuse, panic attacks, implications of kink, general horny content Ko-Fi <3
Amir answers the door wearing nothing more than his gauzy dressing gown and a smile, which drops as soon as he sees the look on Jude’s face.
In Jude’s defense, seeing Amir at all brightens him up a bit, but even offering his own smile doesn’t quite feel right. He’s tense, slouching, and he knows his sour mood is broadcasting loud and clear in more than just his expression and posture.
His face feels brittle, but so does the rest of him. “Can I come in?” he asks, wincing at the way his voice cracks.
He shouldn’t have come at all. He should have just… called Amir and asked for a rain check, but Amir penciled out this time for him, when he’s always so busy, he couldn’t just bail. He’s starting to think he should have anyway to save them both the discomfort.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, swallowing and backing away from the door while Amir stares him down, quietly assessing. “I shouldn’t have–”
“Did the doorman give you trouble?” Amir snaps, eyes blazing. Heat prickles along Jude’s skin, the temperature in the hall rising abruptly.
“Wh– No, he– Well–” He didn’t give him any trouble, per se, he knows Jude well enough by now as Amir’s guest that he didn’t say anything– just gave him the usual quietly critical once-over he does whenever Jude shows up on his own without Amir to shield him. It usually doesn’t bother him overmuch, but he’s… a bit more of a raw nerve than he usually is. Maybe more of an open wound.
“No,” Amir says slowly, calming down quickly as he examines the human. “Something happened.”
“Nothing serious,” Jude assures him, and he doesn’t resist as Amir tugs him inside. The hand curling around his wrist is soft and too-warm, and something in his body eases at the simple touch. “I just… had dinner with my family, is all.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is tense and weighted.
“...It didn’t go well, I take it?” Amir offers, his voice carefully neutral, his fingers tightening briefly around Jude’s wrist and then relaxing.
Jude can’t help but laugh, a single sharp bark that he stifles as quickly as he can. “‘Bout as well as could be expected,” he mumbles. He’s not sure what else to say beyond that, there’s so much tangled up in his head, in his chest, his whole body is tense and heavy with it.
He wishes he’d thought to change before he showed up. The crisp button-down and pressed slacks are uncomfortably formal, fitting too closely around his shoulders, at his waist. He feels stiff and stifled and… not like himself.
He’s sure Amir notices. Amir notices everything.
He leads Jude to the sofa and urges him to sit. He sinks into it with a grateful sigh, releasing as much of the tension in his body he's able to without medical or chemical assistance. Amir settles in next to him, curling close, and immediately starts plucking at the buttons of his shirt.
Jude huffs out another weak little laugh, lolling his head back against the cushions and watching those long, graceful fingers work.
“Talk to me, darling,” Amir says, slipping his hand under the fabric to rest against Jude's chest. The heat of his hand is comforting in its familiarity, lighting up his skin and settling his nerves. There’s a silky weight pressing at the edge of his thoughts, a presence that he’s grown used to at this point, warm like a physical touch. He’s not sure Amir’s even doing it on purpose, but it doesn't really matter.
"Mom asked if I was seeing anyone." It hangs between them for a long moment, before he manages to eke out, "She… didn't mean to."
She's never asked. Not him, at least. She's asked his brothers, his cousins, the kids of friends of hers or Dad's, but never Jude. She knows better than to ask questions she doesn't want the answer to.
He tries to elaborate, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, like the words are stuck behind a barrier, like there’s a big blinking roadblock between his brain and his mouth. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry.
He’s so tired of talking, and even if he doesn't really need to say much of anything out loud with Amir, he's just so frustrated, like he wasted all his words on people who didn’t even care to listen. He groans and covers his face with his hands.
Amir's slide over them, tugging them away so Jude can't hide from him. "That’s fine. You don’t need to talk." He smiles a sly little smile that always makes Jude's pulse race, kisses his knuckles, and slips off the couch, taking his warmth with him. "I'll make tea, you get comfortable."
It takes a few seconds for Jude to catch on, his head is such a mess, but he feels the familiar whisper of Amir's power twining through his thoughts. Oh.
They've done this before, more than once, when Amir's asked about fantasies of his and he was too embarrassed to say them aloud. It took some practice, but Amir has always been careful, never probed too deeply, and never without Jude's express permission.
He focuses on the pleasant background noise of Amir moving around his kitchen, the gentle thrum of his presence at the edge of his thoughts, and tries to put them in order.
Dinner was… awkward, to say the least, from the start. Jude isn't a talker, never really has been, so it was mostly him listening to his brothers ramble. Seth's youngest is starting middle school. Gabe got a promotion.
Seth asked what he’d been up to, not that he cared. Gabe snorted when he asked, which only proved the point. Jude just mumbled something about work and avoided eye contact. Played with his food. Wondered if his hometown had anything like the things he’d found out living in the city miles away. The conversation moved on without him, like it always did.
His brothers stopped picking on him about the same time he hit a growth spurt and outstripped both of them in height and not just weight. Well, they hadn’t stopped, exactly, just… didn’t push their luck like they used to. Like they did when they caught him sitting happily while their cousin, Lacey, put makeup on him as "practice" for cosmetology school. Like they did whenever his hair got long enough for them to to pull, before Dad got sick of him “looking like a girl” and shaved it off.
"I've got three boys, not two boys and whatever the hell you're tryin' to be."
And then Jude got bigger than him too, and he left him mostly to his own devices. Not without those snide comments here and there, but he was well used to it at that point.
His family is good at ignoring things that upset them–once they've stifled the offending party into silence, of course.
Jude came out when he was a teenager. His mother wept like someone had died. His father looked furious, but bit his tongue–though he spent the next few years making little digs about how lucky Jude was he didn't just kick him out to fend for himself. His brothers weren’t there, but they found out ;ater, and though they couldn't do anything to him physically at that point (head and shoulders taller and nearly twice as broad–and the Marlowe boys all took after their father in stature, Jude just took it further than that) they made sure he knew he was still their punching bag one way or another.
So when his mother asked him innocently, not thinking, hardly looking at him so much as smiling glibly at her family, and they both froze… well, it said more than if Jude had just out and told them he was getting railed by a demon on the regular.
At least he's not like those fairy boys. At least it's not in our faces. At least, at least, at least–
He hates that he still feels guilty. Guilty for ruining his mother's picture-perfect family. Guilty for being a consummate disappointment to his red-blooded American father. For taking his brothers' "friendly teasing" too personally. For missing the way he felt when Lacey put makeup on him and styled his hair and just let him want the things he could never admit to out loud.
For feeling bitter that she left him behind to pursue her own dreams while he was stuck cowering in the shadow cast by everything he was supposed to be.
He doesn't realize he's hyperventilating until Amir's hands, almost scalding hot against his clammy skin, are pressing against his cheeks, tipping his face upwards. He can’t figure out why the demon is so blurry, swimming before his eyes, when he’s too busy trying to remember how to get air into his lungs.
“Breathe, darling,” Amir urges him, firm but so gentle. Jude tries, and at first he only manages a few pathetic wheezes, but a low hum picks up at the base of his skull, a prickle like static skittering down his spine. For a split second, he’s paralyzed by a foreign surge of guilt, but it doesn’t feel heavy the way his own guilt does.
He sucks in a breath, one that makes his lungs burn, and grabs for Amir’s wrist with trembling fingers. “Not you,” he manages to strangle out, listing forward until he can bury his face in the crook of Amir’s neck. “Happens sometimes,” he mumbles in an effort to explain. Amir’s relief settles over him like a blanket, and he clings to it, to him, desperately, until he’s breathing again mostly normally.
He opens his mouth to apologize, but Amir cuts him off before he can even form the words.“None of that." Firm, brooking no argument, but still kindly tempered.
Obediently, Jude stays quiet, and Amir strokes his hair until the kettle chimes.
Rather than parting from him for even the short time it takes to prepare two cups of tea, Jude follows Amir to the kitchen, arms wrapped loosely around his waist, cheek pressed to his silky hair. His thoughts are staticky and nonlinear, feel like they're coming from somewhere beyond the boundaries of his skull. It's strangely peaceful, feeling like he's floating outside his body, like he's barely tethered to himself by just a few fragile threads.
Amir always smells so nice…
He's not sure when they wind up back on the sofa but he's holding a warm, delicate little cup in both hands. They share tea in easy silence, and if Jude's fingers are still trembling against his cup Amir doesn't mention it. Muzzily, he notes how fancy the cup is, and now that he's adjusted a bit to the staggering opulence of Amir's world, he finds the little things like that so endearing.
Jude is sluggish and heavy when Amir guides him to bed, and it doesn't take long at all for him to doze off, their positions from earlier reversed, with Amir curled around his back.
He's just awake enough to feel a little bit of that fire humming along his spine, the banked coals of Amir's temper pulsing between them, and he mumbles a half-hearted, "Please don't fight my family," into the luxuriously soft pillow smushed against his cheek.
There's a bit of a huff against his hair, something close to a laugh, but sleep finally pulls him under and blessedly quiets his overworked mind.
His dreams are washed over with a filter of wispy pink, but he doesn’t really remember much of them beyond that. Honestly, it's a bit of a relief. He wakes in Amir’s huge, soft bed, buried in plush pillows and blankets feeling surprisingly well-rested. Of course Amir is gone already, but Jude doesn’t take it personally. There’s a hurried little note on the nightstand on a scrap of sketchbook paper apologizing for his absence and assuring Jude they’ll meet again in the evening once he’s free of his responsibilities.
Jude tucks the note into his pocket as he dresses and leaves, feeling much lighter than he did when he arrived the night before.
~*~
He tried to get as much of the grime off his hands as he could before he left work, but Jude knows he looks like even more of a greasy schlub than he usually does when he comes ambling into Amir’s building. He brought his car this time, so he doesn’t have to go through the main entrance and deal with anybody grimacing at the state of his clothes, but he’s got a bag of fresh ones over his shoulder and he’s looking forward to a long, hot soak in Amir’s shower.
“I know, I reek,” he says sheepishly when he makes it to the door to Amir’s apartment.
Amir smiles indulgently at him, and gives him a kiss on the cheek regardless (even if he has to rise onto his toes a bit to do it, dressed down like he is) and only scrunches his nose a little. “Just a bit. I wouldn’t mind the sweat so much, but…”
“Engine oil and cheap cigarettes,” Jude laughs sheepishly. “Sorry, my boss likes menthols.” He gestures to the bathroom with his bag. “Mind if I…?”
Amir doesn’t hesitate to usher him down the hall as soon as he’s tugged off his boots at the door, and Jude plods along after him.
“I’d offer to wash your back,” Amir teases, watching Jude intently as he undresses, making a show of biting at his knuckle just to see him blush from his ears to his chest, “but I’ve got a few more things to take care of. Shouldn't take long, I'll be right outside.”
"Y-yeah, of course," Jude stutters, hands fumbling at his belt. Amir leaves him with another peck on the cheek and a sly parting smile, and while he was hoping for a nice hot shower after work, he's debating whether or not a cold one might be a better idea.
In the end, hot wins out. Amir's shower is like everything else in his orbit—spacious and ridiculously opulent to a degree that Jude's almost nervous interacting with it—but he's starting to enjoy the perks that come with drifting into that irresistible orbit himself. The water is just the right temperature, the pressure pounds down on his tight shoulders and back until he can finally feel them starting to un-knot themselves, and while he makes sure to get himself clean, he also spends a long while just standing under the spray with his head down and his hair hanging around his face like a wet curtain.
At some point, he hears the door click, some quiet rustling, but he doesn't pay it much attention. It's Amir's home, after all, he can come and go as he pleases.
Besides, it's not as if he hasn't seen Jude naked before, even if the thought still has heat crawling up his neck.
The door shuts again, and his mind goes blessedly quiet. The water doesn't go cold at any point (another thing that makes showering in his own too-small bathroom even more of a downgrade) but he knows he can't spend the whole night in here, however much he'd like to. He came for Amir, not his shower, though a little part of his brain does offer the helpful suggestion of trying to entice the succubus into joining him.
He snorts to himself as he slides open the frosted glass door, wringing out his hair. As if any attempt of his to be enticing towards someone like Amir, who drips easy sensuality in every breath he takes, would result in anything more than Jude falling all over himself like an idiot.
At least Amir finds it cute.
He reaches for a towel and steps out onto the plush bath mat, and stops short when he looks around the bathroom and doesn't see his bag.
Instead, sitting on the vanity in place of his ratty canvas backpack, is a shopping bag. What he can only assume is the name of the store is embossed on the sturdy, matte black paper in looping gold that matches the designs etched along the trim, but it's not a name he recognizes. Definitely someplace far outside the realm of a scruffy mechanic, that's for sure.
But there's something niggling at him, tickling at the edges of his thoughts, that suggests it's—
No, don't be stupid. Of course it isn't.
"Amir?" he calls out, eyes still glued on the bag as he awkwardly towels himself dry. Of course, Amir has the perfect timing to come swanning in when Jude's scrubbing at his hair, leaving the rest of him bare.
Amir does not hesitate to ogle, because he never does, and his smirk as his eyes take a luxurious stroll over every damp, hairy inch of human is nothing short of salacious. Jude's hair is still wet, but he can't resist the urge to drop the towel to cover himself a bit, which only makes Amir smirk wider.
"Yes, pet?"
It takes a moment for Jude to remember what he was even going to ask, because the casual little endearment never ceases to scramble his brain a bit.
(He's heard more than one person refer to him as Amir's pet, and he knows it's supposed to be an insult, but… he doesn't exactly hate it.)
He shakes his head to get it back on the right track, and winds the towel around his waist, eyes lowered. "Um, did you move my bag?"
Amir's heaves a dramatic, put-upon sigh. "I am begging you to let me replace that thing.” He is pointedly not looking at the bag on the counter.
"It still works just fine," Jude protests, smiling to himself. It’s something they’ve argued about before, if it can even be called an argument. It’s sweet, how Amir likes to spoil him. He shrugs a bit, ducking his head and letting his damp hair hide his face. “It’s sturdy. Dependable.” He's had it so long, it's almost like an old friend.
“Ugly as sin," Amir adds helpfully, rolling his eyes. But there's a smile playing around the edges of his lips. "You're lucky I think that sentimentality of yours is cute."
Jude's ears burn and he stays hidden behind his hair, but he's smiling too. Cute. Nobody but Amir's ever called him that (not since he was a chubby kid, at least) and he does it so freely and so often, Jude's starting to believe he honestly means it, even if he doesn't see it himself.
He feels Amir slinking closer more than he sees or hears him, bare feet nearly silent on the glossy tile compared to those staggering heels of his, and his breath hitches. He peeks from underneath his hair and is met with those stunning golden eyes and that playful, slightly predatory smile. “I… My clothes were in there, Amir,” he protests weakly, shuddering when soft, warm hands slip around his hips, fingers wiggling under the edge of his loosely wrapped towel, sharp nails pricking at his skin.
“Mmhm,” Amir hums. “Don’t worry, I haven’t thrown them out. I just figured you wouldn’t need them for a while yet.”
A quick, shuddery breath rattles out of him, at the end of it, a tremulous, "O-oh? Oh."
Amir chuckles and pokes Jude’s nose playfully. “Mind out of the gutter, darling. Since you’re playing coy, I’ll just come out and say it–I’ve gotten you a little gift, and the suspense of waiting for you to try it on is killing me.” 
“I’m not… playing coy,” Jude protests weakly, but his eyes flick away from Amir for a split second, over his shoulder to the bag on the vanity, and like an eagle spotting a blissfully unaware rabbit, Amir zeroes in on the shift and leers at him, teeth bared like he wants to sink them into Jude's skin to taste the blood rushing to its surface, like the sweetest of threats.
"You're a terrible liar, but it's so precious that you tried," he purrs, smooth and dangerous. With a flick of his nimble fingers, the towel still clinging desperately to Jude's waist drops to the floor, and sharp nails dig into the meat of his hips just hard enough to make him whimper. "I think you've kept me waiting long enough, pet. Don't you?"
Amir doesn’t wait for him to respond (not that he’d be capable of it in the first place, mouth suddenly dry and tongue like lead) and simply herds him towards the vanity, and the gift on top of it. He swallows hard as he reaches out, glancing back as if to ask for permission before he even touches it. It’s given in the form of a silky chuckle and a not-quite-gentle pat to his bare backside.
