promiscuouspomegranate

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Sorry for complaining so much. It just makes me feel shitty when I feel underappreciated, as anyone would. I feel like I put so much effort into writing, and nobody cares. I honestly do not know what you guys want to read from me because my inbox is dry. So, when I receive, “Pal, when’s the next drop coming?” I do not know what to say because I do not know what you want to read. I can guess what you would enjoy based on what has the most interactions, but that never seems to work. I can post polls on my blog, but when only three people vote, I do not know what the real majority wants. I can obsessively refresh my feed and see what is trending, but things are always changing.

To the few consistent fans who constantly interact, I love you all SO much. You are the reason I still upload, even though it is inconsistent. I hope you know I stalk your blogs every time I see an interaction from you. If you guys ever want to read something in particular, I will prioritize it over any other request 🧡

This will be my last crash-out post for now… but if I deadass receive another “Erm, when’s the next drop, heh,” I will explode. I am a human who creates because she loves to tell stories, not a machine who outputs writing for your continual pleasure!!!

[promiscuouspomegranate]

why does it take u so long to upload like no offense but u always take so long

First of all, what happened to hello? Straight to the point, aren't we? Normally these "asks" try to sugarcoat it, but I guess we feel bold now. Second of all, what the scallop? I understand I take a while to upload, but that is because I am a perfectionist. If there is a detail I do not like, I will go back and change everything. Also, I have a life and education outside of this blog—I do not get paid or acknowledged enough to make this my main focus. I have midterms coming up again, so much homework it has put me in generational debt, and so many books I need to read that the list could be a Tolstoy novel. I’m not trying to be rude to you, but this is not the first “ask” I have received asking me why I take a long time to upload. Honestly, it is frustrating that when I get notifications on Tumblr, I am not receiving compliments or asks, but rather, I am receiving questions like this. If you value my writing, give me time to write. I simply cannot half-ass something because people want more—think quality over quantity. You can always find another blog if you are displeased with how long it takes me to upload. I feel like AI has made readers think that writers can put out work every hour because of the immediate response. I hate to break it to anyone, but writing takes time and effort. If you read my most recent story, you might have noticed all the syntax and symbolism I wrote into it. Did you count the sentence structure and notice the repetition of sixes? Did you look up the names and realize they mean certain sins each character has? Did you notice the specific words I used instead of stating things plainly? That takes a large portion of time to accomplish. I love to write, and I love to write well. I apologize if that takes time, but I cannot keep opening Tumblr to see this bullshit. Also, if my anonymous asks are just going to look like this, I am going to disable them... because no way in HELL am I going to get badgered by someone who can't even fess up to who they are.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ PRINCE THATCHER

"I won't share you, no / I won't share you / With the drive and ambition / The zeal I feel / This is my time." I won't share you, The Smiths

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ Aching Autumn

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ N/A

[promiscuouspomegranate]

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ CARNELL DEARIL

"I can't stop, I can't breathe, I can't think / I'm in love again / I don't need, I don't eat, I don't sleep / I'm in love again." — The Boy, Smashing Pumpkins

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ Illicit Ivories

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ Ramble 1

[promiscuouspomegranate]

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ EZRA BORREGO

"Can't stand this, still wanna know you / You were never mine / I don't need it, still can't believe it / But I'll never lie / I love you, fine." — I love you, fine, Automatic 𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ The Fish Cries Too

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ Ramble 1

[promiscuouspomegranate]

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ LUCILLE FERN

"My eyes adored you / Though I never laid a hand on you / My eyes adored you / Like a million miles away from me / You couldn't see how I adored you." — My eyes adored you, Frankie Valli

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ Cocoon

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ N/A

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Hey guys!

I just wanted to let you know that I will be updating my blog frequently today, so it’s easier to find my works. Also, I’ve decided to start writing shorter things like one-shots, headcanons, or little blurbs so you can get more content.

Thank you!

[promiscuouspomegranate]

|| COCOON

fem! yan x fem! reader TWs: So fucking unsettling.

Lucille was a pretty girl—obnoxiously so. She was the kind of pretty that would cause one to strain their neck in search of their own reflection to see how ugly they were in comparison. They would always be uglier than her and often would blush for the shame of their own homely faces or plain appearance. This is how Lucille knew she was a pretty girl, not because people told her—no, they were far too insecure to do so—but by how miserable they looked whenever her presence graced the room. With whatever soul she had, she felt a deep, almost sadistic pleasure in it, but with how her concealed lips would form into a thin smile, nobody knew. Her father would often scold her for her debauched behavior and often wondered what he did wrong; perhaps he had been too lenient or delicate with his precious child—though he never did anything of any nature, he was simply there. Lucille hated the man but had no justification for her hatred, as he never laid a hand on her or yelled with a belligerent tone. She surmised that he had some hidden evil that he dared not to tell her; perhaps he was a drunk, a sloth, or a degenerate. Yet, she knew why she really hated the man, because she knew that behind his glassy baby-blue eyes, he saw her.

