Cosimo Galluzzi
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@worldcomingdowner
masterlist
Hi, everyone! Sometimes I feel less lazy and write and post one of my daydreams.
Requests are always open. I only write for Type O Negative, preferably Peter but could try with any of them.
Ticking Down
Sanguine Addiction
Corpus Christi
Corpus Christi
Fandom: Type O Negative/Peter Steele Pairing: Peter Steele/OC Female Rating: Explicit (18+)
Read it on AO3. Chapter One.
Chapter Four - The Glorious Mysteries
taglist: @solarperpetua
They walked together through the quiet hallways of the church, their footsteps muted against stone. The side chapel was dim, lit mostly by votive candles, small flames flickering like whispered prayers.
Hazel dipped her fingers into the holy water, crossing herself. Peter followed suit, a beat slower, movements a little clumsy but sincere.
They knelt side by side, facing the small altar. Hazel reached into her bag and pulled out her rosary, worn smooth from use. She hesitated, then placed it gently in his hand.
“You can use mine,” she said.
He looked at it, taking it like the precious thing that it was “Thanks,” he murmured.
Hazel bowed her head. “In the name of the Father,” she began softly.
They were two souls, kneeling together. And whatever came next would have to honor that.
Peter realized almost immediately how much he’d forgotten. The beads felt familiar in his hand, he had held them before countless times, during childhood, during catholic school, but the order of the prayers, the rhythm… that was hazier. He glances sideways, just briefly, but Hazel noticed.
She leaned slightly closer, her voice barely above a whisper “It’s Wednesday,” she murmured “The Glorious Mysteries”
He nodded, grateful for her understanding.
“First the Sign of the Cross,” she continued gently, “then the Apostles’ Creed”.
He followed along, a beat behind, words returning as memories, fragments resurfacing from childhood, from a time when faith had been simpler and far less demanding.
Hazel didn’t rush him and when they reached the first decade, she guided him softly “The Resurrection,” she said “you can just listen if you want.”
He closed his eyes. As the Hail Marys unfolded, her voice became the steady center of the room. Calm, reverent, unadorned. Peter let the cadence wash over him, the repetition didn’t feel empty, it felt grounding.
When his turn came, he spoke softly, carefully, as if afraid to disturb the air.
By the third decade he wasn’t hesitating anymore. By the fifth his breathing had slowed, shoulders relaxed, thoughts no longer clawing for attention.
When they finished, Hazel lingered in silence, head bowed.
“Thank you,” he whispered, handing her the rosary back with care.
She looked up “For what?”
“For… letting me in,” he said “I’d forgotten how peaceful this can be”
She smiled, eyes warm “It’s different when it’s shared”
Outside the chapel, the church felt even quieter than before, the evening settling in, the world dimming.
“So,” he said as they walked “can I ask you something?”
“Of course”
“You said you’re Marian.”
“Yes,” she replied easily. “I’ve always felt close to her.”
“How so?”
Hazel considered that for a moment, “She’s strong, faithful. And she said yes to a life she didn’t fully understand, but trusted God would walk her through it.”
Peter absorbed that slowly.
“I pray to her a lot,” Hazel continued “Especially about my vocation”
He glanced at her “You mean…?”
“If I’m not a nun… I hope to have a family someday”. There was no embarrassment in it, no apology, just truth.
“That’s beautiful” Peter said, his voice quieter than before.
She smiled, a little shy now “I think so”.
Something spread through his chest. A sense of longing, but also recognition. That same hope, buried deep under years of doubt and damage.
I wanted that once, he thought. I still do, maybe.
But he didn’t say it, couldn’t. Forty-six felt heavy in his bones in moments like this. All of the years, the mistakes, the quiet fear that he’d missed his window.
They reached the main aisle and slowed, neither quite ready to step back into the world beyond the church doors, the last light of day filtered through the stained glass, casting muted blues and reds across the stone floor.
They stopped just short of the side altar. A statue of Mary stood there in gentle stillness, hands open, face inclined. Candles flickered at her feet, wax pooled and layered from prayers offered and answered and abandoned alike.
Peter shifted his weight, there was something restless in him now, a nervousness that felt almost young, “Hazel,” he said.
She turned to him, attentive.
“I’m sorry,” he began, then huffed softly at himself. “That’s not the right way to start.”
Her brows knit slightly. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I kind of do,” he said. He glanced briefly at the statue, then back to her. “Because I’m about to ask something, and I don’t want it to feel disrespectful.”
Her heart thudded once, hard. “Okay,” she said gently.
“I can’t bring myself not to ask,” he said. “So… I’d like to take you out to dinner,” he continued. “A real date. Not a thank-you thing, not a work thing. Because I’m… interested in you. Romantically.”
Hazel didn’t interrupt, didn’t move, didn’t even blink.
“I don’t expect you to say yes,” he went on, feeling the need to overexplain “I actually kinda think you’re gonna say no, and that’s okay. I won’t make it weird, it won’t change our work together or anything, I promise” he paused for a second, swallowing hard “I just needed you to know where I stand.”
Silence fell between them, heavy, thick, full of tension.
Hazel's gaze drifted upward, towards Mary’s statue behind him. She thought of the way he held her rosary with such reverence, of the prayer spoken aloud together. It felt like a sign.
She had never been asked out like this before, with so much respect, honesty. She always felt like an afterthought in moments like that, but not this one.
Her chest tightened, she looked back at him “Yes,” she said.
Peter blinked. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she repeated. “I’d like that.”
For a split second, he looked like he might laugh or swear or do both at once. Instead, he just exhaled “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
“I should give you my number,” she said.
Peter’s brows lifted slightly, surprised because he hadn’t dared to hope she’d offer first.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
She pulled out a small notebook and a pen, wrote carefully, then tore the page out and handed it to him. He took it with the same deliberate care he’d given her rosary earlier, folding it once and slipping it into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his chest.
“It’s my home number, and my cellphone. You can call whenever you want” she added, then smiled, just a little.
He hesitated, then, emboldened by the yes she’d already given him, asked, “Would it be alright if I planned something? Friday works for you?”
Her breath caught before she could stop it. Planned something. Not what do you wanna do, not we’ll see, not I guess we could. For a split second, she had to look away, grounding herself.
“Yes,” she said, steady again. “Friday would be great.”
“I can take you home,” Peter said. “If you’d like, if you’re already leaving.”
She nodded without hesitation. “I’d like that. I’m just two blocks away, we can walk.”
“Perfect,” he said. He didn’t mention his car parked just around the corner from the church. Didn’t mention that he’d have to walk back alone afterward, it didn’t feel like something that needed to be said.
get to know the mutuals game!!
tagged by my dear friend @sludge-saturday 💖
Currently Reading: the last book i read was Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar and it pissed me OFF (good way)
Last Series: still Twin Peaks bc i’m forcing my bf to finish it (he’s been with me for almost 6 years and STILL HASN’T FINISHED IT!!) so my friends and I can finally have our Fire Walk With Me watch party/ Twin Peaks costume party
Last Movie: i genuinely think the last full movie I’ve had the time to watch was Bugonia (back at the beginning of March according to my letterboxd)
Last Song: Good Ol’ Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen
Sweet or Salty: Salty 500%!!!!