 The bag feels just as unspeakably high-end as it looks, the paper heavy and textured, and he didn’t notice before that the handles are gold silk ribbons to match the embossed letters. The name on the bag still isn’t ringing any bells, and he can't even imagine what might be inside, but with the way Amir is watching him, those gold eyes so sharp and intense he can feel the heat of their stare pricking at his skin, he's clearly eager for Jude to find out.
He parts the shimmery metallic tissue paper as delicately as he can with his heavy, callused hands, and finds a long flat box lying underneath. His heart is in his throat as he lifts it out of the bag, turning it over carefully in an effort to guess what it might be without damaging its contents.
Amir sighs behind him, and if Jude’s entire body weren’t thrumming with nerves, he’d look back to see if he’s checking a watch he isn’t actually wearing to drive home the point that his patience is wearing thin.
He opens the box. He almost can't parse what's inside at first.
Lace. Lots of lace. Pale, dusky pink lace edged along sheer fabric and adorned with delicate ribbons and thin gold chains. 
Jude's no stranger to fancy lingerie—Amir wears it often enough, and he likes to model it for Jude, even if he's just as clueless about luxury fashion as he is about fine art. Jude's never once complained—in fact, he's found he really likes it, the textures and colors and cuts, the way the airy fabrics cling to the striking angles of Amir's body, the way he always chooses colors that compliment him so well…
Jude's mouth is suddenly very dry, the weight of Amir's expectant gaze pressing down on him, because he's seen the succubus in enough lacy underthings, and removed them enough, to have a rough understanding of the sizes he wears.
The pretty pink garments in the box are much too big to be meant for Amir.
He looks up, and Amir meets his eyes with a sly curl to his mouth. "Well?" he asks, stepping closer, watching Jude’s face, picking apart his reactions with an almost surgical precision. "What do you think?"
He’s not sure he can think anything right now, all of his thoughts a messy jumble of confusion and curiosity and (a bit shamefully) desire. He knows he shouldn’t be ashamed for what he feels, what he wants, but there’s a lifetime’s worth of it built around everything he’s wanted that wasn’t in line with what he was supposed to be, and he’s still digging his way through that.
He wets his lips with his tongue and stares into the velvet-lined box, still trying to make sense of everything he’s feeling. "Is it… are they… for me?" 
It’s a stupid question, but there’s a part of him that still can’t believe it, is still scared this is either a dream or some sort of joke.
Amir laughs, low and sultry, reaching out to curl his ring-laden fingers around Jude's bicep. The touch is so simple, so soft, but it still spreads warmth through Jude's body. "Of course. Not really my color, is it?"
It isn't, Jude knows. Amir prefers bolder colors, stark contrasts, shimmer and shine to draw the eye. He tries to say as much, but what comes out of his mouth is a fumbling, "Y-you look good in everything."
That laugh again, a smoky, rich thing that sinks beneath his skin, curls in his gut and leaves him aching to hear it again and again and again. "You're so sweet," Amir says, scratching affectionately at his scruffy chin with his free hand. He squeezes the other around Jude’s arm, the tips of his nails a tantalizing pressure that makes his chest feel tight, makes his breath quicken. “Why don’t you go try them on, make sure I got the sizing right.”
He did. Of course he did, Jude couldn’t doubt for a second he would. There’s no way the set isn’t entirely bespoke, too, considering there’s no tags in sight to indicate sizing. There’s a bit of embroidery on the inside of each piece (panties, garters, belt, a frilly top that he struggles to identify) that he assumes is a brand signature or something like it.
Amir ushers him back into the bathroom, smiling playfully as he closes the door, and Jude is left to stare at the box in his hands and try to sort through his thoughts.
It’s easier, with Amir there to distract him, when he can’t focus so much on his nerves, or what his family would think of him, or what he thinks of himself.
He keeps his eyes down, away from the mirror, as he carefully takes each piece of the set out of the box. There’s enough room on the vanity for him to lay them out one by one, and he tries to think of it the same way he thinks of disassembling an engine. You have to go into it with a plan, you have to know how the parts fit together, and in what order. He arranges them in the way he thinks (hopes) they’ll need to go on his body, and takes a slow, deep breath.
The most daunting piece, it seems, will have to be the one that goes first. He picks up the panties, wincing when the calluses on his palms snag at the lace. He frantically checks for damage, his heart pounding, and sighs with relief when nothing seems to be out of place.
He looks over his shoulder, towards the door. Amir is quietly waiting on the other side, probably keeping himself busy with organizing his ever-crowded schedule while Jude has a quiet panic spiral about underwear in his bathroom. But he’s been waiting long enough, and though he teased, he’s been endlessly patient with Jude, and kind enough to get him not just a gift, but an expensive, custom gift he literally plucked from the human’s deepest, most secret desires.
Jude takes another grounding breath, and meticulously, cautiously, pulls the underwear on.
He knows he’s in trouble when a shudder works its way through him at the way the lace feels sliding up his legs, softer than he expected. He’s achingly aware of it whispering up his calves, stretching around his thighs, and nestle over his hips. It takes a bit of… adjustment in certain areas, but given that they were made specifically for his body (and that’s still something he can barely wrap his head around) everything, uh, settles in with surprising ease. It’s oddly comfortable and, more than that, it feels right.
He swallows so hard his throat clicks, and keeps his eyes steadfastly away from the mirror as he reaches for the next pieces–the stockings– with trembling hands.
Amir’s bathroom is practically the size of a studio apartment on its own, and thankfully there’s a seat near the vanity in the form of a plushy padded stool. He sits down and feels the panties shift and stretch around his hips and ass, and gently scrunches the first stocking. He tries to remember how people in movies put them on, and goes from there, bunching it and then pulling it slowly up his leg. It shouldn’t feel so sultry to basically be putting on socks, but the opaque material edged with more of that soft pink lace scraping gently against his skin is thrilling him beyond words. The second stocking doesn't fluster him any less, and he spends a moment or two just staring down at his legs, trying to make sense of what he's seeing, and what it might be awakening in him.
The belt and garters come next, and those at least are fairly simple. The belt is broad and subtly patterned, nipping his waist in a bit without being too restrictive. He spends what feels like an age just running his hands over the smooth, satiny panels before he clips the garters with their tiny bows to it and attaches them to the stockings.
The final piece is the top, with its spidersilk-thin gold chains attached a smooth satin ribbon, and sheer ruffled fabric flowing down from the bust. There’s a touch of fear that it won’t fit him, that he’ll move wrong and tear it while trying to put it on, but it really was made to fit his body, and the way the hem floats around his (doughy, hairy, and sort of pale) belly does a lot to hide some of his insecurities. It does emphasize his chest in a way he’s not sure he likes, clinging and translucent, but when he carefully fastens the ribbon around his neck and makes sure the chains attached to it aren’t tangled, he forgets his stalemate with the mirror and looks up.
For a moment, he forgets how to breathe.
He looks like himself, still big, broad, and heavyset, with dense muscle padded with a layer of fat and dusted with dark hair, but the contrast of the dusky, pale lace against sun-browned skin and muted tattoos is something that leaves him feeling things he’s not sure he can name.
As if on cue, there’s a dainty little rap on the door, and he jolts, fingers twisting together. Amir is still waiting, and he has no clue how long he’s been in the bathroom—it feels like hours.
He turns and stands at the door, hand hovering over the handle, and feels his stomach beginning to tie itself into knots.
Amir sees something in him that he doesn’t see for himself, and he knows that logically, but his brain isn’t always the most logical place, especially right now. There’s a sense of impending dread taking root in his chest, leaving it  crowded and too-small, like his lungs hardly have the room to expand. He imagines, a bit panicky, Amir taking one look at him and bursting out laughing, or the more likely outcome of feigning interest, telling Jude he looks nice, then hurrying him to change back into his normal clothes and never speaking of this little venture again.
As if Amir senses the direction his thoughts are going, the door swings open, making Jude flinch and—pulse pounding in his ears, heart jumping into his throat—wanting to scramble for cover. But he’s frozen, a deer in the headlights, as the succubus drinks him in.
"Oh, look at you…" he croons, beckoning him out of the doorway (and, of course, he follows without thinking) so he can circle him like he's sizing him up, like he’s taking in every inch of him before he pounces. "So pretty."
Jude couldn't feel more bare if he were actually naked, especially with the way the succubus is pulling him apart with just his molten gold eyes. But he can't get too caught up in that when he's left reeling over one simple word.
Pretty.
Nobody's ever called him pretty before.
Something slots into place in his chest, settles in and unfurls, a shuddering realization of a desire he never knew he held being fulfilled.
He never knew he wanted to be pretty, but it… it makes sense. And it feels good.
“I’ll admit, I took a bit of a risk,” Amir says, and there’s no teasing to his tone this time, just quiet consideration, a tenderness that makes Jude feel just as weak and helpless as his bold innuendo and sultry purring. “It was just a little hint of something I saw after…”
His expression shifts, brows furrowing, mouth curling. There's the faintest hint of that simmering anger he works so hard to hide. He doesn’t have to say anything, and Jude is grateful that he doesn’t. His thoughts were all over the place the night he had dinner with his family, he’s not surprised Amir managed to find the things he didn’t let himself think about, things he’d been struggling to bury for a good two decades, when all his old hurts were bubbling to the surface and he didn’t have the strength to push them down again.
“It was a guess,” Amir continues, easing closer, looking up with his head tilted, hair spilling over his shoulder in a glossy fall that Jude wants to hide in, bend himself practically in half so he can tuck away somewhere he actually feels safe, but he’s rooted to the spot feeling more exposed than he’s ever felt in his life. At least here, out in the open, he gets to see the way a slow smile starts to curl Amir’s lips again, softly smug. “But I think it’s safe to say it was a good one.”
Amir is so close, the heat of his body is almost enough to have Jude sweating, scantily clad as he is.
That could just as easily be nerves, or rather, anticipation.
Without his heels, Amir's a good six inches shorter than Jude, but it doesn't matter much with a presence like his. He effortlessly fills any room he struts into, and Jude's been helplessly drawn to him since the beginning. The demon stares at him with smoldering eyes, a gaze that clings to his skin like honey, thick and molten and saccharine, dripping from the ribbon at his throat, the slender chains connecting it to the top, and lingering at the bust for a long breathless moment before sliding down to the belt, the garters–
Jude shifts on the spot, shivers at the alien sensation of the stockings rubbing against the carpet, and tries to be subtle when he drops his hands to cover himself a bit. Unfortunately, it's not really possible for a man his size to be subtle in anything.
And then there's a swirl of mild disorientation, the sensation of breath against his ear, and a whisper in his mind that sends a shudder through his body.
No hiding, darling. I want to look at you.
Amir's lips don't move, but his eyes are so intent it feels like a physical touch. He takes his sweet time looking Jude over, admires him from every angle. Jude holds still obediently, doesn't try to hide, and he’s rewarded for his good behavior when Amir finally, finally touches him again, fingertips tracing along where the lace clings to his skin, where the softness of his hip spills out over the waistband of the panties, the lines the garters draw down his thick, hairy thighs to connect to the stockings and back up to slip under the floaty hem of the top and prickle his nails along the band that’s doing its best to support his ample chest.
His skin is burning now, between the hearthfire heat Amir radiates and his own blood rushing, and he’s starting to feel the shift in the atmosphere from an almost artistic appreciation to something a little more focused.
He’s not sure he can take much more of that focus, but thankfully Amir is very good at distracting him when he’s starting to feel overwhelmed. It just so happens that, in the current case, that distraction comes in the form of crowding him back into the nearest wall and pawing at him.
"W…wait," he whines out, helplessly squirming against the wall. He’s been able to restrain himself up to this point, to manage the low thrum of arousal building up in his gut since he starting pulling on all the satin and lace, but he can already feel himself straining against the delicate panties with Amir grabbing two big handfuls of his ass and squeezing. "I don't… I don't want to… mess these up."
There were no price tags, but he knows this has to be one of Amir's more expensive gifts. He's heard enough women in his life complain that just the mass-produced stuff is pricey, much less bespoke luxury lingerie. He can't even begin to guess how much Amir spent on what he's wearing, and he's honestly afraid to think about it too hard.
Amir laughs, something low and throaty that echoes sweetly in Jude's ribcage, settles heavy in his belly, and he tugs the human down to his level by the slip of ribbon around his throat. "Oh, darling," he coos indulgently, honey-sweet and just a touch condescending in that way Jude has gotten a little addicted to, "do you really think I only got you one set?"
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psychoetheric · 1 year
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i havent posted amogus in a while but here he is. if i stay in my room too much he comes and finds me so he can hang out.
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dogcollarpunk · 1 year
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had a very angry day today 👍
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galacticdeserts · 1 month
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I s2g the day I finally listen to myself will be a miracle--
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shaguro · 1 month
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{ "SKIN TIGHT.ᐟ" }
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{ft. satoru g.} when you realize that you’re falling in love with your friends with benefits, you distance yourself. ghost him after each session. but this time, gojo won’t let you go so easily.
{warnings.} fwb!gojo x reader. fwb to lovers trope! fem!reader, orgasm denial, missionary, breeding kink (like if you sqint) unprotected sex. pet names used, (baby, girl) gojo is a lil delulu. extremely intimate. angsty throughout but ends happy. wc. 2k.
{shanti’s note!} heavily inspired by skin tight by ravyn lenae. listen to the playlist for this story here.
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“are you.. are you just usin’ me, (y/n)? just think you can fuck me whenever you feel like? that’s just cruel, baby.”
you knew this was coming.
satoru was pretty much good at everything, sex included. it’s why you initiated this arrangement in the first place, being his friend and fucking him whenever you wanted to. the terms were simple: casual sex with no unwanted, lingering emotions. love is complicated, exhausting — after a handful of failed relationships, you wanted no parts of it and threw in the towel, officially out the game.
he’s not wrong, you do use him. fuck him and disappear by the next morning, unseen and unreachable until you decide to show up at his doorstep again, sometimes days — usually weeks later.
you know he’ll let you in, no matter how much time has passed. just cruel.
“you’re evil. you and this fuckin’—“ he sucks in a sharp breath, tilts his head back. gooey walls mold his dick, all ribbed and dangerously warm. is this why he lets you play him like this? “. . . tight ass pussy you’ve got.”
if it wasn’t for satoru holding your legs up and open, veined hands creased in the bend of your knees, you’re sure they would’ve gave out. he’d been relentless with his teasing this session and you were puffing, the shallow breaths left a slight tremble throughout your body. sweat beads rolled down your temple, cascade down the junction of your neck.
satoru denies you an orgasm for the umptheeth time and you start to think he’s the cruel one. you deserve it, though. this torture, his crafty method of punishment.
he’s had you like this for some time, the deep rut of his hips halted, everything is still. just satoru and his cerulean-speckled iries glowering down on you, goosebumps decorated your skin. you knew he was waiting for some sort of explanation to rationalize the mess you’d created but you weren’t sure where to start.
with your cheek smushed on your shoulder, you decide to fix your eyes on something, anything across the room to avoid his stare that was burning into the side of your head. “‘toru, i’m sorry.”
satoru scoffs, his trimmed fingernails indent your soft skin. “damn, now you’re lyin’ to me too? must really wanna hurt my feelings.”
“i’m not, i swear—“
“you disappear for three months and all you have to say is sorry?” he spat, his words had an uncharacteristic sharpness to them, hard and demeaning. it wasn’t hard to detect the underlying rage that rumbled within his entire being. “no explanation? just sorry? nah.. you gotta.. you gotta give me more than that, (y/n).”
taken aback, you bite down on your bottom lip, at a complete loss for words. there isn’t much you can say to pacify him, you doubt he’d care to hear it. what worked before certainly won’t work now.
the quiet is deafening and suspenseful.
and your silence angers him further, on levels you can’t fathom. you won’t weasel your way out of this, he concludes. you’ll give him an answer, even if it’s at the expense of his already bruised ego.
