#cigar linen

[menswearmusings]

A Brief Overview of Tobacco Linen—Trends, Mills, Swatches and Color Undertones

If there’s a hallmark of being a full-blown menswear enthusiast, a linen suit just might be it. The suit on its own? Dead (as we’ve read ad nauseum for 50 years). But made from linen—a fabric that flows like a curtain in front of an open window and has a reputation for wrinkling like you’ve…

Read more at Menswear Musings

[i-am-mr-k]

Golden hour.

[hier--soir]

heart to heart

john price x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: john takes you away for the weekend, and nestled in a cottage on the countryside, you show him just how much you've been missing him. warnings/tags: long term boyfriend!john, john price never finishes his cigars, explicit smut, a little body worship, oral [m receiving], fingering [f], unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms [m], some overstim [m], come eating x2, brief cock warming, idiots in love, porn with minimal plot. word count: 4.4k masterlist a/n: this was born out of me being physically unable to stop thinking about that middle picture being john price, so here we go follow @hier--soirupdates if you’d like to be notified when i share my writing

It hasn’t rained in six days.

Late autumn spins the countryside in its grasp; a warm cloak that sends the leaves golden and the grass dewy. In a small, unfamiliar kitchen you drop teabags into mugs and gaze out the window. Admire the vast acreage that surrounds the cottage, and the marshland beyond that.

The early morning rays are bright and cool, turning the cabinets a washy yellow colour around you as you wait for the kettle to boil.

Everything is quiet, calm. If you listen closely, past the sound of birds chirping and water bubbling, you can hear John’s heavy snores down the hall; still catching up on sleep after a long few weeks away.

When he came through the front door two nights ago, you’d been quietly surprised to see him home so soon. After not hearing much for almost a month, you’d resigned yourself to getting on with things in his absence. A fairly covert operation, you knew, so you’d spent your days waking to an empty house. Working and eating and showering alone and never exceeding the appropriate number of messages you could send him in one day without stirring worry. Little Angus with his long orange tail and his soft whiskers your only company in John’s stead.

Home at last, he’d wrestled out of his heavy boots and draped himself over where you lay on the couch. Soap opera long forgotten on the tele, he’d slipped an arm around the back of your head, held you to his chest and said, Let me take you somewhere.

The kettle whistles and you pluck it from the stove, still smiling at the memory. Douse the teabags in boiled water and watch as the windows cloud with steam. You leave his black, just the way he likes it, but soften your own with sugar and milk. Your toes are numb against the cool tile, and you rub them against your calf in search of warmth. Inside, your body is at sleepy old war with itself. One half longing to be back in bed, or perhaps to have not gotten up at all yet; the other half taking great pleasure in the mundanity of doing things like this for him again, after so long of not. Tap tap tap of an impatient finger against the counter until his tea turns the perfect colour, and then you’re on your way back to the room.

Leant amongst paisley patterned pillows and white linens, John looks a little out of place knuckling sleep from the corner of his eyes. A little too rough around the edges, too big, too hardened for such soft surroundings. In your brief absence, he’s drawn the curtains and nudged the window beside the bed open a crack. A long arm stretches out toward the sill, ashing a cigar onto the small dish he’s balanced there.

Naked as the day he was born, he lifts the cigar to his lips and blinks drowsily at you. Stretches his legs out, the muscles in his thighs straining, curled toes skimming the end of the bed. Eyes wandering, you kick the door shut with your foot and slink to the end of the bed, holding out his mug.

“’Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. Accepts the tea with a soft smile, the skin beside his eyes crinkling as he watches you crawl in beside him. Hands full, he twists an ankle around yours, face pulling up at the feel of your cold skin against his. “Jesus, you’re like ice. I’ll shut the window.”

“Don’t move,” you hush, nestling your head against his shoulder. “You’re right where I want you.”

John laughs softly, warm body vibrating against yours. “Is that right, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” You watch him tap his cigar against the dish, sipping your tea and trailing fingers through the dark hairs on his stomach. Enjoy the way his body draws tense beneath your cool touch, goose flesh sprouting across his skin. “Middle of nowhere… unfamiliar town… no one will ever find you. You’re all mine out here, Price.”  

“M’all yours everywhere,” he says, abandoning his cigar in the dish so he can tug on the neckline of your—his—t-shirt. “This proves it, yeah?”

“I suppose,” you smile, lifting your mug to hide behind a sip. He watches you move, calculating and quiet as he sips his own tea. You fidget beneath the intensity of his stare, painfully aware of how well he knows you. That your want, your need, must be painted across every inch of your face.

“Love you in my clothes, sweetheart, I do.” John’s fingers curl beneath the hem of the shirt then, rough callouses tickling over your collarbones. “But you’re makin’ me feel awful naked.”

Heat flares in the base of your stomach and you chuckle, matching smirks splashed across your faces as you sit up and drag the shirt over your head. He watches as you flick it to the floor, gaze darkening as he looks over your body, focusing on the thin grey panties that cover the skin between your thighs. A thick arm curls around your waist, tugging you back onto him, and as you settle there his fingers slip down to fiddle with the band of your underwear.

“Cute,” he comments airily, middle finger dropping under the band to caress the skin beneath it.

Mug discarded off the side of the bed, you put both hands to his stomach now. Tickling his soft skin, playing with the hair there as you lean in and press a kiss to the centre of his chest. And then another, and another, with John simply humming, palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you against his side.

Your lips part, tongue dancing lazily against his nipple. Soft strokes until the flesh is stiffening and you’re practically purring against his skin, drifting across to the other one. You hear the soft clink of his mug hitting the side table, and then John’s hand falls against the back of your head. Thick fingers twist through your hair, playing as you kiss and lick over his collarbones, and the little tugs he gives have a low throb starting up between your legs.

“Feelin’ needy this mornin’, hey lovey?” John asks. His fingers come to the front of your face, cupping your jaw and forcing you to look up at him. Big blue eyes watch you pout, cheeks squished between his fingers as you nod.

“I missed you,” you say, turning to press your nose into his palm and inhale the smell of him.

His eyes soften, and all sense of teasing seems to slip out the window. “I know, sweetheart, m’sorry. Come here’n give us a kiss.”

His lips are soft against yours. Warm, and familiar, with a hint of Darjeeling. Pulling you up to straddle his waist, he coaxes your chest down against his and huffs into your mouth at the feel of your nipples against his skin, teeth sneaking out to smart at your bottom lip.

“Thought about you every day,” he mumbles against your lips. “Missed you every second, love, always do.”

You feel something hot and sharp spark behind your eyelids at those words, and flick your tongue against the seam of his lips, pushing it away, not now not now. You go soft and pliant against him; let him guide you through the kiss, coaxing your mouth open with his long tongue as his fingers dance down your spine. When his hand reaches the round of your ass he grips your flesh there, kneading it between his fingers and pushing down so your clothed cunt comes flush with his cock.

“Feel that?” John says, pulling away an inch to nose at your cheek. His cock is heavy between your legs, thick and stiff where it presses against the gusset of your panties. You gasp as he rocks his hips up, grinding against you until the damp fabric slips between your slick folds and rubs over your clit. “That’s how much I missed you, sweetheart.”

As he talks, the hairs on his moustache prickle against your lips, and you find yourself opening your mouth. Breathy moans spill as you roll your hips against his, lathing hot opened mouthed kisses over his jaw.

“Looked at your picture every night,” he continues raggedly, breath hitching as you suck at the hollow of his throat. His cock twitches against you, the slide only getting smoother as more slick spills into your panties. “Thought about comin’ home ‘n’ never leavin’ again, just so I could play with this pretty little cunt whenever I like.”

Your hips stutter into his and you whine, a tiny glimpse of an orgasm fluttering through you just from those words.

“S’yours,” you whisper against his skin, the words he spoke moments before dancing through your mind. “All yours everywhere.”

Faster than he can stop you, you’re slipping off his lap and settling beside him on the bed. Continuing the onslaught, you lick hot, messy kisses over the skin of his neck, across the broad span of his shoulders.

“My big man,” you say tenderly, fingers itching their way across his chest. You skirt your teeth down the middle of his sternum, squeaking a little when he murmurs in enjoyment and presses a hand to your ass again. “I missed your body so much.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me then,” he goads lightly, grunting around a smirk when you sink your teeth into the soft flesh over his ribs in response.

His fingers toy with the material of your panties as you drag your tongue over the dip of his belly button, and when you kiss the soft curve of his lower stomach, nose buried in the dark hairs above it, you feel him grip the fabric tight. You can see his cock in your peripheral vision. Swollen and heavy against his hip now. The tip has turned a pretty shade of dark pink, accented by little streaks of white where pre-come oozes from his slit and glides down his throbbing shaft. With your mouth on his belly, you reach out and wrap your fingers around him.

“Fuck,” John grunts, head lolling back against the pillows.

You smile, stroking him slowly as you drag your nose through his thick happy trail, all the way down to nuzzle against the dark thatch of curls above his base. Insistent now, his fingers push beneath the edge of your panties and drag through your slick seam.

You whimper, forehead resting heavily against his skin as he slides two fingers through the wet mess of you. Lewd sounds of your arousal fill the room as John traces featherlight circles around your clit, and your face heats against his stomach, fingers returning to their lazy pace around his length.

The throb between your legs has become a second heartbeat now, so strong that you’re sure he must feel it beneath his fingertips. If he does, he just sighs softly. Lets the thrumming of your cunt sync with the pulse in his fingertips, heart to heart, and murmurs low encouragements as you tilt your head to the side and begin mouthing at his cock.

“Missed my cock.” Your voice is low and unfamiliar in your ears, mouth overrun with desire and spilling your guts before you can stop it. “So pretty, John…”

Circling your entrance with a thick finger, he just says, “I know, love, s’yours. Go on.”

As slow as you can bring yourself to be, you lay gentle kisses down the entire length of him. Wetting your lips and gliding them over his warm, silken skin, before dipping lower and sucking his balls between your lips. A harsh grunt sounds behind you, and, as if in retaliation, he sinks two thick fingers inside you. You moan around his sensitive skin, holding his balls in your mouth and jerking him off until he’s trembling beneath you, broad thighs straining as he tries to hold himself together.

“That’s good, love,” he murmurs softly, almost speaking to himself as he curls his fingers inside you, humming when you grind into his hand. “Need ta get my fuckin’ mouth on you.”

But you just shake your head. Let his balls slip from your mouth with a soft pop before sticking out your tongue and guiding the weeping tip of his cock towards your mouth. Hasty, too needy for your own good, you slip your lips around him and try to take him deep on the first pass. Out of practice after weeks away, your throat constricts and you choke a little around him. So big, so overbearing, you’re too eager to be filled by him that you push and push until you’re gagging and sputtering. Cheeks hot and eyes downturned, you draw back, skin prickling as you hear him say something past the rushing in your ears. Take a moment to catch your breath and ground yourself, fingers tight on his thigh as your tongue swirls around his tip.

“This what you missed then?” he’s saying, collecting your hair in his fist to keep it off your face. “Hm, missed bein’ all full of me?”

“Mhm,” you hum around him, pulling back with a gasp only to press his head against your cheek. Eyes closed, you rub his ruddy tip against your chin, your lips, painting your skin with his precome. Feel the weight of him warm your skin and sigh in quiet delight. And when he groans, exhaling a heavy, ragged breath, you press your mouth around him again, desperate to hear him make that sound over and over again.

“Easy, darlin’, lemme see you,” John chokes out, thumbing sliding over the apple of your cheek. “So pretty with your lips around my cock.”

Heat floods your chest, and you drool around him. The words seem to trigger something in your mind, some insatiable desire to please, to make him feel good, because you’re relaxing, sinking your mouth down further on him. A low, drawn-out curse falls from his lips, fingers curling in the hair behind your ear.

Gaudy sounds of sucking and slurping fill your ears, and you would be self-conscious if it weren’t for the way John’s growls met them in the air. Wordlessly, he slips a third digit inside and the stretch brings a dull burn that has your mouth slowing against him.

Your eyelids flutter as his thick fingers stroke at your walls, searching for the spot that makes you spill every time, but your wanton cries of desperation are muffled by the heavy weight of him on your tongue. In slow, measured movements, he begins to shift his hips in time with your head. Feeding his cock to you and grunting when he feels your throat go soft and easy around him, letting him slip further in until your nose buries in the hair at his base.

John watches you, the blue in his eyes almost entirely swallowed by desire fattened pupils. Rakes his gaze over the way your lips stretch around his thick cock, tears dancing on your lashes as you take him in your throat. The heady taste of him is intoxicating, and you can only hold his gaze for so long before your eyes are rolling back, stomach pulling tight as you swallow around him.

Stuffed to the brim with John, John, John. He’s everywhere, filling your mouth, your aching cunt; it sends your heart racing, thighs trembling as your orgasm begins to crest.

Molten heats swims in the base of your stomach, curling and bubbling there as he you ride his long fingers, moaning his name around his cock. But just as you feel everything begin to go tight and tingly, John’s pulling on your hair and dragging you off him.

A thin strand of spit dangles between his tip and your mouth and he snarls at the sight, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip.

“Fuck, c’mere,” he huffs, squeezing insistently at your shoulders. “Wanna feel you on my cock when you come for me, yeah?”

Mind a hazy blur, you let the weight of him fall from your mouth, the hinge of your jaw still burning as you peel your underwear down your legs and spread yourself over his lap. John doesn’t pull his hand away though. No, he keeps his fingers between your legs, pumping them in and out, slowly, as you hover over his cock.

“My girl,” he says, eyes focusing on where the puffy lips of your cunt almost touch his cock. “My filthy, sweet girl.”

“John,” you puff his name, abdomen tensing when he rubs his thumb against your clit. Balanced on your knees and the tips of your toes, your legs shake a bit. Fingers dance forward to touch his shoulder, desperate for an anchor.

