#oitnb fandom

⋅ ୭ ✧˚. 𐙚˙✧˖°

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contents: erm somno mentions, cum eating mentions, mention of prison, crude descriptions of lesbian sex, alex vause worshipping </33

authors note: i said i wasn’t going to write on tumblr anymore but here we are. 😪

men dni🙇‍♀️

˖° ✩୭ ✧ ˚.

a- aftercare: alex doesn’t make it a big deal, but makes sure to take care of you. her aftercare is effective & honest.

b- body part: okay, i think we can all agree alex is a tits kinda gal. if you guys were together before prison she totally bought you cute bras & lingerie as a little treat. (for you, but mostly herself) and on herself i can see her loving her own hands & height. obsessing over how her fingers look on your body & her tall figure. oh hell yes

c-cum: ima be the first to say it, alex is a chronic cum eater. she keeps things clean with her tongue. always licking up the messes she makes. circling back to her hand thing, i can totally see her sucking her fingers clean of your release after she fucked you senseless.

d-dirty secret: alex gets off to somno play. i don’t make the rules, i jst enforce them 🤷‍♀️

e-experience: safe to say our girl isn’t new to sex. i mean clearly she knows what she can do, as she’s always bragging about it in the show. so i think she’s been around definitely

f-favorite position: anything where she can watch your tits bounce when she fucks you. 🙈

g-goofy: okay i think alex would try to make a sexy persona for herself, then give up and start giggling when she slips up. it’s cannon idc

h-hair: is it weird to say i think alex keeps everything really clean? it makes the most sense for her to be trimmed everywhere. and if she does keep hair on her pubes, i can see her being one of those girls who keeps a sliver of hair.

i-intimacy: most moments with alex are intimate. she’s not pushy, she loves hard & it shows.

j-jack off: this girl doesn’t care where or when, if she’s horny? oh she’s getting off. now normally i’d say the opposite, but alex makes a lot of jack off jokes in the show soooo

k-kinks: alex is into praise weather she’s receiving or giving. and breath play & orgasm control would be fun to play around with with her. OH OH, AND SHE LOVES PUBLIC/RISKY SEX. 😵‍💫😵‍💫

l-locations: uh, you name it?

m-motivation: getting deeper here i think alex may use sex as a way to trap someone to her, like make them stay. so when alex has sex, she’s just telling you to stay.

n-no: i think alex would be willing to do a lot if you told her to.

o-oral: alex is a pussy eating god. not even in like a messy way. she’s slow and deliberate with her movements, making sure you feel them. and when she’s receiving, alex is a mess. she loves when you eat her out because she can’t recreate the feeling herself.

p-pace: i’m going out on a limb and saying alex is inconsistent with her pace. she does what she feels best fits for the situation. she also like controlling your orgasm so her pace matches your body.

q-quickie: if your in prison with her then its all your gettin. and if your not? alex loves quickies in risky places. don’t think that doesn’t mean she isn’t fucking you with every inch of your life tho!

r-risk: oh we covered this one.

s-stamina: she has a lot in her, is going to want to take her butt to sleep after round two tho.

t-toys: loves exploring with toys, i think alex would be less of a dildo girl & more of a vibe girly tho, yk??

u-unfair: o-o-o-o-orgasm controlllllllll. she gets off to watching you beg her to cum. it gets carried away sometimes.

v-volume: she’s quiet, in all ways. her breath is hushed, her pants are too sweet to be heard, her voice drops lower & she whimpers just barely. it’s sacred

w-wild card: secretly prefers bottoming although would never admit it

x-x-ray: we’ve all seen that woman. zoooo-eeee-mama

y-yearning: have u met her??

Vauseman has some cute moments, I won't lie. But they're way too toxic, and the relationship is just unhealthy.

(present carol denning/reader)

—

about the main chara—you. you’re 34, stubborn, and a dumbass. your name is celia bird. have fun falling in love with carol denning. dumbass. (same)

—

Obviously, your first night in prison was going to be hard. You just didn’t expect for it to be this fucking hard.

Before you’ve even been an inmate for 24 hours, you get shanked.

You’re still not sure exactly what you did. You know you have a habit of testing people’s boundaries, but you really thought that you‘d successfully kept to yourself all day. Apparently not. You’d retired to your lumpy bed early, hoping to avoid trouble, and you were just beginning to drift off to sleep when you were jolted into awareness by a firm hand over your mouth, and then a splitting pain in your side. The shadow over your body chuckled, then disappeared, and you scrambled out of bed, clutching your bleeding stomach.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” your bunkie had complained when she saw you. Her name was Smith, and she was a large, square-jawed woman in her forties, with minimal belongings. “I thought I told you, no mess.”

The infirmary is even more minimal than Smith’s cell. A few beds and chairs in a single room, with one nurse supervising, until the doctor appears for several minutes, then leaves again.