Tea or Coffee: coffee in a sassy shitty diner kinda way
tagging @sleepy-ghuleh @solarperpetua @zhelday and you can totally not do this if you don’t want to!!!
tysm for the tag!! <3
Currently Reading: not reading anything at the moment, but i got The Dancing Grandmothers: To Be Young While Old, Old While Young by Clarissa Pinkola Estés as a gift and I'm excited to get to it!!
Last Series: Trailer Park Boys, still watching it (now for the second time lol)
Last Movie: Showgirls!! crazy crazy movie btw, but i really liked it
Last Song: Dragula by Rob Zombie
Sweet or Salty: hmmmm salty
Tea or Coffee: tea all the way!!
tagging @drabromantic and @worldcomingdowner, no pressure tho!! <3
Currently Reading: The bell jar and white nights
Last Series: Big Mistakes (sooooo good)
Last Movie: Resident Evil
Last Song: Pumping Iron Power by Grailknights
Sweet or Salty: sweet all day!!!!
Tea or Coffee: nowadays tea
taggin @ihaveneverbeengivenflowers
Corpus Christi
Fandom: Type O Negative/Peter Steele Pairing: Peter Steele/OC Female Rating: Explicit (18+)
Read it on AO3. Chapter One.
Chapter Three - Six o'Clock
taglist: @solarperpetua
The church felt different during the week.
There were no crowds coming out of the church, the main doors were closed and he walked around the garden for a little bit, liking it more than he expected. It reminded him of early mornings after a long night, when the city was still asleep and he could pretend, briefly, that he hadn’t already ruined the day.
He found the entrance to the parish office and went in, stopping to recheck the bulletin board. Catechism Program Seeking Volunteers - Music Assistance Needed. Music was the only thing that never betrayed him, even when he betrayed himself, it was always there.
He walked towards the priest’s office, knocked only once.
“Come in,” Fr. James’s voice bloomed. He looked up from his desk and smiled, “Peter! What a surprise, welcome.”
“Guess I’m becoming a regular,” Peter said, shifting his weight, “Saw the notice about the music program, thought I could maybe help.”
“That’s wonderful” the priest said genuinely, “we’ve been stretched thin lately.”
Before he could say something else, Hazel stepped into view from the side office. She was holding a stack of papers, her hair was loose instead of up like the previous Sunday and she was wearing normal clothes. The woman stopped short when she saw him, a small smile after the initial surprise.
“Oh,” she said, “Hi”.
“Hey,” Peter replied, feeling that now familiar warmth in his chest, “didn’t know you worked here during the week.”
“Yeah… I volunteer a lot,” she said, “Catechism, events, cleaning”
Fr. James chuckled, “She’s being modest, Hazel keeps this place running.” Hazel just shrugged.
They all sat down to talk, logistics, age groups, expectations. Hazel explained that she felt the kids responded much better to music, it helped keep them grounded, remember the prayers, the lessons. Peter listened closely, agreed with her, felt like he actually could be useful. Fr. James watched the exchange with serene satisfaction.
“Well,” the priest said after a moment, “sounds like the two of you can handle it. I’m confident you’ll figure something out together.”
Together, that one hit him.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Fr. James continued, “Peter, be officially welcome to parish life”
“Thanks, father”, Peter answered with a smile he didn’t even have to fake.
And then they were alone at the office, but it wasn’t as awkward as he expected it to be. Hazel invited him to go see the room where they held the classes, take a look at the instruments they had. They settled at one of the smaller parish rooms, it smelled faintly of dust, old hymnals and leftover incense. They started with the practical things, schedules, age groups, she explained what the kids already knew, how she had managed to half get them to sing a cute song for the last mothers day.
There was a silence after they finished, not exactly awkward, just suspended, expecting.
Peter broke it first, leaning back in his chair, carefully extending his long legs under the table “You’re really good at this”
“At organizing?” she asked
“At caring” he corrected.
She blinked, caught off guard “Oh– thank you”.
He nodded, a hint of a smile crossing his face for a second.
“So,” she said gently “music’s always been your thing?”
“Yeah, pretty much my whole life” he paused, calculating how much he wanted to say, she waited, didn’t rush him. Finally, he sighed, and added “I’m a musician. Have been forever. It’s what I do… or did. Or am trying to do again, I guess.”
“Really?” Hazel’s eyes lit up with curiosity.
“Yeah”
“What kind of music?”
Peter smiled, but it was crooked, filled with hesitation. “Well, it’s metal, actually. We released an album not long ago.”
“Congratulations!” she said immediately “That’s huge”
He shrugged, suddenly shy in a way that surprised him “It’s alright… not the first, but it’s different. Very personal”
“Is it? How so?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Yeah, talks a lot about faith, mortality, trying to get your shit together before it’s too late” he added dryly “I called it Dead Again”
“Well, maybe I should look it up, I used to like metal” she said softly, almost embarrassed to admit.
“You.. what?” it caught him off guard enough that he chuckled, shaking his head.
Hazel shrugged “Catholic school does funny things to people,”
He looked at her, really looked, and something shifted, like he finally admitted to himself how attractive he thought she was. Silence settled between them, thicker this time, charged with tension.
“I’d like to hear it. Your music, I mean… sometime”
His chest tightened, the invitation layered, sincere. “Yeah” he said softer than he wanted it to “sometime.”
“What made you want to come back? To church. You mentioned being away for years” she asked quietly, trying not to intrude, but unable to contain her curiosity.
Peter didn’t answer right away. Instead he took a deep breath, eyes darting over the room, finding something to look at that wasn’t her. “The road messes with you” he finally said, voice lower now “you’re never home. Everyone wants something from you, and you start believing you’re only worth what you can give them, you know, the show, the persona, the mess” he shook his head “and when it stops… you don't know who you are without the noise”.
She didn’t interrupt him, didn’t flinch, just nodded, paying attention to every single word he said.
“Drugs made it easier” he admitted with a sigh “until they didn’t, until they took everything and asked for more”
Hazel’s hands folded together on the table, steady. “That sounds incredibly lonely,” she said.
The simplicity of it nearly broke him. “Yeah” he murmured “it is.”
She didn’t say I’m sorry, didn’t say at least, didn’t offer scripture like a bandage. “I’m glad you’re here now” she said instead “that you came back. Both to the Church… and to yourself.”
Peter swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the table. “You know, most people either romanticize it or recoil. You’re not doing either.”
“I’m no stranger to loneliness” she replied, not harsh, just factual.
He looked at her then and something uncoiled in his chest. Trust, maybe. Or relief.
After a moment she spoke again “I’m pretty much an outcast here. Oldest unmarried woman in the parish.” she said matter-of-factly “they don’t say it outright, but I feel it, how people assume something must be wrong with me”
Peter frowned “That’s ridiculous”
She smiled faintly “Try telling them that”
He felt a familiar anger stir, protective, sharp “And then you help more” he said slowly.
“Yeah,” she admitted “I stay late, I volunteer for everything. Burn myself out trying to be useful enough that no one asks why I’m alone.” Her voice didn’t waver, but her hands tightened just slightly. “I’m an only child, parents already passed”
Peter’s chest ached “So the Church became your family”.
“It did”, she nodded “And I love it, truly. But sometimes… it reminds me of what I don’t have”
He got quiet, not sure what to even say.