You frown a little, swollen lips parted in a torturous mix of desire and confusion, but he just offers a filthy grin and says, “Tell me you missed me again.”   

“Oh, fuck off,” you smart instinctually, lips twitching when he barks a laugh and slips his fingers from your wet clutch, grasp drifting to your waist. “Please.”  

“There she is,” he rumbles, jaw tensing as you glide his tip through your folds, coating him in your slick. A heavy rush of air spills from his nose. “My impatient girl.”

Once he’s got you on his cock, it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart.  

He lets you keep having it your way for a bit. Watches, gaze heavy, as you bounce on his cock, hands gripping his shoulders for leverage. You squirm on him, face twisted up as you adjust to the thick stretch of him after so long. It burns and aches between your thighs, but you can’t help but keep coming back for more, sinking down on his length faster each time. He tilts his head forward to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, moaning against the plush of your breast when you arch your back, crying out at the feeling of his teeth on the sensitive bud.

After a while he slots his greedy lips against yours. Presses hot, sucking kisses to your mouth, swallowing down every gasp and moan that crawls its way up your chest. The bristles of his facial hair scratch at your cheeks, your nose, and you love it. Have desperately missed the way it warms your skin as he presses his tongue inside your mouth and tastes behind your teeth.

Using his hold on your hips, he rolls you against his lap. Meets you thrust for thrust until you start to soak his length, jaw going slack as he growls into your open mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, love, that’s it,” John groans, fingers tightening on your waist as your cunt pulls tight and hot around him. Thighs shaking, you let your forehead fall against his chest and ride out the flood of your orgasm. “I know, darlin’, I know, I’ve got you.”

Fingers fly up to grip the back of your neck, his other arm snaking around your waist as he continues fucking up into you. His cock presses hot and heavy into that soft, gushy spot deep inside you and you shudder against him, helpless little moans slipping from your parted lips. Face smushed against his hairy chest, you drool a little. Feel it pool between his pecs and smear across your cheek as your eyes roll back, dopamine pounding in your veins as he pushes you relentlessly through the high.

“Gonna let me fill you up?” he’s panting, feet planted on the bed now as he bucks into you, hips stuttering as he sinks closer and closer to his end. “Fuck, I’m gonna make a right mess of you, darlin’. That’s it, lovey, show me that pretty face.”

“John,” you mewl, toes curling against the sheets. “Shit, oh shit.”   

“Christ,” he grunts when you meet his eyes, jaw pulled tight. “So tight, m’ gonna come—”

“Wait,” you mumble suddenly, senses sharpening despite the way your thighs still shake against his hips. John stills immediately, grip tightening on your waist. “In my mouth, I want you in my mouth.”

His face crumples at that, a guttural noise sputtering from his lips as you lift off him and slip down to rest between his legs. He nods, brushing hair back off your face as you sink your mouth down on him, slick tongue hungry on the underside of his pulsing cock. He mutters your name, tells you how perfect you feel as he rocks his hips forward, tip nudging the back of your throat with every careful thrust.

“My sweet girl, doing so good for me,” he breathes, a coy grin on his face and a firm hand at the base of your skull. He holds your head in place as he fucks your mouth with slow, steady strokes. Groans every time you swallow, warm wet throat drawing tight around his swollen head.

“Look at me, let me see those eyes,” he mutters urgently, tugging on your hair until you’re blinking, focusing blurry eyes on his face. He thumbs at the teary streaks on your cheeks and gives a rough, prolonged groan as he begins to spill down your throat. “Fuck, fuck.”

You bob your head as his cock twitches and jerks against your tongue, sucking until he’s filled your mouth with warm come and it starts seeping from the corner of your mouth, dribbling down his shaft. You catch the spill with your fingers, swallowing his thick spend down and then licking what’s left from your trembling hands.

John watches on, chest heaving, and tuts fondly when you whimper, head spinning with the salty taste of him on your tongue.

“Bloody hell,” he exhales after a moment, dragging his knuckles over his face. “We’re never goin’ home.”  

You laugh, drowsily nuzzling your cheek against the inside of his thigh as his cock softens against his stomach. John cards his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, legs still twitching and eyes drifting closed as he tries to catch his breath. Lips slick with spit and come, you lay soft pecks along his sweaty skin. Smile when he shudders, fingers tightening against your scalp, but doesn’t pull you off.

There’s a hot flush of red splashed across the skin of his neck, his cheekbones, and his stomach is still warm to the touch when you reach out to graze his soft flesh. Sated and sleepy, he wets his lips and continues to play with your hair. Lovingly curls strands of it around his fingers and tugs gently before letting go, only to pick a new strand and do it again.

Overcome with emotion, and unable to stop yourself, you lean forward and take his soft cock back into your mouth.

John hisses through his teeth in surprise, eyes flashing open.

You don’t do anything crazy yet. Just let him feel the warmth of your mouth around him, the soft glide of your tongue against the ridge around his head. When he doesn’t pull you off after a second, you give him a little suck. Not hard—just enough to make his hips flinch down into the mattress and his legs pull tight at your sides.  

“Fuck,” he exhales, face pinched. His hand trembles against your head. “Fu—hang on, fuckin’ hell, love.”

You peer up past his stomach to where his mouth hangs open and his eyes are shiny and wide. His nails scratch against your scalp. Needy little nudges that blur the line between too much and not enough. You hum in pleasure around him when a choked sound falls from his mouth. Feeling a little mean, though, you pull back, licking your lips and smiling apologetically.

“Sorry,” you murmur, face hot as you squeeze his thigh. “Just want to love on you a little longer, that’s all.”

He hums deep in his chest, brow creasing a little as he brings his big hands to cup your face. His thumb swipes at your chin, smearing the saliva there, and you part your lips for him. He makes a sort of pained sound as he slots the digit into your mouth and watches you hollow out your cheeks out around it, swirling your tongue and sucking like you’d done to his cock just moments ago.

“Christ,” John breathes. Something needy and desperate glints in his eye, and he slips his finger from your mouth. Grips the back of your neck and gives a short nod. “Gonna be the death of me, ain’tcha?”

Guided by his hand, you take him back in your mouth and sigh in relief. Your eyelids flutter closed, and you rest your face against his hip, taking deep breaths through your nose and just holding him like that for a while. You can hear the way his breathing goes haggard above your head; short sharp bursts of air huffing from his nostrils. Sensitive as he must be, John lets you have your fun, shivering and spiting low curses as your touches get increasingly needier. And when you begin to suck softly at his length again, he seems unable to help the way his strong legs writhe against the mattress.

He says your name, rough and urgent, when you pull back only to snake your tongue out against his slit. Eyes fluttering open, you look up at him as you lathe your tongue down his length, smiling at how red his face has gotten, at how he seems to be holding his breath. John’s cock starts to swell and stiffen beneath your touch.  

“D’you want me to stop?” you whisper, tracing the blue vein that pulses down the side of his length with your tongue.

“No,” he pants, head lolling from side to side. “Fuck no, gorgeous. Just go easy on me, yeah? It’s ohh—” he winces “—s’a lot.”

You nod understandingly and press a kiss to his tip, smearing the fresh pearl of precome there against your lips. He’s fully hard now, throbbing when you wrap your fingers around his thick base and wrap your lips around his head. A guttural sound rips from his chest and he’s tugging at your hair. For a moment you pause, unsure, but then he’s pushing a little on you. Nudging you closer, further, so you take him deeper and deeper until his tip is nudging against your throat.

“Fuck,” John gasps, hips stuttering against your palms, sensitive cock twitching against your tongue. “S’too much, love, it’s—oh fuck.”

With a ragged grunt his cock pulses in your mouth, and a little spurt of come dribbles from his head. You moan, eyes closed, and swallow tight around him, milking every last drop of spend from his cock until he’s winded and clumsily pushing you off of him.

Breathless, you fall flat on the mattress beside him, feet dangling off the end of the bed. John’s broad palm cradles the back of your head still, a comforting weight as you wipe your face against the sheets.

Ears pricking, you realise it’s begun to rain outside. Soft patters of liquid that knock against the window, thin rivulets that drip down to splash and splutter against the sill. Long forgotten, his cigar sizzles and dies beneath the spray.

“Another tea?” you murmur finally, pushing up onto your elbows.

But with a soft, startled laugh, you find that John’s eyes are closed, chest rising with steady breaths; already back to sleep. Shaking your head a little, you smile fondly at his lax form, and consider closing the window. You settle instead for pulling the duvet from the corner of the bed. Curled against his thick side, you settle the blanket over the two of you and lay an arm over his stomach, content to have a proper lie in after such a busy morning.

thanks for reading, i'd love to hear what you thought x

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Of course I’m here. Big surprise.

I’d love some soft!dom energy from countryclub!steve when we’re being a little needy. 😇

Leighanne my beloved 👹 18+

“No, no, Thursday should be fine— mhmm. Well, talk to Richard and see what he says, surely we can’t push it much further—”

You knew fine well Steve was still on his call, you could hear his voice through his office door, his tired, bored tone sighing into the receiver. He’d told you ten minutes though, and well, that had been twenty minutes ago.

So you didn’t feel too guilty when you snuck in, lips pressed together to hide your smile and Steve glanced at you with surprise as you closed the oak door behind you. His whole office smelled like him, like leather and whisky and expensive cologne. He was sat behind his desk, an impressive thing made of dark wood and topped with a forest green leather covering.

There were files all over it, receipts and email print outs, an open cigar case that hadn’t been touched yet, a glass of something amber that was yet to be drunk. Steve looked tired, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, the white linen rolled past his elbows, his suit jacket thrown across the sofa on the other side of the room. You watched him take a hand through his hair and he smiled at you as he listened to whoever was droning on.

It didn’t quite reach his eyes, though.

So you took it upon yourself to wiggle between the desk and Steve’s legs, smiling when he shifted for you, rolling back on the wheels of the chair, his cell still pressed to his ear. He didn’t seem to be listening as intently as before when you dropped into his lap.

“What? Yeah, no, no, of course. Surely we can have the meeting over a conference call?”

You weren’t sure what meeting this call was regarding but you busied yourself with sneaking a hand into Steve’s open shirt, your palm finding warm skin and a smattering of chest hair. You felt his heart race under your fingertips, grinning when his eyes turned a little glassy and his gaze dropped to your lips.

“I’m listening,” he murmured into the phone, lying through his teeth. His hips moved under yours, adjusting himself until his hardening cock was felt properly under your ass. “New York, sure…” he trailed off, coughing a little when you leaned in to kiss at his throat.

You squirmed against him, dress riding up your thighs, Steve’s hand trailing the cotton, his eyes following behind. You watched him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, his expression appreciative. You wondered how far he’d let you take this, if he’d let you sink to your knees under his desk and—

“Hold on a sec, Fred— yeah, two seconds, I just gotta—” Steve pulled the phone away from his face, his hand covering the mouthpiece. He raised his brows at you, doing his best to hide his smile as he leaned in, nose nudging yours. “Did you need somethin’, honey?”

You pouted, dress strap slipping off your shoulder as you played up for him, lips brushing his. “You,” you whispered, as if it were a secret.

Steve smirked, a salacious thing that still made your thighs push together. He tapped at your hip then, coaxing you off of him and you wanted to tut, you wanted to protest. But the man didn’t give you any time to feel offended, nor rejected. He knocked his knuckles onto the top of his desk and nodded towards it.

“Gimme your underwear, baby and hop up.”

You blinked, lips parting.

“You got five seconds, honey, or you can wait ‘til this call is done, your choice,” Steve murmured in a song-song, his tone leaving no room for discussion. He wiggled the phone that he was still doing his best to silence. “Drop ‘em.”

With your hands curling into the sides of lace, you pulled the underwear off of your hips and down your legs, your dress rucked up indecently as you did, showing your fiancé a flash of bare skin, soft and wet in the places he liked most. You worried with the papers strewn everywhere, trying your best to gather them into a neat pile but Steve spoke from behind you once more.

“Five, four…”

You stifled a laugh, shoving them to the side before hopping onto the cool wood and Steve grinned, victorious. He moved back, the wheels of his chair skating across the floor as he settled himself in front of you. “Yeah, yeah I’m here, apologies. You were saying? New York?” Steve didn’t miss a beat as he took your underwear from your hand, stuffed them in his pocket and tapped at your knee.

You knew what he wanted, what he was silently saying.

Open.

You felt your face warm as you spread your legs, sticky thighs parting as you bared yourself to the man in the dim glow of the setting sun and the lamp on his sideboard. Steve’s lips parted, a barely audible groan coming from his chest that he covered with a cough. He used one hand to settle your feet on either side of his seat, keeping you wide for him, your cunt on show as you sat back on your elbows, waiting for his next move.

You didn’t have to wait long.

A single finger, used to trace up and down the seam of your folds, gathering the wetness there, slow and shallow. He was barely touching your clit.

“I’m sure that’ll work,” he was saying. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “If we manage to secure the Parker funding, I can’t imagine it’ll be too much trouble.”

He pulled his hand back to drag his finger over his tongue, humming at your taste and apparently something his colleague was saying. Steve didn’t miss a beat when he brought it back once more, immediately sliding his middle finger into your pussy. You whined, cutting yourself off short with teeth to your lip and Steve stilled, throwing you a warning glance.

“Oh, of course,” he continued, as if he weren’t knuckles deep in you. “If we can manage to get it into the schedule that day, we might as well go for it…” he curled his finger up before adding another, grinning when you threw your head back. “…I’m sure it’ll be a tight fit.”