“hey.. look at me.” he sneers, and you feel the warmth of his skin on your chin, his thumb and pointer fingers curl as they angle your head forward and back onto his face. “just.. talk to me, please.”
satoru gojo, begging? oh yeah, you’ve really done a number on him.
you take your time as you admire him, basking in the sheer beauty of the man in front of you. obnoxious and arrogant as he was, satoru gojo is undeniably attractive, simply gorgeous — pink, kiss-bitten lips slightly parted and his cheeks a pretty shade of red from the exertion, you gather. his abs are chiseled and tense and if you peek lower, you’re met with neatly trimmed, white tufts of hair at the base of his dick.
“you…” you stop to clear your throat but it didn’t need clearing, only to counteract how embarrassingly weak your voice sounded. “..y-you wouldn’t understand, satoru— oh!”
he exhales deep through his nose and suddenly leans down, releasing his hold on your knees to brace his elbows on the satin-sheets. while he does this, his hips roll — slow as he feeds you all his thick inches until he bottoms out, his pelvis taut against your neglected clit.
you mewl out and your hands encircle his neck, scratching at the low hairs on his nape. he’s so close, your noses basically touch. his breath fans your face, cooling your rather hot cheeks. “then help me understand, baby. make it easy f’me, whatever it is.. i can handle it.”
you’re not worried about him not being able to handle it, in fact you’re not worrying about anything at all. how can you when he’s got you stuffed, stretched and full like this?
concentration is impossible as satoru sets a steady, languid pace — not too slow nor too fast, just enough to have your manicured, white toes curling. your mouth in the shape of a pretty ‘o’, your breathy whimpers resounding off the walls of satoru’s bedroom, the beautiful symphony ringing in his ears.
an addicting melody, you were like his own personal drug. insatiable and persistent, gojo was unsure if he’d ever get his fill of you, truly he didn’t care. as long as he had you here with him, where you belonged.
“c’mere,” he pants and leans in, connecting your lips in a swift motion. you melt into the kiss, jaw slack while your tongues meld and mix. it’s fervent like always but this sensation is new — raw, almost vulnerable. pouring his heart out to you in all his movements and you can feel all of it.
“‘toru, oh my g-god.” you grip his forearms, keening as his length drags along a spot that has stars twinkling behind your lids. “i was j-just— fuck!”
“just what baby?” he mocks, it wouldn’t be gojo if he didn’t find a way to tease you, even in the most intimate of moments. he litters kisses along your jawbone before latching onto the delicate skin on the column of your throat, grazing his teeth on the surface to ensure it’ll leave colorful marks, letting out a pretty whine of his own. “shit, squeezing me s’tight- gotta use your w-words f’me.”
well, that’s easier said than done. your body is trembling in a way that can only be caused by satoru, every time your mouth opens to form words only meek, whiney moans follow. your tips scratch the plane of his delts, surely leaving cat-like scratches in their wake. and your legs hang loosely off his slim waist as you cling to him for dear life.
“i was just s-scared, satoru.” your voice was low, it was nearly drowned out by the wet squelching of your pussy. the constant schlap schlap schalp of satoru’s pelvis meeting the fatty flesh of your thighs.
satoru’s eyebrows furrow and his eyes meet yours, his head slightly tilted in confusion. “scared of what? of me?
“no!” you shake your head profusely and reach a shaky hand up to cup his face. he leans into the touch, the heat of his cheek warming your palm. if there was one person you’d feel eternally safe and protected with, it’s him. “no.. never. it’s the w-way you make me, hmm, f-feel that i was scared of.”
“oh? and how do i make you feel?” he purrs prior to kissing you again, nibbling on your bottom lip. truth be told, he wasn’t sure what you were about to say. he prayed to the god above you couldn’t feel the rapid beating of his heart, notice the uneven rise and fall of his chest. so he plays it off, even with that slight tremor in his voice. “you love me or somethin’?”
it might be more than love. a deep attachment, a classic case of yearning and longing. gojo satoru was made for you. no amount of denying or running from the obvious would change that fact. you love him so badly it hurts, it consumes you — clouds your thoughts and steals the air from your lungs. no more fighting, you had no energy left to.
you’re surrendering yourself to satoru gojo and it was time to let him know.
“yeah,” you confirm with a giggle, all airy and breathless. your thumb strokes his cheek gingerly, tilting your chin up so your foreheads touch. “i love you, satoru.”
satoru doesn’t respond, in fact he was deadly silent. mouth agape, his eyes darting wildly as he examines your face, searching for signs of roguery but he found none. you were telling the truth, the love swelling in your eyes made it oh so apparent.
“again.”
you let out a surprised yelp when satoru presses his body down, the pressure of his weight dips into your chest, leaving you winded. his face is buried in the crook of your neck where the neediest whines roll off his tongue. with this new angle, he’s balls-deep and the rhythm his hips carry has your eyes rolling, holding his broad shoulders to ground yourself.
skin-tight, it’s like your bodies, your sounds are one.
“s-say you love me again.” he rasps, and it’s more pleading than demanding. like he needs reassurance.
“i love you s-so muchh— ohgod, don’t stop, don’t stop!” your words trail into high-pitched mewls and satoru sighs, a blissful sound of relief. your pussy clamps down on his dick greedily, sucking him in impossibly deeper as he massages your aching walls, un-calculated and sloppy.
this was the effect you had on him, you always left him a fucking mess. satoru would let you ruin him, every time, for as long as he lived. “don’t know how long i’ve b-been, hah, waitin’ to fuckin’ hear t-that.”
you’d tease him for the stutter in his words if you could think clearly but your mind is blank. you’re delightfully delirious as satoru pounds into you, giving you quite literally everything he’s got. simply insatiable, you still want more. settling a weak hand on his hip, you use the last of your strength to propel him forward, your juices aimlessly squelching between your bodies, dripping down your perineum.
“f-fuck girl, you-you’re drivin’ me crazy. n-not gonna last, baby. f-feel like y-you’re tryn’ to milk me.” satoru babbles, and you swear you can feel a warm trickle of drool on your collarbone. how cute, he’s just as brainless as you are.
his pace is frantic now and that familiar tingling is building your gut. your limps are limp against him, your whole body rocks in tandem with his as he works his hardest to bring the two of you to completion.
“satoru, m’gonna cum, s’closeee.” you whine, lashes fluttering as salty tears clustered on your lash line.
he only hums in response, snaking one of his hands between your bodies to find your clit, all your sticky slick had your mound drenched. he smirks whilst rubbing figure eights on the sensitive nub, your quivering folds dragging a deep groan from his chest.
“want m-me to fill you up, hmm? p-pump this pretty pussy with all my cum.. want it all, y-yeah?” he’s rambling is incessant and you nod dumbly. it’s in one ear and out the other, the pure euphoria coursing through your bones driving you insane and all you needed was release.
it was the pinch to your clit that did it, the final blow that had your back arching almost painfully as your climate rushes through your body in intervals, your hardened nipples brush against satoru’s pecs as you twitch uncontrollably, a chain of broken cries mixed with his name fall from your lips like water.
like clockwork, satoru’s orgasm follows directly after, he muffles his moans in your shoulder, damn near biting the skin as he pumps you full, as promised. it’s alarmingly warm, scorching as it invades and overflows within your womb, too much for it to handle, some of it spilling back out. satoru doesn’t pull out, plugging as much of his semen as he can to your insides.
the silence after is comfortable. the two of you in a tangle of limbs, sweaty and panting from the intensity of your shared orgasms. you’d make your way to the bathroom, eventually. for now, you bask in the blissful ambiance.
“(y/n)?” satoru’s voice breaks the silence, a whisper as his head lulls on the fat of your breast.
“hmm?”
“i love you too.”
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@screampied @satorena @hoshigray made yall wait long enough LMAO.
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evansbby · 5 months
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𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬
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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sugar daddy!Ari Levinson x naive!reader
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: sugar daddy Ari, age gap, smutt, daddy!kink, ab riding, dirty talk.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Your sugar daddy decides to dress you up in a costume of his choice for Halloween.
𝐀/𝐍: Random spontaneous Halloween "drabble" that is 3.8k words long lol. Inspired by the hottest daddy of them all, Ari Levinson, and his gorgeous abs. Hence the gif. Enjoy! And Happy Halloween, despite the fact that this drabble is not spooky at all.
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“Twirl for me again, princess.”
Ari leans back against the headboard of his king-sized bed, his blue eyes dark as navy as he brings his glass of scotch up to his lips and takes a sip. His gaze is stuck on you as he lounges relaxedly, still dressed in his suit from work. Well, you’d taken his jacket off and loosened his tie for him before he’d patted you on your bum and sent you to your dressing room to try on the new costume he’d got for you.
You’d only been seeing Ari for two months. And by “seeing” you meant you’d only been his sugar baby for about two months, when you’d met him at the cocktail bar where you worked as a waitress. He’d come by one night with a bunch of his colleagues (all of them in expensive suits, clearly extremely wealthy). That notion had been confirmed when he’d pressed a few hundred-dollar bills into your hand at the end of the night, his eyes looking at you expectantly as if he knew you’d give him your number.
You had, of course. What followed was two months filled with expensive gifts, a hefty weekly allowance, a new designer wardrobe, glittering jewels and some incredible sex to top it all off. You’d gotten to know Ari in many different ways these past sixty days. But what you didn’t know he was so big on Halloween.
Your “costume” was for Ari’s eyes only, as he’d warningly told you when he’d handed you the shopping bag. And there was no way you could’ve worn it anywhere else: the baby pink satin negligee barely reached mid-thigh, but it was so breathtakingly pretty, so dainty with the lacy white trim and matching satin white gloves. The back was almost completely exposed, showcasing the pretty pink lace panties you had on underneath (with a heart-shaped cut-out that exposed your bum). A sparkly tiara on your head completed the look.
He'd dressed you as his little princess.
“How come you don’t have a costume, Ari?” You ask as you twirl around for him slowly, trying not to topple over in the expensive white pumps he’d also made you wear.
Ari licks his lips, beckoning you closer with just a look. He’d trained you well in the two months he’d had you, moulding you into his perfect angel who leapt at his slightest command. It was easy, since you were so cute and innocent, and so happy to please him. All he had to do was look at you a certain way and you’d jump to obey him. He watches you closely now, looking so precious and hot in your little princess costume (or lingerie, rather) and your lips part as you eagerly move closer to him, almost tripping in your heels to do so.
He chuckles, “I’m too old to be dressing up for Halloween, sweetheart.”
You pout, “You’re not old, Ari! You’re just perfect!”
He can’t help but smile at your cuteness and naivety; he really had plucked up the prettiest and most innocent little girl with a heart of pure gold.
“That’s real sweet of you, baby. Now turn around and bend over for me so I can see that cute baby ass.” He takes another sip of his scotch. You’d made him his favourite drink the moment he’d walked into his penthouse apartment where you’d been waiting for him like the delectable little treat you were – sweeter than any Halloween candy, and he could ravage you forever without ever feeling sick.
You giggle, feeling slightly rebellious. You’d had a few sips of wine before he’d come home, your anticipations running high whilst you waited impatiently for him. He was like a drug to you, with his rugged good looks and muscular body and charming smile. You were also incredibly attracted to the power he wielded; Ari owned and was the CEO of multiple companies across the globe, and for the life of you, you couldn’t imagine how he’d ever decided to ask for your number that one fateful night two months ago.
“But Ari, since I’m a princess tonight, that means I’m royalty. Which means I don’t have to follow anyone’s orders but my own, right?” You smile triumphantly.
Ari looks infinitely amused as he runs his hand through his unruly hair, his other hand inching down to palm his clothed crotch.
“Little princesses like you still have to take orders from their daddy,” he informs you, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches you teeter in your high heels. “Which, by the way, is what you should be addressing me as. You call me Ari one more time and I’ll take you over my knee. I don’t care if it’s Halloween.”
You pout harder, looking so extra cute that Ari has to pace himself from reaching over and grabbing you right then and there. He’s waited to dress you up in this costume for a while now, though, and he knows he needs to savour it.
“That’s a good little princess,” he murmurs in approval once you turn around and bend over, giving him the perfect view of your cute ass. “Look at those pretty little princess panties, hugging that cute baby ass. You like your panties, baby?”
“Y-Yeah,” you pant, and he knows you’re turned on by his words. “Thank you, daddy, I really like them.”
“You like being my little princess?”
“Yes, daddy. Wanna be your princess forever.”
Ari can’t help but crack a smile at how cute you are, and when you say things like that, he just wants to gather you in his arms and plant a thousand kisses to your face, cuddle with you and buy you whatever you please. But he has to keep a strong resolve tonight, because he’s been waiting for an opportunity to ravage you in your princess costume for ages now, and he’s been working overtime at the office and he knows he deserves this.
“Daddy? Can I stop bending over now? It’s startin’ to hurt.”
Ari swirls his glass of scotch around absentmindedly, a wicked look crossing his face, “Soon, baby. First, I want you to spank yourself.”
You gasp, and then there’s a pause.
“M-Me? Spank myself?”
“You heard me, baby. I won’t repeat myself.”
You reach back gingerly, squeezing your eyes shut because you’ve got your back to him and you know he can’t see (usually, he always demands you keep your eyes open). You give your behind a tentative little slap, feeling embarrassed to say the least.
“Harder, sweetheart. How can you be a princess if you don’t have a firm hand?” You can hear the smugness in his voice, and it just turns you on more. You know your new princess panties are soaked through, and you wonder if he can tell.
“B-But I don’t wanna have a firm hand,” you whimper, already feeling very submissive. You like it when he spanks you (although it hurts but it hurts so good). But you spanking yourself? It’s embarrassing. It turns you on because you’re doing it for him, but it’s still embarrassing.
“Are you talking back to me, baby?” Ari’s eyes are hooded with lust as he openly palms his dick.
“Sorry, daddy,” you bite your lip before giving your ass another slap – harder this time. And Ari exhales slowly as he watches your ass jiggle cutely, and he commands you to hit yourself again, to not stop until he says so. And he watches you spank yourself, turned on beyond belief at your complete submission.
“Fuck, you have such a cute ass, baby. Squeeze it for me.” He orders you, voice gruff and strained because of how horny he is.
You obey, squeezing the soft flesh through your barely-there panties. Ari’s fingers itch to touch you himself, make you mewl with pleasure just with his touch the way only he could. Because he’s the only one who’s ever touched you like that, who ever would touch you like that. You were his baby, his little princess and he’d take care of you forever.
“Stop. Now come here.”
You swallow, straightening up to walk over to him, except he stops you again by just a look.
“No, baby. On your knees. Daddy wants you to crawl.”
You decide to test your luck one last time, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes, “But daddy, I’m supposed to be a princess and not a kitten. And princesses don’t crawl.”
Ari rolls his eyes, “You’ll do as I say. Baby princesses like you still need to obey their daddy because you’re not in charge, got that?”
“Y-Yeah, I got it.” You sink down to your knees and slink over to him, making sure to sway your hips as you crawl because you know he loves that. And you love how he looks at you darkly, his eyes so blown out with lust and want. As if he’s restraining himself from just grabbing you and fucking you. Because you know how virile he is, how high his sex drive is.
“That’s my good little girl,” he coos, making you feel all special. You stop at the foot of the bed and he reaches down, petting the top of your head, stroking your hair like you’re some kind of pet. Your sparkly tiara falls lopsided, but manages to stay on your head. But you like how he strokes you, you like how affectionate it feels, and so you nuzzle up into his palm, wanting him to stroke you some more.
Instead, he grabs a handful of your hair and yanks you up, manhandling you as if you’re his little baby, till he’s got you nestled on top of him, and you can feel his hard dick underneath you. A wicked look in his eye, he straightens your tiara before patting your cheek condescendingly.
“How’re you enjoying Halloween so far, princess?”
You mull over it, trying not to focus on his hard dick directly underneath your butt. “It’s nice. This is the first time in a few years that I’ve stayed in for Halloween, instead of going to a party.”
This was true, since being at college for the past two years meant that you always went out on Halloween.
“Oh yeah? You’d rather be at a frat party right now?” Ari’s hands land on your hips, grinding you down against his dick so that you’re effectively dry humping him. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head, and you made grabby hands at him but he holds you at bay.
“No, no, no!” You answer desperately, trying to lean forward to kiss him but he holds you in place firmly, “Would much rather be with you, daddy. I love you so much.”
