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alltheirdamn · 2 months ago

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Diamond Dolls | Joel x stripper!f!reader

Chapter I : Diamond Dolls Club

Series Summary: Running from the past led you straight into the arms of club owner, Joel Miller. He’s quiet, respectful, and devastatingly handsome. He’s nothing like any man you’ve come across, and it’s so hard to keep your heart guarded when he’s tearing down the walls. Chapter Summary: After fleeing Miami, you find yourself a spot at Diamond Dolls, and meet Joel Miller. The man who can change everything. Rating: 18+ Word Count: 7.2k Warnings: No-Outbreak AU, Joel is in his early 40s reader is in her mid-20s, mentions of alcohol, strip club setting, nudity, sexual tension, mutual pining, eventual smut, explicit language… more tags will be added as the story goes A/N: Well, a very belated hello to everyone! I've been in the darkest recesses of a writers block, and had to drag myself to the surface to finally finish this one out. It's a slow start, but it's something nonetheless. Anyway, love you all lots and i hope you stick around for this lil story <3 xoxo

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

One week ago

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. You were holed up in the bathroom of a shady hotel, listening to the sound of pleasured moans coming from the bedroom. Your friend, Diana, had been going at it with some stranger for the last half hour, and you were scared. Private parties were typical for the dancers. In fact, Richie loved it. He loved being the type of owner who showcased all his dancers in whatever way he pleased. But you knew something was off when you stepped out of the black Escalade and into the hotel lobby. This type of party differed from the rest; you had this nagging feeling it would all go wrong.

And it did.

The sound of heels rattling inside your bag drifted through the empty parking lot as you neared your last resort. Diamond Dolls. Your gas tank—and lack of money—only got you as far as Austin, Texas. It wasn’t an ideal place to end up, but beggars can’t be choosers, so it would have to suffice.

It was early afternoon, no doubt the slowest time of day since only a handful of cars were parked in the lot aside from yours. With the sun still shining, the neon pink lights of the sign above the door were turned off, but it still looked inviting. Diamond Dolls was already far different than your club back in Miami; it was different in a good way.

At least, you hoped it was.

Cracking open the front door, you shuffled your bag over your shoulder and took a deep breath. This was your only shot at putting your life back on track, and you prayed you’d be given the chance to set things right. You couldn’t go back to Miami. Not now…not ever. The bridges you burnt could never be rebuilt; running away would only take you so far.

A few patrons turned their heads your way when the sun streamed through the hazy club, no doubt an annoying reminder that the world still existed outside this tiny place. The entire club was drenched in low neon blacklights, the purple and pink hues painting the shadows in a sultry ambiance. Above you, diamond chandeliers hung from the ceiling, twinkling lights refracting off the gems that clung to the metal branches curving upward. The black leather couches around the stage were shiny and clean, another sign that this club was far better than where you came from.

High-top tables scattered the open areas in the club's corner, tiny tea lights flickering on their marbled counters. Everything was meticulously detailed, as if whoever owned it had put all their effort into making this space unique and beautiful.

Across the back was the bar; the counter stretched from end to end with an array of liquors stacked on glass shelves that hung from the wall. Behind the counter was a lone bartender busying himself with cleaning glasses.

Perfect, you thought. This was your opportunity.

“Hey,” you cautioned, walking up to the black countertop. “I was wondering if you guys are taking in any new dancers.”

“Can’t say for sure,” the bartender shrugged.

He had a snug black top stretched across his chest and dirty blonde hair that stuck back along his scalp with too much gel. A few tattoos marked up his forearms, disappearing under the cuffs of his shirt and reappearing along the column of his neck. Instinctively, you knew he was well paid by any female clients who came into the club late at night. A few drinks and maybe a few flirtatious conversations made him a wealthy man by the end of his shifts.

“Who should I be asking then?” You questioned, tapping your nails along the edge of the counter.

The bartender glared at your nails as they tapped repeatedly on the counter. You retracted your hand with an apologetic look, letting your arm hang heavy at your side. He bristled at your presence, obviously unamused by your friendly antics. Charm wouldn’t work here…noted.

“Joel’s up in his office. Why don’t y’go bother him.”

“Joel…” You echoed.

“The owner?” He cocked a brow, almost annoyed that you didn’t know who Joel was.

Obviously, you didn’t fucking know.

“Gotcha,” you nodded.

The bartender slung the drying rag over his shoulder, retiring the glass he had been cleaning to the other stack of dishes. He pointed down the hall near the stage toward the black-painted door to the right.

“You’ll find him in there,” he said.

You muttered a quick thank you before walking down the hall and past wandering eyes. Smoothing down your hair, you inhaled sharply before rapping your knuckles against the door.

“Come in!” A deep voice called out.

You timidly turned the doorknob, peeking your head around the door with a sheepish smile. An older man, probably no more than forty, leaned back in a leather chair. He had on a simple black button-up, the sleeves rolled up his tan arms, exposing the muscles and veins that spidered from his fingers to his biceps. You lifted your eyes to his face, brown scruff covering his jaw, small patches of gray threading through the wiry hair. His plush lips curved into a slight grin, his bottom one plush and pouty—a very dangerous thing to see when you realized he could potentially be your new boss.

“How can I help you?” He asked, clearing his throat.

Your eyes shot up to his, immediately pulled under the dark brown waves that swam through his irises. You expected the club owner to be less appealing, maybe even a bit sleazy, given your track record of who you’ve met in the business. You didn’t expect him to be this attractive.

You stepped over the threshold, unsure if you should shut the door behind you. You didn’t know Joel, nor could you trust him to be different from the other men you had encountered over the years. Despite your weariness, he motioned for you to shut the door and extended a hand toward the chair in front of his desk.

“I was, um, wondering if you were taking any new dancers?”

You didn’t mean to word it like a question, but your uncertainty got the best of you.

“Might be. Y’from here?” Joel asked, his southern drawl thick with each syllable.

You slid down into the chair, letting your bag drop to the ground by your feet. Joel tracked your movements, watching you squirm under his heavy stare while he waited for your response.

“Miami, actually. Just drove in this morning.”

“What brings ya’ to the Lone Star State?” He asked, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Family,” you lied a little too quickly.

Everything about being a dancer was a lie, and you weren’t about to change your ways for some owner you didn’t know. Joel stretched his arms over his head, his biceps flexing as he interlocked his fingers behind his neck. It should be a crime for someone to be this handsome; clearly, he knew what you were thinking because his lips twitched with an amused grin.

“Y’got experience in a club?”

“Yep,” you nodded. “Worked at my last one for three years.”

Joel’s eyes raked over you, lingering on your glossy lips and finally trailing back up to your eyes. Your skin flushed under his stare, your ears burning the longer he drank you in with slow, deliberate passes over your body as you crossed and uncrossed your legs behind the shield of his wooden desk.

“I’m assuming you’ll want to see me dance,” you said, filling the dead air between you.

“Not necessary.”

You stared at your hands in your lap, crestfallen. This had been your last resort, and you were down on your luck now. You barely had a hundred dollars in cash left in your wallet, and you told yourself it was for emergencies only. You weren’t even sure it was enough to cover more than a night's stay in a motel somewhere in town. There wasn’t anyone you could call. There was nowhere else to go.

A soft creak of his chair stirred you from your swirling thoughts, and you looked up to see Joel bracing his elbows on the desk. He was so much closer now, his age materializing into something softer as he studied you. Worry lines creased his forehead, smoothing out around his temples where his brown hair curled behind his ears. Even if this meeting was all for nothing, at least you got to enjoy a small glimmer of hope dressed as a beautiful Southern gentleman. You reached for your bag, ready to beeline it out the door and back to your car before you could make any more of a fool of yourself.

“I don’t need an audition, sweetheart,” he said softly.

You blinked up at him, both confused and hurt. He didn’t need to kick you while you were already down; he made it very clear you weren’t getting a spot in the club. You lifted your bag into your lap, shoving the chair back hard enough to make the legs scrape against the floor.

“I appreciate you taking the time to meet me. Have a good day.”

The words tasted bitter as they left your mouth, and they didn’t sound much better either, but you didn’t care. There was nothing for you here, and you needed to search for a place to stay before the day slipped away. Clinging to whatever dignity—and hope—you had left, you turned for the door without another glance over your shoulder.

“Wait.”

Joel’s voice radiated through the room as your hand hovered over the door handle. You half-considered dismissing him and continuing with your hopeless day, but a nagging voice inside your head told you to stay. Steeling your emotions, you turned to him with your arms folded over your chest.

“Come back at nine. You’ll be on stage tonight,” he offered, rising from his seat.

“What?” You balked. “You just told me you didn’t want to see me audition.”

Joel shoved his hands in the front pockets of his dress pants, his shoulders lifting slightly with a shrug. You waited for the other shoe to drop, for him to laugh in your face and shove you out the door. But there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm in his tone nor a look of deception in his soft eyes.

“I never ask my girls to audition,” he explained.

“Why? What if I’m bullshitting you?”

“I’ll find out if you are, but I got a feelin’ you won’t let me down.”

“Okay,” you nodded. “Well, thank you. I’ll see you tonight.”

Joel dipped his head toward you, his lips curving at the corners under his thick mustache. You were in deep shit, knowing you’d get to see that warm smile every day. With nothing left to say, you muttered another thank you and opened the door, disappearing into the hallway before he could retract his offer.

An upbeat tempo thrummed through the air as you passed by the stage, and you took a quick peek at the girl spinning on the pole, her blonde hair falling in a cascade of curls down her bare spine. The handful of patrons you had spotted coming into the club were now crowded around the stage, enthralled in her body as she moved to the rhythm of the music. Crisp dollar bills scattered the glass stage, falling at her feet as she lowered herself onto her knees. Your steps faltered as her eyes connected with yours, a friendly smile ghosting over her face before she returned to her routine. Digging through your bag, you reached for your wallet and dished out a couple of bills to toss onto the stage. It wasn’t much, and you knew better than to lessen your savings, but it was enough to show your respect for her hustle. She understood this life as much as you did.

You spent the better part of the afternoon driving around the city, familiarizing yourself with the sidestreets and small shops you would come to frequent. There hadn’t been much luck finding a place to stay for the night, but you hoped you’d have enough money after your shift to afford a room, at least for the weekend. You were more than ready to sleep anywhere that wasn’t your car and even more ready to have cash in your pockets again.

Anxious to start your first shift, you circled back to the club much earlier than Joel had asked. The sun was barely kissing the horizon as you put your car in park, the neon lights above the building flickering to life as the night swallowed the sky. You were two hours too early, but you didn’t want to wait any longer. You wanted to be on the stage now.

Searching through the bags of your belongings stuffed in the trunk of your car, you found your pile of club outfits and began piecing together different options to wear for the evenings. You laid out a matching pink lingerie set, the bra entirely rhinestoned in refractive colored jewels. It had done numbers on stage, a perfect outfit for making first impressions. You scoured for one more set—a just-in-case outfit—and found a thin, black lace teddy at the bottom of the pile. You could pair it with your taller heels and use it as your outfit for your second dance on stage. If you got that far. Everything else looked unappealing, but you’d have time and money to shop during the weekend for new clothes. New everything, if you were being honest. You were starting from the ground up in Austin.

As you tucked your clothes in your bag, you heard the sound of car keys jingling behind you. It was instinct to tense up at any noise in a parking lot, and your defenses were always up to foreign noises. Spinning quickly toward the sound, you came face to face with the same blonde you had seen on stage earlier in the day.

“Fuck! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you!” She apologized.

“No, it’s okay,” you assured her, releasing a shaky breath.

She was wearing an oversized shirt and gym shorts, her feet stuffed in a pair of fuzzy blue slippers. With her hair pinned up and most of her makeup wiped off, you knew her shift was over.

“You must be the new girl Joel told us about. I’m Monica.”

She extended a hand toward you, and you quickly introduced yourself.

“Sorry, I probably look like a mess. I just got in today.”

Monica looked over your shoulder into the trunk of your car, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the mess. Everything left of your life was stuffed into only a few bags; it was embarrassing, to say the least.

“Do you have family in town you’re staying with?” She asked.

“I do,” you lied. “I just haven’t had time to stop by yet and drop my things off.”

Monica looked between you and your car, skepticism crossing over her features. Dancers were great at lying but even better at discovering one. She saw through you in less than a minute.

“Let me give you my number,” she offered, pulling her phone from her purse. “When you’re done for the night, just call me. I’ve got an extra room you can crash in for a couple of nights if you need it.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. That’s, um, that’s way too kind of you,” you stammered.

She bristled at your words, shoving her phone in your hands to exchange numbers. You typed with shaking hands, the numbers mixing up as you deleted and retyped repeatedly. Handing the phone back to her, you waited for a text to ping through the air, and it did.

You made your first friend in the new town and only hoped things wouldn’t end like they did in Miami.

“There’s plenty of girls still here for the night,” she started. “They’ll set you up in the dressing room and make sure you’re taken care of tonight. If anyone gives you hell, just tell them Monica’s looking out for you, and I’ll set them straight.”

You laughed softly at her gentle threat. You weren’t expecting such hospitality so quickly, but it was refreshing to know someone cared about you. After a few more minutes of casual conversation, she parted ways for the evening, and you were left standing in front of the neon lights beckoning you inside.

Showtime.

The crowd inside the club had doubled since you had left earlier in the afternoon; the couches and bar tops were littered with groups of men and women all drinking high-priced drinks and shadowed in plumes of smoke. Three bartenders worked behind the counter, their routine flowing together as they worked in tandem, taking orders and making drinks.

As you walked down the hallway by the stage, you noticed Joel’s door shut to the club. It confused you since the club was ramping up for the night; owners were usually out mingling with customers and dancers. You considered knocking on the door and thanking him again, but the thought passed just as quickly as it came, and you found your way to the dressing room.

The room's bright lights were stark in contrast to the rest of the club, and you had to squint your eyes to adjust to the sudden change. Only two girls occupied the room, working on their hair in front of the vanity. The second you entered their eyesight, they turned with wide grins.

“You’re the new girl!” One squealed, her brown curls bouncing around her shoulders as she ran up to you.

She quickly pulled you into a tight embrace, her heavy vanilla perfume floating around her body and onto yours.

“I’m Heather,” she said, pulling away. “And that’s Carolina.”

She gestured back to the other brunette, who gave you a shy wave. She was shorter than Heather, her hair cut into a sharp bob and streaked with caramel highlights. You waved back, introducing yourself to them both. Heather bounced back to the vanity, moving her array of makeup to the side to make room for your things.

“There are open lockers to the side over there, so feel free to stash away anything you need,” she explained. “If you need a curling iron or hairspray, you can always grab mine. And Carolina has extra body glitter, too, but I’m guessing you have your own.”

“Yeah, I’ve got some in my bag, but thank you. You guys are really sweet.”

You sat next to Carolina, dumping your makeup bag on the counter. Carolina worked at fixing her black nipple pasties, both of them on display under her sheer red bra. Her curves filled out her mini-skirt, the red material matching both her bra and Pleaser heels. She was fiery; you liked that.

“Joel said you’re from Miami,” Heather started. “This has got to be way less exciting than your old club, huh?”

You tensed up at her question, deciding on what to divulge. Heather and Carolina were sweet, but they were still strangers, and after last week…your guard was higher than ever. Pulling out your foundation and eyeshadow, you quickly started your makeup routine, dodging any invasive questions they tried to ask.

“How long have you both been working here?” You asked, flipping the focus onto them.

Heather fluffed her hair in the mirror, adjusting her purple halter top over her breasts before turning back to you.

“I’ve been here since Joel opened the club, so almost five years,” she stated.

“And I’ve been here for a little over a year,” Carolina said beside you.

“How is Joel?” You asked. “As an owner.”

Heather and Carolina let out a little giggle, clearly something private between them that went unsaid in response to your question.