Lucille’s eyes were far prettier than her father’s and, if she ever met her whore of a mother, her eyes would be prettier than that skank’s. They were wide malachite-colored things that usually had pupils so dilated you could see your reflection in them. Her most recent ex-boyfriend frequently teased her and said he always thought she was high out of her mind. He would have to repeat himself more than once whenever he said anything. She never paid any attention. He left her at the start of spring break, and a day later, he left Duruston. Nobody remembered his name, they just knew him as Lucille’s boyfriend.

She wanted to leave Duruston too, but she did not have the money or the means. So, she spent all her time doing the usual things—wandering the strip mall, getting her nails done, letting the artificial glow of the tanning salon mask the shadows she couldn’t. At the bug-infested diner, she picked at greasy fries with her friends, spoke in half-laughs, and ended most nights at the cemetery. Most of the time, she did not have to even glance at her thrifted designer purse; everyone paid for her things. They just expected favors in return.

Except for Butterfly. Butterfly never asked for favors, except for that one time when she bleached her hair, and half of it fell off in the shower. Butterfly was a sweet girl, the sweetest girl Lucille had ever met—Lucille was so convinced of this that she thought if she were to bite into Butterfly’s pallid skin, all her teeth would rot out. Lucille had a habit of noticing every little thing Butterfly did; her green eyes would often sparkle with some form of stolen light and shine with a glow akin to grief. Butterfly never noticed this. She was always too busy fidgeting with the hem of the blue sweater Lucille bought for her.

“You’re cold again,” Lucille mumbled before turning down the C.D. Butterfly made for her—a collection of David Bowie’s greatest hits. “Hm?” Butterfly’s head perked up from the magazine she was reading, “Sorry, I didn’t—” “We should go to the tanning salon; I want to tan again. Am I pale? I think I look pale, and you know Blake doesn’t like ghostly girls.” “We could, but I hate it there. You could get skin cancer one day, Lucy,” Butterfly closed the magazine and tossed it over the bed, “I worry about—” “I’ll grab my purse, just wait in the car, okay Butterfly?” “God, would it kill you to call me…” Lucille exited her bedroom, gently closing the wooden door behind her. She traced her well-manicured fingers across the yellow walls, counting how many individual linoleum tiles were on the floor. She reached the kitchen and found a Franklin taped to the refrigerator beside a sticky note that read “For dinner — Dad.” She stuffed it into the pockets of her jeans, grabbed the keys from the counter, and left the house. The winter sun was sinking into the line of pine trees just beyond her house, seemingly disappearing and only leaving an embryo-colored glow in its wake. She started her father’s Ford Focus, honking the horn three times so Butterfly would rush out the front door. She had timed Butterfly’s movements in the back of her head; right now, she was probably taking a deep breath and reciting a prayer. In two minutes, she would come stumbling out the front door, holding her star-shaped messenger bag and rummaging around for the latest C.D. her mother let her buy. “You’ll like this one,” Butterfly smiled, her head tilting down and a light, coy blush crept over her face, “My grandmother recommended some oldies to me recently, I— I really love them.” “It’s so… you,” Lucille sighed, rolling her eyes as she tuned out the voice of  Frankie Valli for the hundredth time. “Is that a compliment?” Butterfly’s blush turned shameful, and she paused the C.D., fidgeting with the radio, “Never mind, we can listen to the station.” The rest of the car ride was silent. Lucille was not expecting that outcome at all—no, something was terribly wrong with Butterfly. She broke a part of her nail as she held the wheel, choking the hot-pink faux fur cover, ripping the fuzz off with her index and thumb. Her dilated eyes stared at Butterfly, who was too occupied fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. The sweater Lucille bought for her. “Can we park close to the salon this time? I don’t want to walk through the drizzle,” Butterfly’s hand found its way on top of Lucille’s, cautiously placing her calloused fingertips on her slender fingers. “Anything you want,” Lucille mumbled, finally facing the road again, and loosening her grip from the wheel. “Oh, you chipped a nail. You’ll—” “I’ll get Blake to pay for my new set. He said he would after what I did for him last week,” Lucille pulled the car into the parking lot. Butterfly took her hand off Lucille’s and grabbed her messenger bag, leaving Lucille alone to take a deep breath. Lucille took many shallow breaths, and she felt like she was stealing all the air from the world and choking on it. She watched Butterfly walk into the tanning salon—that idiot was probably fumbling over her words. Lucille decided to help her, again.