Withdrawing, he leaned forward, nudging at your chin to gain your attention and Steve brushed his fingers over your lips. He pouted at you, waiting. You opened without hesitation, showing off as you stuck out your tongue and let Steve drag his slick covered digits over it. His thumb brushed your cheek in reward and then he settled back into his seat, using the same two fingers to draw circles over your clit.

A slow, soft tease, steady and messy, over and over and over—

“No, you’re fine, Fred.” Steve smirked at you, brows knitting together in faux sympathy as you screwed your face up in pleasure. He was going to make you cum while you couldn’t make a sound. “I’ve got plenty of time to talk.”

[undeadcannibal]

Summary: Headcanons for what the Task Force 141 crew, Alejandro, Rudy, and König got goin’ on below the belt. Part 2 can be found here!

Genre: Headcanons

Characters featured: Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Price, Alejandro, Rodolfo, and König.

Warnings: explicit content

A/N: Forgive me, for I wrote these quickly when it was very late. Enjoy? ( Gif credit: xxx )

Ghost ― 8 inches, cut, thick af, and damn proud of it. *cough*Has a tip as pink as his lips oops*cough* Keeps things trimmed up a bit, but overall doesn't really have a preference. Smells purely of his natural scent yum

Soap ― 7 inches, uncut, and thick as hell. Feels like 3 to 4 fingers inside you. Doesn't trim or shave often, prefers leaving himself natural. Dark, thick, curls that carry the scent of his naturally thick musk wowowow

Gaz ― 7.5 inches, uncut, girth that stretches you out just right. Prefers to keep himself trimmed pretty short and clean when he can. Though, is willing on skipping a trim or two if his partner asks him to. Clean linen, and sometimes a little musk and sweat if it's been a long day.

Price ― 8.5 inches, cut, nearly as thick as a can, woof. Strongly prefers the natural look but will trim or shave on occasion. Always smells like a mixture of his natural musk, his cologne, and sometimes even a bit of his cigar smoke as well if he's had a stressful day.

Alejandro ― 7 inches, uncut, and fits snugly inside of you perfectly. Trims things up, but not much, we love a man with a nice, dark bush in this house. Smells purely like his body wash and cologne, though not to an overwhelming extent.

Rudy ― 6.5 inches, cut, perfect amount of girth to 'im. Trims up only when he feels he's getting too wild for his personal preference. Smells clean like linen or his body wash, will sometimes smell like his cologne too during special occasions.

Bonus! Konig ― 9.5 inches, dunno how the guy manages to walk normally with it. Hm… I'd say he's part of the cut crusader squad, too. Also so thick he leaves you aching for days meow <3 Trims and cleans things up when he can. Has cute sandy brown curls, imo. Natural & sweaty musk~

[stevenose]

𝖌𝖔𝖙 𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖊, 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 (18+)

kinktober: cowboy!steve edition

summary: the local handsome, womanizing cowboy is really starting to get on your nerves.

contains: reader with a vagina; reader is called “good girl”; business owner reader whaddup!; historical fiction; degradation; boot riding; praise; dirty talk; enemies to ???; extremely brief mention of a gun in a holster

word count: 2.7k

a/n: this is not historically accurate so do not go into it thinking it will be <3 i was inspired by that scene in raiders when marion and indy meet again in her bar lol. hope you enjoy!

The tattered rag in your hand squeaks against the whiskey glass in your other. You pay close attention to it, the rest of the tavern empty. It’s nearly midnight, all of your customers gone, the only company a few lit and dripping candlesticks. 

Well, until he walks in. 

You know who it is based on the click of the boots and the fact that the door had been locked. He stands behind you, leaning against the bar. 

“I told you to get rid of that key,” you huff. “That’s stolen property.”

“Y’always like to call me an outlaw, don’t ya?”

You sit your glass down and throw the rag over your shoulder as you turn to face him. Steve Harrington, wearing his typical leather vest and a white linen button down, parted at the top to give you a look at his chest. Your eyes catch on his freckles before making your way up to his face. His coffee eyes are amused, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“We’re closed,” you say, turning away from him, mostly to hide your face. He gets you worked up in every way he could. 

“Did that ever stop me before?”

You roll your eyes and grab another glass to dry. He clears his throat to get your attention. 

“I’ll take whiskey, darlin’,” he says. You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Try another bar, Harrington,” you scoff. “You know my hours.”

“Woulda been here earlier, but I lost track of time.”

“You lose another herd of cattle again?”

“No.” You hear him light a match, the warm smell of smoke followed by rich, vanilla-infused tobacco. You have no idea how he can afford such cigars. “I didn’t work today.”

“Hm.” You sit a glass down. “At least one of us gets breaks.”

Steve sighs, puts his cigar out quickly on the bottom of his boot, and moves around the bar to join you behind it. He takes a glass from your hand and grabs whiskey with another. You feel a little faint when his skin touches yours.

“Hey!” you protest, watching him pop the lid off of a top-shelf bottle. “Don’t dirty a glass, jackass!”

He sort of rolls his shoulders, towering over you, and sits the glass down. Still, he keeps the whiskey in his hand - and before you can say anything, he drinks straight from it. 

“Bastard!” you scold, shoving him, all while he laughs and downs as much as he possibly can. You fight him, reaching for it, but he keeps you at bay with one strong arm. “That - is - expensive - shit - Harrington!”

“Oh, really?” he giggles, boyish. He takes one final swig before slamming it on the cedar bar. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Think I prefer the cheap kind.”

You shove him again, and again, furious with him. “Now I’ve gotta open a whole ‘nother bottle!”

“You think I’m sick or somethin’?” He doesn’t seem much bothered by your pushing. 

“Obviously,” you hiss. “Sick in the head for thinking you can come into my bar after hours without a penny to pay with just to chastise me.”

“I don’t think it spreads,” he smiles, reaching for your hands as you go to push him back towards the door. He takes your small wrists in his big hands - they wrap around them fully and he keeps you in place. 

Your demeanor quickly changes, from furious to frozen. Chastise you, he does, especially when he gets like this. So close to you, his hands caressing you, then pulling back a second later like he didn’t mean it. Steve Harrington was a cowboy and a ladies man, everything you thought you detested. But you loved these midnight visits, even if he was annoying. You liked his company. 

He seems to notice your change and bites back a broader smile. He pulls you towards him, walking backwards towards a broad leather chair. You begin to protest as he sits down, pulling you on top of him, your legs spreading around his thick thighs. His gun, locked away in his holster, is cold against your thigh. 

“Harrington,” you warn, twisting, trying to get out of his grip. 

“Hey,” he says softly, reaching up to cup your cheek. You melt immediately. “Just wanna ask you somethin’, alright?”

You swallow hard. “What, cowboy?”

“Why don’t ya like me?”

You laugh, turning your chin out of his grip. He seems a little hurt, tilting his head as he watches you. 

“You’re everythin’ I hate,” you answer. “Dirty, foul mouthed, always out in the fields. You try to fuck anythin’ that moves. You’re presumptuous and pompous -“

“Me?” he asks, genuinely startled. “I’m pompous?”

“Of course you are. Y’think you’re better than everyone, and that’s why you can come in here and grab my whiskey without askin’.”

“I did ask first. Not my fault you’re such a stone-cold church bell.”

You gasp, but he continues before you can protest. 

“Don’t know why you wanna act all tough. Y’know I’d know what tough is, don’t ya? I-“

“Oh, of course, you’re so brave out there on your horse -“

“See? Y’never let me finish. Hardly ever even give me a chance.”

“I don’t care to!”

Steve narrows his eyes. “You sure about that?” 

“Positive.”

He stares at you a while longer before letting his hands creep towards your hips. “Well,” he says slowly. “I opine that you just like playin’ with me. And bottom fact is I’m gettin’ a little tired of it, darlin’.”

Your eyes widen a little, face heating. “I’m well over bein’ tired of you comin’ in and botherin’ me.”

“So you really don’t like me?”

“No.”

“Take off those trousers for me, then.”

You reel back. “Pardon me?”

“You don’t like me? Prove it, then.”

“I - I - h- how could you even assume -“

“You’ve been grindin’ on my lap this entire goddamn time,” he points out. “But if you’re so sure y’ain’t affected, go ‘head. Show me.”

You lick your lips. You know if you don’t that he’ll always assume you were. And he might even spread the rumor. And if you do, it’ll just confirm his suspicions. Because you’re soaked. Completely. No debate. 

“Go on,” he coaxes. “Y’can go behind the bar if you need some privacy.”

Glaring, you hop off of his lap, looking down quick to see if you left a mark. You didn’t, but it’s very clear he’s hard. 

“And you’re worried about me?” you snark, nodding towards his crotch. 

“Never said I didn’t like you,” he says, adjusting in his seat as you stand breathless. “You gonna make me wait?”

You force yourself to move after a second, feet heavy as you walk behind the bar. He stays in place, watching you, arms crossed over his broad chest. You bite your tongue and pull your trousers off first, then take your cotton underwear in your hands. As you already knew, they’re wet. You stare, contemplating spilling some ale on them. 

“Bring me that whiskey while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes and ball your underwear into your fists as you pull your pants back on. You grab a glass and the cheap whiskey and return to him, making him catch the glasses as you throw them at him. 

“And your panties?”

You throw them at him as hard as you can. Steve takes them immediately and grins wide as he inspects them. A low whistle leaves his soft, parted lips. “Yup,” he says, the fabric looking small in his big hands. “Knew it.”

“It was hot today,” you protest. “I’ve been here forever, they - they need changed -“

A shot of lightning hits down through your core as you watch him bring your underwear up to his nose and inhale. Deep. He savors it, eyes drifting shut for a long moment before they open again, and he grins. 

“I know a needy cunt when I smell one.”

Now you’re standing in place, heart beating fast in your chest. Your hands clench and unclench in uncertainty. You grind your teeth and stare at him with heated cheeks and chest. 

“So everythin’ you say you hate, you like,” he starts. He shifts, tucking your underwear in his back pocket. You don’t argue. “You like big, strong men who come in and take what they want from you. Cause it’s so hard, runnin’ this place by yourself, no one t’take care of ya. Spendin’ your nights alone. You want someone else to call the shots, huh?”

You swallow hard. 

“That it? You need a man with authority?”

“You don’t have authority,” you force out. 

Steve scoffs, rolling his eyes a little. He’s handsome in the warm glow of the candles, catching on the sun-kissed highlights in his brunette hair. “You’re no different than the livestock I train. You just need a firm hand and a gentle tone, huh? I know I can break you in time. Just gotta get you to yield first.” He suddenly moves his foot forward and taps it against the hardwood floor. “Come sit on my boot.”

The air is knocked out of your lungs. “What?”

“There’s one difference,” he observes softly. “Animals are a lot better at obeyin’ than you.”

You detest the accusation, the way he’s speaking to you, and yet your cunt aches with need. You want to rub your little clit against his boot and make him talk sweet to you. You remain still, a stare-off with him. 

“I’m not very patient,” he says, tapping his shoe. “But I’m tryin’ to be for you.”

You set a glare as you step towards him, legs shaking. 

“There ya go,” he coos as you move to your knees, “could get used to this.”

“Don’t,” you snap. 

“You think y’wont get addicted to this?” he asks. “I know I already am. Seein’ you on your knees before me - you get me hard, dear. Bet you’re good at grindin’ those hips - you done that before, right? Who’s that wealthy shop owner’s son? John?”

You glare up at him as you settle over his boot. “Don’t talk about John.”

“Isn’t me,” he says, holding his hands up. “You know everyone in town was talkin’ when you were together. Think you like people in different classes than you, huh? Did he talk sweet to you?”

You’re overwhelmed and hot. It makes you dizzy. The steel toe of his boot against your scratchy trousers doesn’t help. You nod, unable to speak much, brows furrowed in opposition. 

“Too sweet?” he presses. “That why you’re on my boot right now? Y’like gettin’ talked down to? I can do that, but I’m a romantic, if you’d believe it. Like to cuddle after, make a real connection. You gonna be good and grind?”

Setting your jaw and bearing down, you begin pressing your hips into his shoe. The cool, hard pressure makes you gasp, and Steve smiles wide above you. You hold onto his leg for support, fingertips bruising him. 

“There we go,” he praises, taking his glass and whiskey and pouring it. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer, but your whimpers answer for you. You bite your lip and whine softly, circling your hips. Steve whistles low again and takes a sip of the caramel colored alcohol above you. “Jesus, I could get used t’this. Shuttin’ you up on my boot. You be good and I’ll reward you, honey. Want a sugar cube?”

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

“Aw, alright,” he beams. “Sugar don’t work on you, shoulda known. How ‘bout my cock? That a good enough reward?”

Despite your best attempts, a moan forces itself past your lips. You’ve dreamed of him, ever since he first busted into your bar and begged for a drink after a long day of herding. His large figure on top of you, crushing you, while his cock rams you in spots you didn’t know existed. You wish you could see more of it now - but you’re only face to face with his clothed election. 

“Huh.” He takes a drink. “Didn’t think you’d like that. You’re just full of surprises, huh? That’s somethin’ I like ‘bout you.”

You hate that his words make your cheeks catch fire. 

Steve angles his foot upwards, making the boot raise and press deliciously against your clit. You cry out, head falling back, and Steve chokes out a sigh. “God Almighty, look at you. All this from fuckin’ my boot. Could you have imagined?”

You shake your head, though you aren’t paying much attention to him. Your body shakes as you move yourself against him. Every push and pull makes you weaker, a tightness starting in your lower stomach and reaching down for your clit. You rest your head against his knee and miss him taking his cigar back out of his vest’s pocket. You smell the march and tobacco again. It smells like him. That rich scent, followed by the sweet smell of hay and maple sugar, envelopes him wherever he goes. You wish your thin bedsheets smelled like it. 

“C’mere,” he urges, reaching for your hair and tilting your head up. “Open up.”

He bounces his foot again, and your mouth drops. 

