Sam. 30-something. Lover of nerdy things. These will be the reblogs and rare proper taggings of a boring girl and her trek through Tumblr. One of three progeny of a beautiful woman and a smart man. Little bit artist, whole lotta NERD! Autistic. Anxiously Depressed. 420. Current obessions: Shawn Hatosy's old, fine ass, The Pitt, IWTV/TVL, Palia (game), Heated Rivalry, fanfic, Quinn, really anything that will catch my short attention span.
iwtv continues to be so smart in its portrayal of memories and trauma, the way lestat’s memories of his family are so obnoxiously loud, everyone’s screaming all the time for no reason and everyone’s acting like caricatures, like an actual assault on the senses, as if lestat’s mind is filled with unbearable noise every time he thinks about them. lestat’s memories coming at him all fragmented and loud and violent, attacking him and beating him into submission as he desperately tries to escape them is such an interesting contrast to how louis would carefully weave a thread of his past pretending the glaring holes in it weren’t there
This is why Pride is not just a party. It's a joyful celebration, but it's also a pointed and colourful two-finger salute to a world that stood back whilst so many of us died. And we'll never go quietly, never again.
Animal Attraction by She Wants Revenge but it inspired me to write perverted stalker reader who's obsessed with Pope
this goes out to my favorite tumblr freaks who inspire me to let the inner wolf out (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
Content: p in v, stalking, unconsensual photos?, voyeurism, unprotected freaks, light choking
You'd sleep around with all the Cody brothers just so you could get closer to Pope. You curate yourself into the perfect girl, all soft and baby-like for Baz and clueless for Smurf, getting drunk and partying with Craig, taking a job at the bar and keeping some secrets (blackmail), whatever needs to be done.
All so you practically live in the same house as him and do whatever you want. You sneak into Pope's room to snoop through his things, stealing clothes that you wear when you finger yourself to the thought of him, rubbing your release onto his boxers before folding them up and putting them back in his drawer. You sneak around the side of the house, using a camera to zoom in through his window and watch him get ready for bed, clenching your thighs as you watch him change—as if doing it just for you.
You eye-fuck him every chance you get, stare at the bulge in his pants, lick your lips, salivating at the thought of dropping to your knees and taking him so deep in your throat that you gag. Wearing tiny fucking shorts and cropped tanks so he can watch sweat run down your back and sunlight glisten off your belly ring. You bend over just to arch your back and imagine his tongue running along your spine, imagine him salivating to the thought of your salty skin between his teeth as he fucks you from behind.
You come out in a skimpy bikini barely holding everything in, knowing he’s just drooling at the site of you, your curves and discolorations. He’s obsessed with watching you uncross your legs, giving him the briefest view between your thighs and the little stubble peaking out beneath the bottoms. The way you turn to him with your shoulders back and face all scrunched in the sun, holding out your sunscreen and asking in a sing song voice “won't you help me? I can't reach my back”
He’s heading for you before the word “yes” even leaves his lips, watching you lie on your stomach, your eyes covered by the brim of your sun hat. “Dont be scared to touch. I need it under the straps too,” you coax him forward, and hiss a slight breath at the cold liquid contacting your spine, making you arch just a little. His big hands spread out over your back, rubbing it in, fingers sliding under the straps of your top. He’s trying not to think of how easy it would be to pull that string and undue the bow holding it together. Let you spill out, let him grope your tits and pebble those nipples heloves staring at.
“Can you get lower?” you ask in a teasing voice, watching from beneath your hat as his adams apple bobs, but he follows orders. Wet hands roam down to the small of your back, then slowly over the curve of your ass as he lets out a little “this okay?” and you hum in reply, feeling your cunt flutter to life and drench your bottoms.
And poor Pope, all he can do is rub the sunscreen in until you spread your plush thighs open a little and his finger accidentally slips between your legs against the seam of your bottoms, letting him feel the dampness, the warmth, and he has to get out of there as soon as possible, to go hide in a closet and chase the smell of you on his fingers.
You know he leaves the bathroom door slightly ajar when showering so you can peek through and watch him bathe, watch him jerk off with his back facing you, all rippling muscles and those huffing breaths as he whispers your name. You bite your lip to keep quiet as you touch yourself, wanting to go in there and taste his release. The amount of times you’ve imagined walking in on him, just to get a good look at that v-line, get a chance to touch him, let your mouth fall open and tongue go flat against him, looking up at how his abdomen tenses and his head falls back when you suck him all the way down your throat like a good girl.
You start sleeping with no panties on and shirts that ride up your abdomen, your door unlocked and window open. He's keeping a collection of photos of your sleeping form, hair tousled and legs open like you're posing for him. And maybe he stays up late into the night sometimes just staring at those photos while fisting himself, hips stuttering as he imagines what you taste like, how you’d sound with his teeth on your clit or his tongue in your pussy.
