#i love peter platter

[legylou]

HAHA I TURNED THEM INTO PONIEZ XD!!!

idk why but this popped in my head after some childhood memory came in my mind...

(characters/medias/series/whatevr R NOT MINE!!)

[lexisnotasimp]

I made this because I was bored lol—

[legylou]

lmao/lolz this pic reminds me of whenevr i draw peter (from the bugaloos show) wearing a maid outfit or just something cutesy/feminine in general

http://web.archive.org/web/20060214130445/http://2ccp.com/cg/cg_1.html

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Souper

[at unicorn fuck club] JRR Tolkien: tonight we've got a special story from everyone's favorite fantasy writer GRR Martin: CS Lewis: Peter S Beagle: Hans Christian Andersen: L Frank Baum: Tolkien: whoops shouldn't have said that ha ha Tolkien: i mean, you're all winners in my book

Tolkien: but when i say everyone's favorite fantasy writer Tolkien: i mean terry practchett GRR Martin: oh yeah that's fair CS Lewis: yeah fair Peter S Beagle: fair Hans Christian Andersen: yes yes of course L Frank Baum: that's fair

Terry Pratchett: hello unicorn fuck club today i've got a story about a wizard who is - get this - actually very bad at his job Tolkien: oh ho ho! terry my boy, you've done it again! Pratchett: there's also girl dwarves Tolkien: [suddenly stone-faced] i hate this

Pratchett: but first Pratchett: all this story telling is hungry work! Pratchett: do you happen to have anything to eat around here? Tolkien: are you talking about... Tolkien: having Tolkien: a Tolkien: feast????? Brian Jacques: [squeaking incomprehensibly in rising excitement]

Tolkien: why, terry, my boy, what an idea! Tolkien: instead of merely DESCRIBING a feast, we'll have one! huzzah! Martin: huzzah! Lewis: huzzah! Jacques: [squeaking] i use a mercury head dime as a serving platter!

Pratchett: no no nothing so fancy as that Tolkien: eh? Pratchett: i was more thinking along the lines of Pratchett: soup Tolkien: soup? Pratchett: yeah just a big bowl of heart soup right about now would just be the best thing Pratchett: oo i just love the sound of it!

Pratchett: think about it: no work... no worries... no failures... no waste... when you serve maggi homestyle soups, the finest money can buy yet priced reasonably within your budget Tolkien: interesting! tell us more Pratchett: maggi soup! es ist echt ausgezeichnet!

Pratchett: how often have you had this problem Pratchett: say, you're on a budget but you have to feed your hungry hungry boys Tolkien: oh man i have been there! Tolkien: more times than i can count!

Tolkien: but terry Tolkien: i need something substantial and nourishing for my hungry boys. can maggi soup satisfy? Pratchett: ahh jirt my friend, maggi soup does more than satisfy! Pratchett: as the good people at maggi say, "kartoffelsalat volkswagen fahrvergnugen lebensraum!!"

Tolkien: What's that sizzling sound I hear? Pratchett: Get up! It's soup and eggs, my dear! Martin: What can I cook without much fuss? Pratchett: maggi soup would tickle all of us! Lewis: What's a lunch that's good and quick? Pratchett: Hot Maggi soup mix does the trick!

Pratchett: mm mmm! i tell you, nothing's as good as a rich bowl of maggi soup! buy some today! eat it with someone you love! Neil Gaiman: something's not right here

Gaiman: of course the power of imagination is infinite, friends Gaiman: but in all the worlds in all the multiverses of possibility, i cannot imagine one in which terry pratchett shills for soup Pratchett: [sweats] nein, nein, ich bin der echte terry pratchett!

Gaiman: if you are in fact, the real terry pratchett Gaiman: and not an imposter Gaiman: like the imposter sandman hector hall in The Sandman, vol. 2: The Doll's House Gaiman: then you won't have any trouble telling a joke Pratchett: [sweats] ein witz? du magst ein witz?

Pratchett: [sweats] i mean ha ha of course i can tell a joke Pratchett: i am the real terry pratchett after all Pratchett: [sweating intensifies] and you all know me, i'm a real spaßvogel Pratchett: Pratchett: a-are you sure you wouldn't all rather just have some soup?

[menlove]

one thing that adds to credibility of Paul being closeted imo, is that often he is thought of as having this internalised homophobia, if not homophobia itself, because he always mentions how un-gay he is whenever some gay subject comes up in interviews

but like, there are so many things that disprove him being homophobic, it's not even funny. going to Paris alone with gay men? Paul did that two times (three if we count John lol) and that Peter Brown story is incrediblyy suspect. what homophobic man, scared of gay, sits on the bed of his male employee and his male fling that casually late at night in his hotel room and chats them up?

most likely reason, combined with his incredibly suspect lyrics, is that he is so defensive about his sexuality because he has something to hide

THATS WHAT IIIIIM SAYING!!!! like he is so comfortable w gay people and gay culture which on its own isn't suspect but it Is when people insist he's homophobic as a Reason He's Repressed Not Closeted. and once again I must remind everyone that john nearly beat a man to death for calling him gay and was still undeniably queer.

it's just like. imagine for a moment. with me. everyone hold my hand. not claiming this is true but walk w me along this path to get to current paul that isn't "he's just repressed and stupid and doesn't even know he's bi" but is instead MY speculative timeline (somehow this turned into a mini fic or something god help me but I'M SO SERIOUS IM SO SERIOUS THIS WOULD MAKE THE MOST SENSE TO ME WALK WITH ME HOLD MY HAND)

you are born in the 1940s. you are raised by a strict man who was physically abusive & in a culture that hates gay people. you grow up watching people get killed for being queer and being bullied over your feminine features that people think make you queer. you hit puberty and Shit Gets Harder because you start finding other men hot. elvis, for one! when you're 15 you start seeing a boy around that you think is hot and it turns out he's in a band and you fall in love with his looks and his voice and then him. and he's just as insane about you. you start doing increasingly sexual things together. eventually, you're having a full blown sexual affair. while writing love songs together and growing up together. and then he gets his girlfriend pregnant. and marries her. and you lose him, a little bit. he goes off and has an affair with your gay manager & when he gets home he ruins your birthday party by nearly beating a man to death for bringing it up. you wonder what he'd do if anyone found out about the two of you too.

and then the insane happens and you end up The Most Famous Band In The World. the ENTIRE world is watching your every move. the entire world loves you. they wouldn't love you if they knew. you get a girlfriend and it's convenient because she's always gone and you're always alone. but you still have him. and other girls. through everything, you have each other. even when he says something stupid and the world wants all of your heads on a platter and he starts to fall into a depression, you still have each other. even if now you Know how bad it could be if they ever found out. and then your manager, your father figure, an openly gay man, dies. and it's not a suicide, but a lot of people think it is, and sometimes you wonder, and fuck it's terrifying, isn't it? the reality of your life, the reality of loving Him, the reality of being queer. what if that winds up being You? you start to lose Him a little bit more as you throw yourself into your work and push everyone way too hard. you propose to your girlfriend. and then you do lose Him. to a woman. which was sort of unthinkable because he was already married and never cared about her, just you. never cared about any women, just you. but he cares about Her. and you fucking lose your mind. lose yourself in drugs. blow up your engagement. propose to another girl and many more "jokingly". your one girlfriend says you had to try again or you would have gone "raving queer" and killed yourself. the whole time you're losing Him more and more. suddenly he's looking at Her like he used to look at you. you're no longer his world and what the fuck do you have? a bunch of girls you don't care about and a drug problem? and then you meet a woman who, according to you, is more woman than anyone else. she's a mother already, a family ready made when you've always wanted one. she's smart and she's funny and she's quick and you let yourself cling to her because you don't have Him and he has Her so you've got to have someone, don't you? and she winds up pregnant and that's great, that's wonderful, you're no longer in danger of dying alone and queer and sad. you've lost Him by now completely, even though you have about a month where things feel a little less awful again and you perform together one last time. you marry her and you ASK people, flat out, if they expected you to be a 26 year old unmarried queer. you fight the night before you're married for some unknown reason, so badly she almost leaves you. and then He marries Her, and everything is fine. and then it all falls apart completely. you at least had Him as your friend, your writing partner, the other half of you legally. and then he asks for a divorce. and the world ends. you don't have the band, you don't have Him, you don't have anything. you stay in bed all day, drinking, miserable. like a breakup, not just of the band.

