#Fremont Showgirl

[williammarksommer]

Fremont Showgirl

Nevada

All The Time In The World

Hasselblad 500c/m

Kodak Ektar 100iso

[synamartia]

LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOO~!

♡ You really put on a show. Shimmying your hips, ostrich feathers following suit with every move. Your brassiere was heavy with shining rhinestones, panties of silk and lace. Your set was almost done, all that was left was to remove your top and slink away behind the curtains to hollers and whistles. Back turned, you unhooked the painful bra and let it fall to the stage with a clunk. Foot in front of foot, you stalked the stage length. With your hand hidden from view you took the feathered fan from the stagehand behind the curtain. As the music crescendoed you turned, fan unfurling just in time to hide yourself.

I'mma start right here. So I'm from Las Vegas, and this bit got me feeling homesick, okay? The Strip, Fremont Street, and the hotels/casinos are LITTERED with showgirls dressed like this - hell, I've seen a couple inside the Adventure Dome - and it's just body-slamming me with nostalgia right now, cause I remember seeing them all the time and thinking they were SO goddamn beautiful, so thank you for this, my love~! ❤️

♡ Unbeknownst to you, the well dressed man hadn’t come to see you. He preferred your singing shows at the little dive bar two blocks over. No, he had come for the man at the front table. For weeks now, he had watched him harassing the ladies of the few joints in New Orleans that weren’t regularly hounded by police. Your smiley mark even heard stories of unsavory acts, many women leaving the dance scene entirely after.

OKAY LOOK, I'MMA TAKE A WILD GUESS AND SAY YOU'RE SETTING AL UP TO BE A JUSTICE COLLECTOR IN THIS FIC, RIGHT?? That's not what it's actually called, I'm just too lazy to look up the proper term for it rn OTL but basically it's someone that brings people to justice based on their own moral code, usually operates outside the actual judicial system? I'm sorry if that doesn't make sense it's like 5:30 am here and I haven't slept yet (well, it was when I started reading) ANYWAY. I bring this part up because it just fits his character like Cinderella's slipper, and I love that you're including his 'weird moral code', as Vivzie put it~ *chef's kiss*

♡ “My, my. What a mess he’s made.” The man smiled down at you, offering a hand. When you didn’t immediately react, he cocked his head to the left, “Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?”

BOI, GIVE HER A MINUTE. SHE JUST HAD SOMEONE THROTTLE HER. But nah, this bit is another thing I absolutely LOVE so far cause OFC he would be so nonchalant about killing someone, and with a witness no less. Very Alastor coded~! 👌

♡ Your hand slowed, noticing the way he was looking at you. Typically men’s pupils were blown when they fell on you, but his were constricted. They flitted around your face. His hand took hold of yours, fingers separating the thumb from the handkerchief. He pulled the little square of yellow fabric free with his other hand, allowing him to hold your thumb now by itself.

🎵 Not for looooonnnnggggg~! 🎵 Can't wait for the *BONK* once Al finally falls~ I'mma EAT 👏 THAT 👏 SHIT 👏 UP👏 (okay I just reread this bit again and realized you meant when they LOOKED at her, and not when they fell IN LOVE with reader "OTL - MY STATEMENT STILL STANDS THOUGH)

♡ His eyes fluttered close, finger popping out of his mouth with a debauched sound. You made no attempt to take back your hand. The realization you may have hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire set in.

Babygirl. Mans just killed a dude and brushed it off like pastry crumbs. WHAT. WERE. YOU. EXPECTING?

♡ You opened your eyes to see him at the door, slipping back into his jacket, “I’ll pay for the night.” He tipped his head to you and exited the room back first, eyes locked with yours until the door closed.

WAIT. NO. YOU CAN'T JUST-- GET YOUR BAMBI ASS BACK HERE YOU MOTHERFU--

♡ A housewife? An adopted mother to a grown man during the day, a hungry nymph at night? For what, an allowance and a home you didn’t own? Pass. Where’s that handsome man with his knife? That was a much better steel to fall onto than what these men offered from their laps.

NAH, FOR REAL THOUGH, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU-- for the record I'd fall on the 'steel' in his lap too

♡ Your polite nods and gracious thank yous were abruptly ended by a tap on your shoulder, “You dropped this, miss.” You did a mental check of your purse before turning around.

THERE YOU ARE YA LITTLE SHIT-- (such a sweetie though, I love it! thank you bby~ ❤️)

♡ “Unfortunately I don’t have much time tonight. I had just wanted to return your items.”

Istfg, if you run away again--

♡ You turned to leave and hadn’t seen his smile sour.

OH, COME OOONNN! 😭 please don't think I'm complaining I promise I'm not I actually really love the chase I'm just playing into the bit now

♡ It hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t anticipated you to notice the implication. Most people would have been so blinded by his charm they would fail to notice the glaring red flags. He was mildly impressed. You would be more trouble than he had expected.

♡ Something akin to a giggle bubbled from his chest. “I don’t have much affection, but I have even less time.” Your eyes darted around, looking for your next move. “I-,” you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. When you broke the kiss he was staring wide eyed, glasses askew. He opened his mouth to speak and you kissed him again, longer, harder.

Good god almighty, I'm such a simp for a disheveled Alastor, holy shit *knuckle bite* ASDFGHJKLGUHH--

♡ It was his turn to blink. He looked off to his left, eyes swinging back to you. With a shrug, he leaned his body back towards yours. His hand slid down the front of your dress; red silk. A deer in the headlights, you tensed. The rare third option; fight, flight, freeze. Soon his fingers were tracing the lace of your stockings, climbing up the garter straps. 

Fuck YES *popcorn munch* it's 'bout to get REAL steamy up in this bitch 🫠😶‍🌫️

♡ His eyes were studying your face. You didn’t want to give the wrong answer again, but at this point you weren’t sure any answer was right. This was taking a sudden turn and your foot was off the brake. You closed your eyes, opting out of the scrutiny of his stare. His hand met your stomach and began to slip down again. He rested it between your thighs, longer fingers and palm cupping the entirety of your sex.

GET IT BABY

♡ Alastor struggled to decipher your expression. It was almost like a pout, but more subtle. You hadn’t said stop or pushed him away yet. Was he right? You were just… horny? As his hand slid back up and pried their way into your panties, you trembled.

Always. Never assume we're NOT down bad for you unless explicitly said otherwise.

♡ Is that right? You wanted him to touch you? 

Yes.

♡ “Is this what you wanted?” He said it low, a husky tone he didn’t have before.

YES. (Also side note: Istg I had no idea you had Al asking this when I wrote that one bit for Haunted. 😅)

♡ His finger pushed in, and with a kind of greed you didn't recognize your hips ground down into his palm. He slipped in and out of you with ease. You had no idea when or why you got so wet.

I doooo~🎵

♡ “Shhh”, he breathed into your ear as he worked a third finger into your heat. One knuckle, two knuckles. A whimper. His hand came to press down over your own on your mouth, a second barrier for your mewling. You groaned, the sound coming from your throat.  

HHHHHNNNNNGGHGGGHH-- 💦💦💦

♡ Double speak over, “Just tell me what to do to get you to fuck me.”

No, seriously. Please. Guidance is my kink. I have no idea what the official term for it is, but PLEASE. 😭❤️‍🔥

♡ “Maybe next time, dear.” He took a second, fingers in you sliding around your walls in search of something before finding his place and continuing. Your breath noticeably changed, instead of panting you were practically holding it in. You needed the pressure, you needed something to squeeze that spring of pleasure down so it could snap back. As your face went flush, he kissed at your temple, “You look so pretty in red.”

"Oh, god-," INDEED. PRAISE ME MORE.

WHY THE FUCK DID I WAIT TO READ THIS??? IT'S SO GOOD AND IT'S ONLY THE FIRST CHAPTER WHAT THE HELL??? I'mma go get a lil bit of sleep, but when I wake up, I'mma be binge reading the FUCK outta this! I got a whole week off, and as it stands right now, ZERO plans! I apologize in advance for the havoc I'mma 'bout to wreak upon your dashes please forgive me 😭

And and and, also-- can I pretty please be added to the tag list, dearie~? 🥹🙏

I just need you to know this story has had me in a chokehold and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. This is gonna be a weird smutty slow burn, so still smut every post but full p in v sex will be a reward you have to work for?

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Redsmut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedysmut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

「warnings/tags: HumanAlastor x FemaleReader, implied attempt to SA, fingering, plot with porn?, Multi part work, bad kind of choking, blood kink, blood licking, just in general blood, Non-Sex repulsed Ace Spectrum Alastor, stalking, murder obvs, finger sucking, smoking kinda kills if you squint, Public sex acts, garter belt, You have a stage name but no one important uses it, Greed, Lust, Human Alastor is a little different than Demon Alastor. 」

minors dni 💅🏽

Part 1 Pretty in Red

The marriage between burlesque and jazz wasn’t unexpected. Before the Great Depression took the nation into a stranglehold, both Jazz and Burlesque were immoral wastes of time only the most barbaric sought out.

And oh, did you love it. Everyone who was made to feel like nobody flocked to your theater and the surrounding neighborhood. Men, women, the people who didn’t agree with either. The biblically inclined, those closer to sodom, the sapphic dolls. Everyone was equal in the halls of jazz rooms and theatres where burlesquers were welcome.

Because of the inclusive nature of such places, you often saw familiar faces. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone from Thursday night to be seen Saturday at a different locale.

That presented certain opportunities and challenges. When you found a good mark, it was easy to be wherever he was and play it off as fate and common interests.

And when you gained a new stalker, someone wanting a personal show, it could be hard to tell until it was too late. 

Maybe it was your greed, or just your love of attention, but you found yourself focused almost entirely on a particularly well dressed man one evening. You’d seen him around before. Clean cut, sharp suit, a welcoming smile always on display. He looked like he had money, the most attractive quality of any man you could meet.

So focused on his gleaming stare from the side booths you hadn’t noticed the man at the stage front tables. You barely noticed him the night before, or the night before that, either. Because Smiles, as you took to calling the handsome stranger in the back, had been here three nights now too.

You really put on a show. Shimmying your hips, ostrich feathers following suit with every move. Your brassiere was heavy with shining rhinestones, panties of silk and lace. Your set was almost done, all that was left was to remove your top and slink away behind the curtains to hollers and whistles. Back turned, you unhooked the painful bra and let it fall to the stage with a clunk. Foot in front of foot, you stalked the stage length. With your hand hidden from view you took the feathered fan from the stagehand behind the curtain. As the music crescendoed you turned, fan unfurling just in time to hide yourself.