“We like to say he’s like a recluse,” Carolina explained. “He hardly ever comes around during business hours. He just stays quiet and tucked away in his office. We pay him house fees at the end of our shift, and he leaves us alone.”

That piqued your interest. How could a club owner be so hands-off? Or maybe this was normal, and everything you had experienced in Miami was incredibly unprofessional. It was unprofessional, but you only assumed parts of it were like having your boss pimp you and other girls out for drugs and money.

“Isn’t that weird, though? I mean, most club owners don’t do that. They’re usually—.”

“Creepy and a bit unsettling?” Heather offered.

You nodded slowly, focusing on yourself in the mirror as you lined your lips with a pink lip liner.

“Joel isn’t like that, I promise you. He’s probably the most respectful man I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t even think he’s seen our tits,” Carolina giggled. “I can’t even tell you the last time I saw him outside his office during a shift.”

You shuffled off the vanity chair, returning to your bag to pull out your first outfit. As you peeled your shirt off, you mused over their casual information on Joel. You couldn’t make sense of it; how was Joel real? He must be too good to be true. He had to be.

“But how does he know what’s going on around here?” You pressed.

“His brother, Tommy, comes around, checks in on us, and reports to Joel if there’s anything worth knowing,” Heather shrugged.

“That’s it?”

“Yep!” Both of them said in unison.

Carolina strolled to one of the lockers behind you, retrieving a red garter from her back to tie around her ankle. You eyed her as she tightened the straps of her heels and adjusted her bra one last time. As she flounced to the door, she looked over her shoulder and gave you a slight wink.

“You’ll be just fine here, doll. I promise.”

The moment your heels clicked against the glass floor of the stage, everything in your mind turned off. You gave the DJ— Bradley, call me Brad, doll— your music of choice before stepping onto the stage: a slow, sensual track that made the crowd turn their heads in curiosity. Until then, Heather and Carolina had taken turns onstage doing routines to high-tempo songs, keeping the crowd engaged and rowdy. But that wasn’t your forte.

You started things slowly, wrapping your hand around the pole and teasing the crowd with meticulous movements of your body that swayed to the beat of the music. Your fingers teased the outline of your breasts, cupping them seductively as you made eye contact with a few men sitting near the edge of the stage. Their undivided attention on your body was exhilarating; the promise of money dropping at your feet was enough to keep you going. Hooking your leg around the pool, you pulled yourself up, spinning in gentle turns as you flowed with the music. Everything you did was unrushed, and you took your time commanding the stage.

Eventually, the tips started piling up on the stage. More clients drew closer, their eyes hungry and watchful. You slid onto your knees, crawling toward a younger man who hovered by the side of the stage, his button-up shirt disheveled and wrinkled—no doubt from a private dance he paid for only an hour ago. You graced him with an inviting smile, swaying your ass back and forth behind you.

“Hi, beautiful,” he crooned, his voice barely audible above the thrum of the music.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you replied.

You knew how to bait them and make them chase after you. The thrill of it all was intoxicating, like the world was a blur around you, and all that existed was just the stage, the money, and your ability to make men crumble at your feet. Dragging yourself onto your knees, you coasted a hand down your abdomen, grinning as he tracked your fingers as they dipped over your navel. The money roll in his hand caught your attention, but you refrained from staring too long. Eye contact was crucial—if you kept him reeled in, the money would come to you.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” You asked, breathless.

“More than you know.”

He curled a finger, beckoning you closer. You didn’t like when clients reached for you, but you saw the crisp fifty-dollar bill hiding in his palm. Like a moth to a flame, you drew closer to the edge of the stage, letting his fingers work at the waistband of your thong. He didn’t prod or explore; his touch was respectful and gentle. Blowing him a kiss, you tucked the money under the thin fabric before returning to the center of the stage to finish your set.

The music drifted to an end, the applause from the crowd around the stage rippling above the sound as the DJ returned to his playlist of choice. You gathered the tips off the stage floor, stuffing them into your moneybag as you left your set.

For some strange reason, you were disappointed to see Joel’s office door shut off to the club despite Heather and Carolina’s words. You understood he didn’t come out during business hours, but part of you wished he had watched your first routine. Wasn’t he curious? And why did you care to have him watch you perform? It wasn’t like you were trying to impress him…Okay, maybe you were…

Passing the DJ booth, Brad gave you a proud smile and a small congratulations. You hurried back into the dressing room, frantic to change into your next outfit. Heather lounged along the benches in front of the locker, her nails tapping against her phone screen as she typed furiously.

“Ugh!” She exhaled. “Men suck.”

You giggled as you plopped beside her, enjoying the simple camaraderie of being in another sisterhood with other dancers. You missed your girls in Miami, but that wouldn’t stop you from making new friends. And from what you’d already experienced in your short few hours at Diamond Dolls, these girls were genuine and caring.

“Who’s the guy?” You asked.

“His name is Michael. We’ve been seeing each other on and off the past year, and he’s just… I don’t know. I feel like I give all my time and energy and get nothing in return. You know what I mean?”

“I do.”

You knew it too well. You had never been lucky in relationships; they were messy, and it was hard to come across a man who truly understood your field of work. Some of them loved the idea of having someone overly sexualized and, in their words, slutty. They considered every stripper to be the stereotypical version of a woman, all glitz and glam and naked on display. You were more than that, but none stuck around long enough to find out.

“Can I give you some advice?” You offered.

Heather stopped her typing, giving you her full attention.

“Men don’t deserve shit. If he’s not going to give his time and dedication to you, then he doesn’t deserve an ounce of your respect. You’re worth more than that. You deserve someone who will treat you like a queen.”

“Those types of men don’t exist,” she laughed. “They’re all sleazy and just want their dick wet.”

“I don’t know. I think there could be some good ones out there.”

Unwanted images of Joel flashed through your mind. There was no way you actually were thinking of him in this setting. You knew nothing about him or the type of man he was, so you couldn’t let your mind wander to the thought of him as a love interest, nor did you want that. He was a stranger and your boss.

“Well, if you find one, send him my way.”

“Absolutely,” you smiled.

As you both sat in comfortable silence, you worked at sorting through your wad of cash from your set. Smoothing out the bills and organizing them, you counted out over two hundred dollars. Not the best for your first routine in the club, but it was more than you had walked in with. And it was enough to hopefully find a place to stay over the weekend. However, Monica’s offer still remained in the back of your head.

It was well past three AM when you decided to call it quits for the night. After two more sets on stage, you collected another four hundred dollars, leaving you satisfied for your first shift. Clients were generous, and the atmosphere inside the club was intoxicating. You wanted more, but you wouldn’t be greedy. Not yet, at least.

After peeling off your clothes and replacing them with the sweats you had walked in with, you said your goodbyes to the girls and made your way to Joel’s office. A flight of butterflies swarmed in your stomach as your hand wavered over the door. Why did he make you so nervous? You were never nervous around men; you were usually quite the opposite. But Joel…You couldn’t get a read on him. You didn’t know what to expect, which made it so much worse.

“Hi,” you said quietly, softly cracking the door open.

You peered into the office, spotting Joel hunched over the desk, rifling through some papers. He glanced up quickly, his eyes shifting back down to the papers…Then, immediately right back up to you. You didn’t miss how his gaze drifted down your body, the hunger flickering to life behind his irises. You were in nothing more than a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, but you might as well have been naked with the way he undressed you with his heavy stare.

Your name fell softly from his lips, his mouth curving up in that same grin you melted over earlier.

“Heard you were the star of the show tonight,” he smiled.

“I don’t know about that,” you laughed.

Sliding into the office, you shut the door behind you, leaving only a few feet of space between you and Joel’s large frame. Somehow, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, his gravity pulling you forward.

“No need to be modest, sweetheart. Everyone was talkin’ ‘bout you out there.”

“How do you know that? The girls told me you stay in here all night.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. He wore that snug black button-up, and the soft material still deliciously clung to his muscles. His biceps flexed under the shirt, and you trained your eyes on him to keep the temptation of looking at bay.

“Don’t worry, I hear everythin’ inside this club. Got eyes and ears everywhere.”

“How’d you get into the business?”

“That’s a story for another time, sweetheart. It’s late, and I’m sure y’wanna get home,” he chuckled.

A mystery. That's what Joel was: an absolute mystery. You couldn’t dig under his walls, and you sure as hell wouldn’t let him dig under yours. If he kept his life close to his chest, then you’d do the same.

“What’s your price for house fees?” You asked, quickly changing the subject.

“Flat rate of twenty dollars. You can tip out the bartenders and Brad if y’want, but I pay them well enough that y’don’t have to worry ‘bout it.”

“Twenty?” You gaped.

His brows furrowed together, trying to understand your shock. You pulled a twenty from your money bag and walked toward his desk to slide it to him.

“They charge you less in Miami?” He questioned, reluctant to take the money.

“No, it’s not that. They charged a lot more…Like over a hundred some nights.”

It was Joel’s turn to stare at you dumbfounded; his lips parted in confusion. Wasn’t it normal for house fees to be that high? Or had you been lied to all these years?

“You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”

“I swear I’m not. That’s what the club owner charged us down there.”

Joel ran a hand down his face, his eyes squeezing shut. You swayed awkwardly, your fingers digging into the material of your money bag.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized. “Didn’t mean to cuss at you like that. Just surprised me, that’s all.”

“It’s okay,” you replied quietly.

“M’gonna take real good care of you here, ‘kay?”

His words shouldn’t have affected you, but heat crawled up your neck as you tossed his words over inside your head. Once again, Joel was proving to be far different than what you were used to back in Miami, but you wouldn’t let yourself overthink it.

“Thank you, Joel. I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t gotta thank me none, sweetheart. Y’get home safe. I’m sure your family will be happy to see you.”

You cringed at the statement, another reminder of the web of lies you were already weaving. You’d tell him the truth eventually, or maybe not at all. You wouldn’t jeopardize your chance at a new life here.

Joel’s eyes did one final pass over your body, and your anxiety nearly drove you right into the door when you turned to leave. He needed to stop looking at you like that. You didn’t need any more fuel to the fire burning inside your stomach.

You spent far too long hovering your finger over Monica’s contact information, debating whether or not to take up her offer of a place to stay. You had enough money for a hotel room, but the idea of saving it and tucking it away sounded more appealing. You didn’t know Monica— or any of these girls— but her willingness to help you earlier proved how loyal these dancers were to one another.

Dialing her number, you tapped your fingers against your steering wheel, watching through your dirty windshield as patrons filed out for the night. You wondered which of these cars belonged to Joel and promptly stopped yourself from wondering about anything else. Why was every thought beginning and ending with him?

“Hello?”

“Hi, uh… Monica?” You reintroduced yourself, stumbling over your words like it was your first time speaking.

“Look who made it out alive in her first shift!” She said cheerily. “I’ll shoot you my address, and you can drive over. I’ve already got the guest bedroom set up for you.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t want to intrude on you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! You’re not intruding at all, honey. I’ve got the house to myself this weekend and could use the company.”

“I really appreciate it, Monica. Thank you.”

The city was nothing like Miami at night; the streets were empty, and the air was silent and calm. You kept the volume low on the radio as you drove to Monica’s house, enjoying the sound of the breeze as it drifted through the crack in your window. You focused on learning the street names as you passed every intersection, replacing the thoughts of Joel’s warm smile with things that would prove to be more important to you. But the memory of his eyes and smile still lurked in your mind, and no matter how many green lights you sped through, you couldn’t escape it.

Monica’s home was tucked away in a residential neighborhood nearly half an hour outside the city, her tiny home the only one with a porch light still flickering under the dark sky.

You barely opened your trunk when you heard Monica’s voice trailing down the driveway.

“Hi!” She squealed.

You turned to find her bounding down the pavement barefoot, her blonde hair tousled into a high ponytail and her pajamas hugging her curves. Setting your bag on the ground, you emptied your arms to welcome her into a hug, which should have felt awkward given you had hardly known her less than a full day, but with Monica…It felt normal.

“Thank you again,” you exhaled, your body slumping into her tight embrace.

“Oh, don’t even mention it. My ex has the kids this weekend, so the place is extra lonely.”

“You’ve got kids?” You asked.

It wasn’t an accusatory question; you had danced alongside several women who were single moms supporting their children. Not to mention, Monica looked way too young to have kids, let alone more than one.

“I’ve got two,” she explained with a tired smile. “Twins, actually. Jackson and Luke. They just turned three in June.”

You shuffled your overnight bag over your arm while Monica led the way to the front door. The moment she opened the door, you were welcomed into a very lived-in home. Kid's toys littered the ground, while mismatched socks and shoes lay around in other spots. You smiled to yourself, seeing such a cozy place; you missed being in a home. Living in shady apartments and hotels left you bitter and yearning for somewhere to call home.

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” she laughed absentmindedly. “The boys tend to destroy any clean area in the house.”

“You don’t have to apologize at all. I love it.”

She glanced back at you, quirking an eyebrow at your statement. It was true; you did love it. And you loved being welcomed into a home without feeling like a total burden. Monica gave you a small tour of the house before guiding you down the hall to the guest room. It was set up with a queen-sized bed and a small vanity in the corner—perfect for a night or two to get you back on your feet.

Once settled in, you returned to the living room, where Monica was lying on the couch.

“Thank you so much again,” you said, collapsing into the cushions.

“Of course, girl. I tend to be the motherly one out of the group, so if you ever need anything, you can always come to me. How was the first night?”

You stretched your legs out along the sectional, burrowing further into the pillows as you let your body unwind. Monica mimicked your movements, curling up under the small blanket draped over her body.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” you admitted. “Being in a new club is always scary, you know? But everyone has been so welcoming, and the customers are great. And Joel is…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Joel is what?” Monica pressed, giggling slightly.

“He’s amazing. I’ve never met a club owner like him. He really cares about all of you girls, and it shows. I’m not used to that.”

“You had it bad out there in Miami, huh?”

You shifted slightly, trying to mask your unease with the question. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Monica; she hadn’t given you a reason yet not to, but the question was too fresh to answer. Glimpses of that night suspended themselves in your head, moments you couldn’t shake and only hoped you’d never have to relive. Everything you saw… everything you did… you wanted to forget.

“Is it alright if we don’t talk about it?” You asked, your gaze dropping to your hands in your lap.

“Of course, honey,” Monica said softly. “Whatever happened out there, just know it’s in the past, and you’re okay now. You’re safe here with me. I’ll take care of you, and so will Joel.”

Joel.

Everything kept circling back to him. He was an enigma dressed in all black with a warm smile and a country twang. You were used to men being nice; they almost always had an ulterior motive for their kindness, but not Joel. His kindness wasn’t self-fulfilling, as far as you knew, and you could see how serious he was about the safety of everyone in the club. Maybe things would turn out differently here; maybe things would be okay.

The early morning sunlight slowly began to seep through the living room curtains as you and Monica fell into endless conversation. Eventually, she mumbled something about needing a few hours of sleep before needing to run errands, and you took it as your sign to retire to bed. As you settled under the covers, you forced your mind away from the wandering thoughts of Miami. It was easy to forget everything that had transpired in the hotel room when you kept yourself busy, but in the silence, there was nowhere to run from the memories.

“Alright, which one of you are we fucking first?” One of the guys asked.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, undoing his belt, as he asked the question. Your stomach rolled with nausea as the realization hit you; Richie had pimped you out. This wasn’t a party; this was a setup. You swayed in the corner of the room, eyeing the door to figure out how to escape without being snatched up by one of the men. But there were too many of them and just the three of you to try and fend for yourselves. What did it matter, though, when your two closest friends were already drugged out of their minds?

You couldn’t have slept more than one or two hours. The sun was too bright inside the bedroom, and your body was coated in a thin sweat as you jolted from the bed. You were safe. You were in Texas. You were at Monica’s house. You repeated those reminders as you rolled out of bed and entered the guest bathroom. The reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger; your eyes puffy and your face pale.

“You’re okay,” you whispered to yourself.