“For a long time,” she continued softly, fidgeting with her own fingers “I thought that maybe I was supposed to become a nun. At least then I would belong somewhere”
Peter stiffened immediately, then forced himself to relax, to listen.
“But it’s not my calling,” Hazel said “I’ve prayed for it to be, because it would make everything better, would make sense” she met his eyes “but He never answered.”
“Well, at least you’re lying to yourself”, Peter said.
“Some days that feels worse”, she admitted.
“Yeah,” he nodded “I know that feeling”
The silence that followed was heavy, and they sat there, two souls laid bare for reasons they didn’t understand.
Hazel broke it first, “I don’t think God wastes people though”
Peter nodded slowly “No, I don’t think He does either.”
Neither of them said what hovered just beneath the surface. That they recognized each other’s ache, that the timing felt cruel, that something sacred and dangerous was beginning to take shape.
They sat in the weight of what they shared for a while, lingering. Hazel was the first to shift gears, to attempt to lighten the mood.
“So,” she said, exhaling softly, a smile returning. “You really scared me earlier with the recorder comment.”
Peter snorted. “I’m serious. I’ve heard things no human should hear.”
“That serious?” she smiled
“War crimes” he said solemnly.
She laughed, light and clear, and something in Peter’s shoulders loosened without him realizing they’d been tense.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any secret musical trauma?”
“I once had to listen to a class of seven-year-olds attempt Silent Night in July,” she said. “On kazoos.”
He groaned. “Okay, yeah. You win.” And then he found himself smiling more than he had in weeks.
Hazel noticed, and she liked this version of him, not just the towering mysterious figure she’d seen at Mass, but a man who joked dryly, listened and whose face completely softened when she laughed.
Time slipped, and then the bells rang. Loud and steady, rolling through the whole Church grounds like a heartbeat. Six o’clock.
Hazel glanced towards the window and then stood, gathering her things. “I should go” she said “It’s time”
“For?” Peter asked, though something in him had a guess.
“I pray the rosary every day” she said simply “at six, Mary’s time.”
He nodded, a little embarrassed by how much that moved him.
She hesitated, then added, almost apologetically, “I usually do it in the side chapel. It’s quiet.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, of course.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder, about to leave.
“Actually,”
She stopped, turning back to look at him.
“Would it be alright,” he said slowly, carefully “if I joined you?”
Hazel paused, processing how grand that request sounded to her. But her smile, when it came, was soft “yeah, I’d like that”.
𐙚⋆.˚
wingscal on ig
Finally figured out how to change my handle!!! 🤡
Sixteen years without our prophet of doom 💔💚
doomed for wanting - chapter 3
synopsis: after howard stern publicly writes her off as “uptight,” nora and larry come up with a plan to win back the male audience she suddenly needs for her next big role, if she can convince peter steele to do her a favor.
start here: chapter 1 & chapter 2
wc: 4617
tags: enemies to friends to lovers; slowburn; mdni; peter steele/OC
a/n: this was a really fun one for me to write. i love writing for peter, there is something healing in it for me, i hope you enjoy as well.
thanks to @worthyhoundglacier for editing and please go read her fics once you finish mine!
pic on pinterest and divider here
elanor rigby - the beatles
After some more conversation with Larry, the two of you devised a plan to make you more appealing to men: all you needed was some help from your favorite goth, Peter Steele. You decided to see if he would still be willing to get some coffee.
Larry got you his number and you planned to call him that day. You dialed the number and after several rings were prompted to leave a message.
“Uh, hey Peter, it's Nora Byrne. I heard about what happened on Howard Stern and.. I, uh, just wanted to say thank you so much for defending me. You really didn’t have to but you were so gracious. And I apologize for not getting back to you sooner, there’s been so much going on… Um but anyway, if you still wanted to grab a coffee, I will be in New York next week and would be happy to find some time to get together if you’ll be around. Um my number is… Um, yeah, call me. Oh and thanks for the flowers too I think. Um, anyway, bye.”
You hung up the phone and smacked yourself in the forehead. Ugh, you sounded so stupid. You hated that the whole Letterman thing was even brought up again. You thought it was behind you at this point. You hoped you didn’t sound ungrateful. You also figured it was probably around dinner time in New York and you were in LA. Who knows when he could even get back to you or if he even would. You should have been focusing on your projects but it felt like all of your unstructured time would now be wondering if you would get a call back or if you said the wrong thing. You felt like a pathetic high school girl waiting for the cool hot guy to call you back, not an Academy Award contender. When you were on the phone with Larry earlier, you were so positive everything would work out.
Just as your ruminations reached a fever pitch, your racing thoughts were interrupted by the landline ringing. You rushed over to it and then hesitated a moment, your hand hovering over the phone, not wanting to seem too eager. It must have been pretty late in New York for him to call you. It could be anyone… it could even be Larry calling to see if there were any updates. Finally, heart beating, you snatched the phone off the receiver.
“Hello?” you said in your best impression of a calm, demure woman who certainly wasn’t about to burst out of her skin.
“Hey, is this Nora? Uh, Nora Byrne?” an unmistakable baritone voice with a Brooklyn accent asked. “Uh, it’s Peter uh Steele”
“Oh, hey, yeah” you said in your best impression of a nonchalant woman “thanks, for getting back to me so quickly.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem, no problem-”
“And thanks for defending me today, you really didn’t have to do that-”
“No, I did. Despite how my music makes me sound, he shouldn’t be disrespecting women like that.” He said plainly, “You don’t deserve that. You have your whole career ahead of you, you don’t deserve to be taken down by some creep like that.”
“Wow, Peter, that really means a lot. It takes a lot to stand up to someone with that kind of influence, when you also have your career and band to think of as well… And I hadn’t even thanked you for the apology or flowers or anything… But yeah, it means a lot that you think enough of me that I’m worth standing up for…” You hadn’t intended to get so deep but the words just came out of you.
“Of course you're worth that, and honestly I’ve been haunted by the Letterman appearance. I was glad for the opportunity to defend your honor.” He chuckled.
You laughed too, subconsciously twirling the coiled phone cord around your fingers and chewing on your pinky nail, “Well, I’ll be back in the city next week, if you’re around, I’d uh love to take you up on that coffee if it’s still on offer.”
“Uh yeah, I gotta consult my calendar but I should be able to get a coffee. Not sure if you get to Brooklyn often, but there are a few hidden gems that are worth the trip. I’d be happy to show you.”
“I’m intrigued.” you replied.
The two of you nailed down the rest of the details of your meeting and you penned it into your black book for next week.
___
Over the week you couldn't pin down whether you were giddy to be seeing him again or giddy to just put this whole thing to bed. Larry was the only one who knew about your coffee date, only it wasn't a date. Larry suggested you call it a “coffee clear up” and you hoped he wasn’t serious.
But there was no need to define it as you weren’t planning on mentioning it to anyone. You figured there was no point in telling Julian, he wouldn’t be mad or anything, it just wasn’t worth having to explain why it was important for your career but totally meaningless to your personal life. And if you mentioned it to Angie she would find a reason to make it about herself and her CD needing a signature, you had to remember to bring it this time, and it just wasn’t worth getting into. Plus, what if he said no to doing Stern? Then you’d be back at square one, men would be running from your films just like the boys running from you at your middle school dances. You shuddered at the thought.