Ari can feel his heart melting fast. You’re just so delectable and cute, blinking up at him with those gorgeous eyes of yours. And it had been so easy for you to fall in love with him, you’d told him so only two weeks into your whirlwind romance. He’d taken you out on his private yacht, and he’d bought you the prettiest sailor outfit, and you’d clung to him because you were scared you might fall overboard because of how clumsy you were.
But you’d looked so pretty as the salty sea air rushed over your face, and how you just wouldn’t let go of his hand. You couldn’t stop smiling either, and when he’d kissed you on the deck, holding you firm against the railing as the sun set into the ocean behind you, that’s when you’d whispered it breathlessly against his lips. Like you couldn’t keep it in any longer: I love you.
You’d tried to tug away from him after that, embarrassed at how you’d let your inner feelings slip out so soon into your relationship with him. But you couldn’t help it, he just made you feel so safe, so alive, so wonderful, so you. You’d tried to make a hasty exit, making up an excuse that you had to make a phone call, and praying he hadn’t heard you whisper those three forbidden words…
But Ari had heard you, and his heart had swelled in a way he never thought it could. He’d entered this relationship with you because he needed someone to take care of, and well, you were so hot the night he’d first seen you. So pretty and innocent and lovely. And then he’d gotten to know you, and you were so lively, and made him feel so youthful, made him feel so powerful and important, made him feel like he had to protect you while you danced around his life and made him laugh and cheered him up the way only you could.
He’d held you tightly against him that night on the yacht, not letting you slip away as he’d cupped your beautiful face in his hands, and he’d told you that he loved you too, more than he’d ever loved anyone else. And the look on your face, that look of utter devotion and awe, like you had stars in your eyes – he wished he could bottle it up inside a jar and keep that look safe forever.
That’s how you’re looking at him now, in your cute little princess lingerie, and your lips are begging to be kissed. Ari can’t stand it any longer, and he grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you down, pressing his lips on yours in a heady kiss.
“You’ve been waiting for tonight, haven’t you?” He breathes against your lips.
You swallow harshly and nod. Of course you had, the moment he’d texted you this morning telling you to be ready for him at his apartment when he got home. That was obvious code that he was going to ruin you tonight, and the pretty princess costume was just the cherry on top of the cake.
Biting your lip, you shyly untuck his shirt from his pants and lift it up, revealing his toned, hairy abs. God, he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen – with an amazing, buff body that was twice the size of yours. He was bigger than you in every single way possible, and you sigh as your fingers run over the deep ridges of his tanned six pack.
Ari snorts, “Like what you see, princess?”
“Uh huh. You’re so hot.” You blurt out.
“Thank you, baby. Why don’t you give me your panties?”
The way he so casually redirects the conversation has your cheeks feeling hot and your pussy clenching in anticipation. Taking your panties off while straddling his crotch proves to be difficult, but you’re nimble enough to make it work. The lace is wet with your juices and your cheeks heat up even more as you hand your panties to him.
Ari brings the lacy material up to his nose, sniffing in your pretty scent. God, he wanted to be buried with your scent if it was possible. He can’t help but find the gusset, sucking the silk into his mouth and tasting your juices.
“You’re so sweet, princess.” He mutters, before shoving the panties in his pocket.
“I’m all wet, daddy,” you pout, knowing your wetness has seeped over to stain his pants as you sit on top of his crotch.
“Oh yeah?” Ari feigns disinterest, busying himself with another sip of his scotch. “Is your little baby cunt getting needy?”
“Yeah!”
“You want daddy to take care of her? Your little cunt?”
You throb at his words, “Yes, please!”
He makes no move to put his scotch away. “I think I’d rather watch you, princess. You can rub yourself on me to make yourself cum.”
You shudder at how casually he says it, but at the same time bite your lip, “B-But daddy, I feel so empty down there. Need you inside me, pretty please?”
Ari pretends to mull over it, “I don’t know, gorgeous, your baby pussy’s awfully tight. I don’t think I’d even get a finger in.” (That was true, you were super tight, but he could work you open in a matter of minutes. He always did, after all, but he wants you to work for an orgasm tonight).
You grab his hand and push it between your legs, feeling like you’re about to go into heat by how turned on you are. “Y-You could stretch me open, daddy, I-I don’t mind! Just wanna feel you inside me.”
“Maybe later, sweetie,” Ari murmurs, indulgently brushing your hair off your face and pulling your cheek when you pout. Of course, he definitely intended to fill you up real good, fuck both your holes silly with his cock and his tongue and his fingers. But the night was still young, and right now he wanted a show while he enjoyed his drink. “C’mon, baby, it’s Halloween. Even a princess has to work a little to get her treat.”
He picks you up by your waist, placing you on his hairy abs, which are rock hard just like his cock which is still in the confines of his pants.
You grab on to his shoulders to steady yourself, before you start moving. And oh, it feels absolutely heavenly, your quivering pussy rubbing against his hard abs, the hair on his torso catching against your swollen clit and immediately making you moan.
“F-Feels so good, daddy,” you whimper, and it makes Ari smile at how cute you are. How much you love it when he makes you feel good, how you selfishly chase after your own pleasure whenever you can because he knows it’s never felt this good for you before. You don’t have to tell him that he’s the best you’ve ever had – he can see it in your eyes every time.
“Yeah? Is your cute baby cunt getting some relief? You enjoy using your daddy like this?” He mutters lowly, pinching your hip to make you move faster as he takes another sip of his scotch. His cock is incredibly tight still confined to his pants, and he’d have loved for you to grind against his cock instead but he knows he would’ve blown his load because of the friction paired with how hot you look right now.
“You enjoy dressing up like a little princess and giving your daddy a show?” He continues, feeling the beast inside him awaken as you whimper so cutely on top of him. With his fingers gripping your hip tightly, he roughly drags you back and forth over his abs, “That’s right, slutty baby, make a mess all over daddy, you like that, don’t you?”
“Yes!” You cry, getting to that point where everything that leaves your mouth is either a plea or incoherent gibberish and crying. That’s when you get so submissive that there isn’t a single thought in your head, and Ari’s sure he could make you do absolutely anything when you’re in that mindset.
His stomach is wet with your cream, and you’re grinding against him desperately now, and he knows you’ll cum any second because it doesn’t take much to get you to cum. He remembers doing this a lot with you in the early days of the relationship, when he knew for a fact you’d need a lot of prep before you could take his big, fat dick inside your pussy. So he’d made you grind on his torso instead, like how you were doing now, as a sort of practice before the real sex. And it’s like you’d never been pleasured before in your life because you came so quickly, over and over again, squirting all over him and begging for him to put it inside you.
Clearly, nothing had changed in two months.
He downs his scotch before setting the glass aside on his bedside table. Then he licks his lips, hand slipping down between your legs. He spreads your folds and you gasp, rocking your hips faster as you feel more now, your clit rubbing deliciously against his abs.
“C’mon, princess,” he urges, moving you up and down on his abs harder, “make yourself cum, baby, squirt all over daddy like the good little girl I know you can be. Like all good princesses squirt on their daddies. You wanna be a good princess, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do!”
“Say it, then.”
“W-Wanna be a good princess for you, daddy. Wanna be so good!” Your face is glistening with sweat and tears, and you’re working so hard for your release. He knows all he has to do is rub your clit once or twice, or even just press against it and you’d cum. But he wants you to work for it, so he can praise you for it and then reward you for making yourself cum with minimal help from daddy.
“You’re daddy’s sexy little princess,” Ari murmurs lowly, pulling you down by the neck till your face is buried in the crook of his neck, and you bite at his skin and cry and moan his name as he talks, “you’re doing such a good job, baby, rubbing that baby cunt all over daddy’s abs. You’re so good for me, baby, so fucking good and I love you so much. Daddy loves you so much, honey. More than anything in the world.”
You squirt all over his stomach, your sweet cream covering ever ridge and dip of his muscular torso. You cry and cry, like how you often do when you’re overwhelmed when orgasming, grabbing at his face and kissing him, and he kisses you back fervently, allowing you to make out with him because he knows how overwhelmed and good you feel.
“That’s such a good girl,” he praises you, rubbing your back as you quiver in his arms, and he can feel your pussy quivering too, “such a good fucking girl, you worked so hard, baby and I’m so proud of you.”
“L-Love you so much, daddy,” you whimper pitifully, your poor tiara finally falling off your head, and Ari wants to chuckle at how spent you look, how exhausted you look from rubbing your pussy on him for a couple of minutes. He reminds himself to get you a bottle of water in a few minutes once you’ve calmed down, because he knows he’ll be keeping you busy for the better part of tonight and he wants you to have the energy for it.
But for now, he’ll let you rest for a few minutes. You snuggle up into his chest, breathing hard as you try to catch your breath. Ari pours himself another scotch, and lights up his cigar, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke out in your direction.
“Happy Halloween, sweetheart,” he grins wickedly, and you lift your head up slightly to offer him a weak smile. “Now put your tiara back on, princess. The night’s not over yet.”
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AKSHDSAJGA WHAT DO YOU THINK???? PLEASE LET ME KNOW THIS WAS EXTREMELY SPONTANEOUS AFNKLAGNSKAL I JUST AM OBSESSED WITH SUGAR DADDY ARI AND HIS ABS BYE.
anyways lemme know what you think and pls do reblog and leave any feedback thank you ily
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ltbunny · 2 months
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Blind date with ex-husband price. It was like 4 peoples doing. It was your coworkers' yoga instructors, then the yoga instructors' supermarket bag boy and then his girlfriends who set up the date. How did we even get there?
Anyway, your dressed up, all pretty, excited to meet someone new. It's been a while since you've been on a date, a blind one at that, alot of guys take one look and either get too 'excited' or extremely deflated, both of them are horrible, but it's been a while since you've been on the scene after you finally got over your husband...
Annnndd, it's your ex. Fuck he looks good, fresh trim and his shoulders look so broad, he's wearing his 'going out, need to impress shirt'.. damn, he really wanted to appeal whoever his blind date was... maybe it's not to late to leave, he hasnt even no- oh.. his hand is on your lower back
"Sweetheart!" He smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes,
"John..." you acknowledge, looking up at him, "dont call me sweetheart."
"Sorry, love, bad habit."
You roll your eyes, but don't correct him. Is he doing it on purpose?
"Well, red bag," He smiles.
"Red tie," you respond
"So we're with each others company for the night then," He grins and looks at you, sheepishly, "well, that's if you want to continue the blind date?" He sounds hopeful...
He leads you to the table. Obviously, he pulls the chair out for you and gives you a bouquet of flowers, its only the gentlemanly thing to do, he says.
It starts off strained but you find yourself picking up the little things he does that you used to love, pointing out your favourite foods in the menu, listening intently to everything you say, stupidly lovey-dovey puppy eyes as he nods along, his hand on yours, stroking his thumb on the back of your hand, he even said some stupid line about 'me n u' and says soap put him up to it, fuck, you missed his laugh. You find yourself asking about the boys, work, it feels like you and price are just on a date night, like you two used to do before the divorce.
He walks you home at the end of the night, he started with hand holding, and now his arm is somehow around your waist, and he's closer than any ex-husband should be, really. When you get up to your apartment, he looks a little nervous,
"I'm not inviting you over for a nightcap, John."
"I know, love," he says smoothly, "just wondering... if it would be appropriate to end the night with a kiss,"
You feel a faint heat in your cheeks, unsure of what to do... after a few seconds, you nod, looking up at him. You feel his hand tentatively reach out for the back of your head, cradling it while he kisses you, you missed this, the tickle of his beard, his big hands on you, soft lips, soft kisses.
You can feel him actively try to hold back tongue, but the way you open your mouth slightly in the kiss makes him go for it immediately. You feel yourself melt. It's so desperate and carnal, but still so soft, like he doesn't want to push it, but it goes on longer than expected, neither of you really wanting to pull away, eventually you pull back, lips sore, heated faces, you wonder if you should withdraw the nightcap thing and just let him in.
"I had a lovely night, sweetheart, I... would really love to see you again." He says with a flushed face, his hand on your lower back again, going in circles.
"Me too, John."
"Text me, okay? We can go to that tex-mex place you really like, or somewhere fancier," he smiles softly, "I wanna see my woman happy."
"Not your woman, John."
"Yet." He says with a grin, leaning down and kissing you softly again, "thank you for giving this a chance, love, ill see you tomorrow, hopefully?"
You nod, and he walks home with a smile. Can't believe you had such a nice date with your ex-husband, thanks coworkers, yoga intructors, bag boys girlfriend...
(You probably wouldn't think it's so sweet if earlier you saw gaz in the back alley with bloody knuckles, after beating up the guy that was meant to be your date, texting price
'all done, sir.'
'Knew I could count on you, garrick.')
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mcmansionhell · 1 year
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this house may or may not be real
on grayness in real estate
Allegedly, somewhere in Wake Forest, North Carolina, a 4 bed, 5.5 bathroom house totaling more than 6,600 square feet is for sale at a price of 2.37 million dollars. The house, allegedly, was built in 2021. Allegedly, it looks like this:
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A McMansion is, in effect, the same house over and over again - it's merely dressed up in different costumes. In the 90s, the costume was Colonial; in the 2000s, it was vague forms of European (Tuscan, Mediterranean), and in the 2010s it was Tudor, dovetailed by "the farmhouse" -- a kind of Yeti Cooler simulacra of rural America peddled to the populace by Toll Brothers and HGTV.
Now, we're fully in the era of whatever this is. Whitewashed, quasi-modern, vaguely farmhouse-esque, definitely McMansion. We have reached, in a way, peak color and formal neutrality to the point where even the concept of style has no teeth. At a certain moment in its life cycle, styles in vernacular architecture reach their apex, after which they seem excessively oversaturated and ubiquitous. Soon, it's time to move on. After all, no one builds houses that look like this anymore:
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(This is almost a shame because at least this house is mildly interesting.)
If we return to the basic form of both houses, they are essentially the same: a central foyer, a disguised oversized garage, and an overly complex assemblage of masses, windows, and rooflines. No one can rightfully claim that we no longer live in the age of the McMansion. The McMansion has instead simply become more charmless and dull.
When HGTV and the Gaineses premiered Fixer Upper in 2013, it seemed almost harmless. Attractive couple flips houses. Classic show form. However, Fixer Upper has since (in)famously ballooned into its own media network, a product line I'm confronted with every time I go to Target, and a general 2010s cultural hallmark not unlike the 1976 American Bicentennial - both events after which every house and its furnishings were somehow created in its image. (The patriotism, aesthetic and cultural conservatism of both are not lost on me.)
But there's one catch: Fixer Upper is over, and after the Gaineses, HGTV hasn't quite figured out where to go stylistically. With all those advertisers, partners, and eyeballs, the pressure to keep one foot stuck in the rural tweeness that sold extremely well was great. At the same time, the network (and the rest of the vernacular design media) couldn't risk wearing out its welcome. The answer came in a mix of rehashed, overly neutral modernism -- with a few pops of color, yet this part often seems omitted from its imitators -- with the prevailing "farmhouse modern" of Magnolia™ stock. The unfortunate result: mega-ultra-greige.
Aside from war-mongering, rarely does the media manufacture consent like it does in terms of interior design. People often ask me: Why is everything so gray? How did we get here? The answer is because it is profitable. Why is it profitable? I'd like to hypothesize several reasons. The first is as I mentioned: today's total neutrality is an organic outgrowth of a previous but slightly different style, "farmhouse modern," that mixed the starkness of the vernacular farmhouse with the soft-pastel Pinterest-era rural signifiers that have for the last ten years become ubiquitous.
Second, neutrals have always been common and popular. It's the default choice if you don't have a vision for what you want to do in a space. In the 2000s, the neutrals du jour were "earth tones" - beige, sage green, brown. Before that, it was white walls with oak trim in the 80s and 90s. In the 70s, neutrals were textural: brick and wood paneling. We have remarkably short memories when it comes to stylistic evolution because in real time it feels incremental. Such is the case with neutrals.
Finally, the all-gray palette is the end logic of HGTV et al's gamified methodology of designing houses with commodification in mind: if you blow out this wall, use this color, this flooring, this cabinetry, the asking price of your house goes up. You never want to personalize too much because it's off-putting to potential buyers. After twenty years of such rhetoric, doesn't it make all the sense in the world that we've ended up with houses that are empty, soulless, and gray?