Groans, mass begging from the audience. Your stage name a chant now, a prayer. “Autumn! Come on!”

As the band slowed, music dying to mark the end of your number, you scanned the crowd. Eyes blinking coyly, you mouthed, “More? Did you want more?”

People were jumping to their feet, not Smiles but that was fine, you were focused now on the adoration of the crowd. The music ended, a second of silence. 

You winked, the drums hitting one last beat as you let the fan close.

Fanfare! Men whistling, women clapping. Someone shouted a marriage proposal. You took a bow, twirled on the balls of your feet and slipped gracefully behind the curtains.

Your hands wound to your spine, rubbing blood flow back into your skin as the staff removed your headdress. Someone slipped your robe over you and you nodded a thanks, aching feet carrying you to the dressing room. It was chaos, as usual. Women buzzing around, tits and ass here and there. You smiled. You happened to enjoy this part of the job. Soft bodies in shiny costumes, lovely smells and sweet voices. If you could get dressed quickly enough, you could still take a tour of the room and slide into Smiles’ booth. 

“Enjoy the show?” You’d ask. He’d lean in, maybe blush, “Always when you’re here.” Or something like that. You’d cozy up to him, flag down a waiter for something strong and pricey, and get him properly drunk. He’d wake up outside, fine and dandy except his missing cash. 

You’ll call him a drunkard if he confronts you, accuse him of getting himself robbed after you refused his advances. You’ll say it too loudly, and he’ll run off. 

You danced a little in your seat, another game of cat and mouse about to commence. But first, a smoke.

Unbeknownst to you, the well dressed man hadn’t come to see you. He preferred your singing shows at the little dive bar two blocks over. No, he had come for the man at the front table. For weeks now, he had watched him harassing the ladies of the few joints in New Orleans that weren’t regularly hounded by police. Your smiley mark even heard stories of unsavory acts, many women leaving the dance scene entirely after.

He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for him. So he took to his hunt, following the man to come to his own conclusions. The pattern of behavior was obvious, and though he hadn’t seen what ended the last obsession, it was clear one of the performers at this club was being stalked as the next victim. 

He watched your dance with half lidded eyes, just as much as he watched the man give dirty looks to the other men cheering. Heard the, “Marry me!” shouted at you.

Yes, it was obvious to him now. 

So when the target of his interest got up and pushed his way into a staff only door, well, the well dressed man was sure to follow. 

The great thing about confidence and a nicely tailored suit is that no one questions you about why you are where you are. So while the brute he tailed had to shove past people to get wherever he was going, people smiled and made room for the gentleman who was not far behind.

He caught the street access door before it closed, allowing it to stay open just a sliver. Enough for one golden brown eye to watch the events unfold.

“Can I have a light?” The stranger asked you. You looked at him, then to the staff only entrance he just came out of. 

“I don’t think I know you….,” you handed him the lighter but he instead leaned into you, cigarette hanging from his lips. “You… new?”

You sparked the flint with a practiced thumb, taking three tries to get it lit, and put your hand out. The man didn’t budge, eyebrows rising, “You really don’t recognize me?” He asked, motioning with his hand to come closer. Your eyes glanced down the alley, cars slowly moving past the street. When you looked back, the man took your wrist in his hand. He held you so tightly that the muscles in your palm locked and you dropped the lighter. 

“What the fu-,” his hand came across your face, halting your sentence.

“I’m your best customer. Every show. I’m the one who brings flowers.”

Dozens of men bring flowers, especially on the weekend shows. You held your cheek, skin burning. Your hand pulled back, the corner of your lip bleeding from his rings. Scrambling, your mind was searching for the right words.

With a forced smiled, your shaky voice finally piped up, “Oh! Yeah! Oh geez. I am so sorry, doll. I’m just so tired, and the alley is so dark. Here, let’s go inside so I can get a better look at you.” You tried to take your wrist from him but he didn’t loosen up.

“Nah, you ain’t tricking me. You owe me.” He pulled you into him, large hand gripping your face with ease, “You can’t lead on men like this and think you don’t gotta answer for it.” He kissed you, forcing your face into his. “Bitch! Did you fucking bite me?” He threw you into the tin trash cans beside the wall, knocking the wind out of you. 

No purse, no sharp object, not even a heeled shoe to defend yourself with. You cursed, so preoccupied with Smiles you forgot your wits.

You spit out the copper saliva, his blood and yours. “I’ll keep biting, too.” 

Why scream? The sounds of the next act were bouncing off the brick walls. Upbeat jazz and applause echoing around you. No one would hear you. Men can break your body but you never had to give them your dignity. Never give them the satisfaction of a response.

No. No screaming. You instead spent your energy trying to get to your feet. He took hold of your neck now, throttling you. It wasn’t what you had expected, but as he lifted you off the ground and your little dressing room slippers fell off, you thought this was actually better. 

“Well I think that’s quite enough.”

You felt warmth, then registered wetness. Your shin scraped on the asphalt as you were dropped without warning. Trying to open your eyes, you found you couldn’t see. Wiping and blinking away the foreign liquid, you watched your attacker fall to his knees.

Blood was shooting from between his fingers around his own neck, each pulse becoming weaker and weaker, evident through the stream.

When he finally fell over, drained, you were startled to see another man with you. The light reflected off his glasses as he adjusted them, the knife still in his right hand as he did so. 

“My, my. What a mess he’s made.” The man smiled down at you, offering a hand. When you didn’t immediately react, he cocked his head to the left, “Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?”

Is that was this was? A rescue? You took his hand with both of yours, pulling yourself up. 

Smiles? You blinked away the shock, time to shift into your next part. Damsel. You weren’t out the woods yet.

“You saved my life!” As you pressed yourself into his chest, you tucked your head beneath his chin. You tried to make yourself small. “I owe you! Please let’s go inside, drinks on me!” You looked up, batting your lashes.

“I don’t think that’s wise, dear.” His gaze panned down your dress, soaked through. He could see the thinking behind your eyes.

“No, right….,” You gripped his vest, “We gotta get outta here, fast. There’s a hotel just behind the threatre.” You started to pull his suit jacket off, slipping it over yourself. “No cops, the theatre will get raided. Just— take me somewhere safe?”

You watched him look you over, arm finally extending to let you hook yours with his. 

As soon as the hotel door closed behind you, you slipped off his jacket and ran to the dressing table mirror. 

Your face was painted red, navy dress now black and sticky. It was good you stayed from view of the reception staff. “I didn’t get my rescuer’s name,” you licked your thumb and rubbed at the blood around your cheeks. 

“Alastor. It’s a pleasure.”

You laughed, “Is that what you call a pleasure?” Turning, you pulled the mostly still dry handkerchief from your pocket and dabbed the corner on your tongue. You brought it up to the frame of his glasses and wiped the blood from the metal. “I’d hate to see what you call a bad time.”

Your hand slowed, noticing the way he was looking at you. Typically men’s pupils were blown when they fell on you, but his were constricted. They flitted around your face. His hand took hold of yours, fingers separating the thumb from the handkerchief. He pulled the little square of yellow fabric free with his other hand, allowing him to hold your thumb now by itself.

His lips opened, tongue licking the blood stained finger before placing it directly into his mouth.

Your stared, horrified, as he sucked the digit clean. 

His eyes fluttered close, finger popping out of his mouth with a debauched sound. You made no attempt to take back your hand. The realization you may have hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire set in.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” You tried to sound as in control as possible. Calm. Unwavered. Offered a timid smile. 

He chuckled, “You could say that. May I?” His fingers lifted your chin. You didn’t know what he was asking. His soft smile looked downright loving. He smelled so good, notes of something earthy rising above the copper.

You nodded, because part of you wanted to see where it would go. And part of you thought you didn’t have a choice.

As his face came to yours, you instinctually closed your eyes expecting a kiss. But no, instead you felt his tongue wipe across the cut at the corner of your mouth. His breath blanketed your cheek. Then his hand left your chin, the warmth of his body gone entirely. 

You opened your eyes to see him at the door, slipping back into his jacket, “I’ll pay for the night.” He tipped his head to you and exited the room back first, eyes locked with yours until the door closed.

You just stood there in the silence left behind. But as if on cue, the adrenaline waned and your knees buckled under you. You were moments from death, now somehow spared. But what had he— Alastor, been doing there? Did he follow you, too? The cat and mouse had been flipped, or perhaps now this was a fox and hound?

Gripping the dressing table, you pulled yourself up and into the view of the mirror again. Face streaked in dried blood save for the one clean spot where your lips met cheek. 

You felt like a ghost the next day. It would be nice to tell someone about what happened but, “Hey a man tried to kill me and then another man killed him! Then he licked blood off my face and I let him. It was the most disturbingly erotic thing to happen to me in months!” would get you tossed into a wagon. 

“Are you rude or just stupid?” The theatre manager pulled you aside by the arm when you came into rehearsal. “You can’t just disappear like that, people were waiting.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Was… my absence really the most exciting part of the evening? Not the John in the gutter?”

He huffed, “So that’s it? Got a beau?”

“Wait— nothing else happened last night? After I left?” 

“This show doesn’t revolve around you. Plenty happened.”

“Excuse me,” you hurried into the back, “And sorry!”

You opened the street access door and looked into the alley. Trash cans neat and tidy, no dead man, nothing strange or telltale.

You ducked back inside. Had Smiles done this? Obviously, actually. No stranger just cleaned up the dead body. If the flatfeet had found him, the club would have been under scrutiny.

Good, you thought, and went about your work.

Rehearsal dragged on. Little details summoning you back to the night before. 

“You okay?” Another performer asked, grabbing your hand and inspecting the blood around your cuticles.

“Oh it’s not mine!” You laughed, she laughed, you walked off before she could clarify.

When applying your makeup, you remembered his hands on your face. They were so soft. Definitely a man of means. A brief intrusive thought, the other hands on your face last night.

You pranced on stage, going through the motions of your routine. Even in the empty hall, your eyes wandered to the booth he’d been in. And as you took the stage in earnest later that night you searched the crowd for the glint of his glasses and found nothing shiny nor promising.

Back in the dressing room you took a moment to wonder what the actual fuck you we’re doing. He murdered a man in front of you, why were you hoping to see him again? He had half a mind to kill you next.

But would that really be so bad?  Your life was routine, boring even. The only thing keeping your lungs expanding was the applause. Maybe the headlines of your death would cause such an uproar, dancer struck down in her prime, that you could bask in the loving glow all the way from hell.

One way to remain famous, you considered. A dramatic death.