You tried not to try too hard to get ready. You had an idea of what he liked from that damn Playgirl, but you didn’t want to seem like you were trying to look cute for him. Every stitch of clothing you brought with you felt like the wrong thing, so you finally settled on thick tights, a long skirt (he liked skirts) and some combat boots (he didn’t like combat boots) and a cardigan (his beliefs on cardigans were not indicated in the article). Maybe that was something balanced and not trying too hard? You did minimal make up and wore your hair down because it was so cold. You threw on an extra oversized sweater, then your overcoat and scarf and headed off. The sky was so thick and gray with overcast it was almost like pea soup.
You’d never been to this part of Brooklyn before. It really was way out there. He’d offered to give you a ride but you didn’t want to inconvenience him, and you wanted the time to think before the coffee “clear up”. You wouldn’t normally take a cab, but given the weather and the distance and the unfamiliarity with the area, you found yourself calling the front desk to hail you one.
On the drive over, you took some time to reflect on how your life choices got you here. Here, where you had people hailing cabs for you, where you take said cab from Manhattan to Brooklyn without worrying about the tab or the tip, where you meet up with goth rockstars in diners and get in fights with Howard Stern, where you were a shoe-in for an Oscar nom. None of these things ever seemed attainable for you, but here you are.
Your cab pulled up to the diner and you hopped out and fixed your scarf a bit in the window before you headed in..
The diner nearly sucked you in with its warmth. A bell chimed when you opened the door and a waitress greeted you. The smell of hot coffee immediately sorted and revived you from the brisk walk in. There was a chrome and glass case up front with some righteous looking pies, many with miles of cream and meringue piled on top. The checkered tiled floor led to the vinyl booths revealing Peter looking down, drumming with his fingers on the Formica tabletop in one of the booths in the back.
He looked oversized in that booth, wearing a button up green corduroy shirt, his chest exposed slightly with an extra button undone and his long raven hair falling past his shoulders, obscuring his face. He looked up from the menu and smiled at you warmly, stilling his hands and moving to stand from the squeaky booth. You walked towards him with an air of confidence you didn’t quite buy.
You exchanged pleasantries and he shook your hand before inviting you to sit. You felt slightly electric making contact but ignored it, you wanted him to take you seriously as someone grateful for his kindness, and not as just a fan girl.
“Thanks for inviting me out here, I feel like you can always tell how good a diner is going to be by how pissed the cook sounds.” You say referencing the cook in the back who is grumbling the most creative string of curse words you’d heard since meeting Joe Pesci. “It shows he cares,” you joked.
“Oh yeah, Jimmy? He cares a lot.” Pete said dryly, “And really don’t mention it; I’m happy for the opportunity to try and prove I’m not an ass, or at least entirely an ass, I just play one on TV.”
You didn’t know how to dissuade him of his guilt at this point. You’d all but forgotten about the incident until Stern had to comment on it.
“Peter, you clearly are not an ass, you defended my honor on Stern more than you should have, you’ve apologized and sent flowers. I should have reached out sooner, now I’m the one who feels like an ass. Let’s just have coffee and call it a truce.”
“If you insist. My big nose does make me an easy target, though. It would be nice to get to know the next Best Actress.” he said, this time you did blush, mainly out of embarrassment.
The waitress came up to the table with a limp to ask for your orders. It sounded as if Peter knew her too. Peter ordered a black coffee, a slice of apple pie a la mode and a glass of whole milk. You ordered a black tea. The waitress took off, her slip resistant shoes chirping with each step.
Peter looked at you perplexed “Is that all you’re gonna get?”
“I already had lunch, and I’m meeting my boyfriend for dinner later. I didn’t realize we were getting food, just coffee.”
“Yeah, well I just want to make sure this was worth it for you to come all the way out here. This place has the best pies in maybe all of Brooklyn.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck.
“Well, what do you recommend then?” you asked. You hadn’t anticipated having to actually eat in front of him. That made you anxious.
“What’s your favorite?”
“I dunno, I like pumpkin at the holidays… I like to eat pie for special occasions. It’s not as special if you just eat pie everyday.”
“Oh, it’s still special. Whenever I come home from tour, my mom bakes me a whole apple pie for myself with a quart of milk. Eat it with a fork right out the middle.” He grinned waiting for your reaction. You smiled, picturing his enormous self inhaling a full pie and downing a jug of milk.
“I’m not sure if I should be concerned or impressed.” you said with a smirk. “Do you unhinge your jaw and eat it pan and all, like a snake, or do you chew and swallow?”
“It depends on how long I’d been away,” He said with a laugh.
“Do you have it with cheese?” you asked.
His face contorted in confusion, and possibly pain. “With cheese?” he asked with concern in his voice.
“My grandpa always said ‘An apple pie without the cheese is like a kiss without the squeeze’” you explained casually.
The waitress came back with your drinks and his pie and set them out in front of you both. His jaw hung open in shock and disgust.
“You have cheese with your apple pie?” he asked again seriously. He prepped his coffee with two creamers and three sugar packets, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, do you need me to say it in Portuguese?” you said laughing.
He shook his head again and took a bite of his pie, “I’m sorry, but that is disgusting. I don’t even like when my food touches, let alone cheese on fucking pie on purpose.”
You were shaking with laughter at this point.
“I’m glad you find it funny,” he said with a chuckle.
“I just never thought a big tough guy would have such strong opinions on pie” you said finally calming down enough to sip your tea.
“I take my pie very seriously. How do you think I got so big and tough? Not from eating carrots.” He said, pulling the scowl he had on for Letterman before taking down a big gulp of milk. He was like a teenager still, you observed.
“Here, try a bite,” He fixed a bite with the perfect ratio of pie to ice cream and held the fork out for you to take, it looked so small in his giant hand. “Sorry I don’t have any fucking cheese for you”
You smirked. Rather than taking the fork from his hand, you opened your mouth. You don’t know what got into you, but you were just intrigued to see what he would do. He arched a brow curiously and brought the bite toward your open lips. You leaned in, feeling that taut electric energy from The Late Show cycle in the air around your booth.
“Oh sorry,” He said as he had missed your mouth a little, causing some of the melted ice cream to dribble out of your mouth. You licked it up. Your eyes flashing away from his.
“Damn, that is some good pie.” you said after swallowing and wiping your mouth with the paper napkin.
He looked pleased with himself.
“I don’t share my pie with just anyone,” he said. You smiled shyly into your tea.
“Well, I feel honored. I almost feel bad asking you for a favor now after that pie. I can see why you wouldn’t want to share.”
He quirked his eyebrow, “What favor?”
“Well, don’t feel like you have to say yes or anything.” You began your pitch a little nervously “But since the Howard Stern thing, it has been revealed that… I don’t necessarily appeal to men as much as we thought. Apparently people think I am an ‘uptight prig’” you admitted, staring back down into your tea.
“Now that is more surprising to me than the pie and cheese thing” he said sincerely, still digging into his pie.
“Well, I’m supposed to be the next Venomheart, so the 25 to 40 year old man is unfortunately a big demographic for me.” You sighed. It was hard to admit and harder to believe he wasn’t just trying to say the nice thing.
“No, seriously, you shouldn’t believe that type of thing about yourself. I’ve only found you to be..” He thought carefully for the right word and enunciated each syllable delicately on his tongue once he’d decided on it. “Scintillating.”