Splashing cold water on your face, you took a few minutes to gather your bearings. The days spent on the road running from Miami were catching up to you, and so was the anxiety that you had kept at bay.

“Hey!” Monica called from somewhere down the hall.

You braced yourself against the bathroom sink, swallowing the startled gasp that threatened to bubble out of your mouth.

“I’m headin’ out to the grocery, so if you want me to grab anything for you, just shoot me a text! I left breakfast on the kitchen counter for whenever you’re hungry,” she continued.

“T–Thank you!” You stuttered.

Dammit, you were okay.

You waited until you heard the sound of the front door closing before emerging from the bathroom. In your slim hours of sleep, Monica had cleaned up the house from the night before. Toys were piled in small bins beside the couch, and the miscellaneous clothes and shoes had disappeared, most likely to their respective places in the laundry or kids' bedroom.

The lingering smell of breakfast led you into the kitchen, where a plate of eggs and bacon sat neatly on the counter. Monica was truly a godsend, and knowing you were in good hands settled some nerves. Settling onto the kitchen barstool, you inhaled the aroma of the plate of food and reached for the fork. Your hand wavered as you spotted a piece of paper tucked under the plate's corner, dainty handwriting scribbling across the note.

In case you need it, here’s Joel’s number.

You stared at the series of numbers before you, your throat dry. Joel. The man that was giving you a second chance at this life you had decided to live. Joel. The man with a kind heart and even kinder eyes. Joel.

The one person who could change everything.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel x stripper!reader #joel miller x stripper!reader #joel miller tlou #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel x f!reader #joel x female reader #no outbreak!joel miller #no outbreak au

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judes-hoe · 6 months ago

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Late celebration~ LN4

Parrings ~ Lando Norris x reader

Summary ~ you and Lando are in a secret relationship. So you didn’t get to celebrate with him during his win in Miami so you give him a late celebration when he gets back to his apartment in Monaco.

Warnings ~ p in v(unprotected), riding, creampie, hand job, subby Lando😵‍💫, teasing.

A/N~know I’m late to this but these pics did something to me and I needed to make a fic lol.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You and Lando have been a secret for a while, you didn’t wanna get bombarded on social media. You were beyond happy when he crossed that finish line, cheering in the living room. You couldn’t wait till her got back to celebrate.

He got back after a couple of days. Walking in the door of the apartment with a smile. Being greeted by you at the door with open arms and a big smile so happy for him. He immediately hugs you after he closes the door, picking you up and taking you to the couch, sitting down.

“I’m so proud of you lan you don’t understand.” You tell him peppering his face with kisses. “I won for you.” He tells you with a big smile. “I think you deserve and well needed celebration!” You tell him kissing his neck. “I think I do to.” He smirks while you kiss his neck. “Take this off.” You said tugging his shirt.

He takes it off for you and smiles as you litter his neck in small purplish hickeys. “I’ve waited all week for you to come home.” You whisper in his ear, sat on his lap now kissing his chest. “Going to give you a well deserved award for winning.” You smirk up at him and get up from his lap so he can lift his hips while you pull his shorts and boxers off.

Now he’s fully naked in front of you, you decide to tease him. You see his cock standing tall wanting to be touched. “Have you missed me?” You asked touching near his cock but not touch it yet. “Y-yes I have…need you!” He said getting needy now.

“Gonna be a good boy?” You asked looking up at him. “Yes I’ll be a good boy!” He whimpered out to you. You smirk and grab his cock and start making out with him. He moans into the kiss as you finally touch him. “Feels good.” He mumbled into the kiss. You smirk into the kiss when you hear him and speed up your movements which makes him moan a little louder.

You pull away from the kiss and start undressing yourself. Once you’re completely naked you straddle his lap. “Been waiting for you to come home, been waiting to feel you.” You tell him sinking down onto his cock letting out a moan. “Fuck” he said gripping your hips immediately.

You rock back and forth to get used to being filled again. You then slowly lift your hips and start bouncing up and down. You moaning with your head thrown back and he’s gripping on your hips for dear like definitely leaving some bruises. “God Lando!” You moan out and place your hands on his chest for support.

You ride him both your moans and skin clapping filling the apartment. “Fuck Lando…I’m gonna cum.” You said nails now scraping over his chest. “Cum with me.” He said breathing heavy. You let go and cum around him with a moan and he cums shortly after thrusting his hips up. His white seed painting your insides.

You stay like that for a moment before getting off and going to get a warm cloth to clean you both. When you come back you we Lando take a picture only one finger up but you can only see his chest. You roll your eyes and clean him up.

#lando norris x reader #judes-hoe😚#lando fluff #lando fic #lando smut #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando norris #mclaren #f1 2024 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #mclaren f1

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lotusunique · 5 months ago

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The engagement pt.2

Armando Aretas x Black Fem!Reader

In which the Reader has to attend Kelly and Dorns engagement party where an ex lover will be attending

You look up at the clock it was damn near 6:30 and you still weren’t fully prepared. Maybe it was the anxiety getting to you. On top of that you didn’t actually tell Kelly that Armando was your plus one. It wouldn’t really matter to her , you did all work together anyhow.

You vacuum and straighten up your living room, making sure not a single thing is out of place. Your personal house rule was whenever you leave for a period of time the house had to be neat so that future you wouldn’t have to clean up.

“Okay what else to do , what else to do”, you think aloud scanning your apartment. You spot your packed duffel bag in the corner beside your plant. “Hair! What the fuck”,you realize what’s missing.

You run to your bathroom and gather your products. This curl routine was not gon be easy to do within twenty minutes.

-25 minutes later-

“Okay curls poppin’!”,you say admiring how well your curly hair looks. “Let’s just hope this Miami heat gives me a few hours before the shrinkage sets in.

You quickly go to grab your outfit off your freshly made bed. Everyone knows you don’t wear your outfit while you do your hair. You smooth out the creases of the bodycon dress, eyeing how it accentuates your body.

You hear a loud knock on the door, “Shit!”, you say. “So Drug Dealers are fuckin punctual”,you groan. Grabbing your heels from the bottom of your closet you hear another knock.

“Cominggggg”, you call out. You finally make it to the door and attempt to steady your breathing.

You open the door revealing Armando in all black, his gold chain and cross pendant dangling around his neck and motorcycle helmet in hand. “How can someone look so sexy”, you think to yourself.

“H-Hey”,You stutter. “H-H-Hi”,he mocks you with a wide smirk. “Shut up”,you roll your eyes before letting him inside.

“Your place is nice”,he says looking around, eyeing the cozy loft. “You can sit anywhere you like. I’m almost dressed, i just need to grab the rest of my jewelry.”,You say looking over at him. “Cool take your time”,he says going to lounge on your couch.

You return to your room, grabbing a heart locket that matches your heart pendant earrings and your favorite tennis bracelet. You slide on your bracelet and earrings before making your way to the living room where Armando’s sat scrolling through his phone.

You look into the small mirror that’s against your wall checking your reflection before attempting to hook the clasp of your necklace.

“Why are these things so frickin hard to put on.”,you groan aloud. Before you know it, Armando is behind you, “hold your hair”,he says grabbing the necklace from your hands,you and his fingertips grazing each other, sending shivers up your spine.

Doing what he says, you hold your hair in one hand, watching as he fiddles with the clasps before finally letting the necklace lay flat on your deep mocha coloured skin.

“Thanks”, you smile up at him. He towers you by a few inches,causing you to look up at him. He nods without saying another word.

“Okay, I’m ready-“,you say reaching for your bag. Before you can grab the bag, he picks it up with no hesitation. “You don’t have to do that?”,you say furrowing your eyebrow at him.

“¿Qué, los traficantes de drogas no pueden tener modales?”, he asks raising an eyebrow with a smile. (What,Drug dealers cant have manners?)

“Oh shut up”,You laugh before the two of you walk out your apartment, you locking the door behind you.

The two of you walk out to where his motorcycle is as he hands you his helmet. “Is it safe for you to ride without one on?”, you ask. “I’ve done way more dangerous shit than this. Trust I’ll be fine princesa “,he says before getting onto the bike. You follow his lead before tucking the motorcycle helmet over your head.

Of course with your line of work you’d been on a motorcycle before, but you’d never been on a motorcycle with Armando. You lean into him, getting a smell of his cologne that makes you melt. He has just the right amount on, you hated when dudes smelt like they bathed in the shit.

Breezing through the streets of Miami, clinging onto him was something you could do forever it felt like.

Holding onto him made you feel so safe and secure, like nothing mattered in this moment. “We’re here”,he says, causing your heart to somewhat sink. “I wish I could ride for five more minutes”,You mutter under your breath. He turns to you, hearing exactly what you said,”what?”,he adds a laugh.

“Huh?”,you respond pretending like you didn’t say anything. He lets out a laugh before the two of you walk to the beach house’s front door.

“Heyy!”,Dorn opens the door,embracing you in a hug. He nods to Armando in the way that dudes usually do before eyeing the two of you.

“You two together?”,He asks.

“N-“

“Yep”

You look over confused at Armando who has a grin on his face.

“So when did you two happen?”,Dorn asks giving a confused glance. “Huh? What’d ya say Kells?”,You call out, pretending , to get out of this god awful awkward situation. “Gotta go”,you speed walk over to Kelly.

“My beautiful best friend you look gorgeous”,You smile admiring your best girl. “Thank you”,she smiles, pulling you in for a hug. “Let me show you to your room.”,She offers. “Okay let me grab my plus one”,You say. You walk over to Armando and Dorn who are deep in conversation. “Can I borrow him for a few?”,you ask. Dorn gives you a quick nod before talking to the other party guest.

“Oh hey Armando. You two..came together”, she gives a sneaky smile. “Yeah”,You give a quick forced grin, essentially telling her to hurry up and show you the room. “Right this way”, she nods her head and leads you two to the upstairs area of the beach house.

“Right here is me and Dorns room, this is Rafes room and Dorns brothers room.”,she starts. “And this one at the end of the hall is yours.”,she says. “Get unpacked, relax a little and then you can meet us downstairs”, She advises before disappearing back down the stairs.

You drop your bag on the side near the bed, Armando following your lead. “Why did you tell Dorn we’re together?”, you ask, trying to whisper. “The whole point of me coming with you is to make it seem like we’re dating right? Gotta make sure we look like we’re together”,he explains. “Okay you’re right.”, you sigh.

“Como siempre”,He laughs (I always am) “Shut up”,You laugh before the two of you return downstairs.

You strike up conversation with your co workers and some of Dorn and Kelly’s families, both already knowing you because of the history you have with the two of them.

You spot commotion coming from the front of the house and a sinking feeling enters your stomach. You start to fidget with your finger-tips when you spot him.

The man that attempted to ruin your life.

#bad boys ride or die #bad boys for life #armando aretas #armando x reader

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wasawattpadkid · 2 years ago

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Housewife

Part - 9

Summery: Billy and Stu have been planning these murders for quite some time. Everything is going to plan until you show up. What happens when they meet someone who is just as mentally deluded as they are?

Pairing: poly!ghostface x fem!reader

Warnings for this series: murder, blood, smut (will be more in depth on smut chapters), power dynamics, a dash of sexism, knives, stalking, perverse behavior, cheating,

Part 1

The house was clean but it bothered you it wasn't cleaner. It had been almost a week since the murders. You didn't remember most of your time at the hospital. The doctors told you that you went into cardiac arrest due to trauma. Even your heart was over dramatic. You died for a few seconds but something somewhere decided you needed to be here. At least that's the way you liked to think of it. Friday was Sydney and Tatum's funeral. It was a hard thing to sit through especially seeing Dewy cry the way he did. There was a reason he lived through the murders, maybe it was the same one that kept you breathing.

Staying at home alone was slowly killing you and your dad saw it. In all honesty you couldn't believe he had agreed to letting Stu move in for a bit. Your dad barley let you leave the bed, scared you wouldn't heal properly. He had been taking care of you the best he could. Changing your bandages and whatnot. He had to go back to work soon and he didn't want you to be by yourself.

Stu had called you every night once he heard you left the hospital. He told you all about how his parents were back in town just to see the damage to the house. He didn't seem upset by the heartless fact but you knew it had to hurt worse than his stab wounds. Billy moved back in with his dad, that's what Stu had told you. Billy kept calling but for reasons unknown to him you never answered. Even if you did pick up the moment you heard his voice the phone would hit the receiver.

You heard a car pull in the driveway making your heart sink. Trying to convince your father to let you ride with him to pick up Stu was an impossible task. "You are not going outside with it being cold as hell. You better be glad I'm letting him come over here at all. End of discussion." It was aggravating sure but you couldn't argue with him.

"Boy who raised you?" Your dad snapped as he opened the front door. "Um no one really Sir." You dad dropped Stu's bags by the couch letting the boy walk inside. "That would explain it." Your eyes were wide hearing the hateful conversation. "What are you guys talking about?" Your dad hung his keys up on the hook leaving his coat on the rack beside the keys. "Your friend here thinks 21 Jump Street is better than Miami Vice." Stu shrugged while you bit your lip holding back a laugh and tears. The last time you saw him was at the funeral and you did get to speak to him then. "Is it alright if I give her a hug?" Stu looked at your dad then back at you.

"She's a grown woman ask her." Your dad may not act like it but he appreciated the boy's polite nature. "Can I hug you?" He held out his arms, his baggy sweater covering the wounds you knew littered his skin. "Get over here doofus." Your voice was shaky. A small wince left your lips as Stu squeezed you a little too tight. You weren't about to complain though. You were just happy he was here. Stu pulled away once your dad started talking. "I cleaned out the guest bedroom so you'll have a place to stay. Now I don't care if you two hang out in the same room but the doors in this house stay open." Stu nodded terrified of your dad.

"Understood Mr. L/n." Stu saluted and your dad just sighed. "Have you eaten yet kid?" Your friend barley remembered his middle name let alone the last time he ate. "No Sir." Mumbling under his breath your dad grabbed his coat and keys again. "I'm going to get pizza. Is he allergic to anything?" He asked pointing at Stu. "Soap maybe but that's about it." Stu poked your arm with a smile, happy you still act like your old self. Things were different no doubt but if you made it through death he was sure you two could fix whatever was broken. Your dad took off leaving the house to you two.

"21 jump street really? Man you've got a type." You joked but Stu stayed serious. "Have you talked to him?" By him he meant Billy. The last person you wanted to talk to or about. "No. We have nothing to talk about." The biggest understatement in the history of understatements. "You have plenty to talk about. You could say "Hey Billy does this look infected?" Ooh or "Billy did you ever think that haircut made you look like a ken doll?" You laughed so hard your side started to shoot pain throughout your abdomen.

Stu didn't know his own strength when it came to jokes. "Um here sit down." He grabbed your arm as his other hand rested on your lower back supporting you as you sat on the couch. "I'm fine. It does that sometimes." He looked down at you noticing the bags under your eyes and the sort of death warmed over look you were absolutely rocking. "Can I see it?" He said wanting to compare the damage. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." You winked at him but he just stared at you with concern. Slowly you peeled up your shirt showing off the gauze. "Jesus Christ it's so bruised." He curiously touched the tip of his finger to the discolored skin.

"Ah!" You screamed scaring him. He jerked his hand away as you held your side and laughed. He felt hurt for a second before pursing his lips, finally having a laugh. "I'm glad you're lightening up." You patted the seat next to you wanting him settle down for a bit. "I've just been really worried about you. You literally died." You could hear the sadness start to crack in his voice. "Hey, only for a few seconds. I'm a drama queen at heart." Stu smiled looking at the wall rather than you.

You grabbed his hand from his lap weaving your fingers with his. "It's going to be hard but we'll make it work. We'll start all over. Just us against the world." He wanted to imagine Billy here. He'd be on the other side of you just sitting, listening to you and Stu talk. The Billy you knew wasn't the Billy Stu had lived with for the past year. Sure he could be a self righteous asshole but behind closed doors he was caring in his own way.