Not that you were famous. You weren’t part of the national circuits. Just your local theatres, a common face and body to the sinners of Louisiana’s most infamous city. But, well, fame is relative. For the scene you were in, you were your own little star. 

A shining light. Shimmering. The faint light reflecting off— Blood. For a second you could only remember looking through bloodied, heavy lashes. 

“You’ve been so out of it. Trouble in paradise?” Ruth, the curviest of your coworkers and arguably the favorite of the crew, rested her chin on your head. Looking at each other in the mirror, you offered a soft smile.

“I’ll letcha know when I get there.”

She pinched your cheek, “Tommy said you had a new guy. I just figured-,”

“That isn’t,” you clenched your eyes shut, “no, no guy. I just got locked out last night in the alley. The sticky-,” sticky and viscous blood, “back door wouldn’t open up. I didn’t want to come in the front in my slippers so I just hoofed it home.” 

She patted your head, “if you say so! Be careful out there though. Dangerous these days.” 

An understatement.

You enjoyed the spotlight, but more than that you craved the attention doted on you after. You’d walk through the hall to the bar to adoring looks and free drinks. It bothered you that Tommy was telling the girls you had a man. You didn’t want to appear too closed off, or for word to spread to the customers. 

Last thing you needed was men passing you by for more available options. Not that the pay wasn’t fine. Ends were being met, but grifting added an element of thrill. You really did love the chase. Finding someone and deciding he would be yours, he would fall under your spell and be at your feminine mercy. It made you feel powerful, almost mythical. And the money was nice. Sometimes you didn’t even need to steal, the men would just lavish you in gifts and you’d let it fizzle out naturally. Normally their wives would snatch them back or they’d just get tired of waiting for you to leave the stage and dance into their domestic dreams. A housewife? An adopted mother to a grown man during the day, a hungry nymph at night? For what, an allowance and a home you didn’t own? Pass. Where’s that handsome man with his knife? That was a much better steel to fall onto than what these men offered from their laps.

From your view at the bar you knew he wasn’t there. But with a nod you decided the chase was still on. You were going to get your victory. If anything, this would be easier. You had dirt on him. Blackmail would be simple enough. Bloody clothes and the perfect alibi; being a woman. No cop would think you took down that hulking man. 

Ah, right. There was no body.

That would be an issue. He had to have taken it somewhere. Just find him and follow. Worst case scenario, you play the usual game and steal whatever cash was in his wallet.

Well, worst case you die. 

You slept sitting up to keep your hair set, during the day your makeup barely was there but a red lip always the star. You had three nice dresses (well, you had had four) so you figured three nights to find him before moving on.

You slinked through the crowds of the hot and sweaty dance club Moxie. Swinging music kept bodies moving, and though you kept your eyes open you didn’t catch sight of this Alastor fellow. Which was fine! You enjoyed a few dances, swing always making you feel energized. Not a waste of a Friday night.

Saturday was easy, the lounge on fifth. Smooth jazz, plush chairs, rich men. Definitely a place you could imagine Smiles to frequent. The whisky was all top shelf, and many gentlemen offered you a lap to sit. Sure, no Alastor, but you didn’t go home empty handed.

You weren’t a particularly great singer, but if the room was small enough and the piano loud enough, you could please a crowd. Your friend had you on a semi-set schedule most Sundays at her little dive too many blocks from Main Street. Her darling played piano, you sat and sang to the couple dozen patrons stuffed into the one room bar. When you finished your set, you took your bows and looked for your friend. You needed to tell her you wouldn’t be staying. 

Your polite nods and gracious thank yous were abruptly ended by a tap on your shoulder, “You dropped this, miss.” You did a mental check of your purse before turning around.

“Oh, a sight for sore eyes. Mr. Alastor.” Your face lit up, you could see it in his glasses.

“You’re too kind. Here, I apologize for the delay. I wanted to return them clean.” In his hand was your yellow handkerchief, folded neatly. You took it and found it uncharacteristically heavy. 

When you unfurled it, your brass lighter fell into your waiting palm. Your thumb caressed the engraving. 

Alastor watched your face as the lighter tumbled out. “I figured it was important, given the condition and detailing.”

You tested the weight in your hand, “Did you fill it?” You looked to him incredulously.  He nodded.

It was a surprisingly kind act, and you needed a second to regain your composure. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Your quick wit failed for a moment, but rebounded fast. “Except with a drink. My treat. To my rescuer.”

He mulled the idea, your reaction to him was interesting. Alastor had thought if he approached you first you’d show a little more fear, or shock. But you looked downright chipper to see him there. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have much time tonight. I had just wanted to return your items.”

Your smile dropped. How did he know you were here? Had he been carrying— no, he said he had them cleaned. Had he seen you here before, before the incident? A chuckle, smile brought back, “My luck is terrible. You always flee me. I hope you don’t see my company as deadweight.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses, “Not at all! I think you’d find I’m quite comfortable with-.”

“Lugging people around?” You said. That constricted pupil again, eyes wild. A chill ran down your spine. Alarms were going off. Wrong answer. You straightened your back, popping the items into your purse, “Next time.”

Alastor nodded, “Yes. Next time, then.”

You fucked it up. You knew you had, but suddenly his words felt like a thinly veiled threat. 

You turned to leave and hadn’t seen his smile sour.

It hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t anticipated you to notice the implication. Most people would have been so blinded by his charm they would fail to notice the glaring red flags. He was mildly impressed. You would be more trouble than he had expected.

Alastor knew he needed to do something about the clearly clever woman who was seemingly expecting him. He had followed you for several days, surprised to find you not spreading word about the murder. You hadn’t spoken to anyone, really. Even the man you left the lounge with, you just smiled and nodded nearly all evening while the man dominated the conversation. So, your sharp wit took him off guard. Who were you pretending to be? And why?

All of your cleverness fell apart when you tried to follow him. It was almost comical. He felt bad. This was going to be embarrassing for you.

He took several right turns and stepped into the park just outside of the bar. You thought perhaps he had gotten lost and considered turning around after you realized you’d lost sight of him. As you passed a large weeping willow, you were pulled under the curtains of hanging moss by your waist.

Back against the large tree, you could only pout.

“What are you after, stalking a man in the dead of night?” Alastor had you pinned, both hands on either side of your head. His body boxed you in, not that there was much more to see than moss and darkness.

You blinked several times. What a question. You answered honestly, “You.” He cocked a brow. Then you lied, “Your affection. Your time.”

Something akin to a giggle bubbled from his chest. “I don’t have much affection, but I have even less time.” Your eyes darted around, looking for your next move. “I-,” you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. When you broke the kiss he was staring wide eyed, glasses askew. He opened his mouth to speak and you kissed him again, longer, harder.

He seemed frozen under your mouth, lips taut. Your hands roamed his face, messing up his hair and glasses. Mind reeling. Play the nymph. Be the whore the men always said they hated. Be too strong, too forward, too much and he’ll run off like men do. You could try again another day.

Your hand reached for his lap, his hips instinctively jerking away. Perfect. Men these days can’t get it up for a woman who takes the lead. 

Alastor was entirely unsure what the fuck was happening. You were wildly unpredictable. When you grabbed at his dick, he thought his eyes would cross from the shock. Is this what ���affection’ meant to you? He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand you. Were you really just lustful? Even after what you’d seen him—

You bit at his bottom lip, pulling slightly. Big eyes looking back at him. Your breath was already running away from you, adrenaline seemingly synonymous with Alastor. Staring up at him, you waited. His move.

It was his turn to blink. He looked off to his left, eyes swinging back to you. With a shrug, he leaned his body back towards yours. His hand slid down the front of your dress; red silk. A deer in the headlights, you tensed. The rare third option; fight, flight, freeze. Soon his fingers were tracing the lace of your stockings, climbing up the garter straps. 

His eyes were studying your face. You didn’t want to give the wrong answer again, but at this point you weren’t sure any answer was right. This was taking a sudden turn and your foot was off the brake. You closed your eyes, opting out of the scrutiny of his stare. His hand met your stomach and began to slip down again. He rested it between your thighs, longer fingers and palm cupping the entirety of your sex.

Alastor struggled to decipher your expression. It was almost like a pout, but more subtle. You hadn’t said stop or pushed him away yet. Was he right? You were just… horny? As his hand slid back up and pried their way into your panties, you trembled.

It had been so long since someone else’s hand was on you. Someone whose hands you genuinely enjoyed, who you wanted to be on you.

Is that right? You wanted him to touch you? 

Maybe it was the stare, or the smile. Probably just the adrenaline.

His hand found its place again, middle finger bending to part your folds and feel your wetness. You whimpered, hand coming to cover your own mouth. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He said it low, a husky tone he didn’t have before.

No. Maybe. You nodded yes.

“Will you be satisfied now? No more tailing me?”

No. Probably not. Another nod.

His finger pushed in, and with a kind of greed you didn't recognize your hips ground down into his palm. He slipped in and out of you with ease. You had no idea when or why you got so wet.

“I always end up dripping around you, Alastor,” you whispered through your fingers. His ring finger joined. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why did you have to bring up, well, the murder?

“A common problem for those I take an interest in.” 

Oh no. You moaned softly into your hand. Sharp mind made dull by his fingers so you didn’t, couldn’t, process his double meaning. 

Oh no. The sounds of footsteps, a pair of lovers sneaking into the park for privacy. You heard their giggles, the sounds of kisses interrupting their walking.

“Shhh”, he breathed into your ear as he worked a third finger into your heat. One knuckle, two knuckles. A whimper. His hand came to press down over your own on your mouth, a second barrier for your mewling. You groaned, the sound coming from your throat.  

Whispers. The silhouette of the two interlopers was visible through the willow’s curtains. You watched from over his shoulder, pussy clenching around him. Three knuckles deep, bottoming out.

Fuck it. You moaned freely into your hand, wiggling down onto his hand. Hips rolling, you let your little sounds of praise flow.

The couple laughed, “That’s the spirit!” A man said, a woman hushing him and pulling him away.

Alastor grinned into your neck, immensely amused. He would have better luck predicting a dice roll than your next move. 

You hadn’t realized how hollow you’d been until now, feeling so full. When alone, you focused on just cumming, fingers on your clit and mind on memories. You never bothered much with anything else.

Your hunger intensified. You wanted more. Both hands reached for his crotch again, finding nothing there for you. You could have cried. How were you a wet mess pressed against a tree and he was soft as a newspaper in a rainstorm?

Your pride stung. Men usually stood at attention around you. A half sob into the air earned you a chuckle from Alastor. “It’s no reflection of you, darling.” His nose nudged your ear lobe, “I need a little different stimulation than most.”