You bit your lip and stared down at the soggy tea bag inside your drained mug, relating to its spineless flaccid nature a little too closely. “Well that’s very generous of you.” you said quietly.
“Hey, I mean it.” he said very seriously, “Now what were you going to ask me?” he coaxed.
“Well, my manager and I thought that maybe if you were willing,” you said, his eyes urged you to go on, “that it could be interesting to have us both on Stern and the three of us could bury the hatchet on public record. And that having you and I together again could… possibly make me more appealing to males aged 25 to 40” you grimaced, hearing how that sounded out loud.
“Oh, Jesus.” He ran his long fingers through his long back hair and let out a long low puff of breath, “I really hate doing appearances.”
“Oh, ok that’s fine.” You said in a high, quick voice that didn’t sound like your own. “I totally get it, I didn’t mean to burden you with all that. I totally understand not wanting to do it.”
“BUT, I was going to say before I was interrupted, that it could be some decent attention for the band. And I figure I owe ya one. I’d have to talk it over with the band and my manager, but I could make something work.” He thought for a moment “I’m not sure what I could do to make you more appealing to men aside from getting every one of the 25 to 40 year olds eyes checked.”
You blushed again. Dammit, he was smooth.
“By the way, aren’t you too good for that super hero crap? I mean you’re about to win an Oscar, right? Not to be offensive, but you’re really talented, and that other stuff seems… Beneath you.”
“Well, unfortunately, those are the gigs that pay me well enough that I can afford to do the indies, the edge to that is, will I still be taken seriously for those kinds of roles when I sell out? My manager seems to think it's a risk worth taking.” You put your head in your hands with a big sigh.
He rubbed the back of his neck, “I get that, we gained a lot of fans with Bloody Kisses in a way we couldn’t imagine. But some of our original fans called us sellouts, but honestly, this is kind of the music I like making and it feels authentic to me right now, and clearly it's resonating with others as well. And if we make a little more money and get to go on bigger tours, perform for more fans, then that’s what it's all about, performing for the fans.”
You smiled a little. He made it all make sense.
“I don’t have, just like, unlimited barrels of money or deep roots on a Hollywood family tree like all these other stars seem to have.” you sighed, “Everything I’ve gotten, I’ve had to get on my own. Which makes the stakes so much higher. It could all come crashing down at any moment, and I will only have myself to blame.”
You don’t know how he got you talking like this. Since your aunt died, you had a hard time opening up. You didn’t want to bother Julian with your neurosis; you didn’t want to make the time you got with him a boring sobfest. Your family couldn’t really be supportive in that way, they just didn’t understand the industry. You honestly weren’t sure if you’d said these thoughts out loud ever. And he was genuinely listening. Fork down, sparky green eyes fixed on you, his mouth in a grave line and a furrow to his brow you’d only seen in his forced frown on Letterman.
“Sweetheart- sorry- Nora, you are putting too much pressure on yourself. Failure, if it does happen, is a part of the artistic process. Do you know how many shitty bands I have been in that lead to Type O? And if you lose a role because some mouth breathing dip shit with more hair on his ass than his head ‘doesn’t find you appealing’ that is not your fault. Everything about you screams ‘ movie star’ and just because the American public might not be smart enough to see it doesn’t mean it’s not the absolute truth.” He shrugged. His Brooklyn accent made him sound all the more sincere. The sincerity made you feel like you wanted to crawl out of your skin and run screaming down the street, but it was exactly what you needed to hear. Like taking medicine, and in a way, it was healing something inside you that felt a little broken, even if it was hard to swallow.
“Peter, you’re too nice.” you whined with your head falling back in your hands.
“You could just say ‘thank you’” he said slyly.
You looked up and the waitress was walking off with the check. You hadn’t even noticed its brief presence on the table. As soon as you opened your mouth to argue Peter cut you off.
“Don’t even say anything, I already paid it, it was my coffee, I am more than happy to and if you even try anything I will be offended.” He said before you could even try to protest. “I’m a man, don’t embarrass me by trying to buy the coffee I asked you on.” he said, you rolled your eyes.
“Well, thank you.” You said with a small smile getting up from the table and met his eyes, “Really, thank you, I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear any of this.”
“Happy to, sweetheart.” He gave you a friendly side squeeze when you stood up. “You need a ride? I’ve got nothing else going on. I’m cheaper than the cabs.” he said, winking again.
“If you insist.” you said with a grin.
“Where you staying?” He asked.
“Royalton” you sheepishly admitted.
“Oooh, fancy” he said in a mock posh accent and twirling an imaginary mustache. You giggled.
“You don’t stay at whatsisfaces place when you’re in town?” He asked, referring to Julian.
It was a good question, one you got often and hated answering, mainly because you knew there was no good answer. After the years you two had been together, you had a key, but that did not grant you permission to just pop over. You told yourself that it was better this way and he enjoyed staying in the hotels with you, it was like a vacation for him, even if it was usually work for you.
“Oh well, it’s honestly just easier this way. I never know if he’s coming or going, and I uh, have to get my beauty sleep, ya know.” You were pathetic.
“Uhuh..” he said skeptically, but without pushing the issue.
He held the door for you as you walked outside and nearly blew away in the strong gusts of wind whipping down the block. You could hardly see through your hair and scarf whipping around you. It was the time of year where the sun set before you ever really had the chance to wake up and the darkness in the sky already was disorienting given it had been light out when you entered the building.
The streetlights switched on as if on cue and he led you down the block and across to where he was parked with a strong protective hand guiding you on the small of your back. You shivered but were certain it was due to the cold.
“Oh, no, you’ve got to be joking. That's your car?” You shouted over the wind. You stared in disbelief at the death trap he proudly gestured you towards. It looked like something out of Mad Max. There were sirens and speakers and lights and a flat paint job that had to have been all custom and done by him. It was even lifted up on fucking monster truck tires.
“Of course, this is my pride and joy, The Beast.” he said, opening the door for you once again. He clearly got off on horrifying women with this thing.
“Peter, there is no way I’m getting in that thing. Is it even street legal?” you asked, staring at it disdainfully like a kid being forced to eat broccoli.
“What’s your plan then? You gonna wait for a cab in the cold or just hope the wind blows you back to midtown?” He snarked, ignoring your question and gesturing you in with his hand.
You huffed and crossed your arms in front of your chest and got in without fighting because he was right. Any time you spent waiting for the cab in the cold would be too much. It really was absolutely frigid.
The inside of the car was worse than out. Everything was stripped down to the metal except for the seats and the stereo.
“See, this is what guys 25-40 like!” Peter said over the roar of the engine, slapping the steering wheel enthusiastically.
“What? Vehicular homicide?” You responded dejectedly when you accepted that there were no seatbelts. Peter howled with laughter.
“Why don’t you pick out something to listen to since you’re being subjected to such abysmal transport.” he said gesturing to the old beat up shoe box full of cassettes.
You were surprised he had a Beatles tape in, which you said would be fine to listen to. You’d expected to be blasted by some loud metal like in your sister’s car. He talked about how Paul playing bass and singing got him comfortable with the idea when he was forced to switch from guitar to bass for a band as a teenager. You told him about when you learned to play Eleanor Rigby on piano as a child, you wanted to play it so often your dad made you do 10 push ups every time you wanted to play it, to give the rest of the house a break, but you were so persistent to play it he had to up it to 20. Peter laughed so hard he nearly had to pull over.