"How is he?" You asked breaking the silence in the room. "He's good. He's going back to school tomorrow." The school had closed for a week out of respect for the people who lost their lives. Everyone had told you to take your time to heal and grieve before going back. It was a surprise to hear Billy would want to go back immediately. "Why?" Stu thought back to the long conversations he's had with his friend every night since he left the hospital. "He said he just wants to get back into a routine. At this point we're just trying to graduate."

It was a valid point. "What are you doing after graduation?" Before, Stu would've said party. But now he truly didn't know. "I guess go to college like everybody else." You didn't know it but your little speech really did a number on him. Not to mention the brush of death he experienced. "That's no fun." You pouted. The boy just shrugged. "Helps me blend in you know? Like you said when we first met." If Stu wanted his sequel he was going to have to work for it.

Lifting up your arms you cup his face turning him to face you. "Don't think you need to change Stu Macher." Now you were just confusing him. "You changed yourself for Billy and it worked. Why can't I be who you need me to be?" His voice was once again wobbly. "Because Stu I fell in love with the real you. The one that hits on anything with a pulse with no intention of following through. The real you that secretly loves girly shit but won't admit it in fear of your friends hating you for it." His lip quivered as tears built up on his waterline.

"If it wasn't for you this whole story line would've been much different. You gave me hope that this whole thing might just work out. You're my best friend, and before you get upset thinking I've friend zoned you. Just know that I love you with all my shitty heart." It was a little soon to be saying the word "love" but after helping murder people it was probably the least dramatic thing you could say. Stu lunged forward with the intention of kissing you. Instead his forehead collided with yours. You grabbed your head falling back from the force quickly holding your side which also started to pulse with pain. "I am so sorry." Stu said trying to check your forehead. "It's okay just give me a second everything is hurting."

If Billy was here Stu knew he'd take initiative. He'd grab your face making sure you weren't hurt and would somehow magically make the pain go away. But Stu wasn't Billy so he had to think of the next best thing. "What can I do to help?" He asked as you waited for the headache to stop. "Can you get the ice pack out of the freezer?" Now that he could do. He pulled open the fridge going straight for the ice box at the bottom. He grabbed the cute little plaid ice bag from the box and shut the door. "Here you go."

"Thanks." You held the bag on top of your head for a second as the cold helped alleviate the beginning of a migraine. Stu sat back down next to you watching you close your eyes. You really were one of the most beautiful girls he's ever seen. "Okay now if you promise not to beat me up you can have that kiss now." He carefully placed his lips on yours, smiling into the kiss. Stu pulled away wanting it just to be a cute little moment. "You didn't have to stop." You said giving him a weird look for the grin on his face. "I know. It's just... you actually smell terrible and I just couldn't go on much longer." You scrunched up your nose playfully smacking his good arm. Stu was back and you were glad to have him.

Your dad finally brought home the pizza noticing someone had already set the table. "Y/n I told you not to be-" He looked at you sitting on the couch with a magazine while Stu was fixing drinks. "What do you want to drink?" Stu asked grabbing the last empty glass. "I didn't know you hired a maid Y/n." That boy was whipped and your dad knew it the moment Stu got in his car. "I didn't, he offered to help." You defended yourself and Stu backed you up.

"It's true. I just wanted to help is all." He wasn't lying but there was more to it. You weren't able to do the few things you loved to do. Having the table set and everyone's food ready was like a love language of yours. Stu was just happy to see you smile because of something he did. "I'll have tea." Your dad sat the pizza on the table as you walked over to Stu. "What do you want to drink?" Stu asked you once he sat down your dad's glass of tea. "I am perfectly capable of making my own drink." You protested but Stu was determined. "I know but I'm already up and making glasses so what would you like?"

You mumbled an answer as he filled your glass. "Thank you." He just smiled at you telling you to sit down. Once Stu sat down everyone started grabbing pieces. "What kind of music do you listen to?" Your dad asked Stu before taking a bite of his pizza. Stu swallowed the food in his mouth before he spoke. "I listen to what most people my age do. A bit of the Beastie Boys mixed with some Nirvana. Nine Inch Nails is pretty cool." Stu saw the unamused look on your dad's face. "That new Elvis record sure is groovy." Your friend's impersonation made you nearly choke on your food. Your dad even laughed which was a hard thing to get him to do.

"He sounds just like you." Your dad pointed towards you. "I do not sound like that." He raised his eyebrow as your mouth hung open. "You definitely sound like that." Stu said choosing to side with your dad rather than you. You shrugged taking a drink from your glass. Once the box was empty your dad folded it throwing it in the trash. "Thanks for dinner Mr. L/n." Stu said making your dad shake his head. "You're welcome kid." Finishing the rest of your drink you stood up not with a wince in pain. "Woah you need help?" Stu asked as he quickly stood up ignoring his own pain. "No I'm fine. I think I'm going to take a shower."

The room got quiet. Stu didn't know what all that entailed and your dad was simply waiting for Stu to make a wrong move. "Dad I'm going to need you to show him how to cover this so he can help when you go to work tomorrow." The boy next to you looked at you like you were crazy. The thought of you being half naked with him and your dad in the same room gave him the heebiejeebies. "Don't he know how to cover his own wounds?" Your dad asked thinking the whole demonstration thing seemed awkward. He didn't do awkward.

"Oh I've just been letting the stitches breath." Stu said nonchalantly. You gasped at the admission in shock. "Good God. Both of you get up stairs to her bathroom I can't believe I've gotta do this." Your dad cursed under his breath. You and Stu started up the stairs before you had a chance to scold him. "Let me see them." You went ahead and started pulling at his shirt. "Unhand me woman!" He yelled embarrassing you. He laughed as he made his way into your bathroom.

Your dad made his way into the bathroom bemused by you and Stu's thumb wrestling match. "Y/n come here." You stood with your arms up as far as you could bring them. He grabbed the hem of the shirt trying to pull it off without hurting you. By this point he had the technique down. Stu cringed just thinking about what was under the bandage. Billy had told him what you did and how you did it. When you hit that wall the blade had curved going diagonally into your skin. They said it was a wonder it didn't go out the other side.

Stu had cuts on his arm and different sized cuts all over his abdomen. Some of which broke the skin on his back. You crossed your arms over your bra concealing what was already covered. "Can you get your shirt off by yourself?" Your dad asked his parental mode on. "Um yeah." Stu said getting up off the edge of the tub and slowly peeling off his shirt. "Jesus Christ boy." You covered your mouth seeing his blood stained tank top. "What?"

"That crazy son of a bitch sure did a number on you." He said looking Stu up and down. "I don't go down easy." He laughed not truly understanding how depressing the sight was to see. "You don't have to tell me that. Do you need help taking of the wife beater?" You mentally face palmed at his words. Stu started to peel the shirt off but his skin was stuck to it. "Ow fuck!" Stu cursed forgetting about your dad in the room. "I'm so sorry."

"How long have you had that shirt on?" Stu thought about it for a second. "Since last night." He really was helpless. "Get in the tub." Your dad sighed but he couldn't be mad at Stu. You told him about his family or rather the lack there of. Stu taught himself everything he knows so he's simply doing all he knows how to do. "Excuse me?" Stu asked not sure if he heard him right. "Y/n get me a warm wet rag." Your dad practically pushed Stu into the bathtub. What Stu failed to realize was that the fabric of the tight tank top had bonded to the fresh scab each stab wound had. If he just torn it off it would rip the scabs off leaving him bleeding again with the risk of infection. If he didn't already have one by now.

"Here hold the rag on each of your cuts to soften up the scabs." Stu did as told trusting that your dad knew what he was doing. "Now let's get this done really quickly. You watching?" Stu looked over at you as you smiled down at him all scrunched up in the bathtub. Even with your dad present it was an oddly intimate moment. "Take off all the tape and gauze. Throw it away, any time we take off the bandage it goes in the trash. Even if it looks clean." Stu nodded along mentally taking notes. He looked at your stitches noticing they didn't look near as bad as his. The bruising was absolutely horrendous but the wound itself looked great.

"Clean it with warm water only. Don't use alcohol or anything like that." Stu starred blankly regretting his previous actions. "If you did don't worry, I'm surprised you tried to clean it at all." You wanted to tell your dad to be nicer but you honestly agreed with him. He took a different wet rag wiping your side gently. "That doesn't hurt?" Stu asked worried about you. "Actually it's not that bad after awhile. It's mainly when I raise my arm to take of my shirt that it pulls the skin and hurts."

"After it's clean put some Neosporin on it and you cover it back up. Since she is taking a shower though I'll have to tape a piece of plastic over the bandages. Make sense?" It made sense but Stu knew he'd forget most of it. "How will I take a shower?" He asked your dad. The boy had been living without bandages since the hospital. He didn't know you needed to do all this extra work and his parents sure didn't ask if he needed help. "Honestly I think you'll just have to get a wash cloth and wash off for the next couple of days."

You saw the discouraged look on Stu's face. He was almost too cute to be a murderer. "Don't worry. We got each other's backs right?" You asked him dragging him from thought. "Of course." You and your dad slowly started peeling Stu's tank top off. You apologized every time he winced or cursed in pain. "Well now you'll learn not to do that again." Your dad said as he threw the ruined shirt in the garbage. The wounds on his pale skin were an angry red meaning he was probably starting to get an infection. Your dad helped clean each wound and after awhile everyone was making jokes.

He placed the last piece of medical tape down making sure he got all of the wounds. "That's the last of them I think. Now let's go get you a shirt on and let her take a shower." Stu slowly got out of the bathtub taking his sweater out of the bathroom with him. Your dad was just about to walk out before you hugged him. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me." He was starting to understand why you needed that boy over. "You'd be surprised." Your dad said as he left the room.

The shower was quick and careful. Making sure to avoid the new bandages at all cost. Once you got out and dried off you peeled the plastic layer off of your side, throwing it in the trashcan. You opened up your closet deciding to put on a robe because you struggled with shirts. You walked down stairs to tell everyone good night when you saw both Stu and your dad passed out on the couch. Your friend was curled up with his head on the chair arm, using it as a makeshift pillow. While your dad sat with his arms crossed and head back. You walked towards the TV set turning it off with a click.

"I was listening to that." Your dad mumbled. "Yeah I bet. Go to bed you've got work tomorrow and Stu. Stu?" You called his name slowly shaking him awake. His eyes were wide with confusion. That nap must have been deep. "Hey hun I'm going to bed. Your bed is already made up and everything." Stu barley understood a word you said. "I'll make sure he gets to bed and stays in it. Goodnight sweetheart." Your dad said as he kissed your forehead. You just smiled. "Night dad, love you." You said as he returned it. "Love you too."

Part 10

Taglist: @katie-tibo @agustdeeyaa @bowlofceral @gonnapermashift @tati-the-fangirl @kozumewhore @tatijoestar @illyanam1011 @c4rved-pumpk1n @msghostface @gojosbucket @sammanna @lokigirlszendaya @reneki @fetusharryluvr @kadu-5607 @pumpk1n-writes @lovekeeho @tojisblood @zeysartzone @bluedevilss @life-of-music3 @flyestvenustrap @littleblondesoprano @imobsessedreader @loomiscorpse @nicciekawegosblog @reneemunson @miss-puregotti @ksgsfsgaj @zoleea-exultant @briefwinnerpersonaturtle @mistydreamscape @l4venderia @nex-crowley @ashreblogsnow @brynaa223 @your-desire666 @billyloomiswhore4 @holyladyofsorrows @megluv1 @ellieswifeiya @yoluvrz @forallthstarsinthesky @madsothree

(if your name has a line through it Tumblr wouldn't let me tag you)

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minawritesfanfic · 2 months ago

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You are who you eat

Dexter Morgan x F!Reader

Word count: ~1k

Summary: It seems there’s another careful serial killer roaming the streets of maimi and their police department

Part 0

Previous | Next

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Chicken schnitzel with creamed watercress, a delicious meal even with a few ingredients changes.

I coated the meat in buttermilk with my left hand then dipped it in the breadcrumbs, with my right hand I scooped up more bread crumbs sprinkling them on top and pressed them down into the meat. I flipped it over and repeated the process until it was carefully coated in breadcrumbs, and did the same for three more pieces. I wiped my hands clean and checked on the watercress, tasting a small bit of it making sure it was satisfactory. I smiled happy with the taste even despite me adding my special sauce into the mix, I set my spoon down and turned down the heat returning back to my breadcrumb covered chicken substitute.

In just a little under an hour I finished cooking, I was reveled in the smell of a homecooked meal wafting through the air. I set aside the other servings to eat later and sat down at my kitchen island with a glass of wine. I cut into the schnitzel picking it up with my fork and carefully placed it into my mouth, I let out a satisfied hum as I savored that first bite. The media likes to portray all cannibals are barbarians but I’d like to think I’m far more civilized than that. What barbarian knows how to make a good watercress and human meat schnitzel? A wonderful meal made from the shit of the earth Caleb Sands, full time solar panel installer part time serial killer and fuck does he taste delicious.

I sipped my wine with a smile as I continued to eat, my diet was a strange one consisting mostly of human remains or food drench in their blood. I’ve tried animal blood and no blood at all, but none of them have that unique taste that human blood has. I’m addicted to and couldn’t stop even if I tried, and I certainly have tried. It’s not like I was born this way but thanks the trauma from my childhood, I was doomed to live as a cannibal thanks to Mr and Mrs. Kerrigan.

I shook away the thought as I finished my meal and started to clean up, I left my wine and took my plate to the sink. I gave it a quick rinse and place it into the dishwasher before doing the same with the rest of the dishes in the sink. Once I was done loading the dishwasher I gave the countertop and stove a quick wipe down, with the kitchen clean and the dishwasher cycling I took my wine and headed into the living room. I relaxed onto the couch with a sigh and turned on the tv, I didn’t particularly care for what was on I just needed a distraction and it was working. I was a serial killer and not even for the love of the crime, I hated killing people it was gross, gorey, and the clean up was exhausting. I tried so hard to see it as a means to an end but it was hard, I hated why I became who I am, I hated who I’d become, and I hated that I was addicted with no clear way to escape from it.

I wiped the tears forming in my eyes and downed the rest of my wine, I turned off the tv and left my glass by the sink. I ran a hand through my hair as I made my way to my bedroom, thankfully the wine and food made me tired. Watching tv hadn’t really helped keep me from my thoughts so hopefully just shutting my brain off entirely by going to sleep, I collapsed onto the bed and turned on my white noise machine. I snuggled under the blankets and let my mind focus on the noise and it wasn’t long before I had fallen asleep.

★ ✮ ★

Work was busy that day with calls and requests coming in for the whole IT team, which consisted of Jackie a sweet and spunky girl fresh out of Texas, Sterling a flirty but nerdy guy born here and Miami, and Josefina a jokester from Tampa bursting with life. I loved them all and they made this job ten times more fun and enjoyable, speaking of them Sterling and Josefina came back into our tiny ‘office’. It was just an old storage room the stuffed four desks into, but it was our corner of the world and a second home.

“How was rubbing shoulders with the fraud department? Did they catch onto you yet Sterling?”

“Oh haha, it was fine just another stupid request. You’d think they would try turning it off and on again but the never do, and I’ll never get caught I’m that good.” He teased back at me as he sat at his desk.

“Some just aren’t as bright as others unfortunately.”

“Oh yeah and you are?” Josefina asked with a smirk as she spun her chair to face me hut I just rolled my eyes.

“Yeah I am, way smarter than you at least. Mrs. I thought the moon was made of cheese.” She turned red and threw a pen at me but I just dodges it.

Sterling and I couldn’t help but laugh as she just huffed and rolled her eyes at me, I smiled as I went back to typing up a report on my latest request. Sure the work was mostly menial task but the people made it worth while, and it wasn’t always boring. Sometimes I did have more difficult tasks to do but it was always fun and allowed me do what I loved, work with technology. Overall life was good, work was good, and my cooking was great. What more did one need in life?