“Uhm, no I just— She should—” “I want room number 13, and bring one of those folding chairs with you, for my Butterfly,” Lucille crossed her arms, sizing the old hag at the register. “Hah, that’s just a nick—” “Sure thing, ladies,” The wrinkled thing said, grabbing one of the folding chairs in the corner with her flabby arms. They entered the room, and Lucille locked the door behind them. She stripped herself entirely, except for the heart sticker she applied just below her navel. She stared at Butterfly, whose face was burrowed deeply into the library’s copy of “The Metamorphasis.” “Can you set the timer for me?” Lucille asked, slowly heading toward the tanning bed, and crawling inside. The lid hummed as it lowered, sealing her in a cocoon of sterile light. The bulbs flickered to life, casting an artificial sun over her skin, too bright and too close. The heat pressed down, heavy and suffocating. She closed her eyes, but the somber blue glow seeped through her eyelids, pulsing like the beat of some distant, unseen heart. “So, how was your week, Butterfly?” Lucille asked, picturing how Butterfly’s face would scrunch in response. “You know I hate that name, Lucy,” Butterfly closed her book, tossing it onto the ground, “Why can’t you just call me—” “Is it because Lorelei gave it to you? Her and I went to blockbuster recently, rented a copy of that movie you recommended. It was so…” “So me,” Butterfly filled the silence, her voice trembling like a leaf blowing in the wind. “You know,” Lucille decided to tease her friend, in hopes it would strengthen the girl, “Lorelei said—”

“Stop.”

“She told me that you—”

“Lucille, shut up.”

“God, you are so dramatic,” Lucille laughed, she could see the silent tears, and could taste the refreshing sweetness of them, “Lorelei just told me about the party you and her went to. You know, the one where you got wasted.”

“Can w-we please talk—”

“I don’t think you’re a faggot, if that helps.”

Lucille heard Butterfly choke on a sob and could picture her pretty little fingers covering her chapped lips, pitifully trying to hide her shame. She bet it was beautiful—like one of those paintings left to collect dust in a gallery. She heard the rustling of books, a bag, and then sneakers. When Lucille emerged from the tanning bed to change sides, the door was wide open, and Butterfly was nowhere in sight.

For the first time in her life, she could feel her pupils shrink, shrinking so small that she could barely see straight.

“Butterfly…?”

“Y//N?”

…

Twelve days, three hours, and a few minutes had passed since Butterfly last spoke to Lucille. Odd, very odd indeed, was all Lucille could make of the situation—Butterfly never did things like this; she always returned to her in the end. She had gotten with Blake, precious little Blake, who paid for everything she wanted, took her downtown, and wouldn’t even record Lucille when she did favors. He was a nice guy, really, one of the sweetest she ever got with. Lucille’s mind flickered through a kaleidoscope of futures—none of them hers, all of them too bleak, and drenched in colors too bright, too wrong. The nausea came suddenly, rising like bile. She stumbled out of bed, each step a stagger across the cold linoleum, the floor stretching longer than it should—maybe she miscounted the tiles?

“To be Mrs. Fern,” Lucille thought, “Is to be dead.”

Her feet sunk into the mud as she headed into the pine forest, her skin drenched in a cold sweat. The pasty moon cut into the woods, illuminating the shadows on her face and hiding her eyes in a veil of darkness. There was an unmeasured rhythm in her footsteps: one… two… three… four… five… six—a waltz of sorts.

“Christ,” she muttered under her raspy breath, “Know she’s out here.”

Then, in the heart of the woods, she saw her. Really saw her. Butterfly stood bathed in moonlight, every shadow bending to her, every leaf trembling in worship. Her face—soft, radiant—blurred at the edges, as if she was slipping between worlds. Lucille’s breath caught in her throat, a sharp, reverent ache. This wasn’t a person standing before her; this was creation itself. God, she thought, whatever was left of her mind ablaze. This is God. Tears stung Lucille’s eyes as she dropped to her knees, arms outstretched, trembling under the weight of revelation. How could she not have seen it before? Every step, every word, every glance—it all led here. To her.

Lucille crawled to her, her ears clinging to the end of Butterfly’s prayer. Lucille’s abhorrent body rose above Butterfly, and she grabbed her face, forcing her to look forward. She slipped her slender hands over Butterfly’s mouth, sticking her fingers over her tongue, choking her words.

“Oh, Y//N, why did you—”

“H-ahng? Hoo arh yoo?”

“You’re so—” Lucille’s hand traveled down to Butterfly’s neck, and she imagined what it would be like to kill a god.

“I can’t breathe.”

“I love you, Butterfly.”

“L-Lucille, is that you…?”

Lucille’s hands slid further, deeper, until the boundary between flesh and god blurred. The warmth of Butterfly’s body gave way to something colder, something unnameable. A wet, visceral sound filled the air—part whisper, part echo, like the woods themselves were holding their breath. Lucille couldn’t tell where her hands ended and where Butterfly began.