He was about to turn the corner to the hotel but you stopped him.
“Actually can you just let me out right here?” He looked at you confused. “I don’t know when Julian is going to arrive, and I just don’t want to cause him any suspicion. And this ‘vehicle’ is definitely cause for alarm”
His face fell a little, “Yeah, that's totally fine.”
“I’m so sorry, its so stupid, but its just easier if-”
“No, no problem at all. Take care Nora” he said looking slightly wounded as you braved the frigid air once more.
“Thanks, Peter, seriously, for everything.” you said hoping you sounded as sincere as you felt
“Don’t mention it, Nora, see you on Stern, I’ll have my people call your people.” he said, winking a final time before you shut the door and he drove off.
Fuck. He was seriously in your head.
You blew into the hotel and up to your room. You were relieved when you got up there that Julian hadn’t arrived yet. He wouldn’t do anything about it, you didn’t think, but it was easier to be avoided than explained. You had time to get out of your layers and check your answering machine.
You called your inbox, it had two messages. The first was from Larry checking in on how the “coffee clear up” went. The second was Julian letting you know he got caught up and wouldn’t be able to meet you for dinner but he could probably come by later.
Well, at least he’d called and at least you got to look forward to seeing him later, maybe. The energetic buzz you had from seeing Peter evaporated as you changed into your pajamas and found the script you were trying to memorize. Maybe you’d order some dinner, or maybe you wouldn’t. Whatever confidence Peter had built up, Julian pulled out from under you with just a message.
Later that night as you were about to doze off by yourself, you jolted awake with a gasp. You remembered you’d forgotten Angie’s fucking CD and it STILL needed to be signed.
masterlist.
Corpus Christi
Fandom: Type O Negative/Peter SteelePairing: Peter Steele/OC Female Rating: Explicit (18+)
Read it on AO3. Chapter One.
Chapter Two - The Sign of Peace
taglist: @solarperpetua
The next Sunday Peter arrived a little late and chose the seat behind her. He told himself it was a coincidence, but he was too old to lie to himself with any confidence.
He clocked her the moment he stepped inside the church, wearing her same white lace veil, head bowed in prayer. He was close now, close enough to smell faint soap and something clean coming from her skin. Close enough that when she knelt her veil brushed the back of her pew, and he had to tell himself that he couldn’t reach out to touch it.
He sat straighter than usual, hands folded, trying to tame the restless animal part of his mind that paid attention to every moment she made, the slope of her shoulders, the soft way she tilted her head when she was focused.
This is church, he reminded himself, get it together.
Hazel, though, noticed him immediately.
Not because of his size, even though that was impossible to miss, but because his presence was heavy. Not bad, not arrogant, just… dense. Like someone who had lived intensely and now was trying to take up less space than his body allowed. She felt it when he slipped into the pew behind her, a subtle shift in the air, awareness prickling at the base of her neck, her cheeks suddenly flushing. She kept her eyes forward.
Mass ran its course the way it always did, readings, psalms, prayers that were so familiar that you barely needed to actually pay attention to follow. Hazel was lost in it, but part of her awareness kept drifting backwards, she couldn’t help but wonder what brought him to church again, wondering what kind of faith carried scars that deep.
Then came the Sign of Peace.
Hazel turned around on instinct, smile already forming on her lips and found herself looking up. Way up. Peter froze for a millisecond, caught a little of guard by how warm her eyes were, how steady, no hesitation.
“Peace be with you”, she said.
“And with your spirit”, he replied. And then she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. It was brief, appropriate. Nothing anyone would look twice at. And it nearly undid him.
Her arms barely reached around his back, but he still felt it straight through his chest, a jolt of warmth that made his throat tighten. He returned the hug carefully, a little afraid of tainting something sacred by holding too long. When she pulled back she smiled again, completely unaware of the internal conflict she caused. Meanwhile, Hazel felt something unexpected settle in her too: comfort.
When mass ended, they found each other again without really meaning to, drifting toward the side aisle where people slowed, talked, lingered. The sunlight shone in through the stained glass, painting the stone floors in muted colors.
“So”, Hazel started, used to approaching the newcomers, “are you joining RCIA?”
Peter blinked, tilting his head “RCIA?”
She chuckled softly, making her eyes half-close, “Sorry! Habit. It’s for adults joining the church”
“Oh… no”, he said quickly “No, I’m a cradle Catholic.”
She lifted her brows, surprised but pleased “Really?”
“Yeah, born and raised. Catholic school, the whole deal” he exhaled through his nose, “I just… left. For a long time”. She didn’t press, didn’t ask why, just tilted her head, waiting. “And now it's coming back” he continued, choosing his words with care “kinda feels like learning how to breathe again.”
Hazel didn’t smile this time, instead she looked at him with something quieter, deeper. “Welcome back home”, she said with a soft tone.
The words hit him harder than any homily ever had. Peter swallowed hard, jaw tightening as something old and wounded moved inside him. Home. Not absolved, not forgiven, just… received. “Thank you”, he managed after a few seconds.
They stood there for a moment, he cleared his throat, “what about you? You seem very… at ease here”.
“I am” she said brightly, “born and raised too, but I never left. Right now I’m in charge of catechism for the kids” she smiled.
His expression softened immediately, something almost boyish replacing his usual gruffness. “Yeah? That’s… that’s really lovely”.
She smiled brightly, nodding slowly as she looked up at him. “It’s a real blessing, the kids help me a lot to keep grounded”.
He couldn’t help but picture her surrounded by children, all the small hands and noise and gentle chaos, the image settling warmly into him. Something about it felt almost hopeful, untouched by the ugly parts of the world he knew too well.
“Well,” she said after a moment, glancing towards the exit “I should get going. But I’m glad you’re here, Peter”.
“So am I”, he replied quietly, and meant it more than he had thought.
As she walked away, he stayed where he was for a moment longer, eyes lazily following her. Desire stirred, yes, but underneath it something stronger: respect, admiration. And the terrifying, healing urge to be better than he had ever been.
Before he left something caught his eye on the church’s bulletin board: they were looking for someone that could help set up a children’s music program in the parish. I could do that, he thought to himself. Maybe that kind of service, that community, was something that could help him.
He made a mental note of it, decided he would stop by during the week during the priest’s office hours to find out more and finally left.
Thanks for the tag @6barcamercedes3!
Post the last song you listened to:
No pressure tags: @dracosbroom81, @sunnytastic, @stargirlxxx134, @sserene12, @lindbaldracing, @prefoundmaxy, @h0peinthebox, @kilmartin, @kimiantonelliwdc
thanks for the tag <33
post the last song you listened to:
tags: @maddsxfall @charlottelaycelia44 @viviexclusive @kill-me-kill-me-now @katarinaek @istillwishforyouateleveneleven @next-year-is-our-yearisour and anyone else who wants to join <33
OOOOOO OKAY OKAY FUNNN
Shush no judging
@francis-forever-111 @ez006 @millie500 @jasurmine-ind88 @gloomy-rains-romantic-candles @yshy-99917 @astridsepistolary @ziggykatzexual and anyone else=)))))
thanks for the taggg <33
I’m a lil emo don’t judge
@starleska @milohatetsapp @163-catalyst
:3
@kneeko116 @ang3l-d0lli3
@andy-rew62 @moonlithollowsworld
Idk who to tag uhh
@cy-more-like-cry @urlocaltwinkrey
thanks!!!