“Breathe,” he instructs, before leaning down and blowing smoke right into your mouth. You inhale, but the smoke is too much - it forces you to cough and stutter. Steve leans back and smiles, taking another drag and blowing it down towards you. “‘nother thing t’train you to take, huh?”

Overwhelmed with pleasure and the sudden urge to be better than him, or at least good for him, you nod. 

“I’ll make a list,” he sighs. He’s lazy, leaning back and watching you. He sets his glass on the oak table beside him and presses his palm against his cock. “Y’know, I really pride myself on breakin’ things in. I’ve handled some of the most aggressive mares in the state. Even when they kick and punch, even when they resist … I always make ‘em mine.”

Your teeth bite into his knee, your movements speeding up. You cry out, eyes rolling back, the tightness growing. 

“You wanna be mine?” he asks, leaning forward again. “That it? Wanna be yours. Want you to pay attention t’me. I’d do whatever y’asked. Wanna be your big, strong man. Will you let me?”

A shuddering breath. “Steve,” you whimper. It’s the first time you’ve called him that. 

“Good girl, that’s my name.” He pats your head. “Wanna be Steve’s girl? Huh?”

You betray your conscience and listen to your subconscious. “Mhm. Ah! Y-yes!”

“Then cum. C’mon, know y’can, want it. Polish my shoe, darlin’.”

You press your head hard into his knee and dig your fingers into his flesh. Deep breaths, along with your movements, make your body rise and fall. Steve bounces his shoe a little, angling it up, and with a sharp inhale and shout you cum. The room feels like it’s upside down. You’re dizzy, overwhelmed, parched as the white-hot feeling spreads from your pussy to the rest of you. It leaves you weak, and you’re about to fall back before Steve catches you, two hands on your biceps. 

“Hey, hey,” he coos, pulling you back up into his lap. Your forehead rests against his. “‘s alright, Steve’s got you. There we go. Did so good for me, peach. Y’look so pretty for me.”

“I’m. Not. A. Horse,” you pant. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, hands moving to cup your ass. “Give me a kiss, won’t you?”

You pull away from him to press your lips as hard as you can against his. He gasps, a hand flying up to the back of your neck. You kiss him hard, a little messy, finishing it off with a harsh bite to his bottom lip before pulling away. 

“Goddamn,” he mumbles, reaching up to touch his bottom lip. “Y’need some more trainin’, I see.”

“Well,” you pant with a half hearted shrug. “Guess you’re gonna be busy.”

[the-californicationist]

They Think They're Sneaky

(Ghoap & Price/Reader)

It had taken you a while to make it feel like home. The soggy Liverpudlian winters were dreadfully different from your eighty-degree Miami holiday seasons. Seeing Santa Claus in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt was the Christmas of your childhood, and now you were bundled up, fighting the wind stinging your nose. After you were seeing each other for a few months, Price had been the one to invite you to stay, paying to break your apartment’s lease and cleaning out his extra room to help make space for you. You’d nested together, buying furnishings and linens, two little love birds. 

Price smiled at you over the kitchen island one day,

“What about a housewarming, then? Make a party for the boys before we head out on this next campaign.”

You agreed, rushing to prepare for a dinner. You made sure to head to the butchers for the best meats and cheeses, made sides from scratch - the whole deal. Price had put up the tree and the lights, hanging ornaments with you into the middle of the night, making love to you in the glow of the garlands, the tiny bulbs turning his skin into gold. 

The tables were set, the patio was cleaned, and the tree was trimmed. Then, the doorbell rang.

“Hey! C’mon in!” You hugged Soap, Ghost, and Gaz as they crossed your threshold, arms full of gifts, mostly bottle-shaped, hugging you back.

“Good ta see ya again, lass. Where’s the old man?”

“Out back, waiting for you,” you smiled, leading the team to the patio. 

The party went on for a good long while before anyone even mentioned being hungry, and you all drank more than you meant to. Price had smoked through two cigars, and he had a dram of whisky in his huge hand, talking animatedly with Gaz. Your friends from the gym had shown up, as well as your two pairs of neighbors, and the house was alive with laughter and warmth.

You spotted John across the kitchen, through the crowd, and gave him a knowing look. He saw you, mid-conversation with the neighbor, and excused himself, stalking you as you moved out to the patio. 

“Mm,” you put your hands inside his coat, “My warm bear. Bit chilly tonight, huh?”

“Aye,” he held you close to him, breathing into your hair, kissing your forehead. 

You looked up at him, seeing the love and desire in his eyes, hoping he’d kiss you. When he did, it washed over you, warm and fiery, burning down to your core. 

“Careful, love,” he warned, breaking your kiss, “House full o’ people are ‘bout to get more party than they came for if you keep rubbing on me like that.”

“Oh, yeah? How about the greenhouse? Surely they won’t miss us for that long,” you suggested, tugging on his arm, your eyes wild with mischief. 

He laughed, following you around the house to the large greenhouse he’d built for you. You’d mentioned missing fresh tomatoes, and so he had given it to you as a coming home present, breaking your heart with his surprise. You’d fucked his brains out in it that night, both of you sweating from the hot, humid interior, creating a tantric sauna, rolling around in each other’s filthy, soil-covered arms like animals. 

Now, as you approached the little building, you noticed that your secret space was occupied. Price held a hand to your mouth as you approached, pushing you back to the wall, hiding you from view. Slowly, carefully, you knelt with him, watching the scene of your two friends, Ghost and Soap locked in a half-naked embrace, unfold in front of your eyes. 

“Oh, my God!” You whispered as Price lowered his hand. 

“Hush!” He put a finger to his lips, unmoving, watching them as you crouched together, spying on them voyeuristically. 

Soap was having his cock sucked enthusiastically by Ghost. His mask was flipped up onto his nose, and his jaw was stretched to accommodate the Scot’s hardness, using his pink tongue to lick the silken skin along his shaft. He was jacking himself off with one hand, and fingering Johnny with the other, making him whine and beg for more of everything. Then, Ghost stood up, setting himself between Soap’s spread knees, ripping off his shirt, and began to feed himself into his lover’s asshole. You watched as Simon pulled Johnny’s mohawk back, exposing his huge Adam’s Apple, licking and sucking at his neck, leaving cruel bruises. 

With a unique urgency, he began to thrust himself up into the sergeant, jerking his cock as he did, spitting down onto it, rolling it in his palm. Soap was gripping onto Simon’s waist with white-knuckled hands, desperately keening. 

You gasped and Price turned to look at you, tearing his eyes away from your very personal porno,

“Mm, ‘s hot, huh, love? Got me fuckin’ hard. Wanna feel?”

He grabbed your hand and rubbed it along the crotch of his tight jeans. 

“Too bad our spot’s taken. Think they left us any room in the back corner there?” You joked with him, fondling his fleshy head and his rigid shaft through the fabric. 

You heard a terracotta pot shatter. Ghost yelled out a string of curse words, and you and Price ran for the patio, hurrying so you wouldn’t be spotted if they came out of the greenhouse. You stood by the back door, panting, laughing with each other, watching as the two sweaty bodies got dressed in a panic. Gaz poked his head out of the door and saw you two laughing, panting, and gazing out to the greenhouse. 

“What’s all this then?”

“Nothing! It’s nothing,” you tried to cover it up. 

But, just as you went to push him back inside, Ghost and Soap very casually exited the greenhouse, disheveled, Ghost’s black mask out of place, and Soap’s mohawk beyond repair. Gaz looked at them and then at you,

“That doesn’t look like nothing, does it, Cap?”

[gretavanlace]

Decorum and Refinement

Jake Kiszka/Oliver Reed x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, alcohol consumption, dirty talk, degradation, praise, foreign objects, fingering, oral sex (f/m r), terrible English accent/diction (bc come on, it’s Oliver), etc.

“Do you think you guys’ll ever do the whole masterclass thing again?” The thought, that has been bouncing around in your mind for most of the drive home, spills from your lips before you have a chance to think better of it.

His head swivels over in your direction, but you keep your eyes on the road. “I dunno.” Lazily, he sips at the whiskey he shouldn’t be enjoying in the passenger seat. “Why? That’s a strange question.”

“You would know.” You smile, stealing a quick glance over at him. He looks sinful, relaxed back in his seat, legs spread wide, cut-crystal glass he stole from Josh’s sweating in his hand.

“Why would I know?” He grins back. “Are you trying to imply that I’m strange?”

“No!” Your inflection is exaggerated to showcase the lie. “Would I ever say something like that about you, Jake? My beloved. My prince. Love of my life. Keeper of my—“

“Oh, shut up.” He laughs, cutting you off. “And stop dodging. Why’d you ask?”

Now it’s your turn to shrug. “Just making conversation.”

“That’s not true at all.” He challenges. “You never speak just to make noise. Like that about you. Now, out with it.”

“Cal.” You sigh dreamily. “That chef’s hat really does it for me. And when he yelled at the fly? The aggression? Irresistible!”

“Yeah?” He’s in on the joke and playing along. “Verbal attacks against insects kink? Wonder if there’s a name for that?”

“Oh sure…there’s a convention every year, too. You should come scream at some ants with me.”

He takes a long swig of his drink, draining it to the dredges and then lowers his tone. “Yes, thank you, darling. That sounds lovely.”

A shiver tickles up your spine as Oliver peeks out, but he pretends not to notice, and you pretend it hasn’t happened.

You’re safe with Jake, and he is always more than willing to dip into uncharted waters with you…but it’s inexplicably embarrassing; this thing you have for his ridiculous alter-ego.

The way he speaks, so grizzled and rough. Seemingly hardened from years of cigars and Jack. Harsh and clipped, unbothered by anyone’s bullshit.

The swagger in his walk, like he knows everyone in the room wants to fuck him and he hasn’t the time to deal with them, but he’ll give ‘em a bit of a show anyway.

The accent. Even though it’s barely passable at times. A cobbled together mix of dialect he’s picked up through movies and travel, and bits that don’t really make much sense at all, at times. But even that seems terribly Oliver. As if he’s said, “Well, alright then, I’m English, but I’m not like the rest of these cunts.”

That stupid cane. That stupid, unbelievably sexy, fucking cane.

~

Now, standing in your kitchen, sifting through a stack of mail, you wonder where he’s gone. Normally he’s a touch clingy after he’s had a round or two, or seven, with his brothers, but he disappeared nearly as soon as the two of you walked in the door.

Likely to his music room to pluck away at an acoustic. Winding down for the night with a vinyl spinning softly in the corner. You’ll go and find him soon, maybe lie down on the crushed velvet couch and let him play you to sleep.

The thought, too cozy to resist, sends you wandering up the stairs, only to find the room dark and quiet. He isn’t there, but the room is so Jake, you’re drawn inside anyway.

It smells of him. The piney scent of gin and sap-dripping trees, beaten up leather, linen, metallic strings…

You wander through, ghosting your fingers over instruments in the moonlight streaming through the windows he fought to leave untreated. “No curtains in this one.” He’d argued. “We’ll let the outside in as it sees fit.”

Your touch lands on a row of guitars, lightly skimming the tops. Electric, acoustic, steel…then moves along to the nomads. The instruments he loves, but leaves to lie in wait. Ukulele, banjo, mandolin, lute, sitar…

A gorgeous, posh, cello waits in the corner regally. He swears one day he’ll teach himself to play it. Just as he promises of the violin resting, beautifully neglected, in its case.

You don’t fault or tease him for these two…if the instrument boasts strings, Jake is drawn to it and hungry to take it home.

“Look at this!” The memory fondly floats into your mind. “It’s called a Balalaika!” He’d reached out for your hand, guiding you to strum over it. “It’s Russian…I ordered it from that place downtown months ago, and it finally came in…listen.” A jaunty little tune had sounded out as his fingers excitedly worked it over.

A soft knock on the open door startles you out of your thoughts and sends you spinning around to find Jake leaning against the door frame.

Only, it isn’t Jake. Not quite…

“So sorry to scare you, love,” He raps the end of his cane against the wooden floor absentmindedly, “But I thought I’d let you know that Jacob is, unfortunately, indisposed for the evening. He thought I might keep you company instead.”

He figured it out. Worked to connect the pieces in that brilliant, pretty head of his. Of course he did.

Gaze drinking him in, you feel parched rather than satiated…he looks like a drunken pirate who has done his best to look presentable for an event at which he fully plans on creating a scene.

Rumpled vest layered over a wrinkled button-up, which is anything but buttoned up. Layers of necklaces swaying gently against his bare chest. Cuffed trousers that highlight the anklet that drives you wild, though you can’t decide why. Scuffed, but clearly expensive loafers made of buttery soft leather…worn out in the most perfect way.

“Look all you like, darling.” He sighs, waving his hand around as though he’s royalty, “I am merely a gallery for the female gaze. Male, too, come to think of it. I suppose I just like to be looked at.”

Your cheeks flush with heat…this is silly, right? So why is your pulse pounding in your ears? Amongst other places… “Jake,”

He saunters forward and tilts your chin up with the glossy handle of his cane “I’m sorry, but I’ve already told you. Jake’s not here. Try and keep up, girl, ‘right?”

Hands now clutched around the lapels of his vest you tuck your chin submissively against his cane and finally allow it to sigh off of your tongue… “Hello, Oliver.”

“Hello, love.” He raises your face a touch higher, until he can brush his lips over yours. “If I wasn’t so fond of our boy, I might fuck his pretty thing right here. His favorite room…his favorite girl,” He reaches down and cups his warm palm over your cunt, “Wouldn’t that be bloody dreadful of me?”

“I won’t tell him.” You breathe, sinking into the narrative.

“Oh, I’ve got a wretched little witch in my arms, don’t I?” he’s walking you backwards now, leading you towards the wall. “Willing to let Oliver slip it inside like a common whore when Jacob just loves you so much? Naughty. Disgusting. Vile.”