eventually, your wife pulls you out of it. you survive. you start writing again. you write to him. you put two beetles fucking on the cover of your second album and he thinks a song you wrote about your wife's ex is about him (and maybe it is, a little) and he shoots right back. and you keep that up for a decade. writing to each other. seeing each other only in the news and in snatched moments together where nothing is the same as it was. you plead with him through your music: why do you hurt me so bad? call me, pretty baby. I'm waking up screaming over you. I can't tell you how I feel. you try and make things like they were, even a little, showing up to his house with your guitar like you're 15 again, but he sends you away. in all that time, he's basically gone to conversion therapy. he's with someone who makes disparaging remarks about his sexuality. for you, you've let yourself embrace being a bit campy, but you still can't bring yourself to be open about any of it. not with anyone but your wife.

and then you start talking again. you make up. things seem hopeful. it seems like he might still love you and he writes you a song about starting over with you. and then he's murdered. and it's senseless. it's so so senseless. and it's unfair. you lock yourself away for days listening to that song he wrote you. the media tears you apart for grieving wrong. they wish you died instead. they think you're cold. you never loved him, not like he loved you. you write a song, with tear marks on the page, telling him how much you DID love him. all the things you'd say to him if he were there with you. you write more songs about that, all centered around that theme. some of them you say are about him. others you don't. once, you say if anyone catches on you can just deny it. but he wrote you love songs too, apparently, for you, and you eventually record them with your old band

and the thing is, You are one of his widows. his name follows yours every time it leaves someone's mouth. he's all anyone ever talks about with you. he's all you want to talk about too. his legacy is your legacy. he's no longer here to tell people about his sexuality, he's no longer here to consent to everything that you were being told. he's not here. and how can you even begin to mention Your Own sexuality without bringing him up? you owe him more than outing him in death. you owe Her more than that too, because you were already cruel to her and so was the world. she's grieving just like you, you can't do that. your wife dies, and now you're her legacy too and you being queer would seem like a betrayal to her. your best friend dies, and now he's your legacy too. you aren't just you- you're Him, you're 1/2 of the living members of the most famous band to ever exist, you're Her, you're your dead wife

so when someone asks you about him. when someone asks you about being gay or calls him the love of your life. What Exactly Are You Supposed To Say?

I wouldn't say shit either

[legylou]

idk what 2 make the title 4 this but heres sumthing interesting ig..

ive kinda thought abt an idea.. a yansim-inspired idea called "Yanplatter Sim" or sumthing of that nature (a small project) that takes place sumwhere in between 2012 & 2013 in my bugaloos au..

heres the roles:

yanchan/yankun/the yandere: peter platter

senpai/crush: mettaton

infochan/infokun: wally darling

midori: bugbo

budo: gradient joe

1st rival/childhood friend of mettaton: moe doodle (he was childhood friends w/ mettaton but he wanted 2 be more than that which got peter upset)

2nd rival/student librarian: pomni (she simply had a platonic interest in/wanted 2 be friends w/ mettaton but peter thought she was a threat to him)

3rd rival/occult club member: bill cipher (he was stuck-up on the outside but deep down he had a medium-sized crush on mettaton & wanted 2 read ritual/occult books w/ him)

4th rival/drama club president: angel from hazbin hotel (he wanted to be in a fulltime relationship w/ mettaton & wanted to emulate cheesy romance movies like grease, hsm, etc. )

5th rival/skool bully: cherri bomb (she was a big bully & put a lot of students down but wanted 2 steal mettaton from peter even tho she knew what was happening regarding what happened 2 moe, pomni, bill & angel)

6th rival/female delinquent leader: verosika mayday (she was more mean than cherri as she would spraypaint the walls via drawing/writing mean stuff & swear words, causing extreme fights, etc. but she tried 2 turn mettaton in2 a delinquent like her & tried to get him 2 date her but he simply said no)

final/7th rival/student council president whos secretly a yandere: miss heed (she didnt have a crush on mettaton but instead was a yandere who wanted peter 2 be her sempai which he didnt like)

--------------------------------------------

(characters/franchises/medias/etc r not mine!!)

(i DONT support yandev & the things he did)

(template is not mine but its from deviantart)

[lexisnotasimp]

I was looking at stuff and I saw a photo of Peter platter (from the bugaloos) and wally darling (from welcome home) in a gif made by somebody and I decided to make art based off of it bc I love Wally Darling and Petter platter <3

[missuswalker]

i love your interactions between reader and quickie soooo much omg. would you be able to write something where either quickie or reader are being super needy and the other is just like amused by it/teasing/making fun of them for it idrk im bad at requests ahh

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 || 𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

༄ summary: you do your best to subtly hint towards what you want to do with peter, but he knows you too well and catches on fast (he thinks he’s the funniest man on the planet

༄ warnings: smut, teasing, piv, fingering, oral (fem receiving), lack of protection 🤡(great way to come back after a month)

༄ notes: WHAT ILY AND THIS (has anyone picked up to the fact that the notes are literally just me interacting with the anons) (also i missed you guys 😘)

peter never really could sit still, it was something you’d quite literally never seen. even in his sleep, he would roll around, kick you, sit up abruptly, or just mumble. that was why you weren’t surprised that he payed you little attention, though he’d been the one to invite you over. he stood in front of his (awfully loud) pac-man machine, eyes fixed on the screen, hands moving quickly to keep himself from losing. to be completely honest, when he called, you’d expected to get dicked down as soon as you stepped foot in the basement.

yeah, that hadn’t happened.

while it was sweet that he just wanted to be in your presence, you wished that he would, at the least, pull himself away from the game that kept his attention longer than you did. you knew it wasn’t anything against you, he just wasn’t typically a ‘sit down and hang out’ kind of guy. while that could be the case on occasion, he preferred to hop around his room like he’d never been in it before.

standing from your place on his couch, you make your way behind him, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist. he doesn’t even flinch, eyes flickering across the paths of the pink and blue ghosts. “hey,” you say, resting your head in between his shoulder blades, the skin of his back bare warm, shirt having been discarded hours ago. “hi,” he responds, letting one hand come back for a split second to gently brush against your arm.

you sigh, giving a quick eye roll. you weren’t annoyed with peter, more annoyed at the fact that he hadn’t picked up on any of the hints you’d dropped. except he absolutely did. he knew exactly what you wanted, but he was playing a game. he wanted to see how long it would take for you to just say that you wanted to have sex. he always thought it was funny how you’d beat around the bush until he gave in, but this time, he wasn’t going to just hand it to you on a silver platter.

pun intended.

“will you be done soon,” you ask, tone sickly sweet. he did his best not to snicker at your desperate attempt to gain his attention, keeping his face forward. “if you want me to be,” he answers, purposefully losing the game. he turns around and wraps you up in his arms, kissing the side of your head. after a few seconds of silence, he pulls away, hopping over the back of the couch and landing in a laying position, turning on the tv. you follow, crawling into the tight space between your idiot boyfriend and the couch.

“what do you wanna do,” he hums, flipping through channels of shitty tv shows. “i dunno,” you shrug, trailing your fingers down the side of his arm. he cranes his neck to look at you, eyebrows raised. “you can’t think of anything?” you could hear his smirk in his tone of voice, it dawning on you that he definitely knew every move you’d been making. you scoff, smacking him upside the head. “you asshole,” you laugh, shaking your head. “what? i didn’t do anything!” he defends, a silly smile on his face as he covers his head.

when you’d finally figured out that this had all been some sort of game to him, you could feel yourself growing a little bit embarrassed. “peter,” you groan, nudging him. “what?” he asks, the smirk from before still there. you simply blink at him, pursing your lips. he was really starting to piss you off, but at the same time, it made you need him even more. “if you don’t want to do anything, i’m gonna take a nap,” he says, getting more comfortable.

you throw your head back and internally screaming at him. “peter, stop being a dick. just… please,” you huff, shaking him as if he’d already fallen asleep. “please what? please have sex with me because you’re so sexy, funny, and strong? is that what you were going to say?” he teases, turning around to face you now, that shit eating grin you were so used to making its way onto his sneaky face. “no, i would never say those things about you,” you say, deadpanning.

“oh, okay. goodnight, then,” he says, shutting his eyes and dramatically pretending to snore. “no, no, no, peter,” you whine, smacking his chest. “just admit it and i’ll wake up. i know you want me, you don’t have to be so stubborn, it’s not like i blame you. i am pretty damn sexy,” he says, not moving an inch. “oh my god, i hate you.”

you had expected him to just give up, open his eyes and let you have it, but he didn’t, adding to your frustration and the dull ache in your core. he was being mean, purposefully, and it was getting you riled up, despite how much it pissed you off. “fine, i want you, peter, please, i need you,” you sigh, voice monotone. he keeps his eyes shut, though his eyebrows raise as if to say, “try again.”