“Do you play for the other team?” You considered how you could momentarily switch. 

A louder laugh, “I don’t have a team.” He leaned back now to look at you. His freehand came to press on your lower stomach, gently pushing your womb down. Your brows knit, why did that feel so good? Hands going to the tree behind you for stability.

“Sure feels like you know how to play. This is-,” his hand switched from thrusting slowly in and out to moving front and back. It sent vibrations up into you. Your eyes rolled close. Shut up. Stop talking. Focus. Close.

He kissed around your open mouth, “Well, it’d be unamerican to not dabble. When necessary, or when the conditions are right.”

Double speak over, “Just tell me what to do to get you to fuck me.”

Alastor’s head fell back as he laughed earnestly, most likely alerting anyone in the immediate area. “Ha! No, this is more fun.”

“Oh fuck you,” you brought a hand around to your throbbing clit to quicken your release.

“Maybe next time, dear.” He took a second, fingers in you sliding around your walls in search of something before finding his place and continuing. Your breath noticeably changed, instead of panting you were practically holding it in. You needed the pressure, you needed something to squeeze that spring of pleasure down so it could snap back. As your face went flush, he kissed at your temple, “You look so pretty in red.”

“Oh god-,” Your head fell onto his chest, your joint effort bringing you to orgasm. 

“A little late on Sunday for prayers, don't you think?”

A tiny scream into his suit pocket, his hand not stopping until your thighs finished twitching around him. Even after his hand stopped moving you gripped him by the wrist and rolled onto his fingers a few more times. The pleasure ebbing but still spiking every time he moved against you. 

Ah, greed. That was it. He understood a little better. This wasn’t lust, not alone.  You were definitely a mix of the two. With a sigh, you released your hold and let him slide out of you. Already you felt lonelier. Already you wished to start over.

With his dry hand he smoothed out your dress. You weren’t ashamed but you suddenly felt too embarrassed to look him the eye. But you did, hearing him hum as he sucked his fingers clean. 

Why were you only ever in his mouth in the strangest ways?

“You always taste so sweet, dear. Now!” You wanted to say something clever and salacious like, ‘there’s more where that came from’ but he didn’t afford you the opportunity. He offered you his hooked arm, “It’s dangerous in the park at night. Let’s get you to a cab and on your way home.”

“Is this a hobby of yours?” Your legs were wobbly but otherwise fine. “Illegal activities in public?”

“Funny, I was just wondering the same of you. Stalking is a crime, dear.”

You bit your lip. “Touché.”

He flagged down a taxi, “Tell him where to go.” You slid into the back seat and half-whispered to the driver. Alastor leaned into the passenger side front window and after paying the man, went to close your door, “You’ve been an entertaining sparring partner. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

With a thud of the door and a growl of the engine, you were driving away from him. You could see him in the rear window. He didn’t dare to move, he didn’t need you following another step of his.

Which was unfortunate for him, as you were already scheming how to find him again.

༻Masterlist༺

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

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

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

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

[thewidowstanton]

The Widow's Best of 2023

Jane Hobson 2023: Following such a desperate year for so many in the world this quotation by Nietzsche seems pertinent. "We have art in order not to die of the truth." So, in an effort to uplift whoever might read this, here's a somewhat curtailed list of a few of our favourite things we've seen this year. It wasn't the hottest time for live shows; we walked out of five! One every few years, maybe, but five! Disappointing. However we still managed to find some wonderful things, not all of them new. Let's begin with…

MOST SPECTACULAR: Phelim McDermott's Akhnaten at the London Coliseum. We'd been asked so many times: "Have you seen Akhnaten?" No, we hadn't but now we have and, OK, it's a Philip Glass opera (pictured above and below) but really, with a set by Tom Pye and costumes by Kevin Pollard it's a full-on feast for the senses, with the ever-inventive Gandini Juggling, choreographed by Sean Gandini, doing what they do best.

Jane Hobson BEST CIRCUS SHOW: Cirque Le Roux's thrilling and ambitious Entre Chiens et Louves – staged at Le Bon Marché department store in Paris (take note Selfridges) – took our breath away even without the sublime Lolita Costet in the cast; and Circa's Humans II at the Queen Elizabeth Hall at London's Southbank Centre.

COMPANY TO WATCH: Hoops Désolé! A “crazy” six-strong troupe of artists drawn from the circus school in Quebec, Cirque du Soleil and Cirque Éloize.

Emma Kauldhar BEST DANCE: Wayne McGregor’s Woolf Works at London’s Royal Opera House, with the mesmerising Alessandra Ferri, who at 59 was the same age as Virginia Woolf when she died. Another dancer with astonishing longevity is the Spanish Lucía Lacarra, now 48, who appeared in the Ballet Icons Gala at the London Coliseum.

BEST SHOWBIZ MEMOIR: Walking Through Walls by performance artist Marina Abramović; Do It For Your Mum by Roy Wilkinson, then manager of his brothers' band British Sea Power.

MOST TERRIFYING: He's done some daring things in his time and on World Circus Day Hungarian high-wire artist Laci Simet performed a sensational walk across the River Danube – 40 metres up in the wind – with only a balance pole to keep him safe.

BEST FILM: German film Afire or Roter Himmel by Christian Petzold (he’ll never let you down); Babak Jalali’s Fremont, set in a fortune cookie factory; and the Mexican film The Empty Hours directed by Aarón Fernández.

BEST ARCHIVE PIC: Josephine Baker and Dalida at L’Olympia music hall in Paris in 1968. A legendary pair!

LONGEST-SERVING FEMALE DJ: Texan Mary McCoy, who at 85 has been on the air for almost 72 years, and entered the Guinness Book of Records.

BEST DESERT ISLAND DISCS CASTAWAY: Actor/comedian/writer and so on, Adrian Edmondson; snooker star Ronnie O’Sullivan.

MOST INSPIRING: The Maricarmen dance school in Chorrillos, south of Lima, in Peru, run by retired dancer Maria del Carmen Silva, offers free classes to girls of all abilities from low-income areas.

BEST DOCUMENTARY: Never Be a Punching Bag for Nobody by indie rock musician Naomi Yang; My Indiana Muse, in which artist Robert Townsend discovers his Kodachrome muse, Helen.

FOND FAREWELL: Actor David McCallum, who, as The Man from U.N.C.L.E.’s Illya Kuryakin was an enduring heartthrob for a certain generation of girls and women. Closer to home the UK lost its leading circus director, Phillip Gandey (above), at 67, whose shows – including Cirque Surreal, The Chinese State Circus and The Lady Boys of Bangkok – were always far and away the most creative and exciting; and The Circus of Horrors – a show I reviewed more times than any other, except perhaps Cirque du Soleil – lost its co-creator and frontman, Doktor Haze (below) at 66. Along with Gerry Cottle, they were notable as two of the nicest circus men I met during my reviewing years, and are greatly missed.

LAST WORD: It wouldn't be a Widow Stanton 'Best of' without some showgirls. This picture was taken by the Argentinian photographer Luisita Escarria, who with her sister Chela, documented all the artists appearing in revues in Buenos Aires from 1958 to 2009. Their story and wondrous archive might have been lost had it not been rescued by filmmakers Sol Miraglia and Hugo Manso. Their documentary Foto Estudio Luisita will warm your heart… and fortunately both the sisters lived long enough to see it.

Compiled by Liz Arratoon

[ghoulempress]

But that nun ya business

[foxedthecards]

" To lose money, " Jonas quipped blearily looking up at who had spoken to him. He blinked. Ok well. That was different? But not surprising, this was Vegas after all. On Fremont Street alone you could see fifty Elvises doing a flash mob, a bearded Marilyn Monroe selling raffle tickets and three showgirls dancing the can can with a giant sleepy boa constrictor all before you'd had breakfast. So why not a robot?

" I mean you could try it if you wanted to? It might not even be rigged, " he added, turning around and setting his half-empty sidecar cocktail down a minute. " Like you place a bet there, could be odd or even, black or red and you just hope you get lucky. "

012, the roulette table in a casino.

012, the roulette table in a casino.

Blue Two watched the roulette, head tilted and pensive.

The AI had never actually been inside a casino before. Well, okay, they had crashed into one after being thrown by a monster-of-the-week but that was just about it. So really the android was entirely out-of-place here and yet she did not seem to care. The AI had seen places like this on television and they'd been curious. And that curiosity, the android will sate!

But mostly, Blue Two watched because she didn't actually have much she could bet on. She had five dollars and some batteries. Was that even like anything?

"What is...the objective of this?" She asked some red-headed human she'd just met. Or at least they were meeting now anyways.

[sisterspooky1013]

Nuptiae Sub Rosa, Ch 25

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

On the one-year anniversary of when we posted the first chapter, we bring you a bonus chapter to this story that means so much to us both. Thank you to every single one of you who has taken the time to read it. We appreciate you more than you know. - @xfmaweezy & SisterSpooky1013

Scully leans her head against the doorframe and closes her eyes, letting the warmth of the desert wind rush over her cheeks. They spend half of the year chasing the sun and the other half avoiding it, criss-crossing north to south with the changing seasons and east to west with the changing months. It’s somewhat arbitrary, but the routine of it makes their nomadic life feel just a little bit predictable. Maybe she doesn’t know what small town they’ll call home this November, but she knows it will be south of possible snowfall and not so far east that they’ll spend more than four days in the car getting there.

Four days in the car, four weeks in one location, four months before they trade in their vehicle for something new. Four years of living her life in sets of four with no end in sight. She pulls in a deep, arid sigh and rolls her head across the seat back to look at Mulder. 

He shaved this morning, which was a pleasant surprise, and he’s been drumming his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the music like he used to when their time in the car took them from hotel to crime scene, or airport to home. He glances over at her and pops his eyebrows suggestively, then reaches across the console and squeezes her knee. 

“Almost there,” he says reassuringly, and she offers him a weak smile. 

Even on the days she hates him for leading her to this life, she still loves him very best of all. Still reaches for him across king size mattresses, still grabs his hand on crowded sidewalks, still chooses him over white picket fences and HOA meetings. He is the only viable choice. 

Las Vegas

Next Exit

She quirks her head and looks back over at him, finding a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. They typically avoid tourist attractions after spotting Holman and Sheila Hardt at the Grand Canyon, thankfully too distracted by keeping their boisterous six-year-old away from the rim to recognize the former agents who played a large role in their eventual union. 

“Vegas, Mulder?” she asks him, curious and surprised. 

“Sin City, Scully,” he says brightly, his hair whipping in the wind. “We can take in a show.”