The air knocks out of your lungs as your back hits the wall. “Dirty girl thinks she needs a bit of cock, when what she really needs is a priest to absolve her of all this sin. Shall I call Father Sam? You can repent and say your Hail Marys and then ruin all your hard work on your knees for me.”

“Fuck repenting…” your legs wrap around his waist, searching for friction. “I’ll go to hell and burn for you.”

“Wonderful,” he takes pity and grinds against your cunt. “I’ll see you there…we’ll rot together.”

His hand is wandering down now, between the two of you, seeking to disappear into your jeans, which you wish would also disappear. “Jake…please, just fucking touch me.”

“Now, now…” he tsks. “That’s all wrong, innit it, girl? Can you say it right for me? Behave for Oliver and stop thinking with your head, hmm? Think with that pretty cunt… my bet’s she knows who she wants.”

A noise you would absolutely die if you ever had to admit to, sounds out of you. “Touch me, Oliver…please…I need it…”

His fingers inch away from where you need them most, “Where?” He circles your belly button. “Right here? You know, I’m bit drunk, darling…a touch inebriated. So sorry to ask, but, I’ll need you to be specific.”

Another moan of frustration escapes you.

“C’mon then…” now his hands are shoving your shirt up. “Tell Oliver what you need.” He tugs your tits free and a raspy laugh greets them like he’s never laid eyes upon them before “Hello, dolls. Beautiful.”

His mouth is suddenly relentless. Licking and sucking and groaning softly against your nipples as you pant and silently pray for his cock to force him into further action.

“Tell me where.” He mouths around your nipple.

“You know where.” Your hands are in his hair now…tugging and pulling.

He drops to his knees and yanks your jeans down to your ankles, taking your panties along with them. “Well hello, lovely girl.” He growls out, nuzzling his nose against your clit. “Name’s Oliver, and I’m about to show you a fucking fantastic time.”

You’re propped against a wall, in this seemingly sacred room where he creates, writhing and whining with your panties at your feet while he carries on a little conversation with your aching pussy. You wish you could say that you feel badly for it, but you’ve never been the best liar.

“You’ve met my mate Jacob…” he continues. “Nice enough, but…” his tongue swirls over your clit and a sob rips from your chest. “Bit upper crust, isn’t he?”

“Darling…” He looks up, drawing you into the conversation he’s been having with your desperate cunt.

“Our Jakey…does he do this for you? Does he get on his knees to kiss her as sweet as she deserves?” His eyes, clear and unashamed of the depravity of it all, stare up at you.

“Yes…” it trembles out weakly as you try your hardest to force him in closer.

“Ahh…” he sounds very proud of Jake, indeed. “That’s my boy.”

Momentarily, you adopt an accent of your own. “He’s lovely, Oliver. Now, give us a kiss.”

“M’only regret is that I’ve shaved.” He drags his finger over his smooth jawline and kisses at your clit. “Might’ve been nice to smell as pretty as you do all night.”

“Couldn’t find the beard?” You tease breathily.

He winks up at you in confirmation and promptly buries his face between your thighs, sucking softly until your legs are struggling under the weight of your quivering body.

“Take me over to the couch.” You whisper, imagining the gentle kiss of velvet against your flushed skin.

“Sofa.” He corrects as though he’s lord of the manor. Then he’s on his feet, sweeping you off of yours, as if you are the lady of said manor. “You damned Americans. Common. The lot of you.”

He deposits you tenderly, but orders roughly, “Let’s get rid of this nonsense…” gesturing dismissively at your state - half-dressed and disheveled. “I’d like to get on with it.”

His cane has somehow found its way home, nestled in his grip. He catches you staring at it as you hastily strip as instructed.

“That was a mistake, girl…” he taunts. “You should learn to hold those filthy cards closer to your chest. Spread your legs, love. Let Oliver see tonight’s stage.” He bows gently, “I am but a thespian.”

You open wide for him, spreading until your hips flare with a dull ache. “Please, Mr. Reed…make me feel good. Jake never has to know.”

“I think someone who’s about to fuck herself with my cane deserves to address me a little less formally, don’t you, darling?”

The smug smile swept across his lips makes you want to cry tears of frustration…he is just so fucking beautiful. Instead, you moan wantonly at the mere thought.

“Nasty little bit likes that, doesn't she?” He’s really leaning into it now. “Wants Oliver’s cane right in her sweet, pink, cunt? You look so tight, think you can even take it, love?”

He speaks as if he’s never been inside you before…fingers tucked in, fucking against the perfect spot. Cock stuffed inside, making you see stars and wishing for it to never end.

He returns the nod you offer.

“Right then,” he tosses the cane at you and you, thankfully, catch it like a pro. “On with it.”

You’re so lost in him you begin inching the bottom closer to yourself, but he puts a quick stop to it. “No, sweetheart, what’s been on the ground doesn’t deserve the perfection you’ve got there between those thighs. Handle, yeah?”

Eyes on his, you guide the handle to your mouth, licking and sucking it as if you aren’t already so dripping wet it’ll slip right inside.

“Thank you, Oliver.” You fix your fucked out doe eyes on his blushing face.

“What for, little love?” He asks - a bit of cockney coloring that ramshackle accent of his.

“For letting me use your cane.” You clarify with put-on innocence. “I just need to cum so badly.”

“S’that right?” He taps his foot, pupils blown as he moves in closer. “Pretty thing just needs to cum so badly?”

“So badly.” The cool handle of his cane begins nudging at your entrance.

“Go on, then, Miss America…” he rasps. “Let’s treat her right, shall we? Together? Can’t have you running back to tell Jacob I made you do all the work, now can I?”

“Thought we weren’t telling Jacob?” You smile softly.

“Oh, my dear girl.” He smiles right back. “You think he doesn’t know your body well enough to know when you’ve gotten off properly? Even when you’re all alone and you think it’s a secret. He knows, love…he knows.”

“How does he know?” You slip his cane inside and bite back a whimper.

“I’m not exactly in the habit of asking him about his beautiful girl and how he knows when she’s enjoyed an orgasm…but I s’pose I could guess if you’d like.”

“Yeah…” your back arches away from the couch as you slide against a particularly sensitive spot inside with his cane. Fuck, with his cane…the vulgarity of it makes you tremble.

“Alright then, love…” he sinks to his knees before you and kitten licks at your clit. “If I had to make an educated guess - and I’m very educated - I’d venture that you might get a bit…loose limbed, yeah? Languid and gentle. The prettiest baby…”

“Whose fucking baby is this?!” You interject, with the smallest of giggles, because you just can’t help it, and he gives you a look that could kill.

“Settle down.” His fingers swat at your thigh just hard enough to sting.

“Did I ruin the mood?” You tease.

In response, he slides his cane out, replacing it with two long, warm, fingers to find you soaked and squeezing. “Doesn’t feel like you’ve ruined anything at all. What a pretty little wreck she is. How’s Jakey boy ever get anything done?”

Your hands are buried in his hair again, yanking him in until his mouth is kissing, soft and hot, along your neck. “I have to force him to leave me alone. He wants it all the time.”

His fingers are moving inside of you like heaven…circling and massaging against that perfect place, rather than fucking in and out. “S’that right? Just wants to live buried inside this tight little cunt, does he? Can’t say I blame him.”

Grinding shamelessly into his hand, you pitch your voice gentle and quiet, in the way you know he can’t resist “You wanna fuck me and find out why?”

“You couldn’t handle it, darling.” His teeth sink deliciously into your throat until you shudder and pull at fistfuls of his tangled hair. “Oliver’s not got a gentle bone in his body. I’d tear Jacob's pretty girl apart.”

Your shoulders shiver, his voice, like cashmere over sandpaper, huffing so menacingly in your ear. “Oh, someone likes that…” you can hear the half-smirk in his tone, though your eyes have fluttered closed.

“Tell Oliver how much your pretty cunt loves him already. Does she, darling?” You can’t help the way you clench around his fingers any more than you can help the ragged sound that gasps from your parted lips. “Hmm, feels like she does. I said, tell me.”

Tears are burning in your eyes, he’s gotten you so close, but he’s holding back just enough to keep you right there, watching you intently, eyes trained for your body’s tells.

“I need more,” the tears are falling now, and you know he adores every single one of them. “Need to cum.”

Instead, he slows down even more and lessens the pressure. “Does he let you act like a brat, or’s the pleasure all mine? I asked you for something, and I expect you to give it to me.”

“Yes…” you nod frantically, lifting your head to find his eyes. He offers a lazy wink like a smug bastard. “She loves you, Oliver.”

But it isn’t good enough. “Who loves me?”

“My cunt…” you rush on, eager to give him what he wants in order to get what you’re after. “She loves you. Now, please, baby…c’mon.”

“S’right she does. Just look at her soaking my hand so pretty. Sucking my fingers in. Greedy little baby, isn’t she?”

“Please?” You whine pathetically and he hums in approval.

“Love a girl with manners.” He’s teasing now, with both his words and too gentle touch. “Reminds me of a someone I used to know, she’d beg so nicely for my cum whenever she was thirsty.”

Your nails dig into his wrist in warning and it sparks a laugh out of him. “Jacob didn’t tell me you had such a jealous streak, girl. I like that very much.”

Finished with his games, you reach down and find your clit, stroking quick, slick circles over it. Writhing and panting, trying to get there before he stops you.

Rather than scolding, he praises, as his fingers begin moving with a purpose deep inside you. “That’s it, darling. So pretty. Show me what a filthy girl you are. Take what you need.”

“Faster…” you breathe, barely making a sound as your head drops back, expression twisted up in bliss. “Fuck me faster.”

His hand quickens, working into you at a lightning fast pace until your thighs are shaking and the nails of your free hand are raking over the upholstery.

Here, love…” he hands you his cane to grip instead. “Let’s not ruin the velvet, right?”

All thought has sizzled apart in your brain, so you nod aimlessly and grab it up in your frantic grip, squeezing around it so hard it stings your palm, though you don’t much register it.

“Gonna cum,” you manage to whisper.

“Let’s have it then.” He encourages, reaching up to stroke your cheek as he twists his wrist, scissoring those perfect fingers inside your fluttering cunt. “Come on, darling, let’s go.”

That’s what does it. It isn’t his hand, or even your own, that finally pushes you over the edge, it’s those gravley, coaxing words, in that fucking addicting accent. It’s Oliver, he’s what does it.

A near scream moans out of you, and he’s suddenly wrenching the cane out of your hand, only to place it between your teeth; a makeshift bit as he growls into your ear. “Keep quiet, girl. What if he’s back? Wouldn’t want him to hear your cumming all over Oliver’s hand like a whore, would you?”

You thrash and fight through your orgasm beneath him, teeth sinking marks into the wood stifling your incoherent cries.

“S’good, sweetheart. That’s lovely. Plan to shut that pretty mouth up with my cock next. Would you like that? Has he throat trained his gorgeous girl yet? Will you be able to swallow me right down?”

He knows you’re too gone to answer, he’s simply winding you tighter, working you through, but keeping you stirred up enough that you’ll be eager to suck him off rather than float off to sleep, after. Clever, devious, delectable, man.

You’ve pushed him away and fallen to your knees the second you can breathe again.

“Love a pretty girl on her knees.” He muses, brushing the hair away from your blushing face. “My cock hurts from watching you. You’re a dream when you cum, love.”

The metal of his belt clinks into the room like wind chimes as you pull it open. “Can I fix it?”

His response comes lazing out, thick with accent, with a Jack Sparrow wave of his hand “You may.”

You pull his cock into the cool night air and sigh, “Its so pretty.” And it is, it really fucking is.

Licking a warm, wet stripe along the side, you end with a swirl just below the tip, smiling when a shiver rattles through him.

“Is that the spot right there, Oliver?” You purr as if you don’t know. “Does that feel good?”

“Perfect, darling.” A tiny pant of a breath escapes him, making you crave more.

Sucking him in softly with a warm kiss, you wait until his hands find your hair with a tug, and then swallow him down to the base - allowing a gag just to let him feel your throat constrict around him.

With a choked groan, he holds your head still and buries in a little deeper. “So he did train you…or is this natural talent?”

He knows the answer as well as you. And you flush with heat at the countless memories of him nudging further and further down your throat; gently teaching you how to take a bit more each night until you could welcome him in one go without batting an eye.

Still, he pulls you off and tilts your head up by your hair, raising a brow in question.

“He taught me.” You blink up innocently. “I didn’t know how before, but he was so patient with me while I learned. Let me show you.”

“Jesus, fuck.” Jake appears for just a split second before he shakes it off.

Back in character now, he pulls you back down around him. “Go on, then, love. Swallow it down nice and sweet.”

You pull out every stop, every trick in the book. Every little thing that has ever made him moan in surprise, or thrust into your mouth…he gets it.

Your nose is pressed against the soft plush of his stomach when his fingers tighten in your hair. “That’s so good, darling. You’re so good. Gonna hold you still, fuck that pretty face, that alright, love?”

You nod eagerly around him and swallow just to feel his body tense up in pleasure. You get your wish and beam inwardly with pride.

“Did that on purpose, dinnit you, girl?” He hisses, grabbing for the upper hand. “You’re gonna get it now.”

He taps your face, a subtle reminder of how you should tap if you need to stop, and then - without warning, begins fucking your mouth. It’s hard, and deep, and fast, and sloppy…wet sounds that should make you blush echoing through the room. It’s dirty and slightly uncomfortable. It’s all of those things, but it’s perfect.

Staring down at you, with eyes so full of love and lust it makes your heart ache, he nods. “Good girl, darling. Good girl. You look like a bloody angel, cock down your throat, letting me fuck it like this. You just want to make me feel good, don’t you?”

