I do not use the word slut.
At least, it is not a bad word.
I call myself a slut,
with my emotions
"the sluttiest virgin in the world"
that’s what my ex called me
the night I met up with her
in London and kissed her
so hard when in wine
and said, “I’ve missed these lips”
even though she had a boyfriend
and we had broken up
originally because she’d cheated on me.
I’m a bad friend when I’m infatuated.
In college I monopolised my time
on the current object of my affections
and hurt my friends and barely realised.
I am a slut, in thought and feeling.
I do not use the word slut.
But sometimes, in jealousy, I want to.
Because I can’t ignore that she is small
fits in the palm of your hand
and her femininity would suit your masculinity
and possibly already has
that slut- no.
It is none of my business.
That word has been hammered into me
between the ages of eleven and now,
right between my eyes and not between my legs.
Perhaps that’s the problem.
I do not use the word slut
but sometimes the word slut
The haze is broken by Imogen’s cry, but they don’t mind. Alana goes to lift the tiny girl out of her cot and brings her back to the bed, where she places her gently on Will’s stomach. Snuggling against the cushioning of her daddy’s body, Imogen stops crying almost immediately. The warmth and softness is intoxicating to her, and she is soon asleep again.
Warnings: contains mpreg, slash, rpf, open marriage, polyamory, body image and body appreciation.
You may get there by candlelight
How many miles to Babylon?
Three score and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again.
If your heels be nimble and light,
You may get there by candlelight.
—How Many Miles To Babylon, lullaby.
One of the reasons Mads sleeps with men is because they aren’t going to get pregnant. Admittedly, it’s a teeny tiny reason, and it’s not like he won’t still use condoms; but he has regular checkups himself and he doesn’t sleep with anyone who hasn’t themselves been checked out recently, so if the condom breaks there is most likely nothing to be worried about.
Warning: tummy rubs + some appreciation of very slight weight gain.
Making the Rumblies
Mads Mikkelsen leans back in the chair at the head of the dining table, breathing out through the corner of his mouth, slipping one hand down to his waistband to try to discreetly lessen the pressure on his stomach. They’ve just had to film seven takes of him eating a quarter of a meal, for reasons Mads cannot comprehend, and his clothing is punishing him for it. Hannibal’s suits are unforgiving, tailored so exactly to Mads’s body that just a bit too much food in his stomach makes the suit trousers pinch, something that clearly wasn’t considered when designing costumes for a character who is shown eating at least once every episode; but he doesn’t want to complain.
Warning: Contains acceptance and appreciation of slight weight gain.
A pudgelove/wg prompt - Charles is totally unashamed of having a soft rounded belly, Erik is totally turned on by it but really awkward about expressing it. Maybe Charles teases him about his awkwardness, before reassuring Erik that it’s fine and he loves the attention Erik pays to his belly. Bonus: On valentines/b-day etc. Charles (before he’s reassured Erik) overeats and ends up with a really distended belly and Erik is beside himself with desire but totally awkward about it. I love your fic!
Erik Lehnsherr was never particularly skilled at expressing his feelings.
Author’s note: Happy Christmas! I apologise for how ridiculous and cheesy this fic is, but I think we could all do with some happy, corny fic right now!
Merlin rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet, his warm breath billowing around him in the sharp, cold air as he waited at the bus stop down the road from Camelot College.
Trigger warning: self-harm, suicide.
(Sorry for any typing errors, I am somewhat drunk.)
“Just because you’ve done something, doesn’t mean you have to keep on doing it,” he whispers, and kisses her wrist. It is then she realises that she loves him, then she decides that she is going to stop. She wouldn’t hurt him, and to hurt herself is to hurt him. It is that simple for her, now that love has touched her.
Thank you so so much! I’m very flattered by this message, I’m so glad that you found my writing that emotional and thank you for telling me! I love you, anon :)
The first and the last
He’s broad and dark-haired and has a Scottish accent, and despite all the things he used to say about Scotland, Bond does love a Scottish accent. Even more so when that Scottish accent belongs to a beautiful man saying that he would like to see more of him. Bond replies that he hopes he will.
And he does.
There’s something so quaint about London teashops. Even when they’re commercialized and crowded, or tiny with peeling paint on the walls and a bad food hygiene rating, there’s still something nice about sharing a pot of tea with someone on a November afternoon, with your phone off, feeling like a normal person. Just for that hour.
“I wondered if, maybe if you aren’t busy on Friday night… if you’d like to go for dinner?”
His smile is so charming, slightly lopsided, and his lower lip is redder than the top one from nervous biting.
Bond says that yes, he would like that very much, and returns a version of that wonky smile.
One dinner becomes two, becomes the night back at his flat for coffee. And when the coffee sits steaming on a tray, and Bond has finished looking around the possessions the room holds, somehow Bond’s wandering hand gets lost on the pale expanse of the skin of his chest, another in his hair, tongue between his teeth. Tenting tight suit trousers as his fingers spider up Bond’s thigh, and stumbling to the queen-size bed to do this properly, because Bond firmly believes that anything worth doing is worth doing properly.
Bond sleeps through the night without a single disturbance from the things that come out to play when he dreams, and when he is still there in the morning, the space next to him still warm from body heat and he can smell coffee and—are those scotch pancakes?I—he thinks, well this is new. He doesn’t report that day, and gets an earful from M the next morning, but he just casually observes that the world didn’t end, and by God the sex was worth it.