A common realtor adage is to stage the house so that potential buyers can picture their own lives in it. In other words, create a tabula rasa one can project a fantasy of consumption onto. Implied in that logic is that the buyer will then impose their will on the house. But when the staged-realtor-vision and general-mass-market aesthetic of the time merge into a single dull slurry, we get a form of ultra-neutral that seems unwelcoming if not inescapable.
To impose one's style on the perfect starkness is almost intimidating, as though one is fouling up something untouchable and superior. If neutrality makes a house sell, then personality - at all - can only be seen as a detriment. Where does such an anti-social practice lead us? Back to the house that may or may not exist.
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In my travels as McMansion Hell, I've increasingly been confronted with houses full of furniture that isn't real. This is known as virtual staging and it is to house staging as ChatGPT is to press release writing or DALL-E is to illustration. As this technology improves, fake sofa tables are becoming more and more difficult to discern from the real thing. I'm still not entirely sure which of the things in these photos are genuine or rendered. To walk through this house is to question reality.
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Staging ultimately pretends (sometimes successfully, sometimes not) that someone is living in this house, that you, too could live in it. Once discovered, virtual staging erases all pretensions: the house is inhabited by no one. It is generally acknowledged (though I'm not sure on the actual statistics) that a house with furniture - that is, with the pretense of living -- sells easier than a house with nothing in it, especially if that house (like this one) has almost no internal walls. Hence the goal is to make the virtual staging undiscoverable.
If you want to talk about the realtor's tabula rasa, this is its final form. Houses without people, without human involvement whatsoever.
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But what makes this particular house so uncanny is that all of these things I've mentioned before: real estate listing photography, completely dull interiors and bland colors all make it easy for the virtual furniture to work so well. This is because the softness of overlit white and gray walls enables the fuzzy edges of the renderings to look natural when mixed with an overstylized reality. Even if you notice something's off in the reflections, that's enough to cause one to wonder if anything in the house is real: the floors, the fixtures, the moulding, the windows and doors.
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This is where things are heading: artifice on top of artifice on top of artifice. It's cheap, it's easy. But something about it feels like a violation. When one endeavors to buy a house, one assumes what one is viewing is real. It's one thing if a realtor photoshops a goofy sunset, it's another to wonder if anything in a room can be touched with human hands. I won't know what, if any, part of this estate costing over 2 million dollars actually exists until I visit it myself. Perhaps that's the whole point - to entice potential buyers out to see for themselves. When they enter, they'll find the truth: a vast, empty space with nothing in it.
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The better this rendering technology gets, the more it will rely on these totally neutral spaces because everything matches and nothing is difficult. You are picking from a catalog of greige furniture to decorate greige rooms. If you look at virtual staging in a non-neutral house it looks immediately plastic and out of place, which is why many realtors opt to either still stage using furniture or leave the place empty.
Due to the aforementioned photography reasons, I would even argue that the greigepocalypse or whatever you want to call it and virtual staging have evolved simultaneously and mutualistically. The more virtual staging becomes an industry standard, the more conditions for making it seamless and successful will become standardized as well.
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After all, real staging is expensive and depends on paid labor - selecting furniture, getting workers to deliver and stage it, only to pack it back up again once the property is sold. This is a classic example of technology being used to erase entire industries. Is this a bad thing? For freelance and contract workers, yeah. For realtors? no. For real estate listings, it remains to be seen. For this blog? Absolutely. (Thankfully there is an endless supply of previously existing McMansions.)
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The thing is, real estate listings no longer reflect reality. (Did they ever to begin with?) The reason we're all exasperated with greige is because none of us actually live that way and don't want to. I've never been to anyone's house that looks like the house that may or may not exist. Even my parents who have followed the trends after becoming empty nesters have plenty of color in their house. Humans like color. Most of us have lots of warmth and creativity in our houses. Compare media intended for renters and younger consumers such as Apartment Therapy with HGTV and you will find a stark difference in palate and tone.
But when it comes to actually existing houses - look at Zillow and it's greige greige greige. So who's doing this? The answer is real estate itself aided by their allies in mass media who in turn are aided by the home renovation industry. In other words, it's the people who sell home as a commodity. That desire to sell has for some time overpowered all other elements that make up a home or an apartment's interiority to the point where we've ended up in a colorless slurry of real and unreal.
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Fortunately, after ten years or so, things begin to become dated. We're hitting the ten year mark of farmhouse modernism and its derivatives now. If you're getting sick of it, it's normal. The whole style is hopefully on its last leg. But unlike styles of the past, there's a real, trenchant material reason why this one is sticking around longer than usual.
Hence, maybe if we want the end of greige, we're going to have to take color back by force.
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attapullman · 4 months
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Robert From Next Door | Robert "Bob" Floyd
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Summary: You've lucked out with the perfect neighbor, a kind and overly helpful WSO. He puts up Christmas lights, lends his lawn mower, and grabs your morning paper. But what happens when he's out of peppermint tea one night?
Word Count: 3.6k
Warnings & Notes: Robert "Bob" Floyd x gn!reader, extremely fluffy, food mentions, heavy making out, shirtless Bob, only referred to as Robert for the series, unrealistic expectations of next door neighbors, 18+ as always. This idea hit me like a bus while walking the dog (where I almost was hit by a bus) and has been fully unable to leave my brain since then. Cozy, sweet, overly helpful Neighbor!Bob is literally all I want for Christmas. And he's my holiday present to all of you!
robert from next door | if only the neighbors knew
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“I have a ladder you can borrow.” You look up from the box of Christmas lights you’re detangling in the garage to see your neighbor standing in the opening to the street. Coffee mug in hand as he watches you loop out another knot. He’d noticed your garage open that morning, too early for a Saturday, and came to investigate or possibly offer assistance. If there is one thing Robert Floyd does best, it’s help his neighbors.
You had moved into the tidy bungalow just under a year ago, placing a potted fern on the doorstep and painting over the dated beige walls. It was finally starting to feel like a home. Now with the holidays approaching (as reminded by the entirely too jolly Santas everywhere in town) you were excited to start new traditions in your humble home. And it started with putting twinkling lights on the house, lights currently tangled in the cardboard box you haphazardly threw them in twelve months ago. 
Threading out another knot, you give him a playful smile. “How do you know I don’t have a ladder?”
“Lucky guess?” He’s not going to admit he’s scanned and memorized nearly every inch of your garage.
The day after the moving truck came and went, you were thrilled when your first new neighbor rang your doorbell. While you had expected some middle aged woman with a plate of brownies and a plea for babysitting, you were pleasantly surprised at the man in a flight suit (Lt. Robert Floyd according to the stitching) with the striking blue eyes who stood there instead. He didn’t have brownies, but he happily gave you the lowdown on the neighborhood as you sat amongst moving boxes drinking lemonade out of paper cups. 
As the months passed, an easy friendship had developed amongst neighbors. In the morning before making his way to base, Robert would scoop up your morning paper and walk it up the seven steps to your porch. The paper boy always threw it short. And despite numerous pleas to leave it be - you didn’t mind the short walk - every morning when you went for the paper, there it sat neatly on your mat along with any misdelivered mail.
And when he wasn’t saving kittens from trees in his free time, Robert was a shining example of a great neighbor. Driving his truck for a trip to get plants at the nursery, lending his mower when yours broke in the heat of July, cleaning your gutters when the leaves fell…you shouldn’t be surprised he’s now offering up his ladder so you can enjoy your Christmas lights. Looking down at the tangled mess, you hadn’t even thought about how you were going to get them actually on the house. Nails? Did you even own nails?
Not even an hour later you’re standing on the sidewalk facing your home with a hot cup of coffee in your chilly hands. Propped up on a ladder with detangled lights in one hand - and a tool belt around his waist like your personal Mr. Fix It - Robert hums to himself as he hammers nails into the trim before wrapping the first strand of lights in place. 
You had accepted his ladder graciously, but mentioned you needed to hit the hardware store first for nails. With a nod of his head he left your garage and you continued on the lights. It was a tedious project, but rewarding once the final strand lay flat against the concrete floor. You were digging around in boxes for tools when your neighbor reappeared. He had a ladder and his tool belt, a full box of nails clutched in his large hand. Cheeks warm, you assured him you would buy your own. He let out a playful pfft.
“Nonsense. It’s Saturday, the hardware store will be packed. Consider them an early Christmas gift.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me at least trade you for them? A cup of coffee?”
“Do you still have those Kona beans?” His ocean blue eyes are hopeful.
Your smile widened as you nodded. The overpriced beans you had expensively shipped every month were a favourite of the weapons systems officer. Last month you had hosted the homeowners association meeting (for the first and hopefully only time) and Robert had raved about the coffee you served. He was used to the basic stuff they made on base, his own home brewing not much better. Your coffee was the best.
When you came back to the garage after whipping up a carafe - hot mug in hand - you shouldn’t have been surprised to see your neighbor already up the ladder, deep into the project.
You holler up to him. “Robert, get down! You don’t need to do that!”
But he waves you off, insisting that he had already started and might as well finish the job. He would just drink your delicious coffee once he was done. And so you were relegated to the sidewalk to make sure everything looked straight from the street. 
From this distance you could admire him innocently. The military-issue wire frames that catch the morning sun. Broad shoulders under the neat canvas barn coat he recently replaced when the corduroy collar ripped. His strong hands shielded from the chilled wind under his workman’s gloves. Because someone like Robert Floyd follows safety precautions and owns workman’s gloves. 
At this angle you can see the slight smile on his lips as he strings lights along your porch. For the next hour you watch him put up lights, him occasionally turning back and asking you how they look.
“Are you sure they’re straight?” You promise him they are, but he meticulously checks his work anyway. He wants your house to look perfect. 
The wind has tinged both your cheeks a deep pink and the cold is starting to seep through boots. Robert has nailed the last of your lights to the trim and deemed them faultless. He comes down the ladder and walks to stand beside you to admire his handiwork. Hands on hips - with that damn tool belt still astride his waist - he turns to you beaming at a job well done. It’s impossible not to beam back, thinking how long it would have taken you to do even a job half as good.
“Thank you for putting up the lights. You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.” He isn’t sure whether your cheeks are red from the cold or something else. “I’m so lucky to have you as a neighbor.”
His smile is permanently stuck at your compliment. He opens his mouth to make a joking comment about the coffee you owe him - anything for more time together - when he feels the telltale buzz in his pocket. Pulling it reluctantly out after shedding a glove, he sees it’s Phoenix and is only semi-annoyed. They have lunch plans, which he’s running late for. And while he’s sure his front seater would approve of him blowing her off for the neighbor he can’t stop talking about, he’s a better friend than that.
Turning back to you, where you’re enjoying your freshly strung twinkling lights, Robert rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I have to head out…lunch plans. Rain check on that coffee?”
Nodding through your disappointment, you help him gather up his ladder and assure him that coffee is his whenever he wants.
The following morning you pad toward your front door, eyes bleary from a deep sleep. The house was cold and you pull your robe tighter around you. Through the glass panel in the door you can see your paper on the mat, as always, ready for you to consume over coffee and toast. As you open the oak door and scurry to shut it with the paper secured, something - or rather someone - catches your eye. 
Robert stands in the doorway of his own bungalow, calmly watching the neighborhood. The thick fair isle sweater covering his wide shoulders looks incredibly cozy, and he nurses a mug between both hands. He exists in that moment without worry, and you’re envious. 
His placid expression is broken when he feels your eyes, turning his head to see you, bedhead and newspaper clutched in your fist. His lips turn in a warm smile and he raises one hand in a slow, friendly wave. Your heart flutters, utterly taken away with how surely he carries himself, how sweetly he treats others. An emotion quickly squashed when you realize you are still standing in a bathrobe and knobby socks, flying back inside and shutting the door with heated cheeks. 
As you go about working on your Sunday chores, you keep picturing Robert’s face, that small happy smile you can’t get out of your head.
Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in the sheets unable to find peace, you finally trudge down the hall into the living room, settling under blankets on the plush couch with a cup of chamomile. You’ve lost details of the plot of the movie you started, brain racing as your fingers fidget with the mug. 
The faint trill of your phone on the coffee table breaks you from your thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Hi. It’s Bo-Robert…from next door?” You yawn a hello while checking the clock. It was nearly one in the morning. “I just wanted to check if everything was alright? Noticed your lights were on.” 
A warm feeling spreads through your chest at his concern. Picturing him peering out his kitchen window with the striped cotton curtains, filling up his own kettle, distressed that your house lights were on so late. You’d like to think he wore tartan pajamas, neatly buttoned. Those would suit him. 
You settle back into the cushions as you reply. “Everything’s fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”
His thoughtful nod can practically be heard through the phone.
“Better question is, what are you doing up so late?” 
The whistle and clink of boiling water and china crash over the line. A sigh pulled from his lips before responding. “I was going to make myself a cup of tea while I finished some reports, but appears that I am out.”
You glance down at your own mug of tea. It’s late, but not that late.
“What kind of tea do you like?” He muses on about his lack of preference - an equal opportunity tea lover - before admitting he was looking forward to a cup of peppermint. You make your way to the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear as you both open your cupboards. Your voice feels small as you offer, “I think I might have some.”
A silence lingers on the line. An unspoken late night implication that neither of you knows what to make of it. Your fingers flip through boxes of tea that take up too much cupboard space. Pomegranate, green, oolong. You don’t even drink tea that often. But right as you think you have too many white teas, you see the striped box of peppermint tea, one lone bag waiting for its turn.
You empty the box and walk to the window in your kitchen, where you can see the faint light on through his curtains. You clear your throat. “Look out your kitchen window.”
To your disappointment, Robert does not wear tartan pajamas to sleep. Although you are delighted to see his shirtless chest, defined from years of Navy training. He waves at you through your respective kitchen windows, holding up his mug of hot water. You lift up the tea bag, and his face splits into a toothy smile.
Before you can offer to bring it to him, he’s already turning toward his front door, speaking into the phone, “I’ll be over, just a minute. Need to find my coat.”
By the time there’s a soft knock on the door, you’ve turned on the kettle and gotten a fresh mug for him. You open the door, greeted by the tip of his nose and ears a merry red, the cold kissing his features. He’s been outside all of a minute. You usher your neighbor in, watching him observe how you’ve put up garlands and festive knickknacks in the entry since his last visit.
He slips off his boots, bare feet settling on the cold hardwood, and fingers the collar of his canvas barn coat. In his rush to come over he’d thrown his coat on forgetting his bare chest. It feels obnoxious to be half naked in your home, so he keeps his coat on and follows you to the kitchen. 
“Peppermint still good?” You tease, the packet of tea leaves in your hand. He nods, slightly distracted by how cozy you look in your soft loungewear and the robe from this morning. Dunking the bag into the hot water, you search for a topic to pass the steeping time. But when you turn to talk to him, words catch in your throat because he’s right there.
Eyes so blue the sky is jealous. Shy smile so friendly it warms the room. Your thoughts dirtily flit to the tool belt around his waist on the ladder, fingers adeptly wielding a hammer. Fingers that brush yours in the proximity. He’s so close and your brain blanks as bodies simultaneously take action.
Your mouths find each other effortlessly, bodies pressing together as if they know the moves the two of you were just figuring out. The low-lying tension building for the past year breaking the surface as the dark of the house gives you both the bravery needed. His hands are cold as they find your waist, your hands too warm on his chilled jaw.
His mouth is all soft lips and hard pressure, the faint hint of toothpaste in his taste. It’s exactly as you imagined, but better.
Lips become more desperate the longer you connect, your back suddenly against the counter as he presses into you. This moment has been building since he’d watched you first walk up the front steps with that too big moving box. A hand slips into his sun-bleached locks he always has so perfectly combed. He moans into your mouth, a sinful noise in the quiet kitchen. 
Before sense can interrupt, you’re reaching for the zipper of his coat, revealing every inch of his toned pale chest as the zipper slowly comes down. You slide a hand over the skin, a low gasp slipping out at the strong muscle. You’ve been attracted to his mind for so long, it feels unfair his body should be attractive too.
He shrugs out of the barn coat and follows you to the lowly lit living room, where the couch is softer on your back than the counter edge. Sitting side by side, knees knocking, he’s more hesitant to touch you in this context. Despite his body screaming to explore every inch of his pretty neighbor’s mind and body, he knows he’s basically barged into your home and immediately stuck his tongue in your sweet mouth. You get to set the pace. 