“okay, you win, i need you, just fuck me.”

his eyes fly open, smile never wavering. “wasn’t so hard, was it?” he snorts, sitting up. you were now in his spot, peter hovering over you, a hand by each side of your head. he peppers your face with kisses, a hand coming up to push your hair out of your face, lips finally landing on yours. “can we speed this up a little bit? you’re supposed to be super fast, aren’t you,” you say, silently begging him to just slam into you. “little desperate, but if that’s what you want,” he jokes, grinning against your cheek as he reaches under your (his) long shirt, fingers hooking in the waistline of your panties and sliding them down your legs, holding them up like a prize.

“very cute, have i ever told you how much i like pink?” he hums, stalling just to aggravate you. upon seeing your unamused face, he stuffs the underwear into the pocket of his sweatpants. spreading your legs open to get a better look, laughing at the sight before him. “you’re already wet? i haven’t even touched you, yet.”

if this man didn’t just move on already.

like he could sense your thoughts, he wasted no more time, sliding a long finger into your near-dripping cunt, finally giving you a sense of relief. with you letting out a heavy breath, his eyes find yours again. “all this just from thinking about me?” he asks, sliding another finger in, slowly dipping his head under your tshirt, lips connecting with your attention deprived clit. “you’re an asshole,” you grunt, hand finding his silver locks. he chuckles against you, the cool breath from his nose tickling your warm skin.

“you’re gonna be the death of me, baby,” he groans, pulling his hand away and sucking the slick off of his fingers. his hard dick pushed at the fabric of his sweats, wanting so badly to escape its confines. “i might just need you more than you need me,” he huffs, sitting back against your shins, untying the strings of his pants and pushing them down his thighs, briefs following. once they’re down his legs, he strokes himself, the sight of you looking so pretty making him twitch.

“peter, please.”

you’d lost count of how many times you’d said that in the last few minutes, but you didn’t have time to count when you were so close to getting exactly what you wanted. “i know, i know,” he nods, pushing your shirt up and moving your hand to tell you to hold it. he tugs at your bra a bit, just enough to let your tits spill out. he leans down, placing a sweet kiss to your stomach, looking up and giving you a wink, before gently pulling your hips up. “turn around for me,” he instructs, turning you around. hands still on your hips, he pulls them upwards, your ass in the air.

scooting up behind you on his knees, he places one kiss to your ass, pumping himself, and lining up, head of his cock pushing into the folds of your pretty pussy. once he’s all the way in, he thrusts in and out slowly, one hand on your hip, the other on your asscheek. “faster,” you mumble, face pushed against the couch cushion. “you sure?” he teases, but listens, picking up his pace.

his room felt humid, the slapping sounds of your skin meeting filling your ears. he practically rams into you, your loud moans making his hips stutter. “shit,” he whispers, reaching down to rub at your clit with rough fingers. “oh my god, peter,” you whimper, reaching back for the hand that was on your ass, squeezing his fingers. the tight squeeze of your cunt when you came made him lose his steady rhythm, burying his cock deep inside of you. his release fills you up, his fingers finally intertwining with yours, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of your hand.

“didn’t know you needed me that much.”

“do you ever shut up?”

“not that i know of.”

i’m back hello 😻💋 feel free to continue to request, i’ll be writing again 🎀 try not to be so vague yall i have one that quite literally only says “smut pls” 😞

[sabcandoit]

As you wish

Spider noir x fem reader

Summary: Spider-Man Noir comes home from a late night saving the world. You cooked dinner for him and as the night progresses on you both find yourselves naked and begging for more.

Warnings: smut. and fluff! but mostly smut and pet names. No real roles are pushed but Noir is a bit more dom and the one in control. Fingering, begging, and lots and lots of flirting. 

A/N: Ugh i'm a slut for this man. Also this is my first fic so !!! Please enjoy!

You were at home, cooking a dinner to share with your husband. Peter was busy at work and usually wasn't back until late. Oh, how you missed his presence during the day. Waking up with him was a treat in itself, but the rest of the day was torturous. It was definitely not easy being married to Spiderman.

You had put Dean Martin’s hits on the record player, lighting a few candles, trying to set a romantic and calming atmosphere. You and Peter had a shared love for jazz. As you continued to put the dishes on the dining table, you sighed, wiping the back of your hand on your forehead. Even through almost a year of marriage, you two still had this honeymoon phase running, never fully thinking it would stop. You smiled, thinking about how gentlemanly and chivalrous he was. You couldn't wait to see him again and wrap your arms around him and kiss his beautiful lips and…

Keys jangled at the door, and a hand turned the knob as a shadowy figure stepped in. Clad in his dark suit, Peter closed the door behind him. You turned to see his masked face looking over at you in the Kitchen. 

“Peter!” You smiled, “Welcome home.” you sweetly walked up to him, snaking your hands around his waist, looking up at him. 

“Ah, hello darling…” he sighed, exhausted. “I see you have dinner all ready.” you could tell he was smiling too even under his mask. 

“Oh yes,” you turned around, looking at the table. As you let go of his waist and stepped back, he watched as you walked over, fixing up your hair as you untied the apron from around you. Peter took off his hat, setting it on the coat stand and pushed off his trench coat. He pulled his mask up, showing his tired face and disheveled hair., and picked off his gloves. His black, buttoned up vest over a black turtleneck now visible as he still sported his black pants and knee-length heavy duty boots, walking towards the diner table. As you placed the platter of roast and vegetables down, Peter pulled out your chair. “It looks delicious, doll” he softly said as he put his hand on your lower back. 

“Thank you.” You replied, sitting down. He then moved over to his chair and sat down. As you ate dinner he sat up, smirking as he complimented the soft music playing. “So… it's a Dean Martin kind of night?” he questioned with his fork in the air. You chuckled and nodded, “You bet.”

 As you and Peter finished eating, you started to stand up, grabbing your dishes as he stopped you, with his hand stretched out. “Let me do that Sweetheart.” He rolled up his sleeves before grabbing the plate in your hands as you walked over to wash more dishes. After he put the dirty plates in the soapy water you were using to clean, he wrapped his half-covered arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder. 

“I missed you.” he softly said. You only closed your eyes and breathed in, resting your own head on his. “I did too.” you spoke. As his hands moved up your body, he stood up straight and looked down at your figure. Wearing a simple, mid length floral dress and stockings with your hair falling out of the temporary updo. “I love this dress on you…” he flirted as he hitched up the dress slightly while still caressing your body from behind. 

“Oh Pete, you ought to be ashamed of yourself” you raised your head, feeling his touch getting more and more heated. “Why?” he was quick to respond, you could hear a smirk in his voice. “I should be able to appreciate my beautiful wife…” he continued. You blushed slightly, drying off your hands in a towel as you turned around, now facing him. You looked up into his eyes, him being quite taller than you. Reaching up, wrapping your arms around his neck, you smiled as his hands continued to place on your waist. You both leaned in, kissing  passionately. 

As you continued to kiss, sweet and simply, your linked arms fell down to his neck. The kisses started getting more intense and sultry, making you both breathe laborly. Parting for just a moment, you mumbled gently “Well, big guy.”, making Peter chuckle and lightly blush too, coming back into the kiss. He eventually made it down your neck, growing impatient. You felt his breath lowering with every kiss. As he did this, you made little noises, not being able to stay quiet. One of your arms came between you two as you started unbuttoning the top of his vest. “Peter…” you groaned. He stopped, looking at you, “Perhaps we should move?”, he looked with a playful tone. You giggled and nodded as he picked you up bridal style. When he did this, your dress only rid up more, showing your upper thighs. He took notice, his eyes traveling over your body. Then he snapped his eyes directly into yours, raising his brows as you blushed.

 Neither of you had to say anything, you already knew what you were both thinking. Peter walked into your bedroom, setting you on the bed and leaning down on you, kissing feverishly. Your hands pushed up on his chest while you made out. He paused to comment, “Oh you doll… so pretty”. 

Your hair completely fell out of the tie you had it in at this point as he undid a few more of his buttons. His clunky shoes were still on, frustrating him as he leaned down to untie them, mumbling apologies to you for leaving your excited bodies behind. You just chuckled as he came back up to you after successfully kicking them off. Your dress was practically useless in covering you, now halfway up your body, showing your tan stockings and panties. He smirked at the sight, uttering under his breath “Woman…”, giving you one chaste kiss before pulling your sheen stockings down. You watched him intently as he did so, rummaging your hands through his vest again, unbuttoning the rest and helping him shrug it off. 