After a few months, they move in together. Bond doesn’t have much—a few DVDs, a few more books, few things that hold any sentimental value.
“God, what did you do in your spare time before you met me?” he asks with a laugh.
“Why would I want to do anything other than you?” Bond smirks in reply, and soon every room has been christened. Loudly. Some twice. Exactly Bond’s intention.
“Boyfriend” is an experimental term, and it goes through a lot of preliminary testing before they can consider bringing it into use. It is certainly favoured over “lover” “partner” and “significant other”, all of which Bond despises. But he isn’t a fan of “boyfriend” either and not, he is eager to explain, because of something internalized and not dealt with over his own sexuality—he would never call a woman his “girlfriend” either.
“What do I call you?” he asks.
“Call me James,” Bond replies. The first name is enough of a privilege, he thinks.
“But what do I call you in terms of—us?”
Bond looks at him. His stomach swirls. It’s a good feeling.
“If you must call me anything… call me yours.”
He curls a finger gently under Bond’s earlobe.
“And are you? Mine?”
“Yes,” Bond replies, and kisses him before he can taste the lie that the existence of MI6 puts into his mouth.
Bond can’t tell him what he does. He says he is involved with the police. Special operations. Top secret. He says officers have gone to their graves having never been able to tell their wives what their job really entailed.
“And is that what I am?” he flirts, sliding his hands up Bond’s thighs, “Your wife?”
“Absolutely,” Bond replies, smacking him lightly on the arm. He places a hand on the side of Bond’s face, and is suddenly serious.
“You are safe, aren’t you, James? You’re not in danger?”
“Of course not,” James replies. Of course I’m not safe. A finger is trailed down his cheekbone.
“Good,” he replies, “I like you in one piece.”
Bond quirks an eyebrow and makes a joke about keeping himself together, and laughs along with him.
Sometimes it’s very difficult. When Bond’s leaning over the sink spitting blood into the basin, bent from the bruised ribs and squinting through one swollen eye, and “I was mugged” just isn’t enough of an explanation anymore.
“What did they take? What did they take?” he asks. Bond holds the blood in his mouth for a while before spitting, so he doesn’t have to reply.
“You weren’t mugged,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry, just sad. “Why can’t you tell me what happened to you? Where do you go?”
“I was mugged,” Bond repeats, hating himself. He sees the other man’s look of disgust in the mirror, before he is left alone in the bathroom. He balls a hand into a fist and beats himself sharply on the thigh, gripping onto the sink tightly with the other hand, teeth gritted in pain and remorse.
Bond has been sleeping on his front, because his back has been aching, from physical exertion or the weight of the stress of the secrets, he isn’t sure which. He wakes up one night feeling fingers on his back, tracing the outline of a scar on his shoulder.
“How did you get this?” the other man asks softly. It’s a stab wound. It’s millions of pounds worth of tech, it’s two months of physical therapy, it’s a constant reminder that sometimes, still, he’s just not good enough.
“I fell out of a tree when I was a kid,” Bond replies. Lips brush the twisted tissue soothingly.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Knowing that this is the truth hurts more than every lie.
Bond kisses him on the forehead before he leaves.
“Says you,” is the scoffed reply. His eyes break Bond’s heart. It’s getting harder every day. “Please. Just tell me the truth. Whatever it is, whatever you’ve gotten yourself involved in—God, James, if it’s drugs, if you’re fucking other men, whatever it is, I don’t care! Let me help you!”
“Is that what you think?” Bond yells in a flash of anger at him, at himself, at everyone else. He looks shocked at the outburst, and Bond instantly regrets it, “God. Fuck. I’m sorry. Look—” He pauses, and in an instant makes a decision that he has no right to make, “Tonight. I will tell you everything tonight. I promise.”
“I really do love you, James,” he says quietly, “And I really… really worry about you.”
Bond nods his head, to acknowledge this, but doesn’t know what else to say, not yet. He leaves, reaching down under his suit jacket to wrap his hand around his concealed gun, like it’ll sooth him somehow.
He watches in horror in the second of silence before the explosion. And then the whole block of flats goes up in flames, spreading hungrily up the structure, merciless.
“NO!” he screams out, forgetting all procedure and protocol, “PLEASE, GOD, NO!”
God does not listen. He has never listened to James Bond.
The day of the funeral is sunny. He hates that. He feels like it should be raining, like a grey sky and black umbrellas would numb him. He feels like the entire world should be mourning with him, or London at the very least. He can’t sleep, because every time he shuts his eyes he plays out every different scenario. Sometimes he wishes he’d taken him with him. Other times he wishes that he’d stay, and the flames could have taken him together. He curls into a ball in a bed that is far too big and longs for absolute darkness.
M’s hand is on his arm, just for a few moments, and he knows this is it. Weakness over, no more mourning, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, what’s past is past, the sun will come over the hill; every fucking little saying that doesn’t help a bit when you’re the one it’s happening to. And he knows he can’t carry on this job as long as he lets himself remember. So he packs it all away in a corner of his mind, something that’s there but isn’t look at, like a misplaced photo album.
He craves something to make him forget. Next mission. Istanbul. He’s ready.
Silva slides his hands up Bond’s thighs, and whilst it’s reminiscent, it’s not the same, not at all.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Bond lets himself remember, and finds himself smiling.
”What makes you think this is my first time?”