“This okay?” His hand encompasses your knee, thumb rubbing smoothly through the fabric. You nod, tilting your head toward him to continue kissing. He’s warmed up now, your home and body bringing him to temperature. Robert smiles into your kiss. You can’t get enough of him, wanting to consume him fully. He’s delicate with you in the most delicious of ways; gentle kisses pressed to your soft lips before sliding his tongue across to politely ask for access.
Your mouth can’t open fast enough.
You place you hand on his hip, enjoying the warm skin and lean muscle beneath your fingertips. Groaning lightly into your mouth, he blindly reaches for your hips to bring you into his lap. His tongue takes its time to taste you, learn every intricacy of your flavor. Administration so thorough your eyes roll back in your head. The sounds escaping you music in the darkened room.
Fingers dance across skin, finding purchase on thighs, shoulders, chests. You can’t get close enough to him, resting one hand on the back of his neck as your swollen lips press harder to his. Robert loves the way your thighs straddle him as he leans against the couch cushions, his warm, large hands along your back bringing you closer to him. Your sharp inhale as one hand toys with the waistband of your lounge pants.
When his lips trail down your neck, praising the delicate skin, you can’t hold back your declaration any longer. “I…I’ve wanted this for a while.”
His lips pause, brow furrowed. “This?”
“You.”
That gratified smile will forever be imprinted along your neck. “I’ve wanted you since the day you moved in.”
The whimpers that rip through you when he nips the thin skin behind your ear have him grabbing your chin and swallowing your sounds. Reveling in the shared passion you’ve both had simmering beneath the surface. Can’t help his hips rutting up into yours, glorious friction he’s been craving satisfied. You giggle through a moan against his lips.
“So, we could have been doing this all year long? What a shame, lieutenant.” 
You ground down in his lap, running your own tongue along his lips and savoring his taste. Thoughts of what he tastes like after his peppermint tea have you wrapping your arms tighter around his bare shoulders. Behind his head, outside the window, the faint glow of the Christmas lights he strung up shines in the winter night. How did you find this perfect man, and how is he your neighbor?
You express your gratitude for him with your mouth along his jaw, licking along the skin while he deliciously whimpers in your ear.You can only take so much before you’re sealing your lips over his again, inhaling his every breath.
As lips finally reach exhaustion - brains well past tired as the clock strikes a new hour - Robert and you pull apart with content smiles. Already cold without his warmth, you immediately lean back into him. He’s practically a furnace now under your ministrations. Unspoken words pass between as you invite him to sleep on your couch with you. A throw blanket produced from the nearby chair as the two of you tangle your limbs. There’s something comforting in the way he rests your head upon his arm, your knee upon his thigh. Again, it’s like your bodies know the actions like they’ve been waiting for you to finally figure them out.
You’ve just settled your head upon his warm chest when a thought strikes you, prompting you to lean up to look at those sleepy cerulean eyes. The small curious smile he gives you melting your heart.
“Did you still want your tea?” 
He shakes his head with a chuckle, using the last of his energy to tuck the blanket tighter around your body. “It’s okay. I got what I really wanted.”
Your heart feels two sizes too big as he presses a kiss to your temple before sleep takes you both. 
When the winter sunrise streams through your curtains the next morning, you refuse to get up. Perfectly warm wrapped up in the thin throw and your neighbor’s arms, you are purely too content. When Robert blinks open his eyes and gazes at your face, he sees the same placid smile he wore the morning before. The same one he’s had since you moved in next door. 
Despite both being all too happy to remain entangled on the couch, sharing small kisses on any skin within reach, the responsibilities of Monday morning dawn and you must get up. Reluctantly you release him, watching him fold the throw neatly upon the sofa arm before helping you stand. Warmth blossoms down your spine the more you’re in Robert’s presence, the little things he does meaning so much to you. Especially as he strides through your home shirtless, musing about the whereabouts of his coat on the kitchen floor.
Your eyes flit to the cold mug of abandoned peppermint tea as you offer him coffee. But he’s intent on getting home for his flight suit, the drive to base longer than he’d like. Of course, he would ideally spend the morning drinking your expensive delicious coffee and listen to you go on about the neighbors down the street with the atrocious holiday decorations. If you’d let him, he would spend every morning like that for the rest of time. But his admiral would put him in drills all week if he was any later.
You walk him to the door, robe pulled tight across your chest to keep out the cold. He’s pulled on his boots for the short walk and wraps his arms around you in an intimate embrace, disappointed this perfect night must come to an end. You bury your nose in his jacket-covered chest to enjoy the last of his herbal and citrus scent, hands reluctantly slipping from his middle. He turns to leave and both your hearts pang.
When Robert reaches the end of your path, he bends down and picks up the paper, thrown too short as always. He turns around and retraces his steps, walking back up the steps and straight up to where you reside in the doorway still. Fingers brush as he hands you the newspaper, saving you the walk as he always does. Only this morning he tips his head to press a kiss to your lips.
You’re already adding peppermint tea to your shopping list as you walk back into the house. Just for him.
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see what antics happen at the next HOA meeting
taglist: @callsign-mongoose
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luveline · 5 months
Note
omg i loved the loopy wisdom teeth one w peter 😭😭 can i get that with hotch, and reader, who's usually more reserved starts flirting with him and stuff while she's loopy
ty!! and ty for ur request ♡ fem, 1.2k
"Most people have their wisdom teeth out in their teens," Aaron had said before you went in, a Spencer Reid tidbit if there ever were one. 
"I'm a special case," you'd said, accepting his kiss on the cheek but denying his half hug. "See you in a bit." 
People often lament that Aaron's ended up with a  woman so much like himself. You must make each other miserable, one ill-advised chancellor had said, to your amusement. 
We're desperately unhappy, you'd said back. 
The opposite is true. You and Aaron, or Aaron alone, at the very least, is as happy as he's ever been. Work is hard but manageable, Jack is well-tempered, growing smarter and kinder each day, and you're his sweetheart. You're reserved, a little solemn, but you understand him better than anyone ever has. It's a relief like no other to be known so well. 
And so he has zero qualms looking after you for the rest of your lives. He waits patiently for you to come out of surgery, arms behind his head in the empty waiting room. He's worried about you. This isn't a painless procedure. 
Footsteps echo down the hallway, but you announce yourself anyways in the doorway. "Handsome!" you say, a lisp to your happy sing-song, "I'm back." 
Aaron doesn't know what to say. He giggles like a kid at your sudden demeanour and sits up properly. "Honey." 
You wobble with the nurse at your back, prompting him onto his feet to take over. "You should remove the gauze in about half an hour when the bleeding has completely stopped. Clean daily with saline, there are instructions in the bag," the nurse says, offering Aaron a white prescription bag. "Okay?" 
"That's perfect. Thank you so much," he says, taking your hand. 
"You're perfect," you say, looking up at Aaron with stars in your eyes. 
The nurse laughs softly as she leaves. Aaron doesn't bother hiding his amusement, grinning at you as he puts his hand between your shoulders to guide you to the front of the building. 
It's busier here. Reception is hectic. Aaron puts his arm more firmly around you to stop people from bumping into you and you again look at him with your starry eyed gaze. "You're very tall," you say. 
"I am," he says. "Though you joke occasionally that I'm shrinking." 
"The only thing getting smaller is your waist," you say, poking at his abdomen, "my champion." 
You're referring to his recent third triathlon success. He's no record setter, but it keeps him active and happy in the summer months, and he can't pretend you don't appreciate the additional definition of his muscle during this time. You like him every month of the year, of course, but with his trim waist comes a certain amount of energy you also appreciate. 
"Completely inappropriate behaviour," he says lightly, waving a short goodbye to the receptionists as he holds open the door for you to pass by. "Next you'll be enacting PDA." 
"You'd like that, huh?" 
Hard to take any notice of you with gauze fluffing your words, and again, he laughs at you. "I'd love that." 
"Well, wait, I'll do it right here–" 
Aaron catches your hands mildly. "In the car first. Kiss after." Your downtrodden expression requires urgent care. "What, that's not okay? You're upset?" 
"No," you lie obviously, glaring down at your feet as you wobble forward. 
"Maybe we can wait until later, then." 
"What?" You gawp. "You just said in the car." 
"I'm teasing you," he says, taking your elbow. "We've been known to do that with one another on occasion. You know I'd happily kiss you anywhere you wanted to be kissed, honey, now watch your step on this curb. Watch your step. Good job." 
You're extremely pleased by his praise, leaning into his arm with your head tipped back. "You're so handsome. Can you kiss me now?" You soften your eyes. 
Alright, you have a little bit of bloody dribble on your bottom lip, and yes, there's this dazed look about you like you've had a mean shock, but you never look at him like this day to day. Perhaps in your more intimate moments, your arms around him when the lights are low, or early, early in the morning when you haven't yet remembered your more timid temperament. But it's so rare. It catches him off guard, how pretty and wanting you look. 
Aaron leans down for a careful kiss, the barest of pressure. 
"And a good kisser," you murmur, turning into his chest for a hug. "I love you, I want you to carry me to the car." 
"Sweetheart, I don't think I can," he says. He's mostly kidding in the depth of his apology, but there are real threads of remorse in his voice, hot as a flame. "Come on. We'll go home, okay?" 
"But you always do everything for me. Everything I ask for." You talk into his chest, likely leaving pink spit on the grey of his quarter zip. He couldn't care less, his arm around you, looking down with equal measures of fondness and surprise. "I had to stop saying I liked things because you kept buying me stuff. I love stuff." 
"Then why did you stop?" he asks quietly. 
"'Cos I know I don't deserve it. Don't deserve you, Aaron, you're the best man I've ever met. Can't believe it."
He savours your mumbling, and begins to walk forward slowly, encouraging you out of his chest as he formulates an answer for your confession with the same gravity. "You can't believe it?" 
"You're a tall glass of water." 
He actually sighs aloud. My girl, he thinks, rubbing your lax shoulder. "Alright. What if I thought the same of you? What then?" 
You giggle infectiously, a stickying sound like you know he's trying to trip you up. "Nice," you say. "We should always be like this." 
When he brings it up later, the extreme effects of your anaesthesia dissipated and your pain revamped, you can't think of anything worse. "I'm mortified," you whisper, your ice pack chilling the top of his arm where you've wedged it, your hand tucked between his thighs in an attempt to stay warm. 
"I quite liked it." 
"You would. You used to flirt with me so aggressively–" 
"Aggressively," he repeats, grinning. 
"–you're lucky I survived it." You sniffle, rubbing your nose into his sleeve. "Was I as intimidating as you are?" 
He presses his lips to the top of your head, not kissing, just there. "No," he says into your skin, "you weren't intimidating at all. Just lovely. It made my day." 
"I'll have to have my teeth taken out more often." 
He snorts. "If you'd rather have more teeth pulled than flirt with me unaided, things are worse than I thought." 
"Don't be like that..." Much quieter, "Will you rub my back again, please?"
Just like that, he's reminded of how much he likes your regular reserved attitude. "Sure, honey. Lean forward."
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harrysfolklore · 5 months
Text
buzzcut - blurb
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this kinda sucks but it was on my drafts sooo why not, hope you enjoy !
MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
//
"I wonder how would I look with my head shaved." Harry randomly said one night both of you were cuddled up in bed.
"Where is that coming from, lovie?" You looked up at him, curious by his sudden statement.
"Dunno, I've never in my almost 30 years of age had a buzzcut," he shrugged, "I feel like It's part of manhood to shave your head at least once."
"Your manhood is just fine," you rolled your eyes with affection and pecked his chin, "But if you want to know how you'd look with no hair, you can always look for those AI pictures your fans have been making lately."
Harry laughed and kissed the crown of your head, leaving the conversation at that and focusing on the romantic comedy movie you picked for the night.
Days passed by and you soon forgot about your conversation and Harry didn't bring up his desire to shave his head again, so when he mentioned that he wanted to get a haircut you assumed that he was getting his usual trim.
Oh boy, were you wrong.
"I want to chop my hair a bit before we head to Vegas." He said a week before your trip, Jeff kept insisting that you needed to see the show he had been working on at the Sphere and you finally agreed.
"That's fine, just don't do anything extreme you know I love the curls." You replied, unaware of what he had up in his sleeve.
"Nothing to worry about, baby." You failed to notice the devilish smile on his face that gave away that he was planning something else.
The following day Harry told you that he was going to Ayae's place to get his haircut, which was weird to you because his hairdresser always came to your house to cut his hair, but you still didn't overthink it too much.
Until you got a text from her that read "Don't kill me or your boyfriend for what he made me do."
Just a minute after you got the text you heard the front door open and your name being called from downstairs.
"H are you home? Ayae texted me but I don't know what she means." You said as you made your way to him, he was standing in your living room, his hair being covered by the hood of his hoodie.
"I cut my hair," he said and a confused frown made its way to your face, "And I'm going to show it to you, but you need to promise me you won't freak."
"Why would I freak? Why are you acting so weird about it?"
Harry only smiled and pulled the hood from his head, revealing that his brand new buzzcut.
You stood in your place for a few minutes before reacting, "Is this some kind of joke?"
"It's not love! I shaved it," he got closer to you, a big smile on his face, “Do you like it?”
“Oh my god! Your hair is really gone! What the fuck, Harry.” You laughed in disbelief, grabbing his face to get a better look at him.
“I told you I wanted to give it a try before my twenties ended, remember?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you shook your head, “This is crazy! Does Jeff know? Forget about him does your mom know? Oh my god we need to facetime her right now.”
Harry laughed at your rant, “Jeff knows love, he wants to shave his too, and we’ll facetime mum later,” he pecked your lips quickly, “Now wipe that look off your face! You’re looking at me like I’m an alien!”
“This is just so weird, but also such a you thing to do,” you pecked his lips back, “Your fans are going to be absolutely nuts about this.”
“Lord, that’s what i’m dreading the most.”
A week later you and Harry were standing in the crowd of U2's concert at the Las Vegas Sphere, surrounded by friends and other concertgoers.
Somehow Harry's new look gave him a little more privacy, since the world didn't know that his signature brown curls were gone and he could go unnoticed sometimes.
"You've been busted." You said as you noticed a phone camera filming the both of you, Harry was standing behind you with his hand protectively gripping your neck.
"What, love?" He asked, making you discretely point at the person with the camera.
"Well, I guess the madness stars now."
A day later, pictures and videos of Harry's new haircut flooded the internet, making his fans go crazy once again.
taglist: @lightsoutstyles @willowpains @straightontilmornin n @sleutherclaw @gimsaysay @hazzassmirk @platinumbarbie143 @musicforcinemas @celesteblack08 @scntfrhs @eleanordaisy @lomlolivia a @iceebabies @iloveshawn @be-with-me-so-happily @watermelonsugacry @rayisthehoe @drewrry
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zvaigzdelasas · 22 days
Text
You can’t buy the Seagull in the US. But I bet you wish you could.
A small hatchback around the size of a Mini Cooper, the Seagull is a fast-charging electric car and claims a range of up to 250 miles [...] BYD, its Chinese manufacturer, claims it can go from 30 percent to 80 percent charged in a half-hour using a DC plug. It’s hardly a luxury car but it’s well-equipped, with a power driver’s seat and cruise control. “If I were looking for an inexpensive commuter car … this would be perfect,” veteran car journalist John McElroy said after taking a drive.
The best part? Its base model costs about $10,700 in China.
That’s about a third of the cost of the cheapest EV you can buy in the US. In South America, it’s a little pricier, but still fairly affordable, at under $24,000 for a top-trim version. Even in Europe, you can get an entry-level BYD for under €30,000. These are absolutely screaming deals — exactly the kind of products that could turbocharge our transition away from gas and toward electric vehicles.[...]
The problem for Americans? The Biden administration is hell-bent on preventing you from buying BYD’s product, and if Donald Trump returns to office, he is likely to fight it as well.
That’s because the BYD cars are made in China, and both Biden and Trump are committed to an ultranationalist trade policy meant to keep BYD’s products out. [...] Shipments to Europe have increased astronomically; Chinese companies sold 0.5 percent of EVs in Europe in 2019 but they’re already over 9 percent as of last year. Companies like BYD make cheap, reasonably good-quality cars people are eager to buy.