He hummed as he kissed your exposed collarbone, and you moaned lightly, rubbing your hand along his muscular back. He pulled your dress over your arms and head, panting in the kiss as he brought his large hands to fondle your covered breasts. You moaned into the kiss.

 “D’you like that?” he slurred, frantically trying to continue his work. You felt the bulge in his pants rub against your panties and stomach. You boldly brought a hand down to his clothed dick, palming it, making him gasp. He stood up, keeping eye contact with a sinful look as he was still surprised from your daring hand. Quickly crossing his arms, he pulled up on his tucked in turtleneck, tossing it to the floor harshly before coming back down on you again. Your eyes followed his bare chest, hairy and robust, muscles contracting as he moved. Only in your undergarments now, he slipped a hand in your panties. “Already this wet? Wow, you must be pleased.” he mischievously commented. 

You moaned more, desperately needing him. Peter then stuck one finger up your cunt, moving in and out. “Oh.. Ah!.. Peter, please!” you screamed in between heavy breaths. “Please what?” he teased. He was having fun with this, too much fun. You furrowed your eyebrows in irritation, not wanting to play around. As he continued to finger you, adding another digit in, you mumbled “Fuck me”. He partially heard you, an idea coming to his mind. “What was that?” he chuckled breathlessly. You only raised your voice slightly, uttering, “Fuck me…” He definitely heard you this time, but went along with his plan. “Say it louder, like you mean it doll.” he voiced, egging you on. After a few pants and you grasping onto his back for dear life, overstimulated by his fingers, you spoke loud and clear. “Fuck me Peter Parker.” All though he was feeling very playful and very much so liking where this was going, something clicked in him with your last remark. Maybe it was hearing his full name being spouted so desperately from your mouth. “As you wish.” He then retracted his digits from your pussy and stood up again. 

You laid on the bed, exasperated yet completely aroused and ready as he unlatched his belt buckle, slipping it off and pushing his pants down. His dick, large and rock hard, was faced up in his tight, black boxers. Before pulling said clothing down, he ran his hand through his hair with a lustful look on his face. You looked him in the eyes with an innocent, adoring sort of look. When he noticed your stares, he leaned back, already high off of the foreplay. While you watched him, you unfastened your bra from behind and threw it on the floor, sporting a seductive look. “Dear God…” he muttered as he slipped off his boxers. Your eyes widened as you saw his veiny and tall member. How did his confidence never waver? He always looked at you so adoringly, as though you were the only thing that mattered. He was so vocal about it too, calling you all sorts of cute and lustful names. It no doubt turned you on each time, hanging on to his every word. 

All that was left was your underwear, absolutely soaked. He leant back down again, rubbing your hips and sliding down to your panties, picking them off, dragging them down your legs as you collectively panted. You bit your lip as you watched him slide back up to your now barren privates. He kissed it slowly, as though he was praising your body, ascending to your breasts and collarbone. He sucked on one of the nipples, softly stroking and pinching the other one. “Peter!” you moaned. You could feel him smirking against your breast, clearly liking the sounds you made. “Keep making those pretty noises, Angel.” 

You couldn't continue like this, you thought. Every passing second becoming more impatient. His hard on was now edging you, and the sensation making you groan. He finally parted from your chest and led his cock into your vagina, going slow and steady, so as not to hurt you. You whined his name lewdly. This drove him to move more forcefully. He whispered sweet pet names in your ear as he held on tightly to your hips. Little kisses were marked all over you in the meantime as your arms clung to his back, hastily clenching your fists. He enjoyed every minute of watching you. His lips pursed as he slid in and out of you. You both couldnt speak at this point, being too engulfed in the intensity of the moment, but he managed to spill out a quick “Fuck.” and “I love you” as he continued to pound into you. You had no need to beg him to go faster or harder, he knew just how you liked it.

 “Im Close!” you moaned. He kissed and bit on your neck, making you squirm and blush. “Cum for me darling.” he commanded sweetly. With one last cry out, your cum dripped out, being blocked by his member still very much so in you. This drove him mad, and his release was soon after. White fluid, a mixture of both of yours, ran lewdly down your leg and onto the bed. You both continued moaning, still high off of the circumstances. 

As the intoxicating moment wore off, you laid next to each other on the bed, hugging. He stroked your head lightly, playing with your hair and kissing your temple. “My dove,” he called. “You are amazing.” you just closed your eyes, basking in the moment, smiling. Peter mumbled, “One moment dear, let me get you something” as he rolled over and pushed off of the bed, grabbing his boxers and slipping them on. As he walked out of the room, you watched his sinewy back and cute butt. You put your hand at the side of your mouth as you teasingly spoke, “Be quick, handsome!”. He glanced back at you with a raised eyebrow and curious smirk. 

He grabbed two glasses and filled them with water, returning back to the bedroom. As he came back in, he saw you throwing on one of his short sleeve button-up (it being very large on you), and your underwear as you stood. “I'm going to freshen up” you explained, walking towards the bathroom connected to your room. He followed you, handing you a glass as you smiled back and thanked him. He stretched an arm out to your waist, grazing it lightly as he spoke in a husky voice, “Such a beautiful girl.”

[maxdibert]

James is not only the one who didn’t pay, he’s the only one who didn’t have any mitigating circumstances. Sirius is vicious, but he comes from a vicious family, and him deciding he was going to back James in everything makes perfect sense for a boy trying to break from his background and wishing he had parents more like James’. Remus is a coward, but him failing to stand up to his friends makes perfect sense from a boy whose condition meant he’d never been accepted before. Peter? Who cares, he’s a plot device.

But James? James had no excuse whatsoever. He was well loved, well cared for, well off financially. He wanted for nothing. He didn’t learn cruelty at the knees of his parents, they doted on him. Which means he’s just a sadist who enjoyed the rush of power he got from humiliating easy targets. And Lily is of questionable character for thinking him hot boyfriend material when he never displays any remorse.

It’s why I always say that, to me, James Potter is nothing more than a Draco Malfoy with “progresist” parents. He basically has the same abusive, classist, and violent attitude as Draco, except that, unlike Draco, James believes he is morally superior because he doesn’t share the typical pure-blood ideals. This makes him an absolute hypocrite, in addition to being a violent bully and a rich brat who takes advantage of his economic and social position to abuse those who are at a disadvantage.

It’s funny how people defend him with arguments like “he’s not a racist” because he accepts Muggle-borns. So, because he accepts Muggle-borns, are we going to ignore the fact that he’s a classist jerk who actively mocks people for having a lower socioeconomic status than him? Or that he uses his economic and social capital against those who don’t have it? Or that, knowing he has the upper hand, he torments those who don’t have the same resources? Like, why should I care that he boasts about a supposedly progressive ideology that’s entirely fake, and never really shows any understanding of, when his actions in the canon prove he’s just another member of the elite oppressing those below him, simply because he has the capital to do so?

He reminds me a lot of several guys I met during my time in political activism at university. I used to hang around leftist groups with Marxist tendencies, and there was always that typical rich kid raised in a bourgeois left-wing family, who was there because they were taught it was the right thing to do, but had no clue about the root of social problems or the reality of working-class life. In fact, their supposed political commitment stemmed from a sense of superiority, which manifested in incredibly patronising attitudes toward the working class. And yes, they’d date girls from humble families because it reinforced the persona they’d created, but in the end, they were the same rich jerks you’d find in right-wing groups. At least the rich jerks on the right didn’t have the audacity to give moralising speeches while still acting like pricks. They were just pricks, plain and simple.

That’s how I see James, but translated into the magical world. And god, how much I’ve hated, been disgusted by, and fought with guys like him. They’ve always made me sick. I’ve literally had better relationships with people whose politics are the polar opposite of mine than with guys like that, because I find them a cancer to any political group. But anyway, I digress. I don’t think there’s anything impressive about James joining the Order or dating a Muggle-born. It’s the bare minimum expected of someone who has had every single privilege, support, and education needed to choose the right path. I think it’s basic. Just like it would be basic to expect someone who’s had no problems in life and everything handed to them on a silver platter to be a decent person rather than a bully. But James Potter chooses to be a bully because his ego, as a rich heteropatriarchal man, can’t handle the fact that a poor kid with a non-normative appearance by masculine standards is friends with the girl he likes. And for that stupid reason, he decides to use all the power he has, and the other doesn’t, to bully him for 7 years. But hey, we should forgive him because, at the end of the day, he joined the Order. I mean, what? No, that’s not how it works.