The ink on the missing posters faded from the constant storms. Nobody had been able to find poor Lucille.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Incomprehensible Rambling

guys guys GUYS!!! Oh my goody goodness, have I come up with some ideas 🤫😏 you'll get a better story soon but i have this really interesting character in mind for the upcoming story (boyloser failure for those who forgot !!) imagine a reader (Y/N) who's been spoiled rotten since childhood but fails to hold any attachment to items. They have no concept of money and view everything—no matter HOW expensive—as just another trinket. This lack of attachment to items turns into the world and they spiral into a depressive episode. They start to crumble away and their parents no longer cosset or mollycoddle them. They're thrown into the "real" (bro is having their rent and utilities covered 😭) world and have to get a job. They're not the snobby "I'm above working" kind of person but "Holy shit this is so magical" while operating a cash register for the first time. This makes their co-workers jealous or amused but another recent hire is absolutely SPEECHLESS. He gets really curious about how the reader's life has been and they have a painfully awkward conversation. "Yeah, I used to float in our pool for hours at a time when I lived with my mom and stepdad. After that, I'd engage in *insert beauty microtrend* before *insert ridiculous ass rich person activity*. It all felt so empty though... sure am glad I work as a cashier now! What do you do?" "Uhm.. I-I have like.. 500 hours on Overwatch.. and—" "What's that?" Your co-worker starts to feel very bitter about your situation and refuses to believe you ever struggled with being sad. You have so much what the fart? How could you possibly be sad? Whenever you open your mouth and talk about your old life, it offends him. In fact, your happiness with working a job, learning basic life skills, and everything gets under his skin. His 4-chan days (before he upgraded to reddit ofc) taught him that people like you TRAMPLE over his kind heh.. sigmas unite! But you're not. You're just so... you? You have this random small encounter of... Y/N : "Oh, you're closing tonight, right?" Him: "Yeah.. I a-am.." Shut up shut up stop talking to me and looking at me i hate you wait why am i so sweaty shit do i have my axe— Y/N : "I thought you were going to play that game.. Is it Underdog? Shoot.. I feel like it's Undertop. Anyway, you planned to do that with your friends?" He can't even talk because what the scallop.. why are you TALKING to him???? Y/N : "I can take your shift for you! I think it's only fair I do since I missed my.. blah blah blah you're so sexy, you know? I love listening to you explain Alex G to me ! ;)" Holy crap... you remembered something about HIS life? Even his mother forgets his birthday on occasion.. wowzers! He exchanges the "Blackpill" (As the youth says) for the "Lovepill" and decides that you two are soulmates and he no longer hates you!! JACKPOT! He's totally going to make a playlist for you two on spotify and will rizz (stare at you the whole day) you up. I think this would be super funny to write but y'all.. lmk if you fw this heavy or if I need to take my anti-psychotics again.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

btw gang !!!! my little dancer is NOT the poll story. it's just one i've been cooking for a while and decided to get it over with and publish. your boy loser is coming soon dw !

[promiscuouspomegranate]

✧. ┊     My Little Dancer // 1

⇢º. AFAB! Showgirl Reader x Mysterious Person 🤫

.❥❧ Y/N temperament is confident and rude.

TWs: Stalking and extortion. More down the road

You are responsible for the content you consume! Stop reading if you feel uncomfortable.

I never liked the bitter aftertaste Marlboro reds left on my tongue, but I’d still finish the pack by the end of the week—a few days if work was particularly stressful. My former psychoanalyst remarked that I was stuck in the oral stage. I was too drunk to recall how I responded, but I am no longer welcome in his office or most in the city. Anger, what an amusing emotion. I forget where the quote comes from, I was always too pretty to pay attention in school, but most regard it as a temporary loss of the senses. I believe it is a heightening.

I took a final drag of the cigarette before I put it out on my aching neck. I flicked the butt onto the sidewalk and stumbled to the back door. A lithe, timid woman quickly scurried past me, fumbling with her string of cream-colored pearls as she muttered a few curses and prayers. I had half a mind to shout at her for shoving into me, but I was like any other gentleman—couldn’t bring myself to do it when such a pretty little thing was in tears. Poor girl just wasn’t cut out for the life of stardom; I could hardly blame her. Come into a jazz club with those periwinkle eyes and adorable angel curls, and you’ll only last a day before you break.

“Where the fuck ‘ave you been, Y/N? I’m telling ya, I can’t do this shit anymore! I can’t,” My beloved manager shouted in between unsteady breaths, “You’re on in five fucking minutes? Did ya spend so much time whorin’ around in school ya can’t read a clock? I swear, ya woman and your—”

“And our what, Kolenkov? Tread lightly,” I hummed as I strolled past him toward my powder room. I smirked at him to send a benign threat, “If you piss me off anymore, I’ll break the pretty little ornaments on stage… again.”

“Break whatever ya want… ya bitch!” He wiped the sweat off his lightly wrinkled forehead with an embroidered handkerchief and hoarsely shouted for a cola.

“Sweetheart, I think you need water and a beer,” I shouted from inside my room as I lounged at my vanity, “Too much sugar and your poor heart is going to finally give out.”

I muttered the sultry lyrics of my performance as I touched up my makeup. I never let another girl touch my face; jealousy tended to style me when I did. I opened the intricately carved drawer and gently rummaged through it.

“Where did I put it…?”

My practiced gentleness and poise dissipated, and I pulled the drawer out and angrily dumped its contents on the tabletop. In the process, I chipped a fingernail and felt like bursting a blood vessel.