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

#prologue #minawritesfanfic #reader insert #x reader #my writing #fanfiction #fluff #dexter morgan x reader #dexter #dexter morgan #dexter moser #new series #new fanfic

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leclercsredhelmet · 5 months ago

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So American ★ Logan Sargeant

A/N: Hi everyone! So sorry for the writing inactivity but I've been busy with writing and editing some things. Since it's the Fourth of July I decided to write a Logan Sargeant blurb! Hope you all enjoy it!!

"He laughs at all my jokes and says I'm so American"

By now you and Logan would have been coming from the beach, with sandy hair and tanned skin. You’d leave your boards by the door and step inside to help your parents set up the yard for the annual Fourth of July bash. But you’re not in Malibu, you’re currently in your London flat. Fourth of July weekend is also Silverstone weekend which means you miss out on one of your favorite holidays. Quietly you’ve been planning a surprise for Logan in hopes of recreating the holiday you both enjoy so much. Today is media day and since Logan is needed to fulfill his media duties it gives you the perfect chance to decorate the apartment and cook.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me, babe?” Logan asks you. “I’m sure Lo, I want to stay and clean the place, it’s a little messy,” you reply. “You still have time to change, I can wait while you get dressed,” he says. Smiling you walk over to him and touch his cheek, “I’ll be with you the rest of the weekend Lo,” you sweetly say. “Okay fine, I’ll miss you,” Logan says with a pout. You chuckle and hug him, “Me too, Lo. But Coco and Apollo will keep me company,” you reply.

Logan chuckles and kisses you sweetly. You walk with Logan to the door and open it, he steps out into the hallway and kisses you once more. His hands leave your waist and you ruffle his hair a little making him laugh. “Let me know when you’re at track Sarge, I love you.” “Will do, I love you, Saez,” he replies before turning on his heel and walking down the hallway.

Once he’s out of sight you close the door and get to work. Music is playing while you work around the apartment and cook the food. Hopefully, Logan is happy when he sees everything and you’re excited for his reaction. Leaving the sauces alone you take out more of the red, white, and blue streamers. Climbing on the ladder you attach the streamers to the kitchen cabinets.

You’ve decorated the apartment in red white and blue streamers, paper stars hang from the living room ceiling and the kitchen table has a mason jar with small flags and usa-themed decorations. Wiping sweat from your brow you put the small decorated cake in the fridge and grab a water bottle. Coco and Apollo are lounging on the couch so you join them. “Hi babies,” you say softly and they happily bark and lay on your lap. Apollo starts to excitedly lick your face and you stop him while you laugh. “Apollo calm down, buddy,” you say attempting to calm the young pup down.

Your childhood dog had passed away a few months ago in March and you were heartbroken when your mom called you. Logan knew how sad you’d been for the last months and while in Florida for the Miami Grand Prix, he’d decided to surprise you, coincidentally one of his friend’s golden retriever had given birth a few weeks prior and he was giving the puppies away so Logan picked one from the litter and surprised you. You decided to name him Apollo because of his color and you also had a habit of naming some of your pets after Greek gods.

Apollo calmed down and you chuckled, gently you stroked his ears and recalled the first Fourth of July you’d spent with Logan.

Flashback

Logan had joined you on a trip to California after dating for a year. This trip served as a way for him to meet your parents and they had adored meeting him yesterday. Your parents were thrilled with him and both your worries had been eased, especially Logan’s. Today was the fourth of July and your parents were throwing their annual party. Your parents joked that you and Logan were the guests of honor this year because you missed out on last year’s party due to work.

Sun beamed down and you felt it beat down on your exposed shoulders. The air smelled of sea salt and the waves crashed behind you. The sand was hot and stuck to your wet feet. Gently you squeezed the excess water from your hair and turned to look at Logan. Flashing a smile you walked over to him and he grabbed your waist pulling you closer. “Hey surfer girl,” he said and you chuckled. “Hi Florida boy,” you replied and he chuckled. His palm was on your cheek and he leaned down to kiss you, you stood on your tiptoes and your eyelids fluttered shut at the feeling of his lips on yours. They tasted like salt water, a taste that certainly mirrored yours.

Pulling back he looked at you and gently kissed your forehead, “We should head back before my mom leans over the balcony and shouts at me,” you said and he chuckled. Logan’s arm was around your waist and his fingers made contact with your bare skin, making butterflies flutter around in your stomach. “Let’s get going then, c’mon,” he said. Bending down you grabbed your boards and walked towards the house.

“I’m still not used to that huge house,” you comment and Logan chuckles. “To be fair you haven’t really lived in it,” Logan said and you looked at him, “True, London whisked me away and refused to let me go,” you replied. “Lucky me, I have London to thank for that,” he commented and you both laughed.

You grew up in Malibu but not on the side where you see those huge houses, you and your parents lived at a small house in Malibu West. Your parents earned more than enough money to afford one of those big beach houses but they decided against that. A year before you went off to college they decided to buy the house you were heading towards. The beachfront house sat a little far back from the others and unlike the rest, it wasn’t a slab of white concrete. Instead it was a Spanish style villa with actual personality unliked those boring houses you often encountered in this area.

“Are you ready to face a full-blown Saez Fourth of July party in approximately six hours?” You asked Logan while leaning on the stairs, “I’m a little terrified but I’m ready,” Logan said putting his hand on your shoulders. “C’mon Sarge, we need to report for duty,” you said and climbed the stairs up to the property.

Letting out a breath you put your hands on your hips as your chest heaved up and down a bit. Behind you Logan laughed, “How are you not winded?” you asked him and he laughed. “Training babe,” he replied and you scoffed. “Finally, I was just about to lean over and shout like a madwoman,” your mom said. Logan chuckled and you giggled, “There’s no need mamá,” you said. Graceful as ever your mom smiled and wrapped you both in a hug. “How were the waves?” she asked. “Great, the swell was amazing and I lucked out with a tunnel,” you said. “She was amazing at the tunnel,” Logan said and your mom smiled.

“How about you Logan, did you get lucky with one?” Your mom asked, “Unfortunately not. Dr. Saez,” he said and your mom looked at him. “Logan you don’t have to call me doctor all the time, you’re family,” she said sweetly. “Sorry ma’am, sorry Catalina,” he said after correcting himself and you smiled at his sweet nature. “Are you kids hungry? I can make you something before we start setting up,” your mom said. You shook your heads no and she smiled, “There’s some fruit salad in the fridge in case you feel like having a snack,” she said and you nodded. Turning around she walked away and you dropped the boards on

the grass before heading towards the showers to rinse the sand off. Walking inside you both part ways to get changed.

Your dad finds you in the kitchen while you are snacking on fruit salad, “Hey kiddo, how was the morning surf session?” he asks while grabbing water from the fridge. “Mega, I missed surfing,” you replied. He chuckles, “I think the waves missed you too,” he replied and you chuckled. Logan made his way to the kitchen and stood next to you, wordlessly you handed him the fork and bowl of fruits. “Logan are you ready for the mayhem?” your dad asked. Your boyfriend chuckled, “Yes, sir’ Logan replied. “You can call me Arturo, you’re family now,” your dad reminded him.

The three of you were talking until your mom arrived. “Great the decoration committee is here and so is the cooking staff, let’s get to work!” your mom cheerfully said. “Cata, you need to slow down we still have five and a half hours,” your dad said. “Five and a half hours that go by quickly and you forget that we have a good party reputation,” she said and you laughed. In response, your dad playfully rolled his eyes, “You’re always acting like you’re racing against the clock in an OR room.” “And you seem to forget that you fell in love with me in an OR room,” she bit back. You and Logan quietly watched their moment before you whisked him away in search of the decorations.

After a team effort, the house was decorated and some of the food was set out, you checked the table settings to make sure everything was precisely placed. “There’s a napkin that’s on the wrong side and a streamer is a little too high than the rest,” you stated. Logan chuckled, “You’re just like your mom, I don’t see the difference in the streamers,” Logan said. “Come here, stand next to me,” you said and pulled him to stand next to you. “Now look to the upper left corner, you’ll notice that the streamer hangs higher than the one in the middle,” you said. Logan followed your directions and chuckled when he saw it.

Grabbing the nearby ladder he climbed it, “All right miss precision provide me with guidance,” he said. You giggled and guided him, Logan fixed the streamer and you folded the napkin correctly and placed it on the right side.

Logan was sticking to your side as the party was in full swing, everyone was having fun and the Saez Fourth of July bash was proving to be a big hit. “Babe Ithink I survived,” he whispered and you laughed.

“Survive you did, are you having fun?” you asked turning to hold his hands. “Yeah, I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve been introduced to but it’s been a lot of fun,” he replied. “If you keep this up you’ll be an official member of the decoration committee which is understaffed,” you joked. Logan laughed and you both went over to the drinks table in search of some beers.

Your mother expertly navigated the crowd and engaged in conversation, occasionally whisking you and Logan with her. You’d manage to escape your parents and their doctor friends, what was meant to be a short conversation with a coworker turned into quite a long one once Logan’s upcoming Formula One career and your job had been brought up. You could tell Logan was thrilled to talk about his passion and that made you happy.

Both of you occupied one of the chaise lounges by the pool. A plate with food was in your hand and Logan also had one. Logan snuck a rib out of your plate and you stared him down. “Logan that’s mine,” you said. Cheekily he took a bite of it and you stared at him as he liked sauce from his fingers. “Not anymore,” he said with a chuckle. “There are ribs on your plate!” you exclaimed quietly and he laughed. “What if I wanted one from your plate?” he countered. “It’s the same rib as the one you have right there!” you replied. “Yours had more sauce, sharing is caring babe,” he said kissing your cheek. “What you did is stealing Lo, I should steal food from your plate,” you said.

“Here, steal it all like you stole my heart,” he said while giving you the plate. “Logan,” you said softly, “What did I do?” he asked cautiously. “Nothing you’re just so sweet, it’s impossible to be mean to you!” you exclaimed while crossing your arms. Laughing Logan set the plates aside and kissed you.

The night rolled on and when it was time for fireworks your parents went to get you both. You stood next to your mom while your dad and Logan lit the fireworks. Quickly they rejoined you. Logan stood behind you with his arms draped on your shoulders while you leaned into him, your parents were in a similar embrace and you smiled. “Happy fourth baby, I love you,” he whispered. “I love you too Sarge,” you whispered before turning around and kissing him as fireworks went off in the background.

End of flashback

Logan had texted to let you know that he was getting home soon. Setting the food out you rearranged anything that was out of place and changed into the outfit you wore two years ago. Slipping on the white dress you tied a red and blue ribbon on your hair.

Coco and Apollo started to bark when they heard the keys jiggle and you laughed at their excitement. Of course, they beat you to the door and you laughed at how excited they were to see Logan. “I think they missed their dad,” you said and Logan chuckled. “Seems like they did,” he said walking over to you, with a smile he dropped his bag and wrapped his arms around you. “Hey Sarge,” you say and he chuckles at the nickname before you lean in and kiss him hello. “What’s all this?” he asks smiling as he looks around the apartment. “The fourth of July of course,” you say. “I figured that since we’re not home for the celebration I could bring the celebration over here,” you tell him. Logan smiles and picks you up, spinning you around and making you laugh. “So this is why you turned down going with me,” he comments and you nod.

He sniffs the air and you laugh, “I smell ribs, mac and cheese, and cake!” he exclaims. Throwing your head back you laugh and he sets you down before taking your hand and walking to the kitchen. His eyes land on the dining table and he turns to look at you with a bigger smile. He looks like a child who is seeing a heap of candy and you grin. “Thank you for bringing the fourth across the pond, you’re amazing and so American,” he says. You laugh and hug him. “You’re welcome and you are also so American Florida boy,” you reply. Laughing you sit down to eat and talk about everything you missed out on during media day.

(All photo credits go to the respective owners)

#formula 1 #logan sargeant x female reader #logan sargent x reader #formula one #logan sargeant

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violetmuses · 3 months ago

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Honor - M. Lowrey ❤️‍🩹

Title: Honor - M. Lowrey ❤️‍🩹

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Mike Lowrey

Main Storyline: Detectives Mike Lowrey and Marcus Burnett discover the most unexpected “gift” out of nowhere. @adoresmiles 🏷

Honor - Part II ❤️‍🩹

=====

1996

“Come over.” Detective Mike Lowrey stepped out of the Miami Police Department with his partner and best friend Marcus Burnett. “I'll have food and everything. It's been a while since we hung out together.”

“That's cool. Your penthouse? I don't wanna make noise if we start watching this football game at home. Theresa will kick my ass!” Noting his wife Theresa, Marcus chuckled over the household.

“Got it. See you later.” Mike tossed car keys of his midnight Porsche and rolled out, blasting music through Florida sunshine.

______

“Hey, what's wrong? You looked creeped out, man.” Mike stood from the couch when Marcus showed up. This television channel echoed around.

“There's a baby perched in the hallway.” Marcus whispered. “I pulled up to see you and this random woman held one buckled car seat.”

“What the hell?” Mike shoved Marcus out of his way and rushed out, facing that shadowed corridor.

Right away, Mike and Marcus glanced over to see an adorable baby boy crying on the floor.

“Told you! Now bring him in, Mike. I'll help unfasten the carseat.” Marcus turned his “parent mode” in action.

“Okay.” Closing that front door behind him, Mike whispered as this baby kept shrieking.

No chilling after all.

=====

2003

“$21,000 dollars in damage? What? Oh, kiss my Black ass! It was the dashboard. We'll cover that reimbursement because somebody's on the way with your money.”

Following one large fail with ecstasy pills, Detective Mike Lowrey grilled this caller while answering his cell phone at the Miami Police Department. Partner Marcus Burnett looked on, silent.

“There's vehicular wreckage, and you sank someone's boat?” Captain Conrad Howard ranted through questions.

While Burnett and Lowrey took Captain's anger, Mike's cell phone rang once more.

“Hello?” Mike narrowed both eyes during this second phone call.

“Detective Lowrey? Apologies for disrupting your day, but it's almost 3:00 PM.” A secretary for one of the elementary schools called this time.

“My goodness! Thank you so much for calling. I'll be there to pick him up right away.” Ignoring the case, Mike grinned with joy.

Closing that flip phone, Mike glanced toward Marcus and smiled even brighter.

"Look, I'll pull strings with the case. Go pick up your son, Mike.” Whispering, Captain Howard settled emotions, dismissing Lowrey and Burnett from his office.

______

“Armando's in third grade now? I can't believe it, Mike!” Marcus nearly sniffled in the passenger seat.

“Please don't cry again.” Mike pointed to his best friend before exiting the car.

“Papa!” Eight year old Armando Aretas cheers to greet Mike up close.

“Hey, man! Sorry I'm late. Work was crazy.” Mike holds hands with Armando while moving back to the car.

“Dónde está Tío?” Still using his native language of Spanish, young Armando looked for “Uncle” Marcus Burnett.

“Right there.” Mike gestured near the passenger seat after safely buckling Armando.

“What's up, man!” Wearing this football jersey, Marcus glanced over one shoulder with the biggest smile on his face.

Armando's genuinely kind laughter echoed through sunlight as Mike Lowrey returned home.

=====

2020

Almost twenty-five years later, international deployments outright shifted the personality of Armando Aretas.

Laughter stopped reaching his heart and smiles faded away.

“You good?” Mike offered the question more often than not these days.

“Tired.” Armando clipped through slightly accented English and still helped clean up the kitchen tonight.

“That's all right, man. Night.” Mike excused himself from Armando's personal space while his son focused on chores.

_____

Just before Armando would turn out the main lights and go to sleep, knocking reached that front door out of nowhere.

“Yes?” Armando pulled himself together when two strangers arrived here.

“Armando? We have news for you.” One of the professionals spoke up.