You answer with your eyes.

“S’right, love.” He slides in deep and groans in appreciation when you ripple your tongue. “Again.”

Tongue working him as best you can, you let him hold you there until your lungs are screaming for air. He pulls you off when he feels the slight struggle, lets you catch your breath and then shoves right back in.

When his thrusts begin to falter you grow desperate to taste him, but at the last minute, he yanks free, one hand still tangled in the roots of your hair, the other fisting over his cock.

“Open up.” He demands, sounding weak, and so close you could cry you want it so badly.

Your mouth falls open, and you present your tongue in waiting.

“Gonna feed it to you, girl.” He pants, gritting his teeth. “Would you like that? You want to taste me?”

Resting your hands primly in your lap, you nod. “Yes, please.”

Your little display of innocent decorum while asking for something so depraved sends his end crashing into him wildly. He jerks his cock roughly through it, warm cum spurting into your mouth and splashing across your cheeks and lips.

Accepting it all, happily, you wait until his shoulders slump with a drawn out fuck, before closing your mouth to savor him.

He stares down at you for a long, smoldering, stretch and then tucks himself away before leaning in. “Looks like I’ve made a mess. I’ve been known to do that, y’know. Apologies.”

With a kiss, though your lips are still dripping with him, he straightens and stretches. “You wait here, darling. I’ll go fetch Jacob to clean you up. Not really Oliver’s thing. You understand.”

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @gardenofgreta @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @dvrkblooms @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @greta-flanveet-admin @joshkiszkas @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @joshsmama @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordierama @calumspretty

[lolita-lollipop]

YANDERE SILCO X READER X (kinda jinx)

Silco loves you,

That was quite known among the entire undercity, even before he had taken you to his compound, he always had sevika following you around when you worked in those factories, which alone was enough to make people scared of you. He deposited money in your account when he thought you were getting too thin, or he would secretly intercept any letters you would send to your mother complaining that you always felt like you were being watched

So when you were fired from your job completely on the random, he knew he had to take this opportunity. Jinx loved you, and she wanted you just as much as he did, so it was only natural.

You should've known better when you got an offer from Silco to work in his house the second you were fired, but you had been far too distraught over your current lack of employment. You especially should've known better when the letters kept coming from him even after you'd thrown out the first one.

Eventually, you had found that no one else was willing to hire you, which was such a surprise, as a woman, usually every business in the undercity wanted you as their own, having a good looking little thing like yourself attracted so much business. So when you went looking for a job, any job, and no one was even willing to let you in their building? You had become desperate.

So, you had to accept. You didn't know where to find the man, but generally you associated

The leaders of the undercity with that bar, the one your mother used to go to all the time. The Last Drop, When you had shown up, the loud club went silent. Immediately you were brought to his office, where he had a very personal conversation about what you would be doing for him.

It was simple really, he had known that if he hired you with no purpose you would grow suspicious, even fearful, so he simply told you that the head maid at his house lost her assistant, and she needed to train you into becoming a good little housemaid to help her.

And with what he was willing to pay you? Which by the way was far more than the head maid was being paid, you were more than willing to live here under the bar with him and his daughter.

Of course, his reputation precedes him and jinx, so you were more than scared of them, you avoided them like they were plague rats. On the occasion the head maid would send you up to bring him a cigar or some disgustingly fermented kind of alcohol, she knew what he thought of you, and she knew that the more he saw you, the higher her pay would be.

He watched you every day from the secret windows he had all across the place, and he had jinx and his head maid and savika take tabs on you, jinx had almost befriended ou at this point, after all she did know sooner or later you would end up being her little sister, she could be what Vi wasn't.

Usually, with the pay motivation, he would notice that cute little pep you had in your step everyday, wearing that little maid getup was so adorable, especially since it was made just for you. Of course when you were his he would dress you in the finest silks and linens, you didn't belong in the undercity, and he would make sure to dress like it. Generally you were very happy to do your job, a pleasant smile adorning your face.

Which was why today was so odd. You had woken up and gotten dressed as usual, but the maid had reported that you had stayed groggy all morning, and when Jinx had talked to you, you looked like you were about to cry. It was just so strange of you, even when you worked in that miserable factory while making only 2 cents an hour, you had always been so sweet, so happy.

That's why he was so worried about you today. He watched you bustle slowly in the kitchen, you had large dark circles and your nose had begun to sniffle, you were slouching heavily, and you let out the occasional cough. You looked bad. The last straw for him was watching you begin to doze off with a knife in your hand while chopping vegetables for breakfast.

You tensed up when he walked into the kitchen, but continued doing what the head maid had told you to do. She had made sure you wouldn't be too tense around silco by making you be around him every so often. Did Not make you any less fearful, you knew what he was capable of.

He watched you work, recording in his mind how out of sorts you'd begun to appear, your eyes were sagging closed on occasion, and your hands were shaking like you were freezing, even though it was perfectly warm in the kitchen. You were sick. That much was obvious, it only made sense, as there was some kind of flu going through piltover, and whatever illness happened there spread here, and it was always worse here.

“Are you feeling alright dear? You look… unwell” The scary man questioned in that scratchy voice of his that you'd grown quite fearful of by now. THe question itself made you perk up immediately, you didn't think you looked so bad, it brought fear to you, at your old work if they believed you were not in the right condition to earn them the most money it was very likely you would be fired… or beaten. You didn't think this man was above that.

“Yes sir. I’m just a little tired today.” you replied, continuing chopping the onion, this morning you chose to ignore the little tears it made you shed, not wanting to look weak in front of him. He rolled his eyes and watched as you fumbled with the knife, the head maid shouldn't be letting you do this on your own, especially since it would be so easy to just chop a finger off.

“I don't think you should be handling knives in your state darling, and you look far more than tired” He condescended, leaning over on the counter and watching you as you almost nicked yourself.

“No sir, I’m alright, I can work- I swear” you practically begged him, and continued your task for the head maid, you weren't really sure if doing this with him was okay, you weren't disobeying him, but it just felt wrong.

In a matter of seconds he was behind you, he had moved so swiftly that you hadn't even noticed his hands snaking under your arms, or his chest pressing against your back. It startled you, and It obviously didn't help that you weren't fully aware of yourself, as you were sick.

“I said, put the knife down, I wasn't asking. You are ill” He squeezed you and pulled the knife from your hands, tossing it to the side. It made a sharp clanging noise, he would have a talk with the maid about her letting you deal with such dangerous things, she knew not to. You turned around, only to let a sharp little gasp out, you hadn't realized the close proximity you were in with him at the moment, you barely talked to him, and this, this was more than you'd ever touched your own mother, let alone silco.

“I will call the doctor, you won't be working today”

You stared up at him, and he stared right back down at you, practically daring you to try and keep working, you didn't though, only stared, a little bit in fear, a little bit in anxiety for what he was going to do next. Nobody had ever showed this much concern over your wellbeing, with a sniffle you began to tear up.

You didn't even know why you were reacting this way to him, it was just so abnormal, so strange. But you just felt so drawn in by the way he looked at you, the way he looked like he actually cared, the way he held you. He was supposed to be the most dangerous man in the undercity.

It only took a few seconds for little tears speckling your eyes to turn into large awful globes of water flowing freely from your own. The more he looked at you the more you found yourself crying, it was embarrassing really. You just stood there crying as he stared down, his arms wrapped around you.

“I-I’m sorry sir i don't know- I don't know why this is happening, I-I think i might be a little sick I’m sorry I-” you stuttered out through your own heavy breathing, trying to explain anything and everything. His gaze slowly softened, and he held you tighter, you noticed.

“Do not apologize, usually I’m less understanding, but you- you're quite the exception” As he spoke his voice drew out any anger or sadness you had towards your old life, your old family, the life before you met him. His words only made your cries harder. Silco noticed the maid walk in from the corner of his eye, and then walk right back out after seeing whatever was happening here.

“I think it's time to reconsider your title here, darling”

---

The next morning, Savika wasn’t surprised to find you sleeping in Silcos lap, dressed in a pale blue-silk nightgown as he did his morning work.

Savika wasn't surprised to see you wearing a diamond necklace with an S engraved on it

And she certainly wasn't surprised that Silco seemed to be in a much better mood.

After all…

Silco loves you.

———————————————————————

My daddy issues are screaming rn fr.

Anyone else just watch a show and then obsessively want to write like 30 fics on it? Just me? Ok nevermind.

Anywayyyyyy. If you have any ideas for little gay things with Vi or Jinx please be my guest, my inbox is open for those.

ANYWAY THANK YOU FOR READING I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH HAVE A WONDERFUL WONDERFUL DAY TODAY.

[bodyswappertransforming]

Stig, the seasoned detective on the brink of retirement, found himself immersed in an elaborate transformation for his final mission. Known for his meticulous approach, this mission required him to intercept a significant shipment tied to a notorious organized crime group. The task was ostensibly straightforward, yet it demanded a convincing undercover persona.

To blend into the dubious world he was about to infiltrate, Stig decided on a comprehensive disguise. He sat in a nondescript chair at a covert site known only to those in his profession, preparing for a dramatic change in appearance. The first step was to age his natural hair and beard. A specialist meticulously wove in gray extensions, adding a touch of wisdom and years to his look. Waves were introduced into both his hair and beard to give him a rugged, weathered appearance befitting the persona he needed to adopt.

The transformation didn't stop at his hair. Fillers were applied strategically to his cheeks, eyebrows, and lips to subtly alter his facial structure, obscuring his recognizable features even further. The most notable addition was a set of fake teeth designed to not only change his appearance but also affect his speech, imparting a distinct drawl that would further mask his identity.

As Stig discovered the length of his new hair and adjusted to the sensation of his altered teeth, he practiced speaking, feeling the unfamiliar weight and shape of the teeth influence his speech patterns. This physical transformation was complemented by his attire; he chose linen clothes, typically worn in warm climates—collared, button-down shirts paired with a casual sun hat, projecting the image of a man accustomed to the outdoors.

To immerse himself fully into the character, Stig also took up cigar smoking, a habit he hoped would lend authenticity to his new identity. He attended a cigar smoking class, learning the nuances of the craft—how to hold the cigar, draw, and exhale, embedding himself with the traits of someone who had been enjoying cigars for years.

Each element of Stig's transformation was carefully chosen to build a believable persona that could seamlessly integrate into the criminal underworld, ensuring he could carry out his mission with the highest chances of success. His dedication to his role was a testament to his commitment to a career marked by danger and meticulous planning.

As Stig adjusted to his new appearance and persona, he found himself intrigued and somewhat enamored by the man he saw reflected back at him in the mirror. This transformed version of himself was not just a disguise but a total reinvention, introducing him to facets of his persona that he had never explored before.

Feeling the weight and texture of his fuller, wavier hair, Stig ran his fingers through the locks and beard extensions, marveling at how natural they felt and how they transformed his usual clean-cut look into that of a rugged, seasoned individual. He practiced forming words, noticing how the fake teeth altered the placement and movement of his tongue, creating a drawl that sounded foreign yet convincing. Each syllable was a discovery, a step further into his character.

Exploring his new vocal tone, Stig spoke in front of the mirror, adjusting his pitch and intonation to match what he imagined his character would sound like. The deeper, rougher voice complemented his visually altered age and experience, adding layers to his disguise. As he spoke, he watched his facial expressions change, noting how the fillers shifted his usual expressions into something slightly different, slightly new.

Each element of his transformation—his appearance, his voice, his mannerisms—was a piece of the puzzle that was his final mission's persona. Stig took the time to familiarize himself with each aspect, ensuring that nothing about his disguise felt unnatural or forced. It was essential that he not only looked the part but felt it deeply, allowing him to move and interact with a confident, authentic air.

This deep dive into his new identity brought a sense of excitement and novelty. For a man just months from retirement, this mission was not just a culmination of his career but an exhilarating exploration of a life that could have been. Each puff of his cigar and glance in the mirror was a step deeper into his character, preparing him to navigate the dangerous waters of the criminal underworld with his newfound guise.

[mrfelixfischoeder]

#16 for boblin ミ☆

OR

#11 for gretchen/jimmy lmfaooo

oh my god yes yes YESSS

11- Write about your ship waking up together. 

She has an awful headache. It suddenly turns into a stomach ache when she turns onto her side and sees fucking – Jimmy Pesto lying next to her. Oh my God why is he in her bed? Wait a minute, the walls are a pukey yellow. The bed sheets feel like they came from the discount pile from It’s A Linen Thing. God she loves that store-

“You gonna stare at me all morning, huh?”

He gets the witty first line because she’s daydreaming about his bedsheets. Gretchen stares at him, and he’s on his side, head on his hand. Until they make eye contact, and that’s when they know it’s real: it’s not a dream, it’s a terrible, terrible (fun) mistake from three too many tequila shots. But she’s not a mouse. She’s the cat, and Gretchen puts on her smoulder, leaning forward.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up, pretty boy.”

Pretty Boy? Why does that make him feel some kinda way? Jimmy leans back a little, laughing, trying not to feel the heat on his cheeks. He must still be a little tipsy, maybe. To avoid that feeling again, he stares at the ceiling instead. But his hands are clenched over his chest, and Gretchen can feel how tense he is against her body. He’s not moving away from her, and he doesn’t know why (he knows exactly why; ‘cause five rounds ain’t enough for her, as she told him last night, and he really really wanted to give her what she wanted. And now that he’s awake, he surely could. Maybe. Real quick before the restaurant needs to open).

“Do you have smokes? I suddenly feel like I should smoke.” She breaks his train of thought, and Jimmy grumbles. He’s got cigars, but he’s not quite ready to sacrifice them to Gretchen. But he also doesn’t want to disappoint her, and he hasn’t caught on that it was kind of a joke.