You‘re given a bandage, some Vicodin, and a sedative. After that, you’re too sleepy to pay attention to your surroundings, so you close your eyes.

—

You wake up from a rough night’s sleep. Your side aches like the time you had appendicitis, and without opening your eyes, you reach down and press lightly on your wound, as if to staunch the pain. When you try to roll over and go back to sleep, you are kept awake by unfamiliar sounds: monitors beeping and other people snoring. Reluctantly, you open your eyes.

Of course. Prison. Somehow you had forgotten.

You glance around at the patients in the infirmary with you. Most of those who are awake glance back, then return to looking down, but one woman stares, hard. You frown at her sceptically. She’s middle aged, with dry, auburn hair, and round glasses. Her eyes are dark, and they burn into you, clearly trying to convey the message that you ought not be staring back at this woman.

You ignore the message, and meet the woman’s temperamental glare as if you’re untouchable and weren’t just shanked. You watch her, and she watches you. The longer you stare, the more you realise that this was a horrible mistake, and you should have just fucking gone back to sleep.

But you don’t stop. And neither does she.

—

Carol Denning. The woman with the round glasses is called Carol Denning.

She’s the highest of the high in C-block, and when you return to Gen Pop, your bunkie tells you that she’s probably going to kill you for looking at her. Lucky for you, for some undisclosed reason, she doesn’t. You do catch her and her crew shooting you glances every now and then, though, and sometimes that’s almost as scary as the thought of being murdered. These women know how to throw a fucking glare. Carol‘s looks in particular always manage to make your heart freeze with fear. When she stares at you, it feels as if you’re the only thing she can see. You are the world—and she wants to destroy you.

Occasionally, when she’s absorbed in her bridge game, or talking to her gang in the yard, you find yourself looking at her too—but only when you’re sure she won’t notice.

This woman seems to draw the attention of everyone around her, like she’s the light in a room of little moths, but most are well-trained enough to resist looking at her as best they can. But you’re different: you’re a foolhardy risk-taker (in other words, a moron), and although sometimes that‘s a liability, sometimes it serves you well. How it will serve you this time is still up in the air, but you’re ready to find out.

—

You’re coming back from the showers when you see Carol at her bridge table unwrapping a red lollipop. This time, you don’t stare, although you do take a second to question why such an allegedly tough woman is so into candy. This is the fourth time you’ve seen her with some kind of sucker or sweet. Before she can finish unwrapping the lollipop though, Reiner, in a fit of chuckles, shoves her in the shoulder, and the sucker clatters to the floor and rolls towards you.

After giving Reiner an unfavourable look, Carol’s gaze follows the candy, then drags from your feet to your eyes. “New girl,” she says, nodding at you. “Pass that back to me.”

You know you shouldn’t rock the boat. You know you were shivved a week and a half ago. But you just can’t see why this woman is so untouchable. “Why should I?” you ask.

Carol’s lips turn to a thin line, and she tilts her head to the side. “Do you want to find out?”

All the women at her bridge table are staring at you. Some look a little impressed, but most look thoroughly disapproving.

“What if I do?” you ask.

A couple of women at the table chuckle, clearly eager to see you get hurt.

“You’re insane,” Carol says, incredulous. You wait for the threat. It doesn’t come. Instead, Carol pats the table. “Come sit with us.”

You’re not an idiot. You know what this means, being allowed to sit at this table. It’s a move that could thoroughly backfire.

That’s never stopped you before, though.

—

You don’t get to sit at Carol’s table often. That makes it all the more special when you do—you’re the only person who isn’t part of the inner circle who gets to sit there, and you’re grateful to have been allowed even once, let alone every couple of weeks.

Some of the women at the table mock you for being a newbie. You sass them. After a while, you start to get the feeling that you have a free pass for backchat. Every time you mouth off at someone, you know Carol could shut you up in a second, but she never does. Even when you sass her.

It’s hardly the happiest situation you’ve been in, but you feel indescribably lucky. This is far less gruelling than you thought prison would be.

—

CO Hellmann wakes you up at 5am on Wednesday morning. You don’t know what’s happening.

“Inmate Bird. You’re switching cells,” he tells you. “Get your shit.”

Confused, you load your belongings and your bedding into your laundry bag, then let Hellmann lead you across the empty common area. There is only one other cell door open. It’s Carol’s.

She’s sitting up in her bed when you come in. “Bottom bunk, Birdie,” she says.

Cautiously, you put your bag down, and sit on the edge of the bed. “Did I do something?” you ask. You don’t even know if you’ve done something right or wrong.

“I was getting sick of Brock,” Carol says, climbing out of her bunk. “Bitch snores like a sledgehammer.”

“What makes you think I’ll be any better?”

Carol folds her arms, and shrugs. “You’re funny. You’re not a pussy. I can live with that.”

Hm. You just wonder if you can live with her.

—