“I won't talk. You're not Miami PD.” Armando folded both arms right as Mike Lowrey returned downstairs.

“Can I help you?” Mike joined questions and faced both strangers, protective.

“We found out that…” One stranger tried to explain himself again, but two gunshots pierced the evening sky and killed each man.

“What the fuck? We've been ambushed, man. Go!” Mike signaled Armando to prepare himself with weapons.

Calling that police department for help now would've strangled the moment with red tape and put their lives at risk.

“Look out!” Armando shouted between lights of the waking neighborhood and scoped for Mike's presence just in case. There was no other choice.

“Don't worry, I'm right here. Keep moving and stay with me.” Mike noticed Armando after running down the sidewalk.

“Kay.” Both men nodded toward each other, quietly prepared.

Just when gunshots echoed once more, smoke billowed uphill in the distance.

“Who set shit on fire?!” Mike looked forward while destruction unraveled.

Moments later, as she wore this bloodied prison uniform, Isabel Aretas emerged past the burning flames.

#dark themes #au fanfiction #fanfiction #mike lowrey #armando aretas #❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹#Isabel Aretas #movies #jacob scipio #will smith #bad boys #armando #my writing #violetmuses #💜💜💜#strong language #drug reference #drabble requests #requested!

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upholsterycleanings · 5 months ago

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more-than-tender-curiosity · 2 months ago

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Cheater Chester Chester Zester

I'll answer this for Right on Time Chester specifically since it gives me a little more room to expand.

What is the character’s go-to drink order? Vodka red bull for alcohol, quad shot over ice with a splash of oat milk for coffee.

What is their grooming routine? First thing when he wakes up, he applies moisturizer. He is a dewy, well-maintained young man. Also his hair is permed on top so he has to condition it twice, apply gel while still in the shower, wrap his hair in a teeshirt, then carefully scrunch it up right once it's dry. He has to shave his face maybe once a week but he can never seem to remember to do it in the morning so it's usually right before bed/right before going out.

What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? Cameras. Lenses. Straps (and not just for the camera). Anyway

Do they have any scars or tattoos? He has a little palm tree tattoo on his ankle from his 21st birthday trip to Miami. He doesn't remember the trip but he does remember the tattoo artist. He also has top surgery scars.

What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances? Chester cries watching drag race recaps leave him alone. From a real deep emotional standpoint, though, he doesn't cry very often. He handles grief very well and his folks were actually very good to him, so he's probably one of the best off of the gang in terms of mental health.

Are they an oldest, middle, youngest, or only child? He was the youngest with one older sister.

Describe the shoes they’re wearing. Chester has a lot of boots. His nan gifted him with her gogo boots from the sixties because as luck would have it, they were the same size. That was when he was 16 and he has since expanded the collection to include boots for all sorts of functions and occasions. In my mind's eye right now he's wearing untied doc martens from the 90s, no socks.

Describe the place where they sleep. Well, it was the couch that he and Nick broke last summer, but now he's sleeping on 500-thread-count silk sheets in one of Jay's guest rooms. He got the Lavender room. In his bed are 12 pillows (they should never have shown him the linen closet), a horrifically dogeared copy of some god-awful 50-cent mafia romance novel that he's otherwise meticulously annotated and sticky-noted, wrappers from some uhhhhh Recreational Edibles, and probably a sock or two (he always kicks them off). He hasn't been single in a very long time so he's feeling kind of piggish.

What is their favorite holiday? Thanksgiving. Yes he does the cooking, yes he does the cleaning. Mostly because everyone else around him is useless. Though now that he's living in a house with a full army of servants, it's going to be sooo different.

What objects do they always carry around with them? He always has a camera of some sort. Always. Even if it's just his phone, but he fucking HATES taking pictures on his phone because no matter how 'good' that camera is, he swears it can never compare to his 'real camera'. He's honestly right. Beyond that he always has chapstick and, in his wallet, condoms. Eventually jay gives him one of his get out of jail free business cards.

#the great gatsby #chester mckee #the great askby #right on time

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alwayslurkinginthebackground · 2 years ago

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Just the Two of Us - A "Kissing You" Drabble

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader Warnings: LITERAL FLUFF I HAVE NOTHING JUST ENJOY Word Count: 770 Prompt #51: Spinning your lover into a kiss on the dance floor a/n: You ever have it happen where at the beginning of a season of a show or something you have a friend who's really into it but then they enter a relationship and by the end of the show they're subtweeting about your continuous tweeting about the show being annoying? Yeah...so anyway...to make myself feel better here's fluff. :)

Masterlist | Previous Drabble | Next Drabble

The to-do list still feels too long. It didn’t need to be long, as Frankie kept reminding you, but you’d made it long because you wanted to make sure the house was clean when your family arrived in town. After all, you know already that judgment levels would be at an all time high as they not only take in your new home, but meet the man you’ve been sharing it with for the past few months.

Frankie was as solidified in your life as the ground you walk on, so there wasn’t anything they could ever say to change his presence. But after they’d more than disapproved of your cross-country move to Miami, proving them wrong the second their plane landed was like a hyperfixation. You wanted to show them that you’ve made something for yourself. That branching out, unlike your siblings had, was more than worth the effort.

And it all started with a clean house.

“What can I do next?” Frankie asks, sliding up next to you in the kitchen as you lean over the counter, contemplating what it is you should be doing next too. He’s been so good about the whole thing, taking the day off to help you clean in addition to ensuring he could spend the entire week with you and your family. In a flash, he’s snuck the pen out of your hand so he can check ‘clean guest bathroom’ off of the list.

You hum quietly, eyes scanning over the remaining tasks as he returns the pen to your waiting hand. The kitchen still needed cleaning, the laundry wasn’t done, and the groceries were still just a list on the counter, but one task stood out as more time consuming than the others. “Can you get started on cleaning the living room? I’ll go and throw in a load of laundry and then I’ll come help you.”

Your boyfriend nods in agreement, placing a soft kiss on your cheek that leaves your skin flushed. “On it,” he returns before hurrying off in the direction of your mildly chaotic living room. Having the boys over at least once a week meant that things were usually thrown around haphazardly, and at the moment it was a true mess of blankets and pillows from the movie night you had last weekend.

As you head in the direction of the bedroom to grab the basket of towels that need to be washed, you hear Frankie start up a playlist of 80s hits. A chuckle falls from your lips as you hear the recognizable sound of ABBA waft through the house just a little too loud, and you know for a fact that he’s likely dancing around the living room already.

Quick work is made of the towels, thrown into the washer in record time so you can join the party obviously happening down the hall. When you pass through the arch, he’s moving about with a sway in his hips, mouthing along to the words in the song.

“What?” he asks, stopping his task when he notices you staring.

You wave a hand, passing into the room. “Nothing, go back to work.” And with a wink he does.

It never fails to make you smile, watching this carefree version of Frankie, and you sneak glances at him as he cleans. He was so guarded when you first met him, introduced through Will at a bar one Friday night, so to see him comfortable in the space you’ve created together puts you at ease.

The song changes, ABBA changing to Bill Withers crooning in ‘Just the Two of Us’ moments later. You move around the couch as Grover Washington Jr.’s saxophone melds with the vocals, but you’re stopped before you can even reach the first blanket you intended on folding. Frankie pulls you against him, a hand on your hip as he encourages you to move in time with him.

Despite the fact that you argue with him regularly about it, he’s convinced he doesn’t have a voice anyone would ever want to hear, but as he holds you against him, your head against his chest, you can hear him. “And darling when the morning comes, and I see the morning sun, I wanna be the one with you.”

“Just the two of us,” you join in on the chorus, lifting your head from his chest as you smile up at him. He’s laughing through the words, and you let out a yelp of surprise as he spins you around before bringing you close once more, his mouth finding yours in a rhythm as practiced as the song playing from the speakers.

And as you melt into his embrace, you decide that the to-do list can wait.

Masterlist | Previous Drabble | Next Drabble

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #kissing you #lurking and writing #pedro pascal fic

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astrid-grymzin · 2 years ago

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I’m always the first to rise. I don’t need an alarm clock anymore, my body has gotten used to waking early ever since Atlas was born. He’s still fast asleep in his cot next to the bed as is my husband, his father, on the other side of me. I kiss them both with a feather light touch before I get out of bed and make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I make my coffee, then his before preparing a bottle for the baby. Usually by now one or two other Grymzin’s would mosey downstairs and join me but this morning is quiet. I sip my coffee in the living room, perched on the windowsill and looking out onto our property. I never knew how much I wanted to live in the suburbs until we moved here. After breakfast is when the chaos ensues. Dimitre is getting ready to head into the city for the day while simultaneously trying to get Kira in her shoes. I’m bouncing Atlas in one arm and packing lunches with the other while Niko is running around looking for his backpack. Kira’s got her shoes on so I passed the baby off to my husband while I tracked down the knapsack to exactly where I told Niko to look and he said it wasn’t there. Dimitre kisses me goodbye and pulls out of the garage in his car while I’m still loading the kids in mine. We drop Niko off at school first, then Kira to daycare. The final stop is my mother’s house, where I drop Atlas off while I go back home to get some work done for the new store down in Miami. Lunch comes and goes and I don’t even realize how late it’s gotten until my phone vibrates and reminds me it’s time to leave for pick up. I pick up the kids in reverse order than that in which I dropped them off. Atlas first, then Kira, and finally Niko. We arrive home before Dimitre, the city traffic always the worst leading into the weekend. Niko sets up at the dining room table to do his homework while Atlas, Kira, and I play on the floor nearby in the living room until their father gets home. The sound of the garage door sends waves of excitement through the entire house. Niko hops off his chair while Kira runs to the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage. Once Dimitre has greeted the children, he does the same for me, and then takes over as the primary parent. Niko joins me in the kitchen and together we prepare dinner. We eat as a family and clean up together as well before we begin the nighttime routine. All the children get bathed, pajamaed, snuggled, and then read to sleep. By the time the house is quiet again it’s been a sixteen hour day and I collapse on the couch next to my husband. He smiles at me and pulls me into his arms. We don’t speak, we don’t need to. I know what he’s thinking because it’s the same thing on my mind. I’ve never been so tired or so happy in my life.

#[ams // narrative 003]#[friday fluff]

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vmprgrl-2005 · 2 years ago

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I never told you what I do for a living (hotline miami-jacket x reader)-part two

"I'd end my days with you in a hail of bullets"

link to part one wattpad link part three

word count-926

warnings-blood, strong language, violence, severe injury

an-is this even good? idk but heres a part two anyway lmao. this is pretty short so i'll try to have a part three done soon :)

After a few hours of sleeping dreamlessly, a sound at the front door wakes me. Slightly disoriented, I sit up and rub my eyes, letting the memories of the last few hours flood back into my head. After gaining my bearings on reality again, I hurry out of bed, hoping that Jacket is finally home. As I approach the door, I realize how violently whoever is on the other side is pulling on it, and the strained grunts that sound nothing like Jacket. Assuming the worst, I run to the kitchen, grabbing the sharpest knife I can find and attempting to hide. Before I can get too far, the man breaks down the door. I stay as close to the wall as I can, being sure that my shadow is hidden and slipping back into my bedroom. I duck behind the bed, gripping the knife as tightly as my trembling hands will allow. The man stomps swiftly through the hallway, obviously not trying to keep his presence unknown. He storms through every room, and I hear his muffled voice say “I know that fucker is here.” Before he approaches the bedroom, I try to prepare to defend myself, but I can’t keep my hands steady. He opens the door, standing still as his eyes search the room. I have a brief moment to take in his appearance. He's significantly smaller than Jacket, in a blue and green blazer, jeans, and a rat mask with a large gun in his right hand. I know he sees me, and I steady the knife in one of my hands. Before I can even think about hurting him, he hurries over to where I’m hiding, grabbing me by the neck, hoisting me into the air, and putting his gun to my head. “Where is he?” the man yells, his voice gruff. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” I cough. “Your piece of shit boyfriend, where is he?” The man yells louder as he shakes me harshly. He looks around the room, still not believing that I’m the only one home, and his grip on my neck loosens for a second. I take the opportunity to lift my limp arm as far as I can and slash his shoulder with my knife. Blood sprays on my face as he yells, doubling over in pain, dropping me and giving me a chance to run. Before I can make it out the front door, though, my body is shoved forward by a sudden force and a burning pain shoots through my side. I can’t feel myself scream as my body hits the ground. The mystery man walks past me slowly, but instead of finishing the job he sits down on the couch smugly, crossing one leg over the other. The pain in my side is unbearable, but I barely have enough strength to writhe. A pool of my blood spreads on the floor beneath me, still warm. As I fade in and out of consciousness, my mind drifts to Jacket. He's probably almost home, exhausted from another round of killing. I wish I could be here waiting for him when he opens the door, helping him clean the blood off of his face and forcing him to get some sleep. My eyelids flutter a few times as I try to stay awake, but I pass out after a few minutes.

Somehow, I regain my consciousness when I feel footsteps near me. It takes all the strength I have left to open my eyes to a familiar sight in front of me, white converse and blood splattered blue jeans. Jacket moves in slow motion in front of me, running through the door and bending down next to my limp body. He kneels in the large puddle of my blood, shaking my shoulder with one hand and slapping my cheek gently with the other. He's yelling something, but my ears gave up on hearing a while ago. All I can do is bring my clammy and blood covered hand up to meet the hand resting on my face. Jacket intertwines our fingers and squeezes my hand gently. He attempts to lift me out of the pool of blood and into his arms, but the whimper that leaves me makes him hesitate and gently lay me down again whispering “Fuck, sorry” in a shaky voice. Though my vision is beginning to fade, I can still see the pained look in his eyes, and it's one I’ll never forget. Jacket looks over his shoulder, finally noticing the masked man that I can only assume is still sitting on the couch. Giving me one last loving look, Jacket stands and approaches the man that almost killed me with no way of defending himself. I can’t tell exactly what's happening through my blurry vision, I can only hope that Jacket doesn’t meet the same fate that I have. After a few painful minutes of keeping my eyes open to watch what unfolds, I can feel the bang of a gunshot echo through the room, the bullet not stopping until it meets Jacket’s forehead. He collapses almost instantly, body going completely slack. I wish I could move to comfort him, or that I could’ve taken the bullet for him. I can’t fix this. We’re both going to die laying across the floor from each other in his apartment and the cops will barely care to identify our bodies. I try to say something along the lines of “I love you, I’m sorry,” but all that leaves my blood-tainted mouth are a few incoherent mumbles. My eyes become heavier than ever, and finally close.

#hotline miami #jacket #jacket hotline miami #jacket x reader #hotline miami x reader

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belovedindierock · 2 years ago

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Rolling Stone #1155, April 26th 2012

Radiohead Reconnect

How the most experimental band in music learned to rock again

by David Fricke

Thom Yorke walks into the catering room backstage at the American Airlines Arena in Miami wearing a dark T-shirt, tight red jeans and a crooked smile. "I'm feeling quietly excited – and quietly nervous," Radiohead's frontman says as he pours himself a cup of coffee. Yorke flew in from Britain late yesterday – his eyelids are still heavy with jet lag – and he is due onstage shortly for Radiohead's final rehearsal before the launch of their most extensive tour since 2008: 58 shows over 10 months in North America, Europe, Asia and Australia. They open here tomorrow night.

"Everything – the production, the new lights, the set list – is still a work in progress," Yorke says. "But it's finally getting started." Soon he can be heard warming up his voice behind a closed door, practicing scales in a high, precise warble, holding notes in long, clean aaaahs.

Radiohead are not only beginning a tour; they are unveiling a rebirth. The band is ending one of the most challenging and confounding eras in its career: nearly three years of public silence and private chaos during which Radiohead struggled with reinvention and their future. They made some of their most beautiful music on their least popular album, last year's The King of Limbs, but didn't promote it and stayed off the road, uncertain how or if they could be a performing band again.