In 2018, Trump imposed, and Biden has since continued, a special 25 percent tax on Chinese-made autos, on top of the ordinary 2.5 percent tax on foreign-made cars.
That has so far prevented BYD and its Chinese peers from trying to enter the US market. US customer tastes are different enough that Chinese manufacturers would probably prefer to make cars tailored to them — but US policy has been so hostile toward cheap Chinese EVs that so far, the companies haven’t wanted to bother.
So, the result is that we’re left out of the bounty of cheap EV options created by BYD and others. “If you’re a consumer right now, the best place to be right now is China, because you have the best choice of EVs,” Ilaria Mazzocco, senior fellow at the Center for Strategic and International Studies and an expert on Chinese EVs, says.[...]
Still, China’s price advantage is big enough that even the extreme Trump-Biden import tax might not be enough to deter companies like BYD from entering the US market. Even with the tariffs, Chinese cars might be cheaper than their rivals. “​​Subsidies most likely won’t be enough; Mr. Biden will need to impose [more] trade restrictions,” climate journalist Robinson Meyer predicted recently. The Biden administration is already making noise about imposing even more draconian taxes or trade restrictions against these vehicles. Commerce Secretary Gina Raimondo has described Chinese-made cars as a national security threat, and recently announced an investigation into the vehicles’ data collection abilities and the possibility they could send movement data to Beijing.
On the one hand, Biden is offering Americans up to $7,500 per vehicle to buy EVs (provided they meet certain made-in-North America rules). On the other hand, he’s imposing massive taxes to keep Americans from buying EVs. It’s a bizarre policy that makes no sense from a climate perspective.[...]
[The Biden Administration] has proven shockingly willing to sabotage its own climate policy if it gets to stick it to the Chinese in the process.
“There’s almost an across-the-board apprehension about Chinese EVs, even though they would make an important contribution to [lower] CO2 emissions,” Gary Clyde Hufbauer, a veteran trade expert at the Peterson Institute for International Economics, says.[...]
Realistically, Helveston argues, BYD might not sell something like the Seagull in the US because it’s smaller than most cars Americans buy. They’d probably build plants in the US instead, or its free-trade zone partners Canada and Mexico, to build vehicles tailored for Americans. “If you’re going to really enter a market, you have to make it locally,” Helveston explains. “US automakers like GM sell and make millions of cars in China to sell in China.” BYD would do the same. Indeed, it’s already reportedly scouting sites for factories in Mexico.
If they ever were to set up shop in North America, BYD and other Chinese car companies would still have a major price advantage versus American EVs. They have years more experience and a much more successful track record of building batteries and EVs at low cost.
“Part of why they’re so successful is they’ve been thinking outside the box on cost reduction for a long time,” Mazzocco says. They took the “opposite of the Tesla approach”: starting not with luxury vehicles but ultra-cheap cars fit for taxi fleets and not much else, and constantly improving their early inexpensive prototypes. The result is that Chinese firms have gotten extremely good at making inexpensive EVs, at a time when Ford, by contrast, lost $28,000 for every EV it sold in 2023.[...]
“If you have more affordable EVs in the United States, no matter where you come from,” Gopal says, “that’s better for the climate.”
Still, the Biden administration reportedly wants to restrict Chinese car companies’ access to the US even if they do set up shop in North America. Bloomberg reported earlier this month that the Biden administration is formulating rules that would limit US sales of Chinese-made parts, even if they’re in vehicles ultimately assembled in the US or Mexico.[...]
But the Biden administration’s objections to Chinese EVs are also ideological. The Biden administration represents the victory of a protectionist, trade-skeptical wing of the Democratic party that was relegated to the sidelines during the Clinton and Obama years.[...]
[O]ver 90 percent of American households have a car, and surging car prices were a huge contributor to the 2021–2023 rise in inflation.
Barriers to importing cheap cars make inflation worse and reduce the real incomes of the middle class.
Not only are the administration and other left-leaning institutions opposed to Chinese EVs, but hardline conservatives at places like the Heritage Foundation are calling for outright bans on Chinese EVs as well. Their rationale is security, another theme the Biden administration evokes often. On Thursday, the Commerce Department announced it was beginning a process to “investigate the national security risks of … PRC-manufactured technology in [internet-connected] vehicles.”
6 Mar 24
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yawnderu · 3 months
Note
hi, i've only discovered your writing recently but i can't even explain how much i love it 😭 it's like that one anon who i think said that it feels very real, like you're getting 4k ultra hd 8d view of the scene lol 🩷
i really like your bimbo reader posts but i also sort of enjoy seeing them from this point of view that's like.... "this is not his gfs """"constant"""" style but he just lets her be in this kind of persona sometimes because it's relaxing to let him do all the work and thinking for her from time to time".
i hope this makes sense 😭 thank you for writing something that's this cute and wholesome i just love it
Thank you so much sweetheart, this is really lovely!! 😭😭😭<3
Yeah!! I totally get where you're coming from!! She's not exactly dumb, it's actually quite the opposite. I'd like to hc her as a girl who managed to get into a very good university and is studying astrophysics simply because she liked watching stars as a child. She's not dumb— just a girl who grew up extremely sheltered and hasn't seen the world through the eyes of someone who has had a difficult life, like Simon.
There's certain naivety that while it can be dangerous, she's been learning more and more about with Simon's help about stranger danger and trusting her instinct, but the girl is always surrounded by people who enjoy seeing her thrive and always teach her the things that her parents didn't.
I'd say in general she has a very good life, and now paired with Simon, someone whose entire soul wants to see her thrive?? She gets to turn off her brain and simply let him take control— he sometimes picks her clothes for her, dressing her up to the best of his capacity even when he's not a fashion guy.
This man has studied all her Instagram pictures because she's mesmerizing and he loves her that much, yet it also gives him the chance to more or less know what combinations she likes to wear. He still remembers the time she looked at him like he grew a second head for trying to make her wear dots and lines— but he never made that same mistake again.
They work surprisingly well together despite basically being on complete opposite sides of a spectrum, and at the end of the day, they work this well because they're both equally in love with the other.
Simon is level-headed and that gives her the chance to simply be herself without worrying about anything, he gives her a sense of security that she's never gotten with anyone else, while bimbo!reader gives Simon the love and affection he never even dared to think about. The main thing is that she looks and treats him like he's worth something how good of a soldier he is. Hell, she doesn't even know he's a soldier, she simply found the most brooding and intimidating guy and fell in love with him before she even knew it.
They both spoil each other a lot. Simon buys her things, treats her with patience and love, and generally treats her like the princess that she is, while she takes care of Simon like no other. She does face masks with him, gives him massages, does his manicure (trimming and cleaning his nails, putting lotion on his calloused hands), and is overall as patient as they come.
They're a pretty wholesome pair and quite honestly I enjoy writing about them a lot, the love they have for each other is fully pure and it makes me happy. :')
Sorry for going off here HJBEFJBHKFEHBKJEFHBJK I wrote too much but God, I love this pair SO fucking much
Bimbo!Reader Masterlist
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lovetrt · 7 months
Text
in heat
steve harrington x fem!reader
summary: a broken ac and a warm summer day leads to fooling around. (2.8k)
warnings: smut (fingering) in an established relationship. mdni
<3
“I’m gonna fucking die,” Steve groans.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” you respond.
The day couldn’t get any hotter, scorching red heat pounding down from the burning, angry summer sun like a curse being set across the city of Chicago. The current state of the midwestern, midsummer weather would’ve been bearable, maybe even enjoyable, if you had a working air conditioner. 
But something went wrong with your old, rotting unit that came with your apartment. A loud creak and smash of metal broke through the pleasantness of a peaceful Sunday morning with your boyfriend. Then the little numbers on your AC controller kept going up, up, and up until it equaled the temperature outside.
Neither you nor Steve could figure out what the problem was, and your very lovely and caring landlord told you to fuck off ‘cause he doesn’t work on Sundays. So, now you have to deal with the temperature in your shared apartment being that of a sauna, an extremely unpleasurable one that makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
You’re sitting on one end of the couch, your head against the back of it to face the ceiling fan that does little to cool you down despite being on the highest setting.
You’re sweating in places you didn’t even know you could sweat in, making you disgustingly uncomfortable. The stickiness of your body makes the leather of the couch unpleasantly stick to the back of your thighs, painfully pulling at the skin each time you try to move. 
Steve’s sitting in a similar manner, legs spread wide and fanning himself sluggishly with his hand. The discomfort in his face is obvious: lips twisted into a frown, nose scrunched up every so often, brows furrowed enough for a tiny wrinkle to show between them. You would reach up to soothe out his distaste if the heat hadn’t drained the energy out of your body.
He pulled a cold beer out of the fridge as soon as the heat started hitting him and has been gulping it down ever since, occasionally rubbing at the condensation of the bottle and bringing his cool fingers up to his face. 
He sighs after swallowing, “We have to get out of here or we’ll melt, babe.” 
“And go where Stevie? It’s just as hot outside.” 
“I’ll text Eddie and see if he’ll let us crash on his couch for tonight.” 
You hum, too lazy and hot to say anything else.
“I wish we had a car. I’d be in there blasting the AC right now. Don’t even have to go anywhere, just sit in a parking lot.” Using public transportation and walking makes a lot more sense than a car when you live in the middle of the city. Meaning you’ve never needed a car until now. 
“You’d drain the gas, sweetheart.” Steve’s voice is smooth like warm syrup, words melting together in a sweet thick melody. 
“Price I’m willing to pay.” You lazily fan your face for emphasis.
You watch his hands tense and turn while typing out the message, big veiny fingers sliding expertly across the keyboard. You advert your eyes ‘cause it’s already hot enough in the room, you don’t want to rile yourself up.
Instead, you notice the weight of your oversized shirt sitting heavy on your body. It’s trapping in the gross, humid air against your skin, fabric clinging on to your sticky body every time you shift. 
With an annoyed sigh huff, you decide you’re over it. You swing the shirt over your head and toss it on the coffee table, only leaving you in a thin pair of black lace-trim panties and a matching cotton bra. 
You watch Steve hit send and lean back, eyes blown wide at your nearly naked form. 
“What are you doing?” He’s clearly trying to keep his eyes on yours, and you find it so cute he’s still so respectful even after dating for over a year. 
“Shirt was too hot. If you’re allowed to lounge around in nothing but boxers, I’m allowed to wear just this.​” There’s a certain bite to your words, brattiness seeping through as you wiggle your hips against the couch. 
“Yeah, no I’m not complaining. I’d prefer it if you wear this all the time.” He reaches over and snaps the waistband of your panties against your hip. 
“Tease,” you say in an accusing tone, squinting your eyes at him until a giggle bubbles up in your throat and bursts past your lips. His brilliant smile matches yours, and you wonder how he always manages to make you laugh, even when you’re in a groggy mood.
The buzz of his phone interrupts your flirting. “Eddie says we can spend the night there, but he’s stuck at some recording studio thing. He’ll be there in an hour and a half.” You groan an ugly sound of annoyance and disappointment laced together. 
“Don’t we have a key to his place? Can we just go and wait for him there?” You’re already standing up to check the little bowl where you keep your keys.
“No, I gave it to him the other night when he got drunk and lost his.” You groan again and mutter something about Eddie being stupid when he’s drunk while throwing yourself on the couch. You lean against your boyfriend's warm shoulder to read Eddie’s message.
Steve leans back and sighs, “If it weren’t so fucking hot right now, I’d be so turned on.” 
That’s when you notice your tits are pressed up against his arm, neck dangerously close to his lips. The contact of feeling him against your chest makes your skin feel like it's bursting into flames in shared warmth and intimacy. 
“You can be both,” you mutter in that sticky, sultry voice you know he adores. 
He turns to look at you, lips nearly touching your skin. “As much as I want you, baby, it’s too warm to touch each other.”
He has a point. His skin is just as fiery as yours, blood burning under the surface. If you couldn’t stand a thin layer of fabric against your skin, you doubt you could handle him pressed up against you in the stifling ambience of your apartment. But you get an idea when your eyes drift off to his lips. 
“What if we don’t touch each other?” Confusion rises on his face as he swallows down more beer. “We can just make out, but not touch each other a lot so we aren’t making each other any warmer. ‘S a good way to waste time, maybe give us something else to think about instead of the heat.” 
He’s smirking before you even finish talking and readjusting so he’s leaning on the armrest of the couch, legs spread wide. A nod of his head beckons you over.
You crawl to the space he made for you after he whispers something about it being a good idea. Once you’re settled in and kneeling between his legs, he leans forward to capture your lips between his in a blazing kiss.  
His mouth tastes like the tingly taste of your favorite beer and something sweet that you can’t quite place. His lips dance across yours, fluttering burning kisses until he’s licking your bottom lip gently. 
You let him in, tapping your fingers against your thighs to keep from reaching out to him. His tongue moves sweet and smoothly against yours. You’re consumed in him, his scent, his taste, his touch, his warmth.
He breaks the kiss to move his lips down your neck, biting and licking at the sensitive skin there. You shiver when he drags a light finger down the other side of your neck, coming down to rub gently at your bra strap. 
“When’d you get this one? Haven’t seen it before,” he mutters between kisses.
“On Friday, I went to a boutique with Nance when she and Robin were in town. She picked it out for me- god, Stevie!” A particularly harsh nibble of his teeth has you jolting towards him.
“She did?” It might just be the heat messing with your head, but you swear you hear a hint of jealousy mixed into his amused tone.
“Yeah, she thought I’d look good in this and thought that you’d like it,” you continue, eyes fluttering shut from the pleasure.
He chuckles under his breath, the tiny puffs of air tickling your skin. “Hm, she was right.” Your hands find the armrest for support, palms pressed to either side of his head as he continues mouthing at you. 
His fingers dance their way down to your hip, thumbing along the lace of your waistline. You feel them pick and pull at the fabric as his lips trail back up to taste your lips. Whimpers escape your mouth when he bites at your bottom lip, teasing and pulling it between his teeth. 
Maybe it’s ‘cause of the heat or the feeling of his lips on your body, but you find yourself giving in.
“Stevie,” you mutter between kisses. He hums in response, vibrations hitting your lips. 
“Please touch me. Please, baby, I need you to touch me.” You’re digging your nails into your thighs, keeping them there to stop yourself from wrapping your arms around him. 
He tuts, “Thought you said we shouldn’t touch, love.” You let out a noise somewhere between an annoyed groan and a desperate whine.
“Don’t care, ‘s already hot enough. Please, Steve.” You pout your lips while he kisses your cheeks.
“You needy, sweetheart? My little angel is in heat, hm?” You’re nodding desperately before he could finish, knees shuffling closer to him. He pulls back and is looking at you in a way that’s nearly irresistible, eyes heavy with pleasure and lips carved into his signature smirk. 
“That just won’t do,” he coos, fingers trailing down to the wet patch on your panties. This thumb presses barely there touches to your clit, hovering over it in a painfully delicious way. 
You rut against him slowly, whimpers of “please” and “Steve” slipping out of your mouth. The light touch ignites sparks to shoot all over your body, landing back down at the pit of your stomach. 
“It’s okay, sweet girl. I got you.” He pulls your underwear to the side, exposing your soaked cunt to the warmth of the apartment. You’re squirming when he drags a finger down your slit, catching on your clit before circling your hole. 
He pulls his hand back, ignoring your whimpers. “This all for me?” He lifts up his finger to show you your wetness on him. 
You whimper, partly out of pleasure and partly out of embarrassment, while nodding frantically. As you push your hips towards his, you feel the warmth of his crotch right under you. 
Any thoughts of grinding down leave you when he obeys with a smile, fingers coming back down to press against your clit. He rubs where you need him most, pressing into every little spot that makes your head go dizzy. Your mouth finds his again, pressing your teeth into his bottom lip until he’s groaning. 
His touch comes quicker and quicker against your clit, smoothing shapes all over the bundle of nerves. His fingers are cool from the condensation of the beer bottle, contrasting the warmth all over you. The pit in your stomach grows warm until you’re feeling euphoric, lips barely able to kiss him back. 
“I’m-fuck, gonna cum,” you mutter against his lips. Your body feels red-hot, skin burning and itching to orgasm. But before you can, he’s pulling his fingers away from you. 