I could say a lot about Lily too, but I’m just going to copy and paste something I said the other day because it basically sums up my opinion of her:

Honestly, I don’t know if Rowling didn’t think much about this, or if simply because she herself is a terrible person, she thought it was compatible to portray Lily as the epitome of goodness, a kind of perfect being like the Virgin Mary, while also having her marry her friend’s abuser—because, honestly, she’s not. To me, it seems like Lily was a person of questionable morals and ethics, which is ironic because her supposed moral superiority is what leads her to break off her relationship with Severus. What I find illogical is presenting a character who constantly talks about what’s morally right or wrong when her actions are quite contrary to her supposed value system.

I’ve had friendships throughout my life that have ended badly, for one reason or another, and that happens. But I would never, ever think of dating someone I’ve known for years as someone who abuses others, much less people who were my friends. Sometimes I think this is either a plot hole or that Lily was just your typical superficial “pick me” girl who wanted to “not be like other girls,” but deep down, she loved that a rich, popular guy like James was chasing after her. That’s the only explanation that gives her actions some sense—that deep down, her inferiority complex (being a Muggle-born and from a family that wasn’t even middle class) manifested in the need to be liked, be popular, and end up as the object of interest and admiration of rich and popular boys. That would actually be interesting because it would give her character some depth. The problem is that, in canon, all we see is a girl lecturing others on morality and then acting with ethical standards that leave much to be desired, with no explanation.

Because no, sorry, you don’t marry a bully. You might marry a bully if you meet them at 30 and you’re unaware of what they did as a teenager. But you don’t marry a bully you’ve seen harassing and abusing people for 7 years—like, what kind of sense does that make? And even less so do you do that and then give yourself the privilege of judging other people’s behavior and decisions. Lily Evans had no moral ground for that.

I could rant for hours about why she’s a terrible friend and a hypocrite, but I’ll settle for defining her as the typical basic girl who tries to act interesting. Unfortunately, many female characters in the series are like that: “pick me” girls. But then again, that’s nothing more than Rowling’s internalized misogyny coming to light, along with her insecurities projected into the need to be “one of the boys” and her unfounded hatred of women with traditionally feminine traits. And that’s another story.

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on 12th February, 1987

Freddie Mercury filmed “The Great Pretender” video, Battersea, London, UK, Director David Mallet

- Version of The Platters 1956 hit

Mercury's music video for the song featured him parodying himself in many of his Queen guises through video medium over the years, including visual re-takes of: "Crazy Little Thing Called Love", "Radio Ga Ga", "It's A Hard Life", "I Want To Break Free", "I Was Born To Love You", "One Vision"

On the set with Freddie also Roger Taylor and Peter Straker

📸 Photo © #RogerTaylorOfficial

[legylou]

best headcanon evr!!! (but anywayz happy late anniversary 2 hr pufnstuf)

character suggestion: peter platter from the bugaloos show

Peter Platter from The Bugaloos Show eats glass

[ikkyfics]

Hi, I was wondering if it would be possible to request a peter maximoff fic where the reader is a normal human who works in a nearby zoo/with animals, and peter likes visit the zoo to annoy her all the time, but one of her colleagues tells him that the reader would be better off with a human like him and peter gets all insecure and the reader had to let him know that she's not gonna be scared off by his mutation when she literally gets bitten by animals on like a daily basis

On Thursdays

Peter Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: “‘Don’t ruin everything,’” he repeated, mimicking your voice in an intentionally exaggerated way, a smug smile on his lips. “Oh, come on, sweetie, you practically handed me that confession on a silver platter. You really think I’m going to let that slide?”

Warnings: none

A/N: I'm SO SO SO sorry for the delay, I had some creative problems and only managed to finish it today - seriously, a thousand apologies. I hope the reading is at least fun

Masterlist

Thursday was the day of the guided tour, or in other words, the day Peter Maximoff dedicated himself wholeheartedly to his personal mission of getting on your nerves. He usually showed up without warning, a silver blur through the hallways, startling unsuspecting visitors and leaving you on the verge of yelling at him — something he absolutely loved, by the way. Who could blame him? You looked adorable, with your cheeks flushed and your eyes sparkling with frustration. He said he had a special ability to “rekindle the fire in the eyes of normal humans.”

But today, today he was different.

You noticed it the moment you stepped into the bird section, carrying a basket of food. That area used to be one of his favorite spots, after all. All you had to do was turn your back to a bag of feed and BAM, Peter would be there, imitating the parrots’ squawks or whistling at the toucans, as if he had special permission to be unbearable.

But at that moment, he was sitting on a bench, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze distant. The speed, the sparkle in his eyes, and the confident grin seemed to have been left at home.

“Hey, where’s the trouble today?” you asked, almost casually, even though you could feel the discomfort settling deep in your chest.

He turned his face toward you, offering a weak smile — weak, which was practically an insult coming from him. There was no glint of his dimples, no teasing look. Just the sound of a murmur that made you furrow your brows:

“I don’t know, I guess I got tired of bothering ‘normal humans.’”

You blinked, the bag of feed almost slipping from your fingers.

“What?”

“Forget it.” He shook his head as if regretting having said anything. “It’s just… nothing. I’m taking the day off.”

You set the basket on the ground, crossing your arms. You knew how it was with Peter: either you faced him head-on, or he’d slip away — literally and figuratively.

“Let me guess,” you started, your tone dripping with fake irritation. “You heard some nonsense and now you’re acting like the world’s right.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the ground. The wind tousled his silver hair, making it glint under the morning sun. After a while, he muttered softly:

“One of your colleagues said that…” He made a face, as if the words hurt. “That you’d be better off with ‘someone normal.’ That I should stop bothering you.”

For a moment, you just blinked. The silence that followed was broken by the annoying sound of a parrot, who whistled loudly.

“And you heard that and believed it?” Your voice came out louder than you’d intended.

“I didn’t believe it, but…” He shrugged, avoiding your gaze. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with it. With me.”

Now, the feed bag slipped from your hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

“Listen here, Peter Maximoff,” you moved closer, finger pointed at him. “First: you don’t bother me. Second: I actually love when you show up with that annoying habit of trying to irritate me. And third: ‘normal’? Normal?! I work with animals every day, do you realize that? I’ve been bitten, pecked, scratched, and once, even a monkey tried to steal my radio.” You paused dramatically, your face flushed with frustration. “I deal with fierce feathered and clawed killers daily, so cut the crap thinking you’re gonna scare me.”

Peter finally lifted his eyes, surprised. A soft laugh escaped his lips.

“You call little birds and squirrels ‘fierce killers’?” he teased, but there was a new sparkle in his eyes, something that felt more like… him.

“Some squirrels are pretty sinister, okay?” you shot back, chin raised. “And the issue here isn’t them. The issue is you thinking there’s no place for you here.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, more serious now:

“The truth is, I love the silver blur you leave behind wherever you go. I love watching you smile when you think you’re winning an argument. And, for your information, your visits are the best — and the most annoying — part of my week.”

There was a pause, one of those moments where the air feels lighter and the world quieter. Then, Peter smiled. For real. His dimples were back, along with the teasing gleam in his eyes.

“So, you admit you love it when I show up. I knew it.” He stood up, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “That’s basically a declaration, you know?”

“Don’t ruin everything,” you muttered, trying not to smile as well.

Peter couldn’t resist and let out a low laugh, the kind that made his chest vibrate and his smile widen, with his dimples clearly visible. He seemed much more like the Peter you knew — or at least, like the Peter who made it his mission to annoy you every week.

“‘Don’t ruin everything,’” he repeated, mimicking your voice in an intentionally exaggerated way, a smug smile on his lips. “Oh, come on, sweetie, you practically handed me that confession on a silver platter. You really think I’m going to let that slide?”

You rolled your eyes, but your face was burning. Of course, he wasn’t going to forget it. You could have stayed quiet, but no, you had to open your mouth and practically admit that you liked his presence — the silver blur he left behind, his charmingly irritating smile, and even his provocations.

“You’re the worst,” you murmured, looking around as if you were searching for an escape route. But he was right there, standing in your way, as if he was making sure to block any attempt you might have to escape the situation.

“And you like me anyway,” he retorted, leaning slightly forward, his eyes shining with mischief and a crooked smile that seemed especially sharp.

“I don’t like you,” you lied, your tone defiant, but your voice came out softer than you intended, almost a whisper. His gaze locked onto yours, full of certainty, making you blush even more.

“No?” Peter raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Then why are you so red? Is it hot today?”