You've got your own collection of sneaky photos: him on jobs, from behind trees across the street while he's at the atm, at the end of the grocery aisle. You learn his routine and start inserting yourself in every aspect of his life. Running into him at the beach, getting the girl who smiled at him fired from the store, coming over to sunbathe while he's working on the yard, pretending not to care in your bikini and staring at him through your big sunglasses.
You got his whole routine logged in your notes app. Where he goes shopping, how many hours a day he sleeps, when he wakes up, what he usually eats for breakfast. You even bought the same soap so you could smell more like him.
And maybe one night while following him across town, wearing no panties under your tight jean shorts cause you just get so turned on while stalking, Pope catches you off-guard. Cause of course he knows you stalk him, and he's so pent up with want that he can't help but drag you by the nape of your neck to the nearest back alley, pulling down your little shorts and sticking his fingers into your cunt, making your eyes roll back. "so fucking nasty, you get off on following me around?" he's leaning in, sniffing your neck and getting your hair in his mouth, pulling on the strands and tasting your conditioner.
He'll snatch your camera and start taking flash photos of your face while finger-fucking you, "so fucking wet and disgusting, look at you. You want it? Baby, c'mon, let the whole city know," he’s knuckles deep, curling his fingers up into that sponge as his thumb rolls over your swollen clit, making you buck against him, head thrown back as you mewl. Before you can cum on his hand he’s abruptly stopping, licking your slick off his glistening fingers before unbuckling his belt with one hand.
He'll record the whole thing—the moment your sloppy cunt sucks him in, how loud you moan while he thrusts until his hips slam into yours, all the babbled, incoherent things you say while clawing at him, not caring how loud you are.
"wanna—ahh, fuck—cum inside me. I wanna feel you, all you," you want to feel him inside you for days, don't you? Dream about the thick length of him, the pulsing vein that's sliding against your folds, the head of him squishing deep and the sputtering warmth as he bucks his hips, rutting endlessly and turning your pussy raw and burning.
He takes pictures of your face as you cum around him, thighs shaking and eyes rolling back. Then his thrusts falter for a moment while he sets the camera down and reaches for you, fingers round your neck as he picks up the pace. He’s got you squealing and gurgling choked moans, biting on his thumb when the pleasure spikes with pain.
He doesn't stumble one second as hot sticky release shoots into you, fucking himself through the climax and moaning against your shoulder. “Gonna keep following me?” he’s asking, squeezing your chin and forcing you to look at him.
You can't help but smile. He likes it just as much as you do.
And that's how he got a picture of you cumming in his wallet
Pope Cody who’s spent his whole life around mindlessly muscular and strong men, who never really had to work hard for those abs, who just had em. Who finds a soft belly to be the ultimate display of femininity. You’re not supposed to look like him, why would he ever want that? Women are supposed to have bellies. For babies and stuff, he doesn’t know okay.
All he knows is he fucking loves it.
At first you were self conscious about it. Popes Staring never bothered you, maybe it turned you on a little. But when you’d see his eyes on your stomach you’d panic a little. Sit up straighter and adjust your clothes. He hated that.
He always was touching it. Standing on line? Hand on your tummy. Cuddling? Arm around it, hand on it. Sex? Don’t get him started about sex. He’s the worst when it comes to sex. Kissing it, staring at it, watching it giggle and shift with each hard thrust, seeing his cock make it bulge out just a little. Your tits are right there, but he’s focused elsewhere.
Eventually you ask him if he thinks you’re fat. And then you have the balls to tell him, like it’s your place, that he doesn’t like it. Because he stares at it. He gets a bit pissed. “I stare at it because it’s sexy. Don’t tell me what I like.”
You swallow the fact, as hard as it is to believe. Becuase Pope wouldn’t lie to spare your feelings. He’s Pope.
But it becomes more explicit and obvious.
Bathing suit shopping he sees you only looking at one pieces and asks why. Maybe there’s a reason you do that. You look at him like it’s obvious. “No one wants to see that.” “I want to see it.” He says like it’s obvious. “Whats the point in showing off your stomach if there’s nothing to show” he says like it’s obvious. Like the opposite isn’t the common belief.
You wear low rise jeans and he thanks every god he’s ever heard off. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re a bit shy but he’s feral. “Muffin top” you complain about. He throws his head back and laughs. “And that’s the only part of the muffin anyone likes.”. Well. Who can argue with that logic.
this video makes me feral and i will not explain any further. his music taste is impeccable. ALSO HIM SAYING HIS WIFE IS HIS DREAM ROMCOM CO-STAR. im crying. he's so cute. MRS. KELLY ALBANESE HATOSY, YOU ARE SO LOVED😭
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