She smiles at him, bemused. They haven’t attended anything more populated than a county fair in years, and she is skeptical that he’d suddenly change his policy now, but stranger things have happened. At least the food in Vegas should surpass their typical fare in quality, albeit also in price. 

She scoots up in her seat as they roll onto the strip, taking in the hordes of tourists interspersed with showgirls and card slappers littering the sidewalks with advertisements for call girls. Vegas during the day is bright and busy, full of youthful charm and holiday novelty. After the sun sinks below the Spring Mountains, however, another side of the city will emerge and bring a more lustful, seedy type of entertainment. Starved for excitement that doesn’t include threat of harm, Scully finds herself feeling buoyant and piqued. 

As the day unfolds, Mulder continues to surprise her in ever-increasing layers. He treats her to an expensive lunch and then sends her off with an envelope of cash to buy herself “something nice to wear to dinner.” She wanders The Grand Canal Shoppes at the Venetian feeling like she’s in a scene straight out of Pretty Woman, though thankfully the sales women are more than happy to take her money and help her find a dress in her size. 

She expects that they’ll be staying in one of the run-down, older motels on Fremont, and when Mulder drives up to the mirrored letters of The Cosmopolitan and hands over the car keys for valet, her jaw nearly hits the concrete. 

“Who are you?” she asks him playfully. He winds his arm around her waist and whispers, “Fox Mulder, FBI,” in her ear, making her heart ache with nostalgia and joy. 

It’s only when they’re standing outside the elevators that she realizes. She looks up at him, her eyes welling with something hopeful that she hasn’t felt in far too long, and he smiles knowingly.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks coyly, and she barks a laugh that echoes off the lobby walls. 

“You can kiss me whenever you want. I’m your wife, aren’t I?” she replies cheekily, and he scoops her up off the floor and kisses her like it’s the very first time. 

They miss the next two elevators. 

-

Mulder rubs his clammy palms over the tops of his thighs, then checks the interior pocket of his suit jacket for the envelope again. His stomach is in knots, and he’s both delighted and surprised that she can still make him feel this way after so long.

He glances at her over the table, admiring the way the light from the votive candle dances along her cheekbones. She stopped wearing makeup over a year ago, but he supposes she never got rid of it based on the smoky haze around her eyes and the bright berry color on her lips. The dress is—indescribable. Black and tight without being flashy, hugging every gentle curve of her body and falling just above her knee. He knows she isn’t wearing a bra by the way her nipples puckered under the air conditioning when they walked in, and he hopes to find out if she took a similar approach to panties. But those are things to look forward to later—right now he has something more pressing to attend to. 

“I can feel you thinking,” she coos, plucking the olive out of her martini and pulling it off the swizzle stick with her teeth. 

He pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then retrieves the envelope, which is now soft around the edges from overhandling. 

“Happy anniversary,” he says as he sets it on the table top and slides it across to her. 

She narrows her eyes at him, maintaining a skeptical expression as she lifts the flap and extracts a trifolded sheet of paper. His heart begins to pound as she unfolds it and reads it once, twice, three times. 

“Farrs Corner, Virginia,” she says, her tone disturbingly neutral. “Have we been there?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not yet.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she says, reading the document again. “Who is Allen Utke? And why are you giving me the deed to his house as an anniversary gift?”

“Well, technically speaking he’s one of the founding members of MUFON,” Mulder answers, his throat becoming tight with nerves. “But in this case, he’s me. Or I’m using his name as a pseudonym, anyway, to keep mine off the legal documents.”

She blinks at him, looks at the page again, then back at him. Her expression shifts from confusion to realization, then to something resembling fear. 

“You own this house?” she asks quietly. 

“We do. What’s yours is mine, et cetera,” he answers.

“Wh—when, how…why?”

He sees the way that a lack of clear information is sending her into a tailspin, and he reaches across the table to grab her hand. 

“A few weeks ago,” he says hurriedly. “We still have some connections I was able to leverage, and we’ve known for a while that it’s safe for you to live out in the open. And as to why…I want you to have a home, Scully. And a yard, and a dog, and maybe one of those porch swings. Whatever you want, I want you to have it. It’s been too long since you had a home.”

She picks up her napkin with her free hand, dabbing carefully under her eyes so as not to ruin her makeup. 

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers. “When can we go?”

“We’ll head east when we leave here. We can be there in a few days.”

“Before Thanksgiving?” she asks with a teary smile, charmed by the idea of a real table, and a turkey cooked in an oven, and potatoes that didn’t come from a box. 

“Definitely before Thanksgiving,” he answers. “We can invite your mom to come down.”

She looks at him sharply, her chest heaving as she attempts, unsuccessfully, to quell an onslaught of fresh tears. One ragged sob escapes, and then another, and patrons at nearby tables glance over at them before politely averting their eyes. 

Mulder stands and comes around to her side of the table, kneeling beside her. She immediately threads her arms around his neck, pulling him close and tight as she whimpers. 

“Why did you tell me this in a restaurant?” she admonishes him, but her tone is light and he knows she isn’t angry. 

He pulls away a little, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks, which are now streaked with mascara, and smiles at her. 

“Sorry, I think I forgot how to give good news,” he says. 

She pulls in one more big breath, settling her tears, and pushes her mouth into a closed lip smile. 

“Thank you,” she says, and then leans forward and kisses him once on the lips. 

-

She tugs on the ties of the hotel-issue bathrobe, cinching it around her waist. She’s nude underneath, having lacked the forethought to buy something sexy while she was out shopping, and lingerie has never been part of her traveling wardrobe. 

Her throat thickens every time she thinks about the house. Their house. A home, finally. The idea of seeing her mom after all these years—it’s the best kind of overwhelming. She knows that if it were up to Mulder, he might just keep running forever out of paranoia and fear. He’s doing this for her, for them, for their future, and while it may be a way of loving someone that’s hard for other people to understand, to her it feels like the purest form of love imaginable. 

She exits the bathroom and finds him sitting on the end of the bed, his belt and tie discarded. He straightens up when he hears the door open, looking over at her with a warm smile. As she walks towards him she catches their reflection in the mirror over the desk, and something about seeing him see her feels like she’s watching them through a looking glass, observing from the outside. She leans against the desk, which is situated directly across from him, and stuffs her hands in the pockets of the robe, crossing her legs at the ankle. She heaves a sigh, and his mouth stretches into a grin. 

“What?” she asks, quirking her head. 

He shakes his head slowly, dragging his eyes from her face to her feet and back up. 

“You were so nervous that night, and look at you now,” he says. 

“You still give me butterflies, Mulder,” she offers demurely, blushing a little at the thought. All the times he’s caught her off guard, surprised her with his possessiveness or his dominance, sometimes his sweetness. 

“Whatcha got on under there?” he asks with a wag of his eyebrows, jutting his chin towards the robe. 

“Under here?” she asks, touching the tie. “You’ll have to use your investigative skills to find out, agent.”

His demeanor shifts, his eyes darkening and his shoulders somehow becoming broader. He reaches for her, grabbing her by the hips and tugging her forward so that she’s standing between his knees. She feels blood rush to her pelvis, the sweet anticipation of arousal swelling in her veins. 

Mulder lays his palm against the side of her neck, brushing his thumb over her throat. He catches her eye and holds it for a beat, long enough to assert himself as the dominant party in this exchange. She sighs raggedly, and he slides his hand down and across her shoulder, pushing the fabric of the robe to the side. 

“No bra strap,” he observes in a level tone. “Could mean no bra, could mean strapless.”

She bites her lip to stifle a smile, and he arches up to press his lips to her clavicle. He kisses a trail down the middle of her chest, nudging the robe aside with his nose as he ventures lower and lower. When he reaches her breastbone, he swipes his tongue across the place where a bra would typically sit, then looks up at her. 

“Unless you’re wearing pasties…” he says, drawing the robe to the side with one hand and exposing a breast. 

Her nipple puckers under the chill of the open air, and he licks his lips, brushing them back and forth across the stiff bud and making her shiver. He pushes the robe off her shoulders, leaving only the bottom half still secured to her by the tie, and then spends several minutes kissing, licking, pinching and caressing until her knees grow weak and she falters, grabbing onto his shoulders for leverage. 

“No bra,” he says, reporting on his findings as he reaches under the robe and rests his hands on the sides of her thighs. 

He watches her face as his hands sail higher, and her breath hitches when they slide back and meet with the seams of her ass cheeks, his thumbs swiping over bare flesh experimentally. 

“Could be a thong,” he posits. 

He runs his palms up and up until his fingers settle into the dimples at her lower back. He smirks, then pulls his hands free and begins to loosen the knot on the tie. 

“Conclusion: commando,” he states, letting the robe fall to the floor around her feet. 

She watches him as he takes her in, just as much wonder in his eyes as there was in those early days. He turns her around, pressing wet kisses to her back and the tops of her ass cheeks. She looks at their reflection in the mirror, his fingertips on her hip bones and the minky crown of his head appearing and disappearing behind her. She sees her own body, the shimmering slivers of stretch marks on her belly and the once-full swell of her breasts, now slightly fallen. 

“Beautiful,” Mulder murmurs, and she sees that he’s peeking out around her, studying her as well. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Scully.”

He tugs her back sharply and she falls against him, sitting heavy on the bed between his legs. He opens his thighs wider to accommodate her, touching the insides of her knees and pushing them out so that she is exposed and accessible to him. She leans back against his chest, her head resting on the front of his shoulder, and again they take in their reflection in the mirror, visible as far as her belly button before the image is cut off by the desk. He runs his hands over her body, his eyes following his hands in the mirror as he palms breasts, belly, thighs. He settles his hand over her vulva, cupping her lightly as he kisses her temple. 

“Do you remember this?” he asks, his eyes on the mirror. “The first time I ever made you come?”

She arches into his hand a little, seeking more pressure. 

“Yes,” she whispers, needy. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“You wanted it so bad,” he growls, and she feels his erection pressing into her lower back. 

“I wanted you,” she tells him. 

Their eyes meet in the mirror and his middle finger begins to tease at her opening: soft, barely-there circles that make her whimper. He slides his wetted finger up over her lips and across her clit, and her eyes slide closed. 

Sometimes she thinks he knows her body better than she does. She rests her hands on the tops of his thighs as he touches her expertly, his mouth sucking at the skin behind her ear and his fingers slipping up, around, down, in, over and over like a well-rehearsed dance. His other hand finds its way to her breast, rolling and pinching and teasing her closer and closer to the edge. To the place only he can take her, no one else. Not even herself. Not like this. 