You huffed, looking away and crossing your arms, as if that would hide the fact that he was absolutely right. Damn it. Why did he have to be this way? So unbearable and charming at the same time?

“Stop being so full of yourself,” you grumbled, still not looking at him.

“Full of myself? Me?” He placed a hand on his chest, feigning an overly dramatic offended expression. “I’m a humble man. See how you treat me? Just because I’m too fast for you, little human.”

“Little human?” You glared at him with mock indignation.

“Yeah, well. You said you deal with animals all day, so I thought it was a term of endearment,” he said, shrugging and giving you an innocent enough look. “What’s wrong? Did you like it?”

You rolled your eyes for the thousandth time that day, but couldn’t stop a smile from escaping. It was impossible to talk to him without feeling like you were being dragged into his own game — a game you didn’t even want to win, deep down.

Peter tilted his head, watching you with a sudden intensity that made your cheeks heat up once more. He seemed at ease again, back in his element, as if all the insecurity that had made him look down had evaporated into the air.

“What is it now?” you asked, unable to endure that look for too long.

“I’m just thinking,” he started, his voice slow and teasing, “about what my next grand entrance will be next Thursday. I’m torn between showing up riding a pony or bringing a full orchestra to play while I walk towards you.”

“My God,” you whispered, covering your face with your hands. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he replied, leaning closer to you, “I’m starting to think you wouldn’t trade me for one of those sinister squirrels you mentioned.”

You lowered your hands, feeling a sudden surge of courage rise to the tip of your tongue. Maybe it was because he was so convinced. Maybe it was because you were tired of pretending you didn’t like it when he showed up, smiled, and messed up your whole day.

“Not gonna ask me out?” you blurted out without thinking.

The expression on his face froze, and it was worth all the embarrassment that came right after.

For less than a second — which, you imagined, must have felt like an eternity to him — Peter Maximoff was speechless. He blinked, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. You could almost see the racing thoughts running through his head, like a train with no brakes.

“What?” he finally managed to murmur, his voice almost hoarse.

“You heard me,” you replied, crossing your arms, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Or are you just fast physically and slow mentally?”

The shock on his face dissolved into a wide, surprised grin, his cheeks taking on a light rosy tint that honestly made you feel a little powerful. Peter Maximoff was embarrassed. You could add that to your résumé.

“Well… I wasn’t expecting that turn,” he admitted, running a hand through his silver hair and looking away for a second. “But now that you’ve asked…”

He straightened up, returning to his Confident Peter mode, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Want to go to dinner with me?” he asked, his smile softened by something sweet enough that it couldn’t just be teasing.

You smiled, pretending to think for a moment.

“Only if you promise not to beat me to the restaurant.”

“Oh, I promise nothing,” he replied, his tone mischievous. “But, little human, you just gave me the perfect day. I’ll make sure to pick you up, you’re going to love running with me.”

“Is there still time for me to change my mind?”

“Not in a million years,” he answered, and before you could think of any reply, he vanished. Only the silver blur remained behind, accompanied by a gust of wind that messed up your hair.

You stood there, alone for a second, smiling at the empty space and feeling your heart race faster than it should.

And then, almost as if he was still nearby, his voice echoed in the back of your mind:

Next Thursday is going to be the best one yet.

And you believed it.

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Eyes Wide Shut

Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell x Reader

Description: You once thought you'd found the love of your life. But love isn't supposed to drain away, leaving the vestiges of its warmth behind, leaving you numb and unfeeling. Yet that is exactly where you've found yourself. You've spent longer than you know pretending to be in love. One romantic dinner gone cold is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Finding your Grandmother's typewriter languishing in the garage when you thought it lost? The catalyst. Your friends had warned you. You didn't believe them. Now, you're taking your life back and he doesn't have a place in it anymore.

Warnings: Angst, Cheating (Implied), End of a Relationship, Angsty

Word Count: 3174

A/N: Hiya Lovelies!

I'm back! I hope you all enjoy this one-shot. I have to thank @sarahsmi13s for reading this fic over and steering me the right way. Thanks Vin! This fic is inspired by the Illenium and Avril Lavigne song, Eyes Wide Shut.

AO3: Cross-posted here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted here!

The candle flickers and gutters, wax dripping down the stubby remains of the taper. You’ve been sitting in silence for hours. Dinner is long cold in front of you, two pristine place settings waiting for the food, carefully arranged on the serving platters. You made his favorite meal, not that you've enjoyed a morsel of it. The only thing touched on your side of the table is your wine glass. Crimson prints dot the clear crystal rim, and the bottle of wine you opened for your anniversary is empty. You can’t remember the last time you saw your boyfriend. It feels like you only ever see each other in passing, stealing moments for a quick smile, a short exchange of words. You always find the time to tell him you love him, a phrase he presses into your temple before he rushes out of the door. But you’re not sure you believe the words anymore. Telling yourself you’re fine doesn’t seem to work anymore, either.

It’s your anniversary, and your boyfriend’s not here. Shouldn’t you feel something at this moment? Sad? Angry? Worried? You don’t feel much of anything anymore. It feels like you’ve been muffled in cotton batting for months. Those late nights when your house feels like a mausoleum, you wish you were anywhere but in San Diego. Once upon a time, everything felt different.

The peals of your laughter rang through the empty house. It’s your first house, and despite all of the boxes in the center of the room, you had been trying to paint the walls of your bedroom. Trying was the key word. There was more paint on your face and your boyfriend’s face than there is on the walls. Pete had been smearing bright blue over your skin, as you tried and failed to stop him. Of course you gave as good as you got. You still remember how there had been flakes of cerulean spiraling from his dark hair, scattered like freckles across his muscular shoulders.

You can still remember the joy in this room, how the sun had transformed the blue into warmth akin to the most placid of ocean waves. Now it feels like you're drowning.

“Pete!” 

You’d squealed the words as he pressed you into the wall, hard lean muscles and smooth skin weighing into you, with an impish smile crinkling the corners of his green eyes. He had paint, wet and glistening, on the palm of his hand as he brought it closer and closer to your torso.

“Nuh-uh, beautiful.” His grin made your heart skip a beat, once. “You know how much I like touching you when I kiss you.”

“I like you touching me when you're not covered in the paint, which should be on our wall, Peter.”

Your tone was only half-chiding. You'd ended up with more paint on yourself than your walls. But you hadn’t minded. That night ended like so many nights did between you and Pete in the beginning. There were cheap bottles of red wine opened in a half-painted room with a box of pizza open on your makeshift cardboard coffee table as the two of you swayed gently to music blaring out of the boombox sitting on the tarp covered floor.

Looking at the room, still half-painted four years later, doesn't bring you joy anymore, only pain. Once upon a time the two of you held as much potential as the streaks of paint did on the wall. You were supposed to make a life together. Piece by piece every brick of your dreams had been dismantled. It should be horrifying that you are only realizing it now, at half past 11 on your fifth anniversary.

But the truth is, you can’t remember how long it has been since you smiled. Pete used to make you smile every day, what with his endearing habit of singing off key and grabbing hold of you every chance he got. You used to shriek in laughter as he twirled you around, peppering kisses into the tender skin behind the hollows of your ears, the delicate skin of your inner wrists. Now, when you smile into the mirror you look deranged, the faux curl of your lips evident in the half light of the bedroom you used to share with Pete. Only half the bed is mussed, holding the shape of your body and your body alone. It's been at least a month or so since you've seen Pete in the house you still share on paper. 

He's not deployed. It’s been months since Pete was deployed. Anyways, the deployments, sparse and sporadic as they are, you believe you’ve handled with aplomb. At least when Pete is deployed you are able to call him on the phone. Now, even if you call, you're not sure he'll even pick up.

After Goose, after the Leyte Gulf, Pete came back to San Diego and accepted a post at Top Gun. You’d bought the house with Pete then, looking forward to settling down, spreading out roots. Bradley and Carole were still in town, needing to be close to the only family they had left. You welcomed their presence in your life, welcomed the stability and calm they brought about in Pete.

Now, you're not sure the man you loved is even there anymore. Back then, you'd have sworn Pete Mitchell was the love of your life. You're not sure when you fell out of love with him. You remember the ghosts of how that love felt, how the warmth of it had fanned across your cheeks and hovered in the hollow of your chest. But those feelings are just memories, now. The warmth you felt once has waned, ice growing in your chest where the flames once licked. 

You know Pete's not coming home tonight. A part of you had been hoping still. But as the clock ticks past the midnight hour and continues onward, you have to give up on your fledgling hope. If there was any love you still felt for Pete Mitchell, it's gone now. But you can’t bring yourself to care about the love you lost. All you can think about is what to do next.