You whine a needy little sound, “What’d you do that for?” He doesn’t answer. Instead, his fingers find their spot on you again and circle the tightness of your cunt. Your jaw slacks, mouth wide open for him to press kisses around. 
“Y’feel so warm around me,” he mutters against the skin of your neck before pushing a finger in. You moan loudly at the intrusion, feeling dizzy off of sex and heat. 
A broken cry leaves your lips. “More, please,” you beg, breathless with anticipation. He does just that, moving his finger at a delicious pace. But it’s not enough, so you keep muttering “more, more” until he’s pushing in a second finger. 
The dull ache of the stretch is there, even after being together for so long. He eases you through it with slow movements and kisses to your lips until it passes. After you nod, confirming you’re okay, he’s back to that quick pace that has your back arching. 
“You’re so hot, sweetheart, look at you,” he whispers, words dripping in sex and eyes wide in nothing but adoration. His fingers curl up to reach that sweet spot he knows so well and you’re tensing up against them, a hand going down to his quick wrist for support. His lips come back to yours, pressing pecks against you. You’re too dazed to kiss him back, too focused on his fingers.
Your whimpers get louder and louder as he presses his thumb against your clit and toys at it, still keeping the rapid pulsing against your spongy spot. That bundle of warmth in the pit of your stomach turns into a ball of burning heat, and you find yourself breathlessly begging.
“Oh fuck- Steve I’m gonna- please, let me cum,” you sob, tears of arousal threatening to spill from your waterlines. 
“Okay, come for me, sweet girl.” His words followed by the sucking and licking on your neck has you tipping over the edge. The heat under your belly explodes, sending waves of warmth to run along the rest of your body. He continues fingering you through your orgasm, letting you enjoy every last bit of it before easing you down from the rush. 
When the pleasure turns to overstimulation, you’re closing your thighs and trapping his sticky hand between them. He nods with a squeeze to your thigh and you’re releasing him. 
Your knees feel weak as you let yourself settle back onto him, chest against his and arms around his neck. You’re still panting while he smooths a warm hand over your back, letting you lean into him despite the sweat between you. 
“That was so fucking hot, sweetheart. ‘M so hard, can I fuck you in the shower?” His breath is heavy in desperation. 
“Oh my god, the shower! Why didn’t we think of that before?” You giggle as he picks you up and carries you all the way to the bathroom.
<3
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you-call-it-a-dude · 2 months
Text
Call It What You Want
Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5
Summary: You went to high school with Regina George and she is now your neighbor in your college dorm. She, of course, pretended like she didn't know you at first. Until she got some alcohol in her system.
Pairings: Regina George x gender neutral/fem reader
Warnings: internalized homophobia, feelings, school lol, swearing
Notes: Hi, yes. So this is my first time writing for not only Regina George but also for like reader POV. If it's any good and something people enjoy, I will do more of it. Hopefully you like it, but if you don't that's totally cool too. Thanks for reading either way.
------
You had managed to, for the most part, avoid Regina George your three years at North Shore High School. You transferred there your sophomore year, your mom taking full advantage of your dad's Evanston address when you got in trouble once at your public high school in the city. You didn't even actually do anything, but both your parents prioritized your future college education too much to let even a thought of bad behavior ruin it.
You made it through high school pretty unscathed. You laid low, had your small group of friends and kept to yourself.
You witnessed the rise and fall of Regina George in real time. You felt bad for her almost. Yes, she was a major bully, but the one time you overheard her dad yelling at her at a parent teacher conference kinda made some things make sense. She also didn't really target you with her bullshit.
Well, okay, someone wrote in the burn book that you were a carpet muncher and would call you a gay slur here and there, but you've been called worse things. People in that book were certainly called worse things.
Senior year was relatively quiet after Cady dismantled The Plastics.
Regina had taken up soccer, which was actually a really terrifying thought given the neck injury she sustained. She was good though. Good enough to get into University of Illinois, Chicago with a partial soccer scholarship.
But of course, her parents writing a big fat check may help with that.
She didn't even need the scholarship. You don't even know how she got away with getting it.
You also were accepted to UIC. You worked harder than Regina did academically, had some of the best grades in your class, did all the volunteering and extracurriculars, and you still didn't get close to the same amount of money offered in scholarships that Regina got (and didn't need).
You were angry when you found out about her almost full ride, but it was a big school and you were almost certain once you were graduated you wouldn't even be giving Regina George ,or anyone from that high school aside from your best friend, a second thought.
Seeing her at orientation seemed like just a coincidence. Watching her get her keys to the same dorm you were staying in had to be a fluke. Passing by her room, the room that happened to be next to yours, just seemed like you were being punked.
You got yourself settled while waiting on your roommate. You had been speaking with them throughout the summer and know they're coming from Colorado and also know they wouldn't be coming until tomorrow because they texted you. So you were taking advantage of this time to get yourself sorted without having to rush or anything.
You left your door open while you got yourself unpacked, a bunch of people coming by to introduce themselves to you or stop in and talk.
There was a soft knock and you turned your head, expecting to greet another person. Instead stood Regina, leaning against your wall with her arms crossed.
"Hello." You greeted, sounded a little surprised.
"Hi, I just thought since we were going to be neighbors I would introduce myself."
She almost sounded nice? Pleasant?
She also clearly did not recognize you. Yeah you trimmed your hair a bit and dyed it slightly darker, but nothing extremely different.
But this also really helps solidify just how invisible you were to her in high school.
You had two routes. You could bring up the fact that you actually know each other and make it weird, or just introduce yourself.
"Yeah, that makes sense. I'm Y/N."
"Regina. No roommate?" She pointed to the empty side of your room with her head.
"Coming from Colorado. So long drive." You scrunched up your nose at the thought of how long that drive was and she hummed in acknowledgment.
"Are you from around here?"
"Uh, yeah. The city, northside. You?"
"Evanston, so basically from the city."
"Ahh, you're one of those people." You chuckled.
"What is that supposed to mean?" She scrunched her eyebrows up, clearly getting defensive.
"You say you're from the city but you're from the suburbs. That's all I meant." You said softly, watching her face soften when she realized you weren't actually insulting her.
"Most people don't know where Evanston is, so." She defended with a small smile.
"Unfortunately for you, I do." You smiled back at her.
"Are you going to the freshman mixer tonight?"
"I didn't even know there was one." You answered truthfully.
"Mkay, you're gonna come with me then. I'll be back at like nine?"
You pulled your phone out of your pocket and saw it was only like 11am and you quickly realized the long night you've gotten yourself into.
Or that Regina had gotten you into.
"Yeah, that sounds cool."
"Awes. See you later then." She slapped your doorframe once before leaving.
But you didn't miss the way she turned and let her eyes linger on you for just a few seconds longer than what's considered socially acceptable.
---
You spent the rest of the day unpacking and getting settled. You went off campus for lunch then took a walk to get some refreshing frozen lemonade from a popular place near by and drank it while you made your way back to your room.
Regina was still setting her dorm up to her standards. Her door was open and when you peaked in, she was standing on a wobbly chair trying to tape posters to her wall.
Of course she got a single room.
"Need help?" You took a sip of your partially melted peach lemonade and knocked on her doorframe to get her attention.
"Yes, please. That would be great." She said, sound exasperated.
You held out a hand to help her off the chair, but she ignored it. Opting to just brace herself on your shoulder instead. You scratched your head and assessed the situation. You weren't really much taller than her, but your arms were longer so that could work in your favor.
You looked around for somewhere to set your drink before she took it from you to hold. You stepped on to the death trap of a chair and did your best to hang the poster. It was of an artist you had never heard of, but you wouldn't be opposed to new music if she was any good.
You pressed the corners of the poster against the wall and moved out the way. Regina thought for a few seconds before asking you if it was possible to 'pretty please' move the right side up like a quarter of an inch.
You did your best to gauge a quarter of an inch, and your best was thankfully good enough because Regina was satisfied with your efforts pretty fast.
She reached her empty hand up to help you off the chair and you hesitated at first, but took it. She stiffened her arm and gave you a firm platform to put your weight so you had support when hopping down.
Did part of you kind of expect her to let you fall? A little yeah.
"So, what are my chances of getting you to build something for me, too?" She asked sweetly while she handed you back your drink and you took a sip, your dry throat feeling relieved already.
"It depends what it is."
"It's a stupid metal shelf thing." She stepped aside and over the metal parts scattered across her floor.
There was an attempt made, so you at least know she tried before asking.
"Yeah, that looks easy to me. Do you have the instructions?" You handed your drink back to her and kneeled on the floor, rifling through all the pieces.
She set your drink down on the desk and handed you the instructions, sitting down on the floor next to you with her legs crossed.
This shelf wasn't too difficult to build, but it was definitely frustrating. The pieces were in the right spot but they just weren't fitting. Regina complained about how her parents bought her such cheap stuff and didn't even stick around to help her build it. It wasn't like they had a long drive home ahead of them.
She kept apologizing for asking you to help her with stuff or for the shelf being too difficult. She said many times that if you couldn't get it she would just throw the shelf away and not to worry about it if it didn't work out.
You reassured her that it was really okay and you were happy to help. That there was no need to throw out a perfectly good shelf. After a few pinches to your skin, a few scrapes from jagged edges, and a lot of swearing later, you managed to get it built for her.
You didn't expect her to be as involved as she was. She was handing you pieces, going over the directions with you.
You stood up and picked up the shelf, turning it up right so it was standing correctly. She stood up after you, eyeing the shelf with her hands on her hips and nodding.
"That looks perfect. Thank you so much, really."
"You're so good, happy I can help." You picked up your now melted lemonade and took a sip, trying not to be visibly upset over the fact it was no longer frozen.
"Did you get that on campus?"
"No, it's a few minutes away. Really close by. You didn't know that, city girl?" You teased and bit back a smile when you noticed the small blush to her cheeks.
"I was going to offer to buy you a new one, but since you want to be mean I'm taking that offer of the table." She crossed her arms with a small pout and the overwhelming urge to kiss it away scared you.
"No, no. I wouldn't accept anyway. It was like halfway gone. No biggie, honestly." There was an awkward pause between the two of you. "Um, was there anything else you needed help with? Or should I go?"
"You can go now." She said in a tone that felt like a war flashback or something. "I'll swing by your room to pick you up at like 8:45."
"Do you still want me to go?" You asked, because honestly her tone was suggesting otherwise.
"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't." She defended, her eyebrows furrowed.
"Okay. I'll see you later then."
---
9:15pm and you were sitting at your desk dressed and feeling stupid. Because of course Regina was still going to very much so still be Regina.
There was a knock at your door and you waited a second before answering it.
When you opened the door, you keep your face neutral and unimpressed. Which was actually extremely difficult to do because Regina looked breathtaking.
"Yeah, I know. I'm late. Also, you look hot." She commented and it immediately made you feel self conscious because you couldn't gauge if it was genuine or not.
You thought you looked good, but Regina had been notorious for giving out fake compliments.
"Thanks."
"So you agree? You think you're hot?"
Jeez, talk about a war flashback.
"I do." You answered without missing a beat, but your insecurities were threatening to crawl their way out of your mouth at any second.
Regina pursed her lips and nodded in approval at your response and you slowly let out the breath you had been holding.
"Let's go then."
---
Regina abandoned you the second you guys got to the mixer. Which you half expected. You quickly realized that this was not an official university organized event, though the 9pm start time should've made that clear ages ago.
Another indicator being that they were at a frat house.
Alcohol was flowing, students from all different grade levels were mingling.
You grabbed a cup of whatever alcoholic beverage was concocted and got to mingling.
You talked with a few people that you found out you would be sharing classes with, which was cool.
After about an hour of mingling and drinking, you found your way to the front porch and parked yourself on their porch swing and just did a bunch of people watching.
A cat with a collar came and sat next to you, purring and nuzzling against you. You had no idea if it belonged to the frat house or if it was a stray that just frequented the area. The collar said her name was Roach which really made you thing she belonged to the frat boys, but an off campus address on the back put those fears to rest.
"You found a cat!" Regina slurred, stepping out of the house loudly. Her heeled boots clicked against the floor of the porch and she slammed the door behind her, completely shutting out the thumping noise of the party.
"Yeah! Well, more so she found me. Her name is Roach."
"Ew." She hiccuped and made her way over to you, sitting next to Roach. She angled her body and rested her head on your shoulder. "I have to tell you something." She slurred again, reaching down to let the cat sniff her hand before petting her between the ears.
"Sure, what's up?"
"I remembered you and I pretended like I didn't." She lifted her head up to look at you. "But you're a sneaky bitch too because you did the same thing." She poked your cheek with her index finger until you turned your head away from it.
"You talked to me first. I wasn't going to bother you." You admitted, getting a little frustrated.
"Why? You didn't want to talk to me?" She asked, sounding almost disappointed?
"I didn't think you'd want me to. Then I thought it would be really embarrassing if I said I remembered you and you introduced yourself to me. So I just didn't say anything."
"I didn't want you to tell anyone about who I was in high school." She rested her head against your shoulder again. "I just wanted to start over."
"I'm not going to say anything." You said quietly, a little disappointed that the only reason she tried befriending you was to do damage control.
"I feel bad about it."
"About what?"
"How I treated people." She sniffled, clearing her nose. "I'm sorry about what I wrote about you."
"It is what it is." You shrugged. "It's not like I hid my sexuality or anything."
"You didn't. It made me jealous."
Your ears perked up at this admission. You didn't know whether or not to press on or drop the subject. Whatever amount of alcohol she drank was giving her loose lips and you aren't actually sure how much of this information she actually wants anyone to know.
"You don't want to talk about this sober?" She shook her head against your shoulder.
"Talking about it sober is hard."
"Your parents not accepting or...?"
"My mom? Maybe. Probably. My dad? Absolutely fucking not." She took your drink from your hand and downed the rest of it.
"We don't have to talk about this anymore." You offered while she was downing your drink.
"I'm gonna get another drink." She began to get up, but you pulled her back down"
"Hey, no. Come on. Just stay here with me and Roach." You motioned to the purring cat between you both. "I don't want to lose track of you or the cat. So just stay."
Regina sighed and leaned back against the back of the porch swing. She bit her bottom lip and looked up at you.
"What if we brought the cat inside with us while I got a drink." She offered, giving you a silly little smirk that made your heart somersault.
"I think it's too loud for her in there." Roach let out small meow. "See, she agrees." You scratched under her chin, trying to ignore the way Regina was staring at you right now.
"You were always so nice to us."
"What are you talking about?"
"When I let Gretchen drive my car one time to get us lunch and she got a flat tire in the school lot and you helped her change it so I wouldn't get mad at her. You talked her out of a panic attack because she was so afraid of me."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that." You lied.
"Or when Karen was upset after the Christmas show junior year because I was just so cruel to her about her body count. Which wasn't even high. I saw you bringing her that stupid red and green caramel popcorn that the cafeteria was selling for the show."
"I saw her crying, I thought it would cheer her up."
"You also gave me ice when they dropped me on my face and you tried taking care of me."
"I was working backstage and nobody else wanted to help you. Though, I do recall being called a shitty name or two when I did that." You teased.
"I know. I'm sorry. Like really fucking sorry. I was just...projecting."
"I know." You reassured.
You sat in silence for a few minutes, watching people come in and out of the house. Regina adjusted next to you and you put a protective had on Roach and scooted her closer so Regina had more space to move.
You could feel her staring at you. It made you anxious because who knows what she was thinking about.
Regina shifted again and before you can even register her movements, her lips were pressed softly against the sensitive skin of your neck.
"I always thought you were so hot." She mumbled against your skin, her tongue poking out slightly to taste you and her right hand coming up to cup your neck.
You froze for a few seconds, getting lost in the sensation of her lips on your skin, before your rational thoughts kicked in.
"Regina." You said calmly, pulling her hand on your neck. "You're drunk." You laced your fingers with hers and rested your joined hands on your lap.
You watched her stare at your hands, fully expecting her to go off on you or to say something cruel in her drunken state.
Instead, she swiped her thumb over your knuckles and hummed a small approval to herself.
Then a cluster of rowdy frat boys came fumbling out of the house and she let go of your hand faster than anything you had ever witnessed before.
She wiped her hands on her pants and stood up with such ease that it made you question if she was ever even that drunk to begin with.
"I'm gonna get another drink. I'll find you when I'm ready to go."
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