“No but I uh, could go and get you some-”

“Mmm no. If I’m left alone in a weird place for too long, I steal stuff.” Gretchen doesn’t know why she offered that piece of information. Was she warning him? Why bother at all? Not like she will ever come back, right? This place will be weird to her forever. Not that she’ll think about it a lot – often – at all. She promises herself.

They lay there. She watches him with a cat like smirk, and he stares at the ceiling. Jimmy finally sits up and checks his phone, muttering about the restaurant, but doesn’t seem to make a move to do anything about it. Finally, Gretchen sits up; the silence and lack of worship is driving her nuts.

“I’m gonna head.”

“Oh?” Jimmy looks over his shoulder, clearing his throat when he sees she’s definitely naked. As if her thigh and foot rubbing up all along his own leg wasn’t enough of a hint to it. “So soon? Uh,”

“You gonna make me breakfast like some kinda schmuck?” Gretchen cackles at the thought of his fumbling rebuttal, standing up and stretching. Jimmy stares at her back, eyes flicking to her backside before looking at the PG area again. He was all about her body last night (AND her butt) but now that he was a bit more sober, his confidence is gone. There’s a naked lady in his room and he’s clammed up.

“Well, you know,” he shrugs, making wild hand gestures to distract from his words. She doesn’t let him see her expression when she realises he was thinking about making breakfast, “I dunno, I got some eggs…”

“You got some eggs?” Gretchen wants him to try harder, and she looks over at him as she makes her way to his en suite like it’s second nature, stopping at the door. She watches him, and he is actively avoiding it. She likes the chase. “How romantic. Make me an omelette.”

“Huh?” finally he breaks, and looks over at her. Gretchen smirks, shaking her hair out and fluffing it out over her shoulders. Something about it makes his heart beat faster.

“But make it choppy - you know how to cook right?” Gretchen points at him, “Gimme some mushrooms and bacon! And if you got spinach, all the more.”

“Yeah, I cook!” Jimmy defends himself blandly as she disappears into the bathroom. He grumbles. He only owns spinach cause it's good for the kids - he hates it. Guess he could just put it in her omelette, but he never finishes an omelette to himself - and the pan'll stink of spinach anyway, oh god the thought alone is making him feel queasy. She doesn't need spinach. She doesn't even need to know he's got spinach. What is she, queen of his apartment? He can do as he pleases.

Half an hour or so later, in the kitchen of his apartment, the coffee smells good and the omelettes smell better. Anyone passing by might have been able to hear a sarcastic, but somehow still meaningful cheer out of the open window;

“Oh yum, the spinach is cooked perfectly. Guess you do know how to cook, pretty boy.”

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐂𝐡. 𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

Before I knock on the open office door, I look down at my skirt. It is what my mother would call a smart piece of clothing. An olive-colored linen, somewhere between midi and maxi, steamed early this morning when the morning light was still blue. I pick a piece of non-existent lint off the fabric, wasting time.

The door is solid and strong under my knuckles--the noise is a resounding one, not hollow like the door to my shared office. Everything in my office feels hollow, especially the flimsy desk they assigned to me.

“Come in,” he calls from inside. 

My heels click the wood floors and even they don’t sound hollow. His office smells like leather and tobacco, like I’ve just walked into a cigar shop. It’s dark and its wood is heavy and polished, each piece of mature furniture carved meticulously. The windows, which face the tarmac, allow the late afternoon sunshine into the room. There is not a speck of dust on any of the wood.

I salute one time, straightening my back, keeping my place in the doorway.

“Admiral,” I say, short and bold--loud. 

“At ease,” Admiral Simpson says softly.

The Admiral is standing with his hands fastened behind his back, his uniform crisp, his eyebrows and mouth flat on his face. He gestures to the leather chair, his blue eyes very serious, very calm. His age is stamped beside his eyes in creases.

“Please, take a seat.” 

I cross his office silently and sit poised in the chair even though it sinks with my weight. I cross my legs at the ankle, hands folded in my lap.   

“Lieutenant Ledger,” he greets, sinking back to his chair, his back impeccably stiff. 

“Good afternoon, Admiral,” I smile.

“We’ve been over this,” he says, more casual than before, “Cyclone.”

I nod one time, never intending to call him by his call-sign.  

The corner of his mouth raises, just a hint, and I know it is the most he’s smiled all day. He has a soft spot for me. I know this. He is the one that extended my bereavement leave--the one that offered me a position as a researcher. Admiral Simpson, through all his impeccable discipline and hard exterior, has done more for me the past few years.

He liked Maggie more than me, before she died. She challenged him, truly challenged him--we were always the last jet to be shot down during drills. One time, we had even gotten tone on him. It doesn’t matter now, though.

“Your research--has it been fruitful?” 

I nod, clearing my throat. Admiral Simpson is briefed on my research weekly. It’s his conversational equivalent to me picking invisible lint off my skirt.

He narrows his eyes, just slightly. It makes me straighten my shoulders, which are already straight. My file is sitting on his desk, right beside a thick legal pad and a heavy-looking gold pen. It is open. I swallow hard. 

“Yes,” I hum, dancing around addressing him, “yes, it has.”

He nods, just once, then sits back in his office chair. One of the windows is open and a hot gust of wind makes the blinds quiver. It touches the hair framing my face like it’s trying to get a good look at me.

“Let me be frank, Lieutenant,” he starts, “you are a gifted backseater. Navigating, weapon-system operations--it comes naturally to you. You are a gifted researcher, too. You’re precise…careful…obedient. You hold your own. You’re an excellent example of what the Navy wants--what it needs.” 

My fingers curl, my blood running cold. Fuck.

“Thank you, sir.” 

He pretends not to notice. 

“There is an upcoming mission, one set to deploy in three weeks time. Training starts bright and early Monday morning,” he sighs, “and unfortunately, I have been backed into a corner. I have chosen Captain Pete Mitchell to lead the training for this mission.” 

“Maverick?” 

Maggie’s portrait hangs in Memorial Hall, where all the fallen aviators are memorialized. One day, very shortly after Maggie’s death, Maverick and I silently stood in Memorial Hall. He was on one end, studying the portrait of a Nicholas Bradshaw, call sign: Goose. I was on the other end, examining Maggie’s shit-eating grin in her fresh portrait. We said nothing to each other. We were both crying. 

I wiped my wet face with an ineffective hand when Maverick started towards me. He simply clapped a hand over my shoulder, one time, very softly. Then he kept walking.

Admiral Simpson seems to stifle an eye-roll. He nods curtly. 

“Maverick was not my first--or second--choice for this mission. He will be tasked with training an elite squadron--all Top Gun graduates, of course.” 

He pauses, swallows, his eyes flickering to my file. My fingers are numb with cold now. Fuck.

“Si-Cyclone, if you are asking me to get back in the air, then I--” my breath catches in my throat, belly full of wool. 

He holds a hand up, furrowing his brows and shaking his head. 

“No, no. No one is asking you to get back up in the air. All I’m asking is that you observe and record for the Official Record,” after a beat, he adds, “and maybe keep an eye on Maverick.” 

I deflate in the chair, blood starting to pool back in my fingers.

“I trust your judgment, Clover,” he remarks, “and if things were different, it is you I would want in the air.” 

His eyes are soft under his furrowed brow as he searches my face. I nod a few times, eyes falling to my file then back up to his face. I smile very politely. 

“You flatter me,” I say. 

A bit of his seriousness fades. I think I even see his left shoulder drop a centimeter.

“Flattery is not in my nature,” he declares, leaning back into his chair, “I take it you accept your position in this mission?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods to the door. 

“Dismissed, Lieutenant Ledger,” he drones. 

As I get out of the chair to walk out of his office, he pretends to write a note down on the legal pad. He does not raise his eyes to mine when he says, “And if you need anything, please do not hesitate.”

☾ ☽

The call comes as I’m walking into my house. Stevie is already sitting in the foyer, looking blankly at me with slanted eyes, her white tail wrapped gracefully around her paws. We stare at each other for a second, my leather bag slung over my shoulders and sweat dotting my hairline.

“I’ll feed you in a minute,” I whisper to her, “don’t look at me like that.” 

She blinks at me, one time, very slowly. Unimpressed, as per usual. 

My phone is singing in my purse--Elton John. Robert From Major Authors it reads, unchanged since my senior year of college.

Hold me closer, tiny danc--

“Hello?” 

“Faye?” Bob says on the other line, his voice soft. 

“Hey, Bob,” I greet, biting a smile back, “it’s good to hear from you! I really need to change your contact name.” 

He laughs on the other end as I close the front door, turning the heavy lock. Stevie is as still as a statue, regarding me with an air of elitism. I set my purse beside her, fanning myself. It’s very hot in my house.

“I’m still Robert From Major Authors after everything we’ve been through? Is that all I am to you?” 

I slip my loafers off, the tile in the entryway cool under my bare feet. It makes me shiver.

“Maybe it’s a subconscious thing,” I try, “what am I on your phone, then?”

I start up the stairs which open to the living room. The curtains are all drawn, shielding my precious furniture from the ruthless heat outside. It is dark in the living room with the shades drawn--I blindly reach for the wall, my eyes still adjusting from the July sun. 

“The clover emoji, of course.”

I groan. 

“So, I am an asshole.”

Bob laughs and it sounds very familiar, very warm. It makes the heat in my throat spread to my chest. A familiar voice is something I treasure--all the squadrons filing in and out of Miramar like it has revolving doors. No one seems to stick around for very long.

My fingers tingle as I feel my way to the kitchen door, which is one of the only rooms in the house with working air conditioning. The air fills me with an instant euphoric solace--I bite my lip to keep from moaning as the kitchen tile ices my feet. 

On the notepad I hang on the fridge, I write air conditioner guy right beside dishwasher guy and lock guy. 

“What are you doing right now?” 

I survey my kitchen in the early evening light. It’s just past six and the sky is only just beginning to consider dimming. My kitchen is my most recent renovation and it still smells vaguely of wood shavings and metallic screws. My house is an antique one, but the previous owner’s did not regard it as an important piece of history, not like I do. When I bought the house, five years ago now, everything was painted beige and there was brown carpet covering almost all the original hardwood floors.

The house is getting better slowly, as I have time to restore. The kitchen looks more like mine now, more accurate to the decade the house was built. My copper pots and pans, which were my grandmother’s, hang above the gas stove which I opted for instead of the gaudy electric thing that used to be there. The avocado-green oven, which is original to the home, is freshly painted. The Smeg fridge, which gives me goosebumps when I remember the pricetag, is in its final resting place among the wooden cabinets. The countertops are copper, brand new, and it gleams beneath the low lighting. 

I pull the fridge open, debating. 

“Standing in my kitchen, basking in the window-unit air conditioning. Regretting how expensive this tiny fridge was. Thinking I’ll make curry for dinner. What about you, Bobby?” 

He sighs on the other end of the line and I can practically see him sitting in a hangar somewhere, hunched over his desk, holding the phone to his ear and listening to me like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do. 

Bob is the kind of person who can only be described as good. He doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t talk over, he looks in your eyes when you’re speaking to him. He was the only boy in our Major Authors class at Temple University. He was summoned almost two years ago. 

“Well, I’m at the Hard Deck.” 

I freeze. 

“I’ve been called back to Top Gun.” 

An elite squadron of Top Gun graduates. 

I slam the fridge door shut, skittering across the kitchen to scoop a heaping mountain of cat food in Stevie’s plastic bowl. She is sitting before it now, like she knew I would succumb. 

“Give me thirty minutes!” 

☾ ☽

The Hard Deck looks the same as it did when Maggie used to drag me out here every chance she got. A building that oozes casual--brown wooden slatted siding, chipped white trim, palm trees sprouting in the patches of grass before it, a faded blue sign with blinking neon letters swirling the name of the bar. 

There is a photograph of Maggie there, under the sign, when we were 24. The American flag is waving in the wind above her, a blur of red and white and blue, and she is mockingly saluting the camera, a pout on her lips. 

The Polaroid lives there, in my wallet, in between my social security card and coffee shop gift cards. I rub the soft leather of my wallet, imagining that it’s the glossy front of the photograph. 

The sun is beginning its descent, casting everything in a warm gold. The ocean glitters behind the bar, waves lazily rolling to shore and dousing the sand. Lilac clouds sporadically float across the sky, heading West with the sun. 

Even from the outside, I know that the bar is crawling with Naval aviators. Not just because it always is, but because Sister Christian is pulsing--a favorite of the cocky pilots.

 You're motoring / What's your price for flight? / In finding Mister Right / You'll be alright tonight

I know everyone will be talking over each other, yelling back and forth over a game of clattering pool. There will be peanut shells on the floor, empty bottles lining every flat surface. 

If Maggie were here, she would be buying everyone drinks, slapping down her credit card and winking at Penny. Maggie used to corral everyone to the dance floor while I queued songs on the jukebox. People would really dance with us when we danced. Maggie was never embarrassed to dance and it made me not embarrassed to dance. I gained somewhat of a reputation as the Jukebox Queen--from the moment I walked into the bar until the moment I walked out, people would donate their quarters to me. 

There is a fleeting pinch in my heart. The lump in my throat feels impossible to swallow. The warm wind blows through my hair again and I hold very still, letting it wash over me. 

“It’s Friday,” I whisper to myself, “buck up.” 

The rumble of an engine pulls my eyes away from the door. 

A cyan colored Bronco screeches into the lot and swerves into a parking spot. The top is soft and the windows are all rolled down. The driver is blasting a song, tapping his steering wheel as he throws the car into park. It takes me a moment to place it--an Otis Redding song. Tramp. It stops very abruptly as the driver cuts the engine. 