"We're still flailing around," Yorke admits, sitting in one of the band's dressing rooms. He recalls the early practice sessions for this tour. "I was freaking out, going, 'Oh, no, it's not enough time. I want to do all these new things.'"

But onstage, a little while later, he and the rest of Radiohead – bassist Colin Greenwood; guitarists Ed O'Brien and Colin's younger brother Jonny; drummer Phil Selway and new second drummer Clive Deamer, who has played with the group for the past year – sound exuberant and confident as they push through "Bloom," from The King of Limbs. What sounded on that record like a glassy enigma of loops and ghostly incantation is now rushing water, arranged by the new six-man lineup as a fury of rhythms and murky-treble guitars. "Morning Mr. Magpie" is also harder and faster than the version on Limbs, while "Meeting in the Aisle" – an instrumental from the sessions for 1997's OK Computer – is played with fresh pepper, like Turkish surf music with a trip-hop step.

Radiohead have worked up more than 75 songs for the 2012 shows, including material written during rehearsals this winter at their studio in Oxford. The band will run through a pair of newborns tonight, "Identikit" and "Cut a Hole." Yorke, 43, describes the former as "joyful, slow but with a wonky hip-hop beat." He beams. "That one wormed its way to the head of the class." Colin, who is 42, is excited about another new one, "Full Stop," particularly the part "where Thorn's voice jacks up into this amazing falsetto. The song just takes off."

20 Songs You Can't Believe Are 20 Years Old

In an interview before practice, Yorke credits the addition of Deamer, who came from the British band Portishead, with Radiohead's live renewal. "Having another musician to go back over old stuff was as important as coming up with new songs," says Yorke. He's slumped on a couch, but his voice crackles with restless energy. "Along the way," he says, "you discard songs, because you can only do them in a certain way. To breathe new life into them is a good feeling. You don't have to ask, 'Oh, how does it go again?' It's 'How can we do this properly now?'"

The best example at this rehearsal is the title song from 2000's Kid A. Recorded at the height of Yorke's loathing of guitar-band convention, "Kid A" was barely a song at all – a cloud of whoosh with Yorke singing through a vocoder like a child robot. Tonight, it sounds huge and metallic, a bolt of argumentative double drumming with a striking, classical temper in the piano chords, played by Jonny.

"It was an anti-song," says O'Brien the next day, in an ocean-view lounge at Radiohead's hotel. "Now it's something warmer, particularly the end. Suddenly, it has this sunrise." For a long time, in a lot of the band's music, he admits, "nothing was allowed to be genuinely beautiful. Jonny was always so brilliant about throwing that slashing guitar through things.

"This is very much where we are – and Clive has brought this," says O'Brien, who turns 44 this month. "Didn't they say when the Beatles got Billy Preston everybody was on best behavior?" He laughs. "Having someone break up the energy – that's good. It got people out of old habits.

"You hear it all the time," says O'Brien. "These bands say, 'We're in the best phase of our lives,' and they don't make very good music. I'm reluctant to say that. It's not our best phase. It's another one – and it's a good one. It doesn't feel like a new band. It feels like a band that knows itself."

Yorke isn't so sure – yet. "It's weird not to have any definitive versions recorded," he says of the new songs, "because that's where you make the final decisions. To be rehearsing new stuff, not have it recorded, with a sixth member in the band . . ." He rolls his eyes in mock terror. "It's all very fluid. I'm not really sure what it is."

Jonny, 40, sitting on the sofa next to Yorke, remembers the singer arriving for the first day of practice in Oxford: "He came in and said, 'I had a dream that we had an extra month for rehearsing.' I thought, 'Wouldn't that be great?'"

"We haven't played in front of people yet, so we don't know if it's any good," says Yorke. "We might not even find out tomorrow." He flashes that crooked smile. "Maybe it will take a while."

Radiohead have been a recording band for two decades. This year marks the 20th anniversary of their debut EP, Drill, and the initial release of their seething Top 40 hit "Creep." Since then, Radiohead have enjoyed the weirdest forward motion of any major rock band. Their hit albums, including two American Number Ones, Kid A and 2007's In Rainbows, are slippery and jarring: blends and collisions of violent guitar dynamics, cryptic dance-floor electronics and barbed, elliptical balladry. Radiohead's last "conventional" album, according to their longtime co-producer Nigel Godrich, was their art-rock classic OK Computer. "Essentially, that was a guitar record dabbling in other dimensions," Godrich says. Radiohead have begun every subsequent album the same way. "We start," O'Brien says, "with what we don't want to do next."

There has been substantial outside work in recent years. Selway's first solo effort, Familial, came out in 2010. Yorke is almost done with the first studio album by his band Atoms for Peace. Jonny, a prolific writer for soundtracks and orchestras, just issued an album with Polish composer Krzystof Penderecki. An independent act since the end of their EMI contract in 2003, Radiohead also explore alternative ways of releasing music. In Rainbows was first available as a pay-what-you-choose download. A gorgeous 2009 track, "These Are My Twisted Words," was free.

The King of Limbs arrived as a complete shock: a download with a week's notice and no publicity by the band. A CD followed a month later. But the surprise attack, combined with the music's vexing restraint, backfired. "There were clearly people who were interested in the band's music, but they didn't know Radiohead had released a record," says Bryce Edge, one of the group's managers. To date, The King of Limbs has sold 307,000 copies in the U.S. – Radiohead's first album to fail to go gold here.

But that tally, Edge points out, "doesn't include all of the digital stuff we sold" – an estimated 300,000 to 400,000 copies purchased via Radiohead's website. "The majority of the sales were band-to-fan," says co-manager Chris Hufford. "Financially, it was probably the most successful record they've ever made, or pretty close. In a traditional deal, the record company takes the majority of the money."

Radiohead played only three concerts in 2011, after recruiting Deamer to help re-create the overdubbed tangle of drum loops on The King of Limbs: a surprise set at Britain's Glastonbury Festival and two hot-ticket gigs at New York's Roseland Ballroom. So now the band is going overboard: Its long U.S. itinerary includes festival dates, two at Coachella and one at Bonnaroo. O'Brien says the group has already "talked about the way the gigs might evolve, maybe doing them in three sections – three movements, if you like." Colin is excited about the prospect of studio time along the way. "Maybe we'll do some hit-and-runs," he says, "go in over a weekend somewhere and play."

The band is touring mostly in three-week legs with substantial breaks, in part for family matters. All the group members still reside in the Oxford area except for O'Brien, who lives in London, and all are married except for Yorke, who has been with his partner, Rachel Owen, since they were students at the University of Exeter. The five are busy fathers. Colin, Jonny and Selway have three children each; Yorke and O'Brien have two apiece. "My kids are changing schools in September," Selway, 44, notes. "I wanted to be around for that."

But there is a strong sense in the interviews conducted for this story over the past year – in Oxford, London, New York and finally Miami – of a band anxious to engage the world again after spending too much time too close to home. The first night at Roseland last September was, O'Brien claims, "a great lesson. The sound-check was a fucking nightmare. The monitors were rubbish – we couldn't hear ourselves. We felt underprepared. But you know what? It was all good. Our managers were like, 'Top-five gig!'"

"It was a fucking trip – the best adrenaline buzz I've had in absolutely years," Yorke crows. "It didn't feel like we were treading the old ground, walking over our graves. We were still wandering around in the darkness, stumbling. That was nice."

"It made us feel like a rock band again," Colin says, more thoughtfully, backstage in Miami. "It's fine to be in a band in a nine-to-five way: Get up with the kids, take them to school, do some work, come home. But I see my friends in Oxford who have jobs they work hard at that they don't enjoy, and it frustrates me. We have a job that is a passion. Roseland made us remember how great it could and should be."

Radiohead speak about The King of Limbs like it is unfinished business, an album with a future and an audience still waiting for it. The group is not touring this year "specifically to push that record," Selway says. But, he adds, "people hopefully will connect with it through that."

"It was amazing to just put the record out like that," Yorke says. "But then it didn't feel like it really existed." He mentions a chat he had about the album, a few months after its release, with Phil Costello, a friend of the band and a former executive at their old label, Capitol. "He was like, 'It's gone, just gone.' Really? Fuck.

"But that was the consequence of what we chose to do," Yorke concedes. "You can either get upset about it, or say, 'Well, that's not good enough.'"

It is a warm afternoon in New York, the day before the first Roseland concert, and Yorke – between sips of tea in a downtown hotel lobby – is recalling his Friday nights in college, working as a DJ while he was going for his bachelor's degree in art at Exeter. Radiohead were a part-time operation, writing songs and making demos under their original name, On a Friday, during the members' school breaks.

"I wasn't particularly good," Yorke says of his spinning, "because people were buying me drinks to get me to play what they wanted to hear. At the end of the night, I couldn't see the records." Yorke remembers mixing electro-dance tracks by a Belgian duo, Cubic 22, and the English trio 808 State with early Seattle grunge. He was especially keen on the way Manchester bands such as Happy Mondays and the Stone Roses were fusing Sixties psychedelia and British rave culture. "Which then stopped," Yorke complains. "Suddenly, guitars were the authentic way to go. We were a part of that."

Since OK Computer, Yorke has persistently fought to increase the distance between his band and customary rock instrumentation and record-making. "I talked about it endlessly while we were doing In Rainbows," he says. "It was a constant frustration that we were actually going the opposite way."

The King of Limbs is Yorke's student-DJ dream come true: rock fundamentals wholly transformed by electronics. The drum, bass and guitar parts are all samples, individually played by the members of Radiohead, then manipulated, looped and layered into tracks shaped by Yorke's reverie-like melodies and haiku-style lyrics. "Lotus Flower," "Codex" and "Give Up the Ghost" hover and throb more like suggestions than songs, exotic murmurs in no hurry to become declarative statements. "I can see why it's alienated people," Yorke says now of the album. "I didn't realize it was its own planet."

"We didn't want to pick up guitars and write chord sequences," Jonny says, sitting in a London cafe near Abbey Road Studios, where Radiohead made part of their second album, 1995's The Bends. "We didn't want to sit in front of a computer either. We wanted a third thing, which involved playing and programming." It was a long hunt: Radiohead worked on The King of Limbs in bursts from May 2009 to January 2011.

Readers' Poll: The 10 Best Radiohead Songs

Tall and shy, constantly sweeping a long curtain of black hair from his face, Jonny is the only member of Radiohead without a college degree; he left his studies in psychology and music at Oxford Polytechnic College when the group got its record deal in 1991. But he is arguably Radiohead's most gifted musician: a classically trained violist who also plays violin, cello and keyboards. Jonny also created the software program used to sample the instruments on The King of Limbs. "I was never happier," he says, "than when I was in my bedroom as a kid, working on rubbishy computer games.

"The brick walls we tended to hit," he adds, going back to the album, "were when we knew something was great, like 'Bloom,' but not finished. We knew the song was nearly something. Then Colin had that bass line, and Thom started singing. Those things suddenly made it a hundred times better. The other stuff was just waiting for the right thing."

"They are unlike any other band in the studio," says Godrich, who has worked on every album since OK Computer. "They could not record 'Bohemian Rhapsody,' because they don't have the attention span. If it's not happening straightaway, Thom gets confused. That's not his way."

Godrich cites one classic Radiohead song that was never finished in the studio, "True Love Waits," a popular concert ballad: "We tried to record it countless times, but it never worked. The irony is you have that shitty live version [on the 2001 mini-album, I Might Be Wrong]. To Thom's credit, he needs to feel a song has validation, that it has a reason to exist as a recording. We could do 'True Love Waits' and make it sound like John Mayer. Nobody wants to do that."

Radiohead did not support Limbs with an extensive tour last year for two reasons. One: "We thought it might not be playable," Jonny says. The other "was partly my fault," Yorke acknowledges. The album "released such a load of weird possibilities." He wanted to go right back into the studio, then decided against "carrying on in the same vein. We couldn't do that, we couldn't play live: 'Aw, shit, now what?'"

Deamer, 51, a veteran jazz and dance-music drummer who has also worked with Robert Plant, was the answer. "I've loved his drumming for ages," Selway says. "He seemed like the natural person to go to." In early 2011, the two started dissecting the new songs and deciding which of the many drum parts they could feasibly perform live. A year later, Selway is on the phone from Oxford after Radiohead's final day of tour rehearsals there: "Everything is wide open," the drummer declares in an ecstatic version of his soft, gentlemanly voice. "Seeing that dynamic between the six of us bearing fruit – we have started something. A lot of bands at this stage don't get that opportunity. Or they miss it when it's there."

But, Yorke says, "There is no way in hell we could have come up with what we're doing now, live, if we hadn't been sitting in front of turntables and samplers, piecing the record together in this method. There is no way it would have turned into this dynamic thing."

Asked which songs on The King of Limbs have changed most in performance, Yorke mentions "Lotus Flower." "With the two drummers it suddenly got nasty," he says. "I quite like it." And he agrees that "Give Up the Ghost" – a spare, repetitive ballad on the record – became something else at Roseland: a booming, circular prayer as Jonny sampled and manipulated Yorke's live vocal.

"You're sampling what the mic is taking from the room too," the singer explains. "It's getting the room back, again and again and again. What it's going to sound like in an arena. . ." Yorke's eyes go wide with delight. "I'd forgotten about that. It could be something."

On a cool midsummer evening in Oxford, Colin is strolling briskly to a pub in the old center of the city, noting historic sites along the way. He gestures at a narrow door leading into Modern Art Oxford, a prominent gallery. When they weren't playing together or in school, the young members of Radiohead hung out in the basement lounge, "talking forever, each of us over a single cup of coffee for five hours," Colin says.

Around the corner, he points to a store – part of Cult, a clothing chain – and notes with a bemused smile that Yorke worked in another local branch as a salesman. It is an improbable image: Yorke, a compact man of impatient energy and lethal irony, closing a deal on designer jeans.

Passing a phone booth, Colin remembers Radiohead's first, stumbling attempts to make records, before they got their EMI deal. "There was no e-mail or cellphones," the bassist says. "We'd find a call box, put money in it and call a studio." Once, when they asked how much a session cost, "the guy said, 'Nine hundred pounds.' We said, 'Thank you!' and hung up." Radiohead ultimately cut most of their first album, 1993's Pablo Honey, at a studio co-run by a producer who had worked with the Sixties-blues version of Fleetwood Mac.

Then there is the Bear Inn, a truly ancient pub (established 1242) with perilously low ceilings. Colin, an Oxford native, and Yorke – born in a small East Midlands town, Wellingborough, and raised for a time in Scotland – first met in their preteens. They were both taking classical-guitar lessons at Abingdon School, outside Oxford. At the Bear, the two managed to buy drinks even though they were underage and talked about their role models for the band they planned to form: New Order, Talking Heads and Yorke's favorite, R.E.M.

Over a pint of ale at a picnic table outside the Bear, Colin fondly recalls "that excitement of noise" at Radiohead's first local gigs, "when you play in a pub, borrowing some older guy's Fender bass cabinet and you've had four cans of lager to get your courage up. We did that for the first show we ever did. It was a 20-minute walk that way." He points down the street running behind the Bear, toward the Jericho Tavern. Radiohead made their concert debut there in 1986 under the name On a Friday, after their usual rehearsal day, when the members were all at Abingdon School. Selway, the oldest member, was 19; Jonny was not yet 15.

Later, standing outside a restaurant in a residential neighborhood, Colin notes another Radiohead shrine: the house near the corner of Magdalen Road and Ridgefield Road that Colin, Selway and O'Brien rented in the summer of 1991. The band stored its equipment there, and all five members lived there, in varying combinations, for about a year. "Good times," Colin says with a sigh, "although Jonny never did any of the washing up."

Selway characterizes that period as "good training for tour buses. There were piles of pizza boxes in the corner. It would get so unbearable that someone would have to do the cleaning. I was coming and going for most of the year. I seem to remember Colin moving into my room after I'd decorated it quite nicely."