There's nothing left for you here, in this house with its half-blue halls and echoes of your happiness. So why are you crying when you see your reflection in the mirror as you take off your new dress and rip your lingerie uncaringly away? You had plans for tonight. In another life, Pete would have been home at 6 o’clock on the dot, a bunch of red roses clenched in his fist. He’d have blushed at the sight of you in the scanty fabric of your dress, then said a line which would have had your blush joining his. The dinner congealing on your dining table? By now, it should have been just crumbs, as should the cake in the fridge. 

You wish you were dancing with Pete, swaying with your head over his heart as his hands curl around you. Once Pete’s hands were the safest place you knew. You used to trust him with your life, your heart. Now, tears trail down your cheeks from your swollen red eyes, evidence that Pete is no longer here to wipe them away. Even the clothes you prefer to lounge in are his. Everything in the bedroom is like he left it, just as you are. The worst part is how you can’t even find it in yourself to be angry with him. He pulled away first, but you didn’t chase after him either. Did you change without him? Or did he change without you?

It’s time to take stock of your life. What happened to the girl who was out celebrating her PhD at a Navy bar with her friends? You’d never have met Pete if you had stayed home that night like you sorely wanted to. You’d never have given up the job you had lined up in New York and settled into the life of a trophy girl if you hadn't met him. 

What happened to that girl? The one who wanted to become a journalist? Who wanted to write the next great American Novel or win the Pulitzer Prize? Have you written a word in the years since? Words other than notes to buy groceries or love notes to Pete?

When did Peter Mitchell snip your wings so completely, shackling you to the rise and fall of his career? 

Your lipstick streaks across your face as you wipe the tears away, smearing crimson across your cheeks. They’re as hot as the anger burning in you, because you can’t stay here, not anymore. You wanted Pete to propose when you woke up this morning, sure he was just busy at the office. Obviously the opposite is true now. You’ve just been completely, obtusely, ridiculously stupid.

Tom, sweet, kind Tom, one of your only friends in San Diego, had tried to warn you, too.

“You know what he’s like, he’s so in love with you!” 

He’d murmured one summer afternoon last year when you were over at the Kazanskys, loving cuddling with Tom and Sarah’s eldest boy, who was nine months old and gorgeous. “He’s always running out of work early to come home to you.”

Your heart should have broken when you heard those words.

“Tom, Pete’s missed dinner every night for months. He said he’s had a ton of paperwork to finish on base.”

At first you had missed the dismay growing on your friend's face, wholly occupied by the baby's giggles as you blew raspberries onto his chubby cheeks. The silence clued you in. When you look up, there are twin spots of red rising up on his cheeks and his hair is awry.

“He told me he was coming home to you.”

You had shrugged a little, choosing to focus your attention on the baby in your arms so you can’t see the expression on his face.

“I’m sure everything’s fine, Tom. This is Pete we’re talking about here! He wouldn’t cheat or lie!”

“But sweetheart, he is lying, isn't he? God knows I am fond of him, but you shouldn't let him treat you like that! Are you sure you don’t want to figure out what he is doing?”

It was easy to brush Tom off after that exchange, in the middle of a barbeque with people he hasn’t seen in months waiting to catch up. You’d ignored Sarah too, once the baby was in bed for the night and only close friends were left, when there was nobody for you to hide behind. 

You’d loved Pete enough to ignore the red flags hoisting up the flagpole. The blindfold has fallen off of your face now. You can’t deny the facts anymore. Pete’s lying to everyone. He’s lying to his friends. He’s lying to you. Worst of all, he’s treating you like you’re not worth the space you hold in the world. It would hurt less, you think, if he just had the decency to break up with you.

But he hadn’t. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s a little ironic, isn’t it? That the man is more than willing to strap himself to a rocket at high speeds and shoot at other people strapped to rockets moving at high speeds, but he can’t talk to you. The woman he loves, the woman he loved enough to string along. The woman who sacrificed her core being for him.

This is the last straw. You’re not going through this again. All the fights, all the tears, the pain, the despair. You’re done. You’re drawing the line in the sand. 

Two hours later, and the bedroom where you once laid your head to sleep every night as well as the home you built, is emptier than it’s been since before you moved in. Only Pete’s things are left arrayed around the place. It doesn’t feel like home anymore without your cheerful blanket laid across the foot of the bed, and without your cardigan laid over the chair of Pete’s office desk. It should be sad how easy it is to pack your life away - to split everything in the house into his and yours. But you can’t be sad.

Not when you clamber carefully up the ladder in the garage and see your typewriter, your vintage, lovingly-cared-for typewriter, the only inheritance you received from your grandmother, sitting on the shelf in its carrying case. When Pete and you had moved in together, he’d told you the typewriter had been lost by the post office, lost when your parents shipped it across the country. The rage simmering in your blood heats to a fever pitch. You can forgive a lot of Pete’s actions over the past five years and accept an equal share of the blame for how your relationship has deteriorated. But you can’t forgive how easily he dismissed your dreams.

Your car is loaded up with everything you can rightfully say you own. You’re taking the typewriter with you, of course you are. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right, leaving without saying a final goodbye. So you type your heart out, writing a letter to the man you once thought would be the love of your life. You leave it lying on the pristine dining table, all the leftovers discarded. The sun is just peeking out on the horizon, over the deep blue waves of the Pacific Ocean as you drive away from everything you’ve called home for the past five years. You’re finally free.

Dear Pete,

I’m leaving you.

I didn’t realize it would feel like this to say those words. I’m sad, of course I am. I hoped we would be forever once. I hoped beyond hope we could build a life together. I hoped we could settle down, have a family of our own. I realized today that my dreams were never going to happen. My dreams are always going to be working towards an opposite goal from yours, aren’t they? Do you even know what it is like to want something that doesn't involve you risking your life to fly in a jet faster than the speed of sound?

People have always commented that you and I were an odd pair. I refused to believe it, but sitting in the half light of our dining room on the night of our fifth anniversary, a night where I don’t know where you are, I think I might be starting to. 

On paper, you and I shouldn't have worked. You're a Naval Aviator, smart and devilishly handsome. You can have anyone, anything you want and you have the stubbornness, the will to make it happen, too. In contrast, I was a twenty-something just out of school. School was all I knew. I remember feeling so exhilarated that night at the O-Club. The world was full of promise. I wasn't looking for anything, but like I said, you’ve never had a problem fighting for what you want. You also didn't have a problem convincing me that what you wanted was what I wanted - but that is besides the point.

It was your ability to fight for what you believed in that had me falling head-over-heels for you. It was easy to shelve my dreams, everything I was hoping to achieve with my PhD, for you. You were worth deferring my dreams because I knew then that you would fight for me, for us. Apparently I was wrong. 

Tom told me the truth at Parker's first birthday party. He told me you were leaving work early, carrying bouquets of flowers, seemingly for me. His face when I told him I've barely seen you in months? The horror and shock in it? I don't relish causing our friends pain. So I made excuses. I've been making excuses for years, after all.

“Sorry, mom. Pete's deployed so he won't be coming home with me for the holidays. I worry about him, but I know he's doing alright. I just spoke to him on the phone the other day and he sent you his love.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah! Pete's running a little late. He wouldn't miss Parker's first birthday!”

I can't make those excuses for you anymore - not to our friends and family and not to myself.

So how come you haven’t given me flowers in two years but you've been leaving work holding bouquets almost every night? I guess it's a question I'll never get an answer for. There's one other thing bothering me. You're a straight-shooter, Pete. You always have been. So why, if you fell out of love with me, did you not just tell me?

Were you scared of the response you'd get? Were you scared you would break my heart? 

My heart's a little battered and bruised, but it's far from broken, Pete. I'm sad, sad to lose a relationship I've put effort into for five years of my life, but I'm not heartsore about the loss. Instead, I'm angry. I'm angry that I wasted five years of my life being shoved into a box by you. I loved you, but I hated, I still hate, how easy it was for you to discount me, discount my aspirations. We were supposed to be equal partners in this relationship. I was never supposed to be the woman waiting at home for you to come back, the kind who has dinner on the table prompt at 6:30. I wanted to live my life, too. My career, my hopes, wants and dreams were always supposed to be equal to yours. It's my biggest shame that I let you convince me they weren't.

I haven't been in love with you for a long time. I've been telling you I loved you on muscle memory, the words of affection tasting like ashes in my mouth because my heart wasn't behind them. I’m not sure who I was protecting, you or myself. Especially when it’s obvious the loss is more of a blow to me than it is to you.