“Open your eyes.”

He’s looking at her face, at the stitch of her eyebrows and her gasping mouth. She watches the flex of his forearm, feeling but not seeing what those muscles are doing to her. Coaxing, pulling, gathering, bundling her tighter and tighter. One of her arms snakes up, her hand wrapping around the back of his neck as she opens herself up to him, melds her body into his. She feels a telltale tingle, and a low moan rumbles in her chest. 

“Mmm, good girl,” he encourages her, and her eyes slide closed again. 

It’s slow, languid, overflowing steadily like a cresting river. She’s acutely aware of every sensation: his chest warm against her bare back, his breath hot on her ear, his arms encircling her and his hands—god, his hands. Hands that have cared for her, loved her, teased her, saved her, occasionally hurt her. Hands that always catch her when she falls. 

He eases off as she comes down, stroking her swollen lips while she sighs with satisfaction. She opens her eyes again and sees him smiling, proud and coy. She smiles back and they sit like that for minutes, marinating in dopamine and the most exquisitely complicated love. 

“Did I ever tell you that for months after, this was what I thought about every time I touched myself?” he asks, one hand on her belly and the other still resting gently over her vulva. 

“Not the sex?” she asks, surprised. 

Her mind always went first to their middle-of-the-night tryst under the cover of darkness, knowing there was nothing between them. Knowing that a part of him would be left behind inside her. The day after, as they made the journey home to Washington, she forwent a panty liner in favor of feeling the dampness against her skin, getting a little thrill from sitting beside him on the airplane as he leaked out of her for hours. That’s what she thought about when her hand wound its way under the covers in those months and years until she could simply roll over and reach for him instead. 

“Well, that too,” he admits, stroking the tops of her thighs. “But there was something about that, making you come with my fingers. I don’t know—don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I was surprised by how easy it was.” 

She hums, then slowly sits up. He pulls his hands away from her body and rests them on the bed behind him, propping up his torso as she stands and turns around to face him. She reaches for the top button on his shirt, slowly slipping each one out of its slit until she reaches the bottom, then tugs the shirt free of his slacks. 

“I was surprised too, for what it’s worth,” she says huskily, running her hands over his belly beneath his undershirt. “You’re a quick study.”

She pops the button on his slacks, draws down the zipper. His fledgling erection comes back to life, visibly thickening beneath the fabric of his boxers. 

“You’re a fascinating subject,” he says in reply, his hips flexing up off the mattress. 

She takes a step back, signaling him to stand with a barely noticeable lift of her chin. He follows her direction and she peels his shirt off his shoulders, then pushes his slacks down to his feet as he pulls his undershirt off over his head. She runs her fingers around the perimeter of the waist of his boxers, stepping up close and resting her chin on his sternum as she pushes her hands under the fabric and grabs two handfuls of his ass cheeks. 

“Should we turn the lights off?” he asks, and she blinks slowly, rolling her head back and forth in the negative. 

She knows it was rhetorical anyway: he likes to watch, and she likes to see the look on his face when he’s watching. The hypnotized swell of his pupils, the slack of his jaw: his pleasure is her aphrodisiac, a cyclical loop of taking and giving that is prone to leave them both limp-limbed and breathless. 

His boxers land at his feet, and she reaches for his shoulders, guiding him back down to sit. She steps into the space between his legs and he reaches for her, cupping her chin and pulling her lower lip down with his thumb. She sucks his finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it as his cock jumps in her periphery. 

She lowers herself slowly to her knees, the change in position shifting her back into a submissive stance. Not that she can’t suck him off when she’s in charge, and in fact she often does. But today, he pushes one hand into her hair along her occiput and grips the base of his cock with the other, bouncing the head against her closed mouth as she slides her hands over the tops of his thighs. She parts her lips slowly, slipping her tongue out to provide a slippery surface for his play. When she tastes the salted slick of his precum, she opens her mouth and takes him in until he butts up against the back of her throat. 

He lets out something between a gasp and a moan, moving both hands to the sides of her head as she bobs up and down. He doesn’t push her, doesn’t force himself deeper than she’s ready for, but it still feels possessive and commanding. She flashes her eyes up to him and a throb sets off between her legs at the look on his face, those lust-drunk eyes and his tongue flexing in his mouth. Her fingernails dig into his flesh and she increases her pace until he stops her, pulling her away gently with panting breath. 

“Too good,” he says appreciatively, and she rises to her feet with a satisfied smirk. 

He stands and moves to the head of the bed, leaning against the padded headboard and stroking himself as he watches her crawl towards him. She sits atop his thighs and takes over, one hand cupping his balls as the other runs slowly from base to tip, her eyes on his face. 

“I’d take a picture of this, if you’d let me,” he says in a thick, syrupy voice. 

She cracks a smile. 

“I seem to recall a few nude polaroids kicking around in one of those boxes in the car,” she says, tightening her fist until he groans a little. 

“Not just naked,” he elaborates. “Sitting like that, like a queen on her throne with my cock in your hand. Way better than any of those movies in my old collection.”

She lifts her hips, scooting up and positioning him at her opening. 

“I kind of miss your old collection, Mulder,” she admits as she sinks onto him. “Now that we’ll have our own place again, we can start a new collection.”

He sighs and touches her hips as she sits on him fully, every inch. Her hands move to his shoulders, running up the sides of his neck to cradle his jaw. She kisses him, softly and sweetly, and she feels him throb inside her when she runs her tongue across his bottom lip. 

“Fuck me, Mulder,” she says pleadingly, even though she is the one on top. 

He groans, his fingers digging into her hips as his pelvis jumps off the bed, rutting into her. She flexes her hips forward and back, and they fall into a harried, desperate rhythm that is somehow complimentary. Just as in so many other ways, they are two mismatched halves of a perfectly symmetrical whole. They shouldn’t work, but they do. They shouldn’t still be here, so many trials and tribulations and pain and heartache later, but they are. Unstoppable, inseparable, inextricably bound: he is hers and she is his. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he professes, pulling her closer such that the peaks of her nipples drag over his chest each time she lifts her hips. His words are ragged, breathless, pushing out in pants between thrusts. “I can’t believe how wet you still get for me. Since day one, Scully. When I touched you that night? Jesus fuck, you were so wet.”

He knows she loves this, when he talks to her. When he tells her how much he likes it, how he feels about her. She holds her cheek against his, stubble scratching her face as he fucks her and his words pour right into her ear. 

“You remember that night, in the dark? You climbed right on top of me, and you were so fucking wet. I couldn’t believe you let me come inside you,” he tells her, and she feels herself clench around him. 

“I wanted you to,” she admits, flicking at his earlobe with her tongue. “The second we got home I got myself off thinking about it. I could still smell you on me.”

“Goddamn,” he growls. “Thinking about that is gonna make me come right now.”

She lifts her cheek off his and kisses him, forcing her tongue into his mouth as she brings one hand down to touch her clit. Every bit of skin where they are joined is wet and slick, and she slips her finger quickly back and forth over her hood until she feels that same tingle again, that point where she’s close enough to feel it in the base of her spine. 

“Come inside me,” she hisses, her body stiffening as the height of it passes over her, sending her crashing over the edge into a sea of delicious waves. Rising and falling and rising and falling, she hears him moan and then feels him quaking inside her. Expletives pour from his lips and he clings to her, their bellies pressed together and their mouths sharing shuddering breaths, and every drop of him is in every corner of her, united completely, eternally one. 

His head thumps back against the headboard and she collapses against his chest, her muscles dissolved to jelly and her heart so full it hurts. 

“I love you,” she whispers tightly, overcome with emotion, and his hands run up and down her back comfortingly. 

“Oh, brother,” he mumbles, and she pinches his side. “I think about that a lot, too, you know. The first time you said that to me.”

She lifts her head, puzzled. She’s not sure she can remember the very first time. 

“After Padgett,” he reminds her. “You said you’d felt it for a long time but couldn’t bring yourself to tell me.”

She nods sleepily. “That’s true, it was a long time before I said it. I think I was afraid of what would happen if I said it out loud.” 

“And what did happen?” he asks, pushing her hair behind her ear. 

She smiles, leaning into his hand. Her eyes fall closed and she thinks back and back and back, so many years. Lifetimes ago. 

“Everything,” she says on a sigh. 

“I love you, too,” he says after a beat. “So much it scares me sometimes.”

“That’s bravery, isn’t it?” she asks, settling back against his chest. “Being afraid, but doing it anyway.”

“I don’t feel brave,” he says, tugging the comforter up over them both. 

“You are,” she says resolutely. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

“Right back atcha, G-Woman,” he replies, and they drift there for a long while, too content to move. 

-

When she wakes, it’s to the brush of rough fingertips across her forearm. She grunts in protest and the fingers sneak higher, detouring towards her armpit until she opens her eyes and glowers at him. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a smile. “I brought you coffee.”

“What time is it?” she grumbles. 

“Just after 7:00,” he says sympathetically, “but if we maximize on daylight, we can make it home in three days.”

Home. 

She cracks a smile and sighs, remembering. She finally has something to look forward to, and it’s a feeling she hadn’t realized she was missing. She sits up in bed and he brings her a very decadent cup of coffee that’s far better than any she’s had in years, then tells her about his planned route home as she savors it. 

“It’s completely unfurnished, right down to appliances, so we’re going to need to do some serious shopping,” he warns her, and she nearly laughs. 

“I think I’ll survive,” she tells him, and then they just sit and look at each other, smirking like they share a secret that no one else is in on. 

“Oh, I got you something,” he says suddenly, reaching into his pants pocket. “I know the ten-year anniversary gift is supposed to be tin, but this seemed more fitting.”

He hands her a magnet in the image of the iconic “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada” sign, but the words “Welcome to” have been replaced with “Married in”.

“We don’t have a refrigerator, Mulder,” she says playfully, smiling. 

“We don’t have one yet,” he corrects her. 

“Well, I suppose we’ve never paid much mind to the proper order of things, have we?” she says, and he shakes his head, a look of complete adoration on his face. She leans forward, cradling his chin in her hand and kissing him firmly. “Thank you,” she says against his lips, “I love it.” She then throws back the covers and stands, stretching. “I just need to take a quick shower and we can head out,” she tells him, and he follows her into the bathroom. 

“Care for an escort?” he quips, then makes a show of washing her back to prove his lack of ulterior motives. 

She gets to be the one to slide her slippery fist around his cock in invitation, gasping when he hoists her up against the cold tile wall of the shower. They take advantage of the fact that the hot water will never run out, and her voice echoes loudly off the walls when she comes, too wrapped up in hope and love to care that the residents of the room next door can surely hear her. 