@hisowntruly @thebloodiest-jesteralive @needajoint
wahoo!!
tags ^U^ @oilyskies @prisma-palace @partybunnie @cherri-blossom3408 @225weedbugz420 @dicknadonut @alecoholism @undeadd0g @il1ketoe4t @chopsaw--mania idk no pressure:p
bleeeh
@khvylovy @alongwaytostar @eclectricityfence
@yris-latteyi @jamiegeode
@alongwaytostar @mothgutz236 @poisonplush @tervaneula @tei-to-tei
@beepbeepinthecorner @therealnuclearplatypus @pommigranite @adenthemage @madscientistenthusiast @jamiegeode @mokhovynnya
@eclipsedrawsthings @eclipsestar @screeching-theorist-cat @superdogbiter @sugarangel121
I listen to too much cats 😔
@kallencoz @debrisslide @storyweaverofgondor @snowstormwc @robingurl
I made it work for Tugger and Misto (and A*Teens has been my favorite band since Middle School)
@per-the-jellicle-magician @whitmerule @falasta @uncertainbravado @strawberry-paint @rivby @kibaweissvulf @dannyandpip
LET ME HAVE MY EMOTIONAL SONG
@rainbowratsstuff @falasta @whitmerule @lycanthra
sometimes my 4AM commute just needs my EC playlist blasting
no pressure tags: @thehopelessunromantic, @allegedlyjay, @circle--of--confusion, @rogues-r-we, @rollforbeans, @lacrymosa-v
i’m prepping for when i see david byrne on the 4th!!!
no pressure tag you’re it @solarperpetua @karmicbias @ghostgrin
aaaaaa i love this!!! Lord Huron has been it for me, I love him so much
No pressure tag you're it @xdrabromanticx
I’m crying! My last song is so unserious but it’s a bop, I swear!!
@worthyhoundglacier no pressure to reblog if you don’t wanna lol
Jesus LOL
My last song was me trying to pretend it’s the 80’s
@ihaveneverbeengivenflowers your turn
Corpus Christi
Fandom: Type O Negative/Peter SteelePairing: Peter Steele/OC Female Rating: Explicit (18+)
Read it on AO3.
In the late 00's Peter finds himself going back towards the faith woven deep into his soul. When he prays for change, he doesn’t expect it to come so fast or so gently.
The bells had stopped already when Peter stepped out into the cold.
He stayed on the stone steps longer than he probably needed to, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders a little hunched, not from the cold, just from the quiet, the weird weight of it. Sunday Mass always left him like that lately. Stripped. Exposed. Like something inside him had been pried open and left there, just… breathing. People walked past in little murmuring groups, families mostly. Laughter, nods, coats rustling. He wasn’t invisible exactly, but he’d gotten good at standing on the edges. Just a shadow at the edge of things.
Then he saw her.
A few steps down, by the iron railing, she was fiddling with the pin on her lace veil. It fell down her back soft, like it belonged there even if it was old-fashioned. He didn’t know her name yet, but he’d seen her before. Always in the same pew, three rows from the front. Always still, not stiff, just… focused. Hands folded, eyes forward. Not wandering, not looking for anything, just listening, like she was waiting for something she trusted would come.
She looked up, caught his eyes, and instead of looking away, she smiled. Not flirty. Not shy. Just kind. Open. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything back. It hit him low in his chest, quiet and sharp, like fire under ice. He nodded, awkward, aware of how big he was, six-foot-eight and scarred, standing somewhere he didn’t really belong. He should’ve turned, walked to the street, lit a cigarette he didn’t smoke. But she spoke first.
“Good morning.” Her voice was soft but steady, not fragile, just grounded.
“Morning,” he said, surprised how rough it sounded. Cleared his throat. “Uh… good Mass.”
She smiled again, smaller this time, like she found that funny. “It was. Father Michael’s homilies… have been really honest lately.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “Painfully so.”
She laughed, soft and easy, and he felt her studying him more carefully, not staring, just… noticing. “You’re new,” she said.
He huffed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only because I know everyone,” she said. “You sit in different places but you always stay until the end. Even when people leave early.”
Caught off guard, he blinked. “Didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“I help with the RCIA group,” she said quickly, like she didn’t want to seem nosy. “You tend to notice.”
That at least he understood. “I’m Peter,” he said after a beat. Felt weird giving his name without armor, without sarcasm.
“H—Hazel,” she said. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Finally. He liked that word more than he probably should.
They stood there for a moment. Neither moving. Cold curling around them. Hazel reached up, took off her veil, folded it neat, tucked it into her bag. Without it she looked younger, twenty-five maybe, but no less real.
“You’ve been coming pretty often,” she said. “If you ever want help figuring stuff out, confession times, groups, whatever-I’m usually around.”
He hesitated. Old instincts kicking in, suspicion, self-protection. But she wasn’t asking him to explain himself. She wasn’t trying to fix him. She was just… offering a hand. “I’m trying,” he said quietly. “To do this right.”
Her expression softened, not pity, just respect. “That’s usually enough to start.”
Peter nodded. Something strange tightened in his chest. Gratitude. Maybe hope. Terrifying in its own way. “Well,” he said, stepping back, trying not to linger too long. “Thanks, Hazel.”
“Anytime, Peter.”
As he walked down the steps, out into the street, he realized something weird and new: For the first time in a long while, he actually wanted to be worthy. Of the place he’d just left. And of the girl still standing there.
Can't lose you ⋆˚࿔ Part 1
⋆˚࿔ Ao3 Link
A switchy Peter story inspired by the one year anniversary of posting my first fic, Burnt Flowers Fallen, on Ao3 (link). Inspired by an augustinthewinter audio + a convo with @worthyhoundglacier, plus his affinity for on and off relationships, jealousy and leaving voicemails lol
Pairing: Peter Steele x OFC (or f!reader) Word Count: 1,867 Summary: She had given up hope of ever hearing from him again after their whirlwind relationship ended abruptly. But when she doesn't pickup the phone, it triggers something in Peter, and he leaves her a voicemail that sends her right back where he wants her. Content: NSFW + MDNI! Smut w/ a little plot. Toxic/jealous/possessive SWITCHY Peter! More tags on Ao3
The tape on her answering machine was full.
She’d been gone two and a half days, taking care of her sister’s kids so that she and her husband could get some time off for the first time in a decade. She hadn’t even left Brooklyn, but it had been a long weekend of wiping noses and asses. All she wanted to do was drop her bag and soak in the tub, with some epsom salts and fancy soap to wash off the kid germs. But her tape was full, and she wouldn’t be able to relax fully until she listened and screened for emergencies.
The first message was from her sister on Friday, calling to make sure she was still coming over after work. The second was from her doctor’s office the same day. But the third one started with a long pause. She knew right away who it was.
“Hey, it’s Peter,” the voice finally said. “I’m on the road with the guys. In Detroit of all places. Seeing as it’s such a romantic city… I don’t know, something made me think about you. I’m gonna try back later, I want to talk.”