“Laura, for the love of God, where the fuck is my rouge? I’m not wearing the cheap shit on stage anymore. Find me my Djer-Kiss or—”

“I uhm, I don’t know where it’s at, but you’re on in two,” Her lip quivered as she held her clipboard in front of her face. I pushed past her trembling form to get what I needed.

“My hair needs to be sprayed again! Where’s the hairspray at, Annie?”

“Like I know what you do with all your junk! Where’s my hat? Bettie, where is my hat?”

“Keep track of the men you meet up with after shows and maybe you’d have an easier time finding it, Annie.”

“Y/N, your fuckin’ rogue is over here,” Kolenkov’s legs trembled as he puffed out smoke, “Ya fuckin’ bitch! Get out there before you miss your damn cue!”

“Oh, go cool off you fat fucking tomato,” I quickly applied a dark burgundy onto my cheeks and powdered my face again. I rushed past fellow showgirls and slammed into Laura as I tried to grab my heels, “Laura, doll, either you do something useful or you get the fuck out of the way.”

“B-but your—”

I grabbed Laura by the collar of her silk blouse and pulled her close to my face.

“Did you ever wonder what you sound like to others? Because, doll, your voice is something so grating, I can’t even begin to express it to you. So, here’s how it’s going to work, okay? You’re going to stay the fuck away from me until I am shouting for you. I don’t care about what a backstage bitch has to say about my performance,” I took a deep breath and flashed a smile sure to break her heart, “It’s all about me, doll. Maybe if you lost fifteen pounds, you’d be able to sing with the big girls. Stick to Sunday choir, and I’ll stick to fully booked shows.”

I looked down at Laura as she started to cry and scoffed. She wouldn’t last a week more if she kept on fucking crying.

“Y/N, get the fuck on stage, now. I will finally fuckin’ fire—”

“You can’t fire what everyone comes to see; this place’ll close down the second I step out or realize I’m better than this joint.”

I glared at Laura again before reaching behind her to grab my heels. I noticed she flinched, and my brows softened.

“The fuck— I don’t have time for this,” I sighed and shoved past every other girl.

I strutted up the metal stairs and could hear the audience chattering outside. A scruffy man helped me into the bedazzled birdcage, and I slouched on the perch. I emptily stared at my fingernails and swallowed the lump in my throat. Everything had to be perfect.

“The other girls are melting away. Kolenkov is melting away. Laura is melting away. My chipped fingernail is melting away,” I mindlessly maundered as I heard Kolenkov tapping on the microphone.

“Welcome, ladies and gents. It’s truly a pleasure—a blessing from the Lord above—to see so many of ya faces again. Though, can’t say some of ya have aged well!”

I grimaced as the audience roared at his quips and wit; he wasn’t very funny or charming. I knew why they were here. I chewed on my already broken fingernail as he rambled about the girls and how he loved us to death.

“Just—”

“Now, I know when I’m no longer welcome! Honestly, if I didn’t love ya folks so much tonight, I’d have half a mind to kick ya outta here,” He chuckled, and it queued the audience into laughing as well, “But it’s time for the star of our little show here. Ladies and gents, meet the prettiest little peacock in all of America! Introducing our beloved Cherie Flambe, the Pittsburgh Princess herself. Careful trying to get a slice of that pie, ya have one bite, then you finish the whole thing.”

Blood trickled down my pointer finger as the crimson curtains slowly unraveled. I sucked in my stomach and fluttered my long black eyelashes, and the bird cage slowly descended. This was it; it was all about me. The lead saxophonist started to snap his fingers, and the white spotlight nearly blinded my eyes, but thank the stars, I was born for the stage. The second my wine-red lips opened and started to sing that jazz, everyone was utterly enthralled with me. What I wore, oh God, if only I could see those ladies' eyes as they bitterly whispered to their pathetic lover boy, “Why can’t you ever buy me something like that?”

I rocked back and forth in a vibrant array of blues, greens, and purples that shimmered underneath the hot spotlight. My bodice gleamed with vibrantly iridescent plumage that formed some sort of intricate pattern, dipping low enough to reveal the costars of the show. As I sensuously swayed across the stage, my skirt flowed and swished around my hips, and I made sure I not only ruffled tailfeathers, but showed them. As the show progressed, I tore away the skirt, revealing all the flamboyant little feathers adorning my legs. I knew the uptight ladies in the crowd would scoff and flutter their flimsy fans to showcase their disapproval. I wish the same happened to their senile husbands. I threw the old dogs out there a bone when I tossed my garter into the audience.

I blew kisses as the music came to a glorious swell, and I began to glide offstage. I didn’t bother to stay for the raucous cheering; there was always plenty of time to schmooze with all the gentle and rough men after the show. I noticed Annie’s legs were shaking and furrowed my thin eyebrows at her.

“Hun, you’re too much of a catch to be shaking like that. Save that for the lads out there, and they’ll lose their damn minds.”