An hour later, they are back on the desert highway. Mulder tunes the radio to a station claiming to play “old school hits,” and they laugh at the fact that many of the songs were new releases when they were still holed up in the basement office, unaware of just how much joy and pain and adventure lay ahead. Even now, she remains acutely aware that the path ahead is never predictable, even when it appears to be. 

She holds the magnet in her hand, its rubber composition growing warm and pliant from the heat of her palm. She turns it over and over, imagining it adorning the refrigerator of a house she can’t yet picture, but will soon become as familiar to her as her apartment in Georgetown once was. She sees a full Thanksgiving spread laid out on a table at which her mother will sit, four years aged and brimming with the relief of having her daughter back. 

She remembers snippets of her dream, of a dark-haired child carefully constructing a turkey from his handprint and holding it up with pride in his eyes. It’s only the latest in a series of dreams that feel like looking through a window, catching a glimpse of the life not led, or maybe the one being lived in a place not too far from some of their four-week stays. 

It all feels so hopeful, so blessedly good it makes her want to cry. And then she does, quietly with eyes cast out the window until she sniffs and he reaches for her hand. She looks over at him, windswept and handsome and so completely hers that fresh tears well in her eyes, making him frown. 

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes jumping between the open highway and her face. 

She nods, pushing her mouth into a smile. 

“Let’s go home.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

[semperama]

maxiel plus neon please ❤️

The first time Daniel sets foot on Fremont Street, he knows he’s home. He has a job to do—and two big goons the boss sent with him to help him do it—but at night, when he’s done interviewing showgirls and collecting on debts and making sure all their money is washed squeaky clean, he wanders down the street and stares up at the lights and thinks about how this town was made for him, how it feels like he feels inside, chaotic and sparkling and grimy around the edges.

The first time he meets Max, he tells Daniel, “It’s too loud here,” and Daniel laughs in his face, forgetting for a moment that Max’s dad is building a casino with Teamsters money and any one of his friends would love to fit Daniel for a pair of concrete boots and personally introduce him to Lake Mead.

Two weeks later, they’re lying in bed together, and Daniel is coming to terms with the fact that he must have a death wish. But watching the neon flash pink, green, gold across Max’s bare skin, he doesn’t care, he feels invincible.

[thecheapshotartist]

Las Vegas - Day 1 / Staying at the @flamingovegas on the strip but checked out the @fremontstreet experience. Definitely a good recommendation #lasvegas #fremontstreet #fremontstreetexperience #instagood #gameoftones #instavegas #vegasgram #neon #vegas #whathappensinvegas #night #nightlife #picoftheday #instapic #showgirl #outandabout #gettingout #nightphotography #nightphoto #neonlights #instaphoto #trip #weddingtrip #thestrip #vegasstrip #fremont #thecheapshotartist (at Fremont Street Las Vegas Nevada) https://www.instagram.com/p/CjjRDXdNktP/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[beechersnope]

lewis & george: excalibur (duh)

charles & carlos: caesar's palace

lance & fernando: mgm grand (i know someone who worked here & every employee relationship was a 40-something & their emotional support 25yo coworker)

max & checo: max is at the cosmo, checo is on probation at circus circus

daniel & yuki: treasure island

guanyu & valtteri: they would be in cirque du soleil i think

hulk & kmag: resorts world (derogatory)

alex & logan: topgolf

nyck: a dotty's in old henderson

lando & oscar: showgirls working fremont

pierre & esteban: also working fremont but dressed in sexy nurse costumes instead

mclaren should dress lando & oscar like showgirls for the vegas gp

[fullebookking]

[PDF EPUB KINDLE] Lost Las Vegas Ebooks download

[PDF EPUB KINDLE] Lost Las Vegas Ebooks download

Lost Las Vegas

[PDF] Download Lost Las Vegas Ebook | READ ONLINE

Author : Jeff Burbank Publisher : Pavilion ISBN : 1909815039 Publication Date : 2014-5-1 Language : Pages : 144

To Download or Read this book, click link below:

http://read.ebookcollection.space/?book=1909815039

((Read_[PDF]))

Synopsis : [PDF EPUB KINDLE] Lost Las Vegas Ebooks download

A nostalgic journey back in time to visit a city that changes at a dizzying pace and is unrecognizable from a generation ago—includes photos of some of the original casinos when they were surrounded by acres of barren desert Lost Las Vegas traces the cherished places in the city that time and economics have swept aside before the National Register of Historic Places could save them from the wrecker's ball or, in the case of Las Vegas, before the Neon Boneyard could claim them. Organized chronologically, the book details the many hotels and casinos that failed to move with the times and got swept away for something bigger, better, and brighter. Legendary names in the field of entertainment have come and gone—the Sands hotel featured many of the Rat Pack in residence, but the casino is long gone. Howard Hughes and the mob are featured heavily in Vegas history but neither could sustain their success for very long. Today, the showgirl is under threat from the big setpiece shows such as Cirque du Soleil. Losses include Arizona Club, El Portal Theater, Clark County Courthouse, Hotel Nevada, First State Bank, Las Vegas Rail Depot, El Dorado Club, Old Ice House, Atomic Tourism, Helldorado on Fremont Street, The Green Shack, El Rancho Vegas, Hotel Last Frontier, Desert Inn, Sands, Sahara, The Thunderbird, The Mint, Royal Nevada, Stardust, Showboat, Hotel Biltmore, Dunes, Hacienda, Moulin Rouge, Tally Ho, Paddlewheel/Debby Reynold’s, Silver Slipper, Tam O’Shanter, Bonanza, Boardwalk Casino, Old Las Vegas Convention Center, Landmark Hotel, Aladdin, La Concha, Westward Ho!, and Castaways.

[valiantcollectortale-blog]

Showgirls on Fremont Street

[fremontvintagemall]

Is your gf a vampire? Is your favorite milk sstrawberry? Are you a showgirl in Death Valley? Check out these candles from a woman owned brand @nightworkcandle ! $36 each from @foundfremont #fvm22 🥛🍓🧛‍♀️🩸 (at Fremont Vintage Mall) https://www.instagram.com/p/CkCca2pJAdn/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[importanttigercreation]

Welcome to the news channel of the Angry Nature,Today we will tell you about Las Vegas flood,, Flash flood in UAE. 👇 https://youtu.be/nIHa1RXiVgs The lights on the 130,000-square-foot video screen came back on shortly before 11 a.m. Friday, showing computer codes rebooting instead of the usual spectacle visitors expect on the LED canopy hanging over the pedestrian mall at the Fremont Street Experience. Cleanup was well underway after monsoonal rain and flash floods put on a water and light display Thursday night that locals here won’t soon forget. What started with throttling wind and flashing lightning eventually found its way indoors — with leaky roofs leading to drenched slot machines and soaked carpets at multiple casinos. Outside, lightning knocked out power to the external lights on several downtown hotels, including the Golden Nugget. There were heavily dripping light fixtures at Caesars Palace, a shower inside Planet Hollywood, and floodwaters that made the parking garage at the Linq hotel look more like a white -water rapids course. One gamer at the Fremont Hotel and Casino kept playing right through the deluge. The Weather Service in Las Vegas warned of wind gusts approaching 70 mph, urging Twitter followers to “Take shelter now!” Las Vegas Fire and Rescue tweeted that it responded to 330 calls for service, mostly related to weather, and rescued seven people in swift water. Multiple intersections were flooded. The Las Vegas Review-Journal reported that more than 7,000 customers were facing power outages after 10 p.m. Emi Gross, a burlesque showgirl street performer, was working on the Strip when the hard rains started to fall. “It got crazy,” the 19-year-old said. “I’ve never worked as a showgirl in weather like this.” After about a half-hour of downpour, she says her bosses called her back to the office, a few miles off the Strip. “We booked it to the car,” Gross said. “We were in the garage at the Venetian and we still had to have the windshield wipers on because the rain was blowing in sideways. We could hardly see.” ATTENTION: All videos are taken from open sources. The selection is based on publication date, title, description, and venue. Sometimes, due to unfair posting of news on social networks, the video may contain frames that do not correspond to the date and place. It is not always possible to check all videos. We apologize for any errors! Thank you for watching, don't forget to subscribe our channel, We Wish you good Weather, #lasvegas_flood #US_flood #angry_nature #las_vegas #flash_flood #flood_2022 #flooding #kentucky_flood

[jtremblayphotos]

T-Shirts (2021) // Link in bio for prints . . . #blackandwhitephotographymag #freemontstreet #streetphotography #leagueoflenses #freemontstreetexperience #lasvegas #vintage #lens #vegasclassic #losangeles #photos #photojournalism #photoftheday #justgoshoot #showgirls #outsideisfree #neutralshades #vegasshowgirls #instaphoto #finearts #losangelesexodus #capturethemoment #photographysouls #fujilove #throughthelens #staycreative #fujifeed #fujifilmxseries #fujixpro2 #moment (at Fremont Street Experience) https://www.instagram.com/p/CPJbdWbBoP6/?utm_medium=tumblr

[pcurrytravels]

Las Vegas - A Love Hate Thang (Chapter II: The Ultimate Paradox)

Something I’ve noticed about my hometown: This place really thrives off of paradoxes and oxymorons. 

Our outlook? Perpetually stuck in the future (*points at the innumerable mothballed construction sites dotting our local landscape*). Our attitude? Perpetually stuck in the past (You know, it would have been a good idea to start diversifying our local economy after how hard we were hit by the recession, but instead we went right back to putting all of our eggs in the tourism, gaming, nightlife and real estate industries)

Our demographics (in just about every area imaginable) look like gumbo these days. But don’t hold your breath on that explosion of flavors you were expecting, because culture-wise? We still taste like chicken noodle soup. 

“Minors are not to be anywhere near the slots, alcohol, nightclubs or any of the other sinful stuff!” Is that right? Then explain why all of the movie theaters, bowling alleys, video arcades and even high school graduations are located within casinos please.

“We have so much love for our local community!” Yeah, you speak so highly of us when the “needs” of tourists, conventioneers, celebrities and, well, literally everyone except the city’s residents are fulfilled first, effectively rendering us as second-class citizens within our own city. 

None of these things sound like they make any sense, do they? Welcome to Las Vegas baby!

I could come up with numerous examples to be honest. I mean, I have lived here for nearly my whole life, so I think I can talk, but the paradox I personally find the most disturbing is this: We love to act like we’re this world class, progressive and forward-thinking metropolitan area on par with places like NYC and L.A. when the truth of that matter is, we’re essentially an overgrown Western hick town that just so happens to have a giant theme park for adults in the middle, a lot of traffic, some fancy houses and more diversity than usual. 