She let out a deep sigh and paused the machine to collect her thoughts. She hadn’t heard from him in the couple weeks before, and she was just barely regaining her focus on other things. More important things, she convinced herself, like work and magazines and making sure her tapes were returned in time. The way they had left things was unsatisfying, with no explosive argument that she could overthink until she was content and then file away neatly in the back of her head. It had been weeks of passion, both physically and emotionally, before he had gradually started seeming less interested, and calling less often. She could tell his mind was somewhere else, so she felt somewhat prepared when she stopped hearing from him altogether. She didn’t know what was worse, a clean break, or this lukewarm exit which had let the positives remain as her most potent memories.
She pressed play.
“Hey, it’s Peter. I was hoping I’d catch you this morning, we’re in Pittsburgh today. Call me, I want to catch up… it would be nice to hear your voice.” He left a number and hung up. His next call started right away.
“Hey…” he began. She could hear him taking a deep breath behind the tinny compression of the answering machine speaker.
“I know it’s been a minute since we last talked… I don’t know, you’ve been on my mind. And it’s not just the fact that the tour bus smells like shit and I’ve been surrounded by assholes 24/7. That doesn’t help, but really, it’s you. I like you, and we had some good times together, didn’t we? Maybe it took some distance for me to realize it…” He paused for a moment.
“Have you been thinking about me too?” he asked. Something in his voice was both hesitant and smug, like he knew the answer but suspected that it was risky to ask. “I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I hope you’ll call me.” He repeated the phone number and hung up.
He did know the answer, of course she was thinking about him, even without knowing he had called. It was a passing comment from her brother-in-law, saying he hoped that she “didn’t have to cancel any hot dates this weekend”. And she had turned that over in her head too many times, thinking about the last “hot date” she went on, and everything he did to her, and how she hadn’t so much as looked at a guy since. But was he really going to try to pick things back up now, pretending like no time had gone by? She’d called him too many times, sat by the phone like a pathetic teenager, and gone through all the stages of grief already. She wasn’t gonna let him rope her back in that easily.
She sat through a couple of other normal messages, painfully eager to hear what else he had left for her. His next message began with a burst of background noise, he had to have been calling from somewhere in public.
“Hey, are you gonna call me?” He said, “Really, I’m leaving all these messages like an asshole. Just pick up, I just want to talk… I need to tell you something” he paused for a moment, and she could picture him clearly with one hand on the wall leaning down over the pay phone. His voice was low, heavy and pleading. “C’mon baby, it’s me. Please, just let me talk to you.”
She hit pause again as a chill ran through her. She dug in her bag to find her cigarettes and lit one. She hated how much her body reacted to his voice, how unsteady she felt on her feet just from the way he talked to her. It was like he had whispered the words directly against her neck, she could almost feel him there. And remembering that feeling only pissed her off more. She jabbed the play button again.
“Is this really what we’re doing? I know you’re there. Pick up,” Peter said. His words melted together, slick with alcohol and anger. “Are you trying to play hard to get? Cause that’s not gonna work on me,” he laughed under his breath,
“Or… I guess if you’re not there, you must be off fucking some other asshole… Did you move on that fast? Fuck… you better not be… God, that pisses me off.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me, right?” his breathing was growing heavier, he was working himself up. “No… not after how I made you feel.”
“In fact, I’d be willing to bet… no one has ever made you feel like I can. No one’s made you cum like I do, have they? No, actually, I know they haven’t… Because you said that to me, didn’t you? You told me that no one had ever made you cum that hard.”
Blood rushed to her face so fast that she felt lightheaded. She steadied herself by taking a drag, and tried to ignore the way that her nipples had become stiff and sensitive against the fabric of her shirt.
“Do you remember that day, I took you to the museum… you went to the bathroom, and when you came back, you slipped something into my pocket… it was those lacy little red panties, fuuuck,” he groaned. Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily as she remembered that day, hot with embarrassment at how she had given herself to him.
“Did you like it? When I lifted up that little skirt and fucked you in my car, parked on some side street where anyone could see? You wanted them to see that you were mine… it turned you on, didn’t it?”
It was like he was there, like each filthy word he said was his fingertips tracing her skin. He was working her up, playing her like an instrument, making her forget all of the anger she felt towards him.
“God, you turn me on so much, even now. I wish you could see how hard I am for you… In the middle of this bar in fucking Pennsylvania…” She couldn’t help but picture it, his cock straining against his pants, how lewd he was talking in public, where anyone could overhear. Just like that night in the car.
“No… what I really wish is that I could see how wet you are for me. I bet you are, baby. I bet you’re missing my hands on you, the way I made you feel…” He paused for a long few moments.
“Why don’t you touch yourself for me? C’mon, rub that pussy for me sweetheart.” His tone was dark and saccharine, and her body was possessed to move in response. Her free hand reached to unbutton her pants as she finished and snuffed her cigarette.
“Do it for me, because I’ve been going crazy thinking about you… jacking off in the shower because it’s the only place I can get any privacy… Fuck, yeah… Listen to the sound of my voice. You’re doing it, aren't you?” She closed her eyes as she circled her clit with a fingertip.
“I miss you too. God, I miss making you feel good. I miss the way you taste. I miss bending you in half and giving it to you so deep… your legs above your head. Just how you like it. Hearing you cry out my name.” Her fingers sped up as her body responded to the memory.
“It’s so wet for me, isn’t it, does that feel good baby?” Her pleasure was building, and he was right there with her, talking her through it. He was making her feel better now than anyone else ever could, and he wasn’t even in the same place or time.
“That sweet pussy, God, I miss it. I can’t wait til I can taste you again, til I can make you cum all over my face, all over my cock. Til I can come inside you again…” Fuck, yes, she wanted it. Her fingers plunged inside of herself to chase the feeling.
“You didn’t think that was gonna be the last time, did you? No, I’m not letting you go that easy. I’m gonna have you again, right? You’re gonna beg me for it, aren’t you?” pleading words were already forming on her lips, and no part of her body second-guessed it.
“C’mon, sweetheart, I’m gonna make you cum already… I know you’re close.” His smug words dripped with faux compassion. He was right, he had brought her to the edge embarrassingly quickly, and she was hanging on every word that he said.
“That’s right, come on baby… Yeah, just like that. I wish I could see you.” He laughed under his breath. “I wish I could’ve watched you drop everything to fuck yourself to the sound of my voice. You’re so good for me… Fuck… keep going baby,” she cried out as her orgasm began to grasp her.
“Go ahead, cum for me. That's it, yeah… fuuuck,” the climax hit her harder as his words mirrored her body’s response. Her name escaped her lips in a sigh as the last waves of pleasure overtook her. The message was silent for a few moments.
“Fuck. I need another drink now.” Peter chuckled. “Well, I’ll see you soon,” he hung up. Her heart was pounding.
She regained her balance with both hands on her table. “What the fuck was that?” she said aloud to herself.
As she soaked in the tub, she got more and more worked up. Who the fuck did he think he was? With all those things he was saying, about seeing her again? What a smug asshole. And more importantly, how the fuck did he do that to her? How did he know? So much for her relaxing bath, now he was all she could think about.
And he was all she could think about still, when she got in bed and half-guiltily played the message over again.
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i trusted you
Do not trust people like me. I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth. I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people
By Lwenx