“Easy for you to say, Y/N…I mean, Cherie! You have a whole lot to show off and, I dunno, I feel—”

“Save your feelings for when the audience heads home. We’ll open up a bottle some sucker gives me after the show, if you don’t find your own.”

I squeezed her and rushed off before Kolenkov could have a heart attack over our interaction. I ambled through the dressing rooms until I came across mine. I rolled my eyes as I noticed the old door was cracked open; Annie must’ve borrowed my lipstick again. I sighed as I sat down, staring at my face in the mirror. I plucked my eyebrows with my tweezers, hoping to cool off a bit—we weren’t allowed to smoke until the ladies were gone, something about etiquette. There was a shy knock at my door, and I knew exactly who was hiding behind it.

“Laura, I’m not actually going to kill you. Look, I— Just say what you need to say,” I yawned and poured myself a glass of merlot to unwind.

“You.. You have some gifts already. C-can I come in?”

“Just leave ‘em outside. Don’t really care unless it’s diamonds or cash.”

“O-okay.”

I waited until I heard her kitten heels scamper to the next thing before I opened the door. I noticed the basket of neatly organized letters, roses, exotic perfumes, and chocolates.

“No wine? Fuck, I’ll have to bat my eyelashes at Kolenkov, these bastards are getting cheap.”

I disregarded the rules of not being allowed to eat in costume as I opened a box of imported French dark chocolates, crumpling the note on top of it and tossing it out. I sorted through the letters and saved the prettier ones to read with Annie. I finished a bonbon and felt oddly nauseous as I stumbled across the last letter. It was damp���never a good sign—and simply had my name on it in a beautiful cursive.

“Oh, what the hell, why not.”

I ripped it open and choked on the piece of chocolate I was trying to swallow. As I spat it up, the half-chewed treat had the decency to cover my nudity. I languidly rummaged through the photos and felt tears burn my eyes. Usually, I’d never be terrified of my body, but I felt like the devil himself was dragging me to hell. I didn’t bother with reading shit the degenerate must’ve written as I tore up the photos. A fist pounded on my door, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted metal.

“Get ya ass outta there. You’ll have plenty of time to brood after ya show off to everyone. Got a couple of friends who wanna greet ya, maybe give ya somethin’ nice in exchange for a kiss or two.”

“Uhm, alright.”

There was a brief silence, and Kolenkov came inside.

“Normally, I’d tell ya to get ya shit together, but I’m feeling exceptionally decent tonight,” He sat beside me for the first time in a year and stared at me, “Spit it out.”

“I don’t know, I’m fine.”

“I hate it when women say that, y’know?”

“Better get used to it. Women hate you.”

“Atta girl! Now, c’mon, I’m doing ya a favor,” He extended his bulky arm for me to grab, and he escorted us out into the bar, “These guys are richer than the Rockefellers, I swear.”

I had never felt so exposed in my life, but I guess that was the life I was hellbent to live. I flashed the group a lovely smile, knowing my performance wouldn’t be over until I was alone.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Oh my goody GOODNESS!!!

Y’all are the best, shut up!!! Thank you so much for liking what I write. It makes me feel appreciated whenever I get notifications… idc what they are, but I feel like a celebrity. I feel like I don’t deserve it, but I’m telling my mind to shut up so I can enjoy this! Love you guys!

I guess I have to be more active now… sigh

[promiscuouspomegranate]

guys WHAT DO I WRITE....

I know what you all are thinking "Gee... do we follow this woman for NOTHING? We have been starved for so long.. she's forgotten about us" (Insert the fuckass ant holding the bag here) but i respond with no my children!!! mother is here but she has been working this summer to chase that bag! i'm having random bursts of creativity as of now... so lmk if you want something!!!

level of cunt i feel after edging my three followers to read what i write

[promiscuouspomegranate]

I’m finally on vacation…

I wouldn’t trade the gloomy ocean of the East Coast for anything. I'm definitely going to dabble in writing soon.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

✧. ┊    Snowflake // 1

TWs: Reader is 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀𝓎 👅, depression, abusive relationship(s)/dynamics, and more as the series continues.

Remember, you are responsible for the content you consume. Stop reading if you feel uncomfortable!

Boreas expelled the numbing winds of the North, and I felt a familiar shiver crawl down my neck, freezing the words forming in my mouth. My chapped lips parted as I gave asphyxiated apologies to my coach.

"You choked again," Lena mumbled, her thin lips pursed in a scowl, and took the Salem to her lips. She slowly drew the smoke in and exhaled it in my face, "Go home, Y/N."

"I just need more time, please," I gave otiose protests, and Lena took a step closer—too close.

"I'll be waiting in the Mercedes, Y/N," Lena put the cigarette out on my worn athletic jacket, "I hate waiting." "I know," I muttered and watched as her wooden cane hit the concrete.