Yorke arrived after he graduated from Exeter. "We would come back from gigs," he says, "and listen to the answering machine. There would be messages from 10 A&R men."

The Ridgefield Road house was the end of Radiohead's adolescence – the point at which they became a full-time band obsessed with their work and progression. Jonny describes one Christmas when he was still in high school and the others were home from college: "We rehearsed in some hall in town every day, including Christmas Eve. It was insane. There was no concept. We were working on songs for some nebulous future reason we had not clearly thought through.

"That's the kind of intense time we spend together," he says. "That's how it's always been. Our gang principally revolved around playing musical instruments, songs to talk about."

"I think that was when we wrote 'Creep,'" Yorke says when asked about that Christmas. "There are these periods when you get energized. You can't force yourself to hang out. But when we're working, when it's happening and it's all good, all that shit just occurs."

Yorke's aversion to the road surfaced early. So did his distaste for the play-the-game decorum expected of a major-label band. Manager Edge recounts "a famous gig" in Las Vegas "when we'd done some ridiculous routing because of the seeming lack of knowledge American promotion guys have of geography. We were doing a radio show, supporting Tears for Fears, and everyone was grumpy." During the show, "in a fit of pique," Yorke smashed half of the stage lights. Edge maintains that "the idea of him doing anything like that now is long gone."

But Yorke looks back on his not-much-younger self – particularly the tormented anti-star preserved in Meeting People Is Easy, the 1999 documentary of the OK Computer tour – without excuses. "I was bored," he states flatly, backstage in Miami, of his aggro-zombie aura in that film. "I loved that record. But the idea of being stuck with those songs for a year and a half, in the same form, no change, no nothing – I struggled with it. We'd finish a song, and I'd stand there, frozen.

"I understand now why we did all of those shows," Yorke confesses. "If we hadn't, we wouldn't be where we are. But I lost my nerve. We've been through different stages – that was a bad one."

"What's different about us," Jonny chimes in, "was that right from the beginning, our obsession was songs. As a byproduct, we tour now."

"It wasn't a bunch of mates" on Ridgefield Road, O'Brien observes, "more like a bunch of co-conspirators. We had this common goal. That's what it was all about, dreaming it up. All this stuff we have now – there was never any doubt it was going to happen. And it did, because the material world caught up.

"But I would say this – they are my brothers. Some of the others don't realize that. But we'll be at one another's funerals. We've been through this. We're family."

That is "a strength we don't really acknowledge to ourselves," Colin says. "We're far too English."

There is a physical side to it that I find interesting – the breath," Yorke says. He is trying to explain where he goes in his head and what he feels when he sings. "It's a meditative state, like standing in the tube station when the train is coming through. Things go past you – trains, people.

"It took me a few years to learn how to do it," he says of performing, during a breakfast interview in London last July. "Seeing people like Michael Stipe and Jeff Buckley – I realized it's a good place to go. It's OK to shut your eyes."

Later that day, Radiohead convene with Edge and Hufford to discuss touring in 2012. Afterward, O'Brien describes the meeting as "fraught." Yorke already sounds uneasy over his egg-white omelet: "The level of machinery freaks me out sometimes. You walk backstage, and there's people and stuff everywhere.

"We never wanted to be big," he says. "I don't want to be loved in that way. You can say it is selfish. You can also say this is someone who gets a kick out of what they do: trying to fuck with your head." Yorke enunciates the last phrase with relish.

"Because that's what it's all about," he continues, "casting the net wide, creating chaos and trusting something will come of it – not panicking, just going with the blind faith and all of these moving parts. This idea – where will the band be in five years? Fuck that. I'm just looking for little diamonds in the dust."

"Thom has the most acute bullshit detector in the band," O'Brien says, with awe, in Miami. "It's that balance – an intensely critical life, with an ability to feel, to have great intuition. We're not necessarily making the smartest business decisions. But we are following our intuition. It's about the art."

"This is a work in progress – that's the bit I like," Yorke confirms, just before that last practice. Then he says something else. "I was thinking, when I was on holiday recently – I've been doing this more than half my life." He pauses. "That's bonkers!" Yorke proclaims with an astonished laugh. "And it's cool. It's a job – and a good job.

"We actually need to get on a stage now and see where we're at," he declares, ready to play. "It's a large stage, and there will be a lot of people." There's more laughter. "But I've been told that's OK."

#radiohead #fitter hapier #rolling stone #2012 #1155 #how the most experimental band in music learned to rock again #david fricke #rolling stone magazine #magazine #april 26 2012 #april 26

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kammartinez · 1 year ago

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Edna Bonhomme

In 1994, when I was 10, my most reliable babysitter—a hexagonal television set with two antennae—introduced me to the concept of abortion. My cousins and I sat on the couch—our legs, clammy in the Miami heat, stuck to the plastic-covered furniture. There we watched the 1987 film Dirty Dancing. Even then, I understood the 1960s American class markers: the summer holiday resort, the pleasant cabins around a pristine lake, the employees serving the wealthy guests. But the scene I remember most was when Penny, a dance instructor, sat on the kitchen floor at night in tears and realized she had gotten into “trouble.”

“Trouble for what?” I wondered. My older cousins explained: Penny was pregnant, and an unplanned birth was the worst tragedy. It might have been less of a problem for the wealthy guests, but for someone like Penny, it could be life-threatening. The film is set in 1963, a decade before Roe v. Wade. Penny can’t afford to terminate the pregnancy or hold Robbie, the womanizer from Yale who impregnated her, accountable. She has to rely on the goodwill of her childhood friend and coworker, Johnny Castle, and a guest, Frances. Penny finally gets an abortion, but viewers learn that the doctor botched the procedure, and she barely survives.

The message was straightforward: Before Roe, one needed money and a sympathetic doctor to get a safe abortion. If you were poor and pregnant, you might face hardship and even death if you sought out cheaper and less experienced abortion providers. For many people, this reflected the reality. In 1965, according to Planned Parenthood, 17 percent of pregnancy-related deaths were due to unsafe abortions.

Dirty Dancing illustrated why access to safe abortions is so crucial. Penny, who is white, is a likable working-class figure. Yet the film neglected to show how working-class nonwhite women like me could access abortion. (My public education in Florida also wasn’t helpful on that score.) Penny could not get an abortion without a coterie of friends—and she wasn’t able to get a safe one.

When our parents and schools fail us, we have to rely on our personal networks and ourselves to find out what we must do to have jurisdiction over our bodies. This is why movies and books are so essential; even when the narratives are muffled or distorted, they contain lessons that circulate in our culture. And many of the most poignant stories about abortions are not on film; they’re in books—novels and short stories—that show us how we can talk about women, especially working-class women, who unapologetically end their pregnancies.

The decades preceding Roe saw a surge in abortion narratives in literature. In some cases, abortion was presented as a potentially fatal situation, as in Richard Yates’s 1961 novel Revolutionary Road, in which a woman dies after performing an abortion on herself; Mary Astor’s A Place Called Saturday from 1968, in which a male partner pressures the protagonist, Cora March, to have an abortion; and 1970’s Play It as It Lays by Joan Didion, in which an actress has an abortion that contributes to her psychiatric breakdown. Very few works portray working-class women from this period who terminate their pregnancies without regret or anguish.

There are, however, some important exceptions, including Alice Walker’s short story “The Abortion,” first published in 1980, and Annie Ernaux’s 1974 novel Les Armoires vides, or Cleaned Out—both of which take place before abortion was legalized in their authors’ countries (the United States and France, respectively), and both of which depict abortion from the point of view of women from modest backgrounds. Perhaps more crucially, Walker and Ernaux created characters whose decisions to have abortions are unclouded by doubt. These stories hew closer to how most women describe their abortions. About 75 percent of people who end their pregnancies are low-income. And when researchers studied the mental health and well-being of women who have had abortions, they found that 95 percent believed that they had made the right decision.

Writing the abortion stories of working-class women with tenderness and exacting honesty, as Walker and Ernaux do, is essential to the reproductive rights movement. It helps paint realistic portraits of people who seek abortions, thwarting right-wing stereotypes and teaching readers the liberatory possibilities of making one’s own reproductive choices.

In “The Abortion,” Alice Walker applies her formidable prose to the story of an African American woman seeking to terminate her pregnancy. It appears in her collection You Can’t Keep a Good Woman Down, a reference to a Mamie Smith and Perry Bradford song. The book, a meditation on the trials and tribulations of Black women, explores love, culture, fame, and despair. “The Abortion” focuses on Imani, a young Black mother living in the South who is depressed and fatigued by marriage, motherhood, and pregnancy.

Facing an unwanted pregnancy, Imani lays out the toll of having and raising a Black child in America. Much of the story is devoted to what gestation does to the body: “Imani felt her body had been assaulted by these events and was, in fact, considerably weakened, and was also, in any case, chronically anemic and run down.” Imani already has a toddler and feels that being a parent is interfering with the life she wants to lead. “Another child would kill me,” she says. “I can’t imagine life with two kids.” So she discusses terminating the pregnancy with her husband, a lawyer named Clarence.

In the story, Imani has two abortions—one before her marriage and the other after she had her child, a daughter. Her first abortion was a clandestine procedure that cost a “thousand dollars, for which she would be in debt for years” and after which she hemorrhaged for weeks, while her second abortion was “seventy-five dollars…safe, quick, painless.” The story, which is clearly set before Roe, reflects the shifting legal landscape. Although abortion remained technically illegal in New York State, it was decriminalized in 1970 by the state Legislature. The result is that Imani’s second abortion is a relatively pedestrian event—a safe, standardized medical procedure.

“The Abortion” isn’t just an abortion story; it’s about the lives and deaths of working-class African Americans. It details Black subjugation at the height of civil unrest—in this case, on the fifth anniversary of the death of Holly Monroe, a fictional African American girl who was murdered after attending her high school graduation. Walker writes that Monroe was “aborted on the eve of becoming herself.” For Imani—and for contemporary readers—Monroe’s death is a gutting reminder that Black children’s lives can be cut short. Monroe’s memorial makes Imani realize that raising another Black child would only increase the probability of her having to mourn the untimely death of one of her own kids.

Walker’s story echoes her own life. Like Imani, Walker had a young daughter and a lawyer husband, and she would also have two abortions in the years before Roe. Both Walker and her character were concerned about the cruelty that society often metes out to Black people. Decades later, writing about her second abortion, Walker explained:

We knew the children being fire-hosed were innocent of anything but being children struggling for a future. We knew the beatings, car bombings, explosions, house and church burnings, and violent assassinations were intimations of a future that more and more is coming to pass. To bring anyone, especially a helpless infant, into what was clearly a destructive situation, in a world where few in power even pretended to care for children of color, seemed the very definition of madness.

What Walker shows us is that one of the major promises of motherhood is a lie: One will not necessarily be fulfilled or content just by being a parent. Imani, however, insists on holding on to truth. She tells her toddler that white people “think they can kill a continent—people, trees, buffalo—and then fly off to the moon and just forget about it. But you and me, we’re going to remember the people, the trees and the fucking buffalo.” The toddler, mimicking her mother, responds, “Buffwoe.” Here, Imani is attentive to oppressed people, animals, and nature, indicating that the decision to be a parent is not merely about physical care but about cultivating a political education. Walker’s story is a departure from a significant portion of the abortion literature precisely because it exposes the racial hierarchies of life and the power of historical memory.

Imani is unwavering in her decision. The narrator tells the reader that “their aborted child would have been a troublesome, ‘terrible’ two-year-old, a great burden on its mother, whose health was by now in excellent shape.” Parenting wears down mothers, and deciding to abort can be a decision to prioritize one’s body and political integrity.

One of the richest accounts of an abortion by a working-class woman is Annie Ernaux’s Cleaned Out. Published in 1974, it chronicles the experience of Denise Lesur, a 20-year-old French scholarship student. From the description of her body and the accounts of her village, the reader quickly recognizes in Denise a storyteller intent on protecting her future at any cost. The opening scene is striking:

I was on the table, all I would see between my legs was her grey hair and the red snake she was brandishing with a pair of forceps. It disappeared. Unbearable pain. I shouted at the old woman who was stuffing in cotton wool to keep it in place. Shouldn’t touch yourself down there, it’ll get damaged.

The “snake” inserted into Denise is a tube, which she has to keep inside her all day to terminate the gestation. The whole time, her body is wracked by spasms of horrific pain, a constant reminder that she has just had “a backstreet abortion.” A poetic sensibility pervades the book, with Ernaux tracing Denise’s sensory journey: “My head pressed into the smell of the blanket, the sun beating down on me from my waist to my knees, a warm tide inside me, not a wrinkle visible, everything is taking place in folds and crevices miles below the surface.”

As in Walker’s short story, the illegal abortion is not only a secret affair but a costly one, requiring Denise to secure funds far beyond what she can afford. This is a central issue for Denise, the ambitious daughter of a storekeeper. Aspiring to enter the world of arts and letters, she is aware that class is determined by more than education—it is a sense of belonging that is alien to her. Denise feels “clumsy and awkward in comparison with the private-school girls, who are confident, who know just what to do.” Likewise, the story of her abortion is not just about the physical procedure but about the disdain she feels for her upper-class classmates as she tries to move up the class hierarchy. Her abortion becomes a way to secure her future, even if the postoperative symptoms cause her pain.

This novel, too, was based on the author’s abortion experience, and it shows how desperate working-class French women were to access the procedure before it was legalized in France in 1975. In her 2000 memoir, L’Événement (Happening), Ernaux tells the story of her pursuit of an abortion. She seeks a physician. She asks her lover for money to terminate the pregnancy, and he tries to have sex with her. She even tries to induce an abortion herself. But the story isn’t just about choice; it’s about class shame, which fuels her desire to succeed. For Ernaux, having a child at that time would have prevented her from eventually becoming a Nobel Prize–winning author.

Writing to her translator, Carol Sander, Ernaux asserts, “There is in Les Armoires vides a desire to transgress all boundaries. In its content: saying the unsayable, feeling ashamed of one’s parents, humiliated, wanting to be like everyone else; speaking about the female body, menstruation, erotic pleasure, abortion.” Like Walker, Ernaux was not stifled by the stigma of abortion; instead, the procedure was a path to liberation.

Part of the beauty of art is that we can recognize bits of ourselves in it. Like Penny in Dirty Dancing, I grew up poor and knew what it was like to rely on friends for survival. While I never saw any reason for Penny to feel chagrin for her abortion, I internalized the film’s message that an unwanted pregnancy was a life-shattering problem, especially if you were poor.

Walker and Ernaux moved past this discourse. They showed how abortion literature could render the interests of working-class women without relegating them to mere troublemakers. Their characters didn’t rely on benefactors or do as others wished; they pushed the plot forward themselves. In Walker and Ernaux’s telling, abortion is freeing. As Imani affirmed, abortion can be a “seizing of the direction of her own life.”

Today there are even more radical accounts of reproductive choices in literature. In Guadalupe Nettel’s novel Still Born, published in 2020, Laura, the protagonist, presents an unflinching desire not to have children. When she contemplated having a kid, Laura recognized her error: “Just as someone who, without ever having contemplated suicide, allows themselves to be seduced by the abyss from the top of a skyscraper, I felt the lure of pregnancy.” So, early in the text, Laura gets her tubes tied. I loved the book’s energy and comic style. Unlike the typical abortion plots that spend so much time probing a character’s troubles, Nettel’s novel offers a thrilling possibility: opting out of motherhood altogether. A profound message binds Nettel’s novel with Walker’s and Ernaux’s work: the desire to live fully.

Given the attacks on reproductive rights around the world, abortion narratives will continue to offer nuance when it comes to issues of representation and access, and now a new generation of authors, including Nettel, are building on the literary breakthroughs of Walker and Ernaux, choosing to write about women who make their own choices without apology.

#feminism #books #politics #reading

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