Despite it all, Pete, I am thankful for the good times we had. I will miss the nights sitting in the living room with a cheap bottle of red open and records playing. I will miss the early mornings where you and I would list against each other half asleep at the kitchen table, our feet intertwined in the morning sunlight as we sat in each other’s company. Above all, I think I’ll miss the sensation of knowing someone as deeply, as intimately as I once knew you.

I’ve spoken to Carole and little Bradley, Tom and Sarah and Parker, all of our friends, our family. They know how to reach me, they’ve been ordered to stay in touch. You’ll forgive me if I don’t extend the same offer to you. I think I need the space from you. I think you need the space from me too. 

I hope, Pete, you find who and what you’re looking for.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@desert-fern @sarahsmi13s @horseshoegirl @dakotakazansky @teacupsandtopgun @roosterforme @beyondthesefourwalls @cherrycola27 @chaoticassidy @kmc1989 @blue-aconite

[kerwynlar]

Good Man

A Belly Kink Fic by Kerwynlar

The aristocratic author Lord Woolsey has found that he thinks best on a full stomach. A very full stomach. His butler is only all too happy to help out.

Tags: Explicit, Belly Kink, Burping, Overeating, Stuffing, Weight Gain, Enthusiastic consent but problematic power dynamic, implied/referenced sexual content

Note: This work was inspired by the excellent At His Service by pizza_my_heart. In that story the author does a beautiful job of putting the employer and the butler on equal footing. That's not what is going on here. While enthusiastic consent is given in this story, the power dynamic here makes the consent, at least the initial consent, dubious at best. In the real world this would be very fucked up. If you agree that it's hot in fiction, please read on. Basically all of my fics are built around very loving healthy relationships. This is not that.

1,163 words. Read it below or on AO3.

~*~

Reginald Montcrieff was not sitting idly fantasizing about his employer eating. Reginald Montcrieff was very busy balancing the household accounts. He had certainly not been staring blankly at the page for nearly half an hour, stirring at every half-sound that might be the bell summoning him to the dining room. 

Reginald was not picturing the plates heaped with eggs, bacon, toast, sausage, beans, and tomatoes that he had served to his employer, Lord Peter Halberd Woolsey. He was certainly not picturing forkful after heaping forkful passing Lord Woolsey’s lips. And by no means was Reginald’s mouth watering at the thought of all that food heaped into his employer’s already rounded belly, stretching it and weighing it down, expanding it within the increasingly tight confines of his clothing. 

The bell from the dining room finally rang and Reginald stood so fast, he nearly knocked over his chair.

---

Lord Woolsey was, at least according to the press, one of the greatest minds of his generation. His first two treatises on political philosophy were considered required reading for anyone seriously concerned with public affairs and were discussed and quoted from the coffee shops of the intelligentsia, to university classrooms, to the great halls of Parliament. He was currently penning his third, widely anticipated, treatise. 

While he was writing his second book, Lord Woolsey discovered that he thought best on a full stomach. A very full stomach. 

Reginald had been a footman during the writing of that second book and had marveled at the sight of the platters that had been taken into the dining room and equally marveled at the fact that they were all empty when returned to the kitchen. 

But only the butler, whose duties included being the lord’s personal attendant, was permitted to interact with Lord Woolsey when he was writing. His lordship said that he needed to keep his mind clear of extraneous voices when writing. 

Following the publication of the second book, when Reginald was once again permitted in a much more corpulent Lord Woolsey’s presence, the lord had begun to notice him. The notice turned to interest and conversation. Eventually Reginald had been invited to Woolsey’s bed. He had been assured that it was an invitation, not an order, and he had been more than happy to accept. 

“Would you like a promotion, dear Reg?” Woolsey had asked him one night as he watched Reginald dress after an encounter that had been pleasurable for both of them. 

“I wish to serve you, sir,” Reginald had replied easily. “However you see fit.” 

“I’ll be writing again soon.” Woolsey ran a hand over his soft belly. Reginald didn’t bother to hide his appreciative look. Woolsey saw it and grinned. “You know about my… eccentricities when I’m writing?” 

Reginald swallowed. “Yes, sir. As much as I can from the outside.” 

“You’d be prepared to cater to them?” 

Woolsey liked it when he was bold on occasion. Reginald climbed back on the bed and crawled up to him. He leaned over and kissed Woolsey’s plush belly. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “Whatever you need. Anything you want.” 

The other butler had been fired the next day and Reginald had taken his place. 

——— 

When Reginald entered the dining room, Woolsey was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, and both hands rubbing his belly. Reginald felt his mouth go dry. Woolsey’s belly was straining against his waistcoat and trousers. 

“Was everything to your liking, sir?” Reginald asked as he began clearing the empty plates. 

“Oh ye- UUUUUURRRRRP! Oh my, excuse me, Reg. Uurrp!” 

Heaven help him, Reginald was getting excited by his employer belching. 

“Nothing to worry about, sir,” Reginald replied more smoothly than he felt. 

“And yes, tell Cook that I’ll want the same again tomorrow. Buuurrrp! With perhaps a few more sausages and a bit more toast.” 

More? Reginald could scarcely believe it, but all that was left on the plates he was clearing was crumbs. 

“Shall- shall I bring you anything else now sir?” 

Woolsey smiled at him. “Good man. But no, I’m quite satisfied for now.” He frowned suddenly and rubbed a particular area of his belly, then pushed on it and immediately let loose a thunderous belch. “Mm, pardon me, dear Reg,” he breathed. “I hope I don’t offend you.” 

“Not in the slightest, sir.” 

Not in the slightest. Did Woolsey have any idea? He certainly knew how Reginald worshipped his belly in bed, how he loved the round shape of it, its soft plushness. But this? Woolsey’s overindulgence and the evidence of it? Well, if Woolsey knew he likely wouldn’t mind. There was no doubt he enjoyed when Reginald was aroused. 

Woolsey belched again and gave a quiet groan, his hands roaming his large belly. “Ah, that’s good,” he sighed. Woolsey gave his belly another pat then sat up. “Come, dear Reg,” he said. “Give me a hand up. I’m positively weighed down by that lovely meal.” 

Reginald quickly put down the plate he was about to take to the dumbwaiter and hurried over to help Woolsey out of his chair. As he heaved Woolsey to his feet, he felt his employer’s eyes on his face. 

“You’re looking a little flushed, Reg,” Woolsey said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. Woolsey chuckled and Reginald tried not to notice the movement of his belly. Though that was more difficult when Woolsey took Reginald’s hand and placed it on the curve of his belly. “You like this, don’t you?” Woolsey asked quietly. “You like to see me plumped up with a meal. You always do like my belly. Can you imagine how fat I’ll get writing this book? I’m only on the second chapter, and I have lots more to say.” 

Reginald gasped. He was painfully hard. 

Woolsey glanced down and chuckled again. “Now what shall we do about that, hmm?” 

“S-sir…” Reginald stuttered. 

“I need to go write my book, dear Reg,” Woolsey said quietly, moving forward so his belly was inches from Reginald’s groin. “And I suggest you take a few minutes to compose yourself. But think how big I’ll be tonight after a nice big lunch of roast chicken and then beef and potatoes for dinner, hmm? I’ll be swollen and sluggish. Too full of food to really fuck you. You’ll need to ride my cock. But you’ll do that, won’t you dear Reg?” 

“Y-yes, sir!” Reginald couldn’t have controlled his breathing if his life depended on it. 

“That’s my good man.” Woolsey reached up to stroke Reginald’s cheek again. “You’ll look so pretty straddling my lap, your hands on my stuffed gut. You’ll be ready for me tonight, won’t you Reg?” 

“Yes, sir,” Reginald gasped out. 

Woolsey pressed Reginald’s hand to his belly and gave two quick strokes to the outline of Reginald’s cock clearly visible through his trousers. 

“See that you are,” Woolsey said, and stepped back, surveying Reginald with a smile. He chuckled and left the room. 

Reginald barely got his fly open fast enough. 

~*~

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, I appreciate you letting me know. I have another chapter partially written, and I'm more likely to finish and post if I know it will get readers.

[legylou]

Don't forget me/@legylou and @lexisnotasimp who are the 2 big fans of Peter Platter from The Bugaloos who think good ol' Peter needs a bigger fanbase!!

I'm even planning to make a shrine of him soon and i am not really finished yet.

i love it when ppl are fixated on the most random unconventional characters ever. thats how you know they didnt choose the character. the character chose them and did not let go. and thats respectable