Tears pooled in my timorous eyes as I glided to the exit, stepping off the rink and into the lockers. I wiped the tears from my face, irrationally untying the laces of my skates before throwing them aside. I shoved my blistered feet into old, off-color tennis shoes before storming out of the building, holding my bulky bag. I didn’t bother bringing my skates home—I’d just return to the rink tomorrow. I tried to stabilize my shallow breath as I approached Lena’s car; she never was fond of criers or, as she deemed it, bitching.

“A bad skater is like a snowflake, Y/N. They are delicate, light, graceful, and—most importantly—they fucking melt whenever there’s heat,” She sighed as I stepped into the passenger seat and tossed my bag in the back, “Are you a bad skater?” “No, Lena, I just—”

“Did I tell you this was a conversation? It is rather amusing how you fail to learn the simplest things after all these years,” Her hoarse voice raised as she pulled out of the parking lot and began to drive, “I’m deeply concerned, Y/N. You’re starting to slip away from the spotlight you once held in a formidable chokehold. You haven’t placed in your last three performances… God, should I even take you to Klutzcow’s?” “Lena, please, I—” She slammed the brakes, and my head hit the dashboard. I felt a sharp pain in my nose as I lifted my head and stared at my lap. “I didn’t fucking ask for an answer. Why are you so dumb? You’re lucky I put up with you,” She practically spat the words out. A single tear trickled down my face but was masked by the blood slowly oozing from my nose. Lena parked the car a little further from my apartment and sighed, her calloused hands brushing against my face as she leaned my head forward to dab the blood with a crumpled Kleenex. Her fingers found their way to my cheek as she gently treated my wound.

“I’m sorry, Lena. I’m so sorry,” I sobbed like a bullied child and felt my stomach twist into knots, “I’m trying my best; I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I get so tired on the rink, and nothing helps. I’ve tried dieting, exercising, meditation—”

“Darling, it’s going to be okay. You’re still the prettiest little skater in the rink; that’s what you’ve always had going for you. I’ll choreograph a new routine just for you, hm? I forgive you,” Her hand lingered on my face after the bleeding stopped, and she smiled for the first time in a month, “Besides, you’re getting older now. Maybe it’s time you retire and settle down; give the kids a shot at fame.”

Before I could protest, she handed me my gym bag and stared at me with her icy, seafoam eyes. I knew it was time to leave, but I wanted to savor her warmth for a moment longer. 

“Thank you, Lena. You always are so… tender towards me,” I looked at her with puffy eyes as I stepped out of the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow and pick you up to go to Klutzcow’s Saturday. Wear something nice, I don’t want you looking like this,” Lena rolled the window up, and silence permeated the air.

It was a painful walk back to my apartment, and my eyes could barely process the environment. I kicked off my shoes, unzipped my jacket, and tossed it on the floor. I ambled to the kitchen and saw Edyth ordered something for me. Disregarding the strict diet Lena ordered I followed, I brought the battered fish to my lips and made quick work of the meal.

“Aw, I knew you’d enjoy this dinner! You’re always so hungry after practice,” Edyth’s warm arms wrapped around my shoulder, and her chest pressed against my shivering back, “Do you like it? I made it for you, Y/N…” “It’s good, I guess,” I pulled away from Edyth and pushed the empty plate aside. I stood up and stared at the carpet, “Thanks.” “Y/N, why are you so—” “Leave me alone, Edyth,” I muttered and walked to my bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. I slumped down against the wall and could hear Edyth’s voice crack as she said she would buy some drinks from the gas station.

( ఠൠఠ )ﾉ NSFW !!! I took off my athletic wear and climbed into bed, my body aching as I felt the bruise on my thigh throb. I placed my left hand on my cheek, where Lena’s fingers were.

“I’m a terrible skater, aren’t I?” I bit my lip, trailed my hand down to the bruise, and pressed on it. Pain surged through my body, and I let out a cry of discomfort. “A-ah.. Lena, I’ll be better for you,” I breathlessly muttered, moving my hand toward my panties as I roughly fondled myself. Fuck, could I be any more pathetic? I covered my mouth with my right hand and bit my finger.

I could feel a dampness form in between my legs as I slid my index and middle finger inside my panties. Sweat formed on my arms, and I knew it wasn’t just from the heat of the room; I needed it. I whimpered as I rubbed my aching clit, feeling my hips jut up—it had been a month since I last treated myself. I felt blood ooze into my mouth as I ruthlessly teased and prodded my needy pussy.

Her name leaked from my chapped lips and was caught by my clammy palms. The friction from my fingers wasn’t enough, and I owned nothing else. My heart raced and skipped a beat when the front door opened. Edyth never knew when to fuck off, did she? I pulled the covers over my body and closed my eyes, ignoring her knocks on my door. Although it was Edyth's voice asking if I was asleep, I fantasized about the husky, sadistic tone of Lena. . . . It's so obvious I don't write NSFW normally.. isn't it 🙁

[promiscuouspomegranate]

✧. ┊     Dreich / 1

. ➶ ˚ AFAB! Selkie Reader x AMAB! Fisherman

TWs: Abduction, violence, light gore from wounds, manipulation, abuse, and the usual. (FURTHER IN THE SERIES) I gave the reader short hair. Sigh... don't hate me long haired readers 😍🥰

You are responsible for the content you consume! Stop reading if you feel uncomfortable.