When I first went to San Francisco back in 2011, I was in awe. There were so many things that shocked and caught me off guard.....in a good way. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say they were all things that I KNOW would never fly here in Vegas, and yet we’re supposed to be “Sin City.” (And, although I didn’t see much of it myself during my excursions to these places, some of the people in this thread from Quora are saying that even NYC and LA are more lenient about a lot of these “sinful” things than we are these days. Can’t say I’d doubt it)

Yes, we are Sin City in terms of gambling and sports betting, alcohol, tobacco and now marijuana consumption, sex-related entertainment and services (and even then it’s all so sanitized and PG-13 these days it barely even qualifies), quickie marriage/divorce and a history with organized crime. Beyond that, however? Let’s just say we have a lot more in common with Arizona and Mississippi than we do with Amsterdam. 

Remember how in the first chapter of this series I told you all that I felt it was best to keep my thoughts and feelings about Las Vegans in general to myself? Okay, let me give you a tiny little sample: When talking to the typical Las Vegan, you’re more likely to be treated to the stereotypical thought process of either a flyover country redneck, a resident of a southern small town or a suburban high school student than you are that of someone who resides in a city with a global presence. Odd as it may seem, especially when this place���s international influence is taken into account, believe me, tis’ true. 

Having to constantly deal with such a smug, judgmental, provincial, insular and occasionally, dare I say it, behind the times populace is already exasperating enough on its own, but this is only further complicated by the relentless insistence that we aren’t. Not at all to say such a mindset is ever okay (nor am I saying that EVERYONE in these types of locales thinks and/or behaves in this manner), but at least towns and cities in flyover country, the old west and the deep south are HONEST about being stuck in their narrow-minded and prejudicial ways. 

Vegas on the other hand takes part in a charade wherein an image of being a forward-thinking and cosmopolitan metropolis is played up only to turn around and gag at the thought of actually embracing those same progressive ideals and values when no one’s looking. (Meta-Tangent: Mind you, we actually do have most of the ingredients to be that type of city already. The things we’re missing come as a result of having a populace that’s insistent on talking the talk but not walking the walk) Although I certainly don’t agree with it, I can at least respect the former to a point, compared to the latter which is just annoying, frustrating, and doesn’t make any damn sense. In layman’s terms, we’re total latte liberals. 

.......okay, maybe it’s not THAT bad. (Hey, this is called a “Love Hate Thang,” remember?)

There are certain pockets that are slowly evolving into the sort of environment that reminds me of SF and LA where things are more laid back and “free” if you will. See: DTLV/East Fremont, 18b Arts District, The Naked City, Huntridge, Winchester, the “Central” East Side if that makes sense, Charleston Heights, West Sahara (for the Las Vegans reading this: sounds general AF, I know), the Fruit Loop/Harmon Corridor, the University District, Paradise Palms/Maryland Parkway Corridor and (to a lesser extent) Chinatown/Asiatown. 

The rest of the city and the suburbs on the other hand leave quite a bit to be desired in the department of open-mindedness in my not so humble opinion. So it should be no surprise that I spend nearly all of my time in the aforementioned neighborhoods these days. I feel much closer to my element in these places than I do even in my home neighborhood/suburb of Spring Valley, most of which I don’t even touch with a ten foot pole ever since moving away. 

Meta-Tangent: Having grown up in Spring Valley and the Western suburbs, I know from experience that most people out there are DEATHLY afraid of venturing into any of these areas. A lot of it has to do with the perceived danger of them, despite all the evidence to the contrary (I know, I know, pretty general article, but given that I live here, I can tell ya: these murders, robberies, violent and sexual assaults have been occurring EVERYWHERE. However, a large amount of residents as well as our local media would be insistent in having you believe it’s all taking place Downtown or in the long-maligned northern, eastern and central portions of the city/metro area).

On the other hand, there’s also a lot of people who condescendingly put these parts of the city down just because they’re old, even though those horrible old houses they’re talking about are actually of far better aesthetic quality and much more structurally sound. Meanwhile, these same snobs are living in cheaply-built, cookie-cutter homes that were probably slapped together in a week and will likely start falling apart in five years. 

As for my honest opinion? These are only half-truths. I know for a fact that a lot of them are just being low-key racist and high-key classist/elitist. I also have a pretty strong theory that the strong hatred, fear and/or disdain people in the western suburbs have for these areas is because they know it’s a different world from the provincial, suburban bubbles they choose to live in. Oh well, that’s fine by me. Let those of us who actually are forward-thinking and progressive have all the fun. /tangent over.

Truth be told, none of this should really come as a surprise if you take a deeper look into this city’s history. Although, eschewing the thousand year legacy of the Paiutes, the modern-day origins of Las Vegas can be traced to Spaniards; being along the Old Spanish Trail and even being named “The Meadows” in Spanish due to the abundance of grassy meadows, hot springs and rivers in the area back then (all of which have long disappeared thanks to urbanization), the first permanent settlement here was a fort built by Mormon missionaries. 

That’s right, “Sin City” owes it’s existence to the same people with a stance on women that’s perpetually stuck in the 19th century, have beliefs that not-so-subtly imply black people are afflicted by the curse of Cain and wear very prudish undergarments (although the whole polygamy thing is probably what we have to thank for our quickie marriage/divorce culture). On top of that, while hidden from the naked eye, Mormons still have an active influence on the politics and overall society of this city with some very vocal moral guardians, always letting themselves be heard when things get “too” sinful. 

Oh, another thing: In the early/mid-20th century there was a place that was known as the Mississippi of The West. Where do you think it was? Utah? Arizona? Nope! It was right here in Nevada. They really did go hard with the Jim Crow thing here back in the day. Why, Sammy Davis Jr. couldn’t even walk through or have a drink in the same casinos where he performed to rave audiences for goodness sake. Now, that level of injustice and segregation is unheard of nowadays, but there’s many lingering signs of this era that can still be felt. They’re subtle, but they’re there. (Psst! The mascot of our local university was originally a confederate soldier. Seriously. In more recent years he’s been made to look like a cowboy instead but still)

Lastly, we grew from a small town in the desert where people from California and the Midwest came to gamble and watch showgirls to a rapidly growing metro area which plays host to a world-renowned resort, nightlife and fine dining destination that attracts people from all over the world. Almost literally overnight. Just about any Vegas native born before the late nineties can tell you stories of playing in the desert as a kid, including yours truly. All of us can remember when that housing development, Walmart, school, park, or whatever was a vacant lot. In turn, despite the growth, this leads to a fairly large portion of natives who are very much stubbornly stuck in their small town ways, many of whom are insistent on teaching their ways to their offspring unfortunately. 

The ingredients and the potential. We already have it. In terms of demographics, we’re a total melting pot. We’re located in one of the nine states where recreational cannabis use is legal and the only one where prostitution is legal (even though it’s not allowed in our county for whatever strange, puritanical reason). We have all the makings of a sexually-liberated, alternative/counterculture/subculture/generally non-conformist paradise. There is a growing and active community of creatives. And yet, a lot of this growth in the realm of free-thinking is borderline stunted thanks to the Mormon influence, the Mississippi-esque history and the small town attitude.

Alas, even though Vegas may be living proof that a  physical city can grow and change overnight, culture and community are two things that can’t change overnight, no matter how you slice or dice it. I regularly find myself pining for the Vegas of my childhood during the nineties; when it was far larger than a town but barely a city. I’d also love to experience Vegas during the 60s, 70s and 80s (minus the racism part, obviously), but at the end of the day, these are just frivolous ideologies. A more substantial wish would be that the local attitude and mindset finally catches up with the rapid population growth, urban development and all of the related side effects. My fondness for the neighborhoods listed above is a direct result of this desire I have. They represent what I wish all of Vegas could be.

As a new age and generation comes into play, perhaps this wish will be reality one day soon. Until next time. 

[edswpeventiblog]

Giovedì 8 Giugno un successo straordinario per l’Inaugurazione del Gay Village  con tanti ospiti  Vip  e un Sold Out…

Torna la Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona con i suoi Fedelissimi…. il Coordinator Support Event & Manager  dei Vip William Vittori & Erno Rossi Weddin Planner dei Vip della Nota Azienda Organizzazione di Wedding & Event Vip e non solo… la Eds WP Eventi.

Outfit di Erno Rossi & William Vittori  by Rappresentanze Conti di Salvatore & Sophia Conti per Romeo Gigli Plus

Foto di Luciano Di Bacco

William Vittori , Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona , Erno Rossi

Roma, con “Fantasia” torna il Gay Village al Parco del Ninfeo

Ad inaugurare la sera di giovedì 8 giugno del Gay Village, dal titolo “Fantasia”, la showgirl Eleonoire Casalegno in veste di madrina, che dà il via alle danze

  William Vittori , Eleonoire Casalegno , Erno Rossi

nella grande kermesse organizzata da Imma Battaglia

Imma Battaglia & William Vittori

Imma Battaglia & Erno Rossi

con Annachiara Marignoli, Paola Dee e Mauro Basso. Alla guida una direzione artistica corale in cui spiccano i nomi di Pino Strabioli ed Eva Grimaldi con le loro “interviste -spettacolo”: un misto di parole, ironia e musica che coinvolgeranno tantissimi artisti.

Tanti gli ospiti noti: Eleonoire Casalegno , Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona , William Vittori , Erno Rossi , Nancy Coppola ,Milena Mastromarino ” MALENA” ,  Imma Battaglia , Eva Grimaldi , Pino Strabioli , Ludovico Fremont , Mara Keplero , Vanessa Gravina , Monica Cirinna’ , Leopoldo Mastelloni , ecc …

Foto di Luciano Di Bacco

Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona , Milena Mastromarino ” MALENA” , William Vittori

William Vittori , Nancy Coppola , Erno Rossi

William Vittori , Erno Rossi

William Vittori , Erno Rossi , Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona , Milena Mastromarino ” MALENA” , Mara Keplero

Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona , Eleonoire Casalegno

Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona , Eva Grimaldi

Il Video della Sig.Ra Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona sul palco del Gay Village

Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona

Ufficio Stampa G.R by Eds WP Eventi

        Inaugurazione Gay Village torna la Marchesa Daniela del Secco d’Aragona con i suoi fedelissimi William Vittori & Erno Rossi della nota azienda Eds WP Eventi Giovedì 8 Giugno un successo straordinario per l'Inaugurazione del Gay Village  con tanti ospiti  Vip  e un…