The sun had not yet risen, and the waters wore an illusion of darkness—a blurry veil of sapphire that soothed my soul. My eyes crashed to a close like the waves on the rocks. I heard the conches communicate in hushed whispers as the wind howled a lachrymose lullaby to damned souls like me. Did I dare to sing with the waters and profess a forbidden love for the sea? No, I wasn’t the fool I was yesterday or the day before. After all, people change like the tides before it all goes still.

As my kitten heels clicked on the cool concrete path, I looked back at the sea once more. I firmly held my straw hat in place as Notus, determined to blow it away, caused a trickle of sweat to drip down my forehead. I pulled out my embroidered handkerchief and wiped the bead off before I resumed my stroll away from the waters. The distant cries of the mighty albatross of the North Sea faded into the bustling streets of Essex. I hummed as I swooped up a newspaper from the trash, scanning the headlines before tossing it away. I opened my parasol as the sanguine sun stretched its fiery body above the port, piercing every shadow with blinding radiance. Hoarse offers of fresh-cut flowers, baked loaves of bread, imported treasures, and every meaningless trinket imaginable overwhelmed my ears. My nose—ever the detective—picked up the scent of fresh fish, and my mouth involuntarily watered. I blushed when I felt the saliva trickle down my chin and wiped it off with my glove. “It seems I am quite the mess today,” I muttered as I approached the stall, eyeing the filleted flesh with an unspoken urgency.

I removed my gloves as I picked up the headless haddock, resisting the temptation to consume it as is.

“Somethin’ catch yer eye, missus,” A gruff voice chuckled as I set the fish down, “By all means, buy it.”

“My apologies, sir,” I cleared my throat and felt my ears burn red at my indecency, “I just haven’t seen fish that looks so… delectable.”

“Relax, missus, ya needn’t be so stiff ‘round me,” He hoarsely chuckled as he adjusted his stained apron, “Can I cut somethin’ fresh fer ya?”

“Do you sell cod?”

“Of course.” He turned around and seized a flailing cod with strong, hairy arms, setting it on a wooden cutting board. He gripped his knife with a steady hand and, with a quick motion, cut the fish’s head clean off. Blood splattered on his face, and I felt my stomach growl at the scent.

“Seems like someone’s hungry,” He grinned—the way most sailors do—and packaged the fish with practiced ease, “Don’t tell me ya ‘aven’t eaten yet, missus. Yer already too thin as is, delicate thing, aren’t ya? What’s a lovely lady like yourself doin’ in the markets?”

“I haven’t any time to sit down in the mornings; too much to be done then to idly ruminate as I eat,” I took the bag from his hands and—what I assume was intention—felt his calloused fingers against my hands.

“A woman after my own heart,” His gray eyes bore into my soul, and he wiped the blood off his cheek, “Didn’t feel a ring on yer hand too so I won’t have to sneak in through the back.”

“Didn’t your mother teach you any class?,” I gasped and pulled away from him, crossing my arms.

“What’s wrong, little lady? Need me to put a ring on ya finger first? Don’t know if I could afford somethin’ worthy of you,” He smugly grinned as I reached into my purse, “Now, I know yer not offerin’ to pay fer that. Take it, it’s free of charge.”

“Thank you, sir,” I hoarsely responded, trying to make my disapproval apparent through my mannerisms.

With that, I walked away and only glanced over my shoulder once to see a smile that nobody had ever presented to me. Would it be wrong to ask for his name?

“Don’t be foolish, Y/N,” A small, unfamiliar blush swept across my sunkissed skin as I walked into an alleyway, “Man and monster do not go well.”

I unwrapped the package and, with sharp, beastly fangs, tore into the scales of the sea. Blood splattered on the old stone pathway and onto my gloves as I ravished the fish. Its bones cracked in my strong jaw, and I spat out whatever remained of the fish. I threw my gloves away and wiped the blood off of my upper lip; the feeling of hunger still remained but wasn’t as unbearable. I opened my parasol and disappeared into the sharp turns and jagged rock of the unspoken alleys of Essex.

…

His calloused fingers reach into the bins and examined soiled lace that reeked—oddly enough—of fish.

“Seems like we’ve got ourselves ‘nother beast in this town,” He hummed as he pocketed the gloves, instantly recognizing the package.

His eyes widened, and his crooked teeth flashed an unruly, savage smile. He took the gloves out of his pocket and inhaled the scent of fragrance, blood, and sea.

“Yer all mine, little lady,” He chuckled and squinted his eyes as the sun shone brightly, illuminating all that was hidden.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

erm.. i'm somehow still alive help? i'm going to post something soon... maybe idk 😭 I got so busy with school + holiday bs that I haven't had any time to create.. my bad gang