With all the swagger only a pilot could embody, the driver steps out. The first thing I see is the Hawaiian shirt. It’s somewhere between hideous and gorgeous. It is open, layered on top of a crisp tank top, a pair of dog tags between two massive pecs. Tanned skin shimmers with a sheen of sweat; probably because the jeans he’s wearing are of a good grade--thick denim. He’s smiling, pearlescent teeth glowing under a thick mustache. His hair is made up of a blonde that is as golden as the sunset. He’s wearing black aviator sunglasses. 

He starts gliding towards the front door, but seems to stutter when he sees me standing near it, looking in his direction. He approaches me slower, glancing from me to the door a few times before smiling. He’s close enough so that when the wind blows, I can smell the cologne he wears. It’s peppery and deep. 

“You going in?” He asks, quirking a brow. 

He is still smiling, his nose thick and straight. 

“Debating it,” I answer, toeing the sandy gravel. 

He nods, squinting. If he was in a hurry before, he is not anymore. He puts his hands on his hips and turns towards the door so our arms are almost touching. He looks the bar up and down, studying it like I am.

“It’s been a while,” I tell him, swallowing. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, “me too.” 

A beat passes; somewhere in the distance, a seagull cries.

“What’s holding you back?”

What a question.  

“Can’t decide if it’s intelligence,” I say, tilting my head, “or rationality.” 

His laughter booms--loud enough for me to hear over the chatter inside the building. His arm brushes against mine when he laughs. His skin is warm. 

“Maybe it’s a little bit of both,” he replies. 

We both suck our teeth and shake our heads. The lump in my throat has dissipated without me even swallowing it. The sun kisses my lips, my chin. 

“What’s holding you back?” 

He sighs, shaking his head. 

“A little lady who can’t make up her mind,” he says. 

I scoff, shake my head. He’s watching my eyes, my face.

“People these days!”

His smile deepens. He nods to the door. He has seemingly made my mind up for me.

“Can I get that for you?” 

I pretend to think about my answer--he’s looking at the side of my face, maybe at the white scar that traces the bottom of my jaw. I imagine it’s glowing under the sunset, not unlike the neon Hard Deck sign. 

“Might as well,” I say, gesturing for him to walk ahead, “tramp.”

He is in front of me when I say it, but he stops again and bites a grin over his shoulder. 

“What did you just call me?” 

He is amused. His eyes seem very deep in his face behind his shades, framed with dark eyelashes that I can barely make out through the tint. They glimmer with enjoyment. 

“Tramp,” I repeat, “Otis Redding. You were just listening to it, right?” 

He nods, his face stuttering from a smile to an impressed frown back to a smile. There are scars along the left side of his face, a few crooked lines, and they glow under the sunset like I thought mine would--like neon. 

“Thought my reputation preceded me,” he sighs. 

In a few strides, we are at the door. He opens it wide and I step over the threshold with a careful foot. 

The lump in my throat has returned as soon as I see the inside of the building. The wide-plank white pine floors are almost entirely covered with boots and heels and sneakers. What little pieces of it worm into my view are polished and dirty at the same time, like a used aluminum can. The brown rafters are entirely covered with hanging white mugs, the mugs Maneater and Jagger used to insist on drinking from every time we came to the bar. The old wooden bar, the velvet chairs, the jukebox in the corner--I absorb it all, feeling suddenly naked without Maggie holding my hand. 

There is such a crowd that it overwhelms me just to think about discerning all their faces--everyone is an amalgamation of a singular face, blurring from one broad nose to another’s sculpted cheeks. And khaki--so much khaki.

Hawaiian Shirt taps my shoulder. I hope he doesn’t notice the tears clouding my vision as I turn to him. I plaster a toothy smile to my face. 

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” I yell, “can’t hear you over the music!” 

Sister Christian has finished and Let’s Dance has begun. 

He’s looking down at me with a silly grin that makes me want to grin. He bends over so his lips are close to my ear. 

“You here with anyone?” He asks. 

I nod, searching the crowd. 

“Meeting a friend,” I say, swallowing hard, “how about you, tramp?” 

I can feel his lips bite into a smile. 

“Nothing serious,” he says, “hey, I didn’t catch your name?” 

I pull my eyebrows together, coming closer to his ear. 

“I didn’t tell you my name,” I say. 

Then I pat one of his pecs, meet his eyes again. His cheeks are dusted with pink. I salute him, then start for the bar. It smells like beer and my shoe sticks to some parts of the floor as I navigate through the sea of bodies. 

Penny is behind the bar, her back facing me. She’s talking to someone with her arms crossed, a frosty mug of beer in her hands. I have to stand on my tip-toes and crane my neck to see the patron on the barstool she’s talking to. It’s Maverick--his black hair speckled with gray, the lines around his mouth pressed deep from the grin he’s sporting. 

Penny turns suddenly, her face flushed, and sees me almost immediately. Her eyes widen and her grin spreads. She holds a finger up to Maverick and crosses the bar to stand before me. 

“Do you know how happy I am to see your sorry face here?” She chuckles, her hands on her hips. 

My cheeks redden. 

“It’s been too long,” I say, “feels good to be back.” 

I’m not really sure if it does feel good to be back, but I think I would say anything to make Penny smile. She used to cut Maggie’s free-drink charade at $200, handing the card back at the end of the night with a tight-lipped smile. Maggie was none-the-wiser.

“How’ve you been, kiddo? Staying alive?” 

She asks this and then her shoulders slump, her hip un-cocks itself. Her smile is beginning to falter and the color drains from her cheeks. It’s what happens when people say something to me accidentally, something about death or sisters or plane crashes. 

I grin, pretend like I don’t notice her sloping mouth. 

“Alive and well-ish,” I say, “guess I couldn’t stay away.” 

Penny recovers, smiling again. She leans her elbows on the bar and brings her face closer to mine so she doesn’t have to shout. 

“I missed you, Clover. Don’t be a stranger,” she says this with all the affection of a mother, which makes a coil wrap tightly around my throat again, makes my fingers cold. Then she snaps back and tilts her head, a playful smile tugging on her lips. “Bloody Mary, right?” 

I stiffen. Bloody Mary was what Maggie drank. I nod, though. Penny turns around at once and makes a very bloody Mary. 

Maverick watches her from his spot, his eyes soft. When he catches my gaze, he smiles in a small way, nodding. I send him a half-hearted salute and it makes him chuckle. 

“One bloody Mary,” Penny says. She nods towards the pool table. “Bob’s waiting for you. Keeps asking me to keep an eye on the door, as if I can even see it from here.” 

I fight my way to the pool table, relying on muscle memory and my precision to keep my white shirt white. When I break through the crowd and see the pool table for the first time, it is a gaggle of khaki-clad aviators that greet me. I skim over their faces until I see him. Bob is lining a shot up in pool, his glasses perched on his nose, one eye winking in concentration. 

I wait there for a moment, sipping my drink. Oh, God. How did Maggie drink this?

Bob makes his move--there is the clattering, not unlike the clattering of marbles colliding, and not one ball makes it into a pocket. The aviators around him are watching him with their arms crossed over their chests, all their hair combed and coiffed. 

A tall blonde man claps him on the back, a hyena grin contorting his pretty face.

“Shoot,” Bob bites, blushing. 

“Lieutenant Floyd,” I call over the music, leaning against the stack of chairs beside me, “you kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

Bob’s head snaps to attention when he sees me standing in front of him with my putrid drink, smiling at him. His smile makes me ache. It suddenly feels like it’s been years since I’ve seen anyone familiar. I want to hug him, want to kiss him, want to take him home to my house and keep him there with me. It makes my throat tight. 

Bob isn’t the only one looking at me--my declaration has captured my entire audience of aviators, who regard me with cocked eyebrows. 

“No,” Bob laughs, “but I kiss your mother with this mouth.”

The blonde man’s smile is replaced with wide eyes and a lacked jaw. There’s a unanimous jolt among the aviators, each of them awe-struck and pleasantly surprised by Bob’s quip. I immediately understand that Bob hardly knows these people--that they are not really his friends like I am. They’ve never experienced his quick wit.

Bob and I are grinning at each other. 

All the eyes on my face are making me hot. Perspiration is starting to gather in the pit of my arms, my legs. 

Bob crosses the table quickly and wraps his arm around me. I have just enough time to jerk my drink away from us before I hug him back. He smells like a freshly-washed baby. My eyes fall shut for a fraction of a second and I rack my brain, trying to remember the last time I was hugged by a friend.  

“It’s so good to see a familiar face,” I sigh, “missed you, Bobby.” 

Bob releases me, holding my shoulders for a beat, searching my face for anything new. Still me, Bob! I want to say.

“I haven’t seen you since…” he trails off before shaking his head, “since too long ago, that’s when.” 

“Bob, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” A voice pipes from behind him. 

It’s the blonde haired man, the one that clapped Bob on the back while he bit back a cocky grin. He’s grinning at me now, eyes flickering to where Bob’s hands, which are still lingering on my shoulders. 

“Right,” Bob says, releasing me so I can be beheld by the entire group, “allow me to introduce Lieutenant Faye Ledger, call-sign: Clover. We went through the academy together.” 

I ease over the aviators crowding the pool table with friendly eyes. Only a few women, only one of them engaged in the conversation. Her hair is sleek and dark, her expression fierce but friendly. All the men drip with ego, with the angular cheeks and cut jaws to match.

Maggie would hate how the men outnumbered the women. 

“Sausagefest,” I can practically hear her spitting. 

“Clover of Crimson and Clover? Twin-aviator-extraordinaires?”

A man with black, curly hair chopped short says this, his lips parted

Bob’s smile weakens. I take a long, long drink of the bloody Mary. The acidic tomato juice burns my nostrils. I nod.

“In the flesh,” I say, “half, anyway.” 

Bob sniffles a smile.

“That’s Hangman,” Bob introduces, pointing to the blonde man with his arms crossed, “and beside him we have Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback, Coyote, and Rooster.”

I follow his fingers, trying hard to nail the names to faces. When Bob’s finger lands on Rooster, I almost stumble in place. It’s Hawaiian Shirt. He’s beaming at me, a foggy beer bottle in his fist. His head is slightly tilted back--his Adam’s apple is pronounced and glistening with sweat. 

“Lieutenant Ledger,” Rooster says, “didn’t take you for a pilot. You know, with the indecisiveness and all.” 

I sigh, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, tilting my head. 

“Sister was the stick jockey. I was just the backseater.”

“One of the best backseaters,” Hangman adds, “everyone’s heard the stories.” 

Hangman has his arms crossed and he’s regarding me with his eyebrows knit, his mouth slightly ajar. Maybe he’s surprised that I’m not in uniform, or maybe he’s surprised that half of me is missing. I’m never sure how much anyone knows about Maggie. 

I am flushed, but I’m not sure if it’s the sudden attention or if it’s the heat radiating off the sea of bodies all around us. Maybe it’s the vodka. Penny makes a strong drink. 

“Impossible,” I say, “not when Bob’s still kicking it. Right, Bobby?” 

Bob laughs and it makes me think of Maggie, the way she would make Bob clutch his belly when she did cartwheels all the way to the Uber after close. Or when she would do her Elvis impression, feet bare as she planted herself before him, heels long since forgotten as they were toted around by whatever uniform she was going home with. 

I gulp the rest of my drink. My throat vibrates. 

“What are you drinking?” 

It’s Rooster that asks, striding towards me. I shrug, looking up at him. The sunset has given in to dusk and the warm bulbs above his head turn his hair a brighter blonde than I saw outside. Up close, his scars seem more pronounced, like unnatural wrinkles. He’s still wearing his sunglasses. 

“Whatever Penny makes me,” I shrug. 

He starts for the bar, but I suddenly tug on his Hawaiian shirt. He turns around, eyebrow quirked. 

“Not another one of those,” I whisper, grimacing. 

He nods, saluting with his free hand. 

“Understood, ma’am.” 

He disappears in the crowd. 

I turn to Bob. 

“What brings you back?” 

Bob shrugs, biting his lip. His glasses are perched higher up now that he isn’t focusing on a pool ball.

“All of us were called back for the same assignment. Not sure what it is yet, but seems pretty serious. Everyone dressed in khaki here,” he points around the bar, “top of their class, or damn-near close. Best of the best here.” 

I consider telling Bob what Admiral Simpson told me, but I keep my mouth closed, pulling my brows together. 

“Must be pretty crucial.” 

Bob nods, raising his eyebrows before taking a swig of his beer. He licks his pointed lips then shrugs. 

“That’s what we’ve gathered--!” 

“Clover,” Hangman interrupts, “you game?” 

He points to the pool table. Hangman’s eyes are on mine and the intensity of his gaze feels like standing in front of a fireplace. Phoenix is looking at Bob with wide eyes, nodding for him to play covertly. 

I shake my head. 

“Not very good,” I call, “these hands aren’t what they used to be.” 

“Can’t be any worse than Bob here,” he grins. 

His jaw is so toned--it looks like he chews a pack of gum a day. 

“Play nice,” Phoenix commands, “rack ‘em, Bagman.” 

I nod to the pool table when Bob catches my eyes again. His cheeks are red.

“Give ‘em Hell,” I whisper. 

Rooster returns as Bob re-engages with the group. He hands me a wet glass full of something purple and girly. I smile down at it. It’s a lavender limeade with tequila. Penny realized her mistake.

“Thanks,” I call, softly bumping him with my elbow. 

Rooster stays put beside me, still smiling, a few drops of sweat racing down his neck and onto his collar. His elbow is touching my bicep. 

“Didn’t know you were the Clover Ledger,” Rooster admits, “could’ve told me that before I called you a little lady.” 

I suck in a breath through my teeth, taking a long sip from my drink. The tequila instantly warms my throat, loosens my limbs. 

“Where’s the fun in that, lieutenant?” 

He laughs.  

After a beat, I add, “I knew you were a pilot the moment I saw you.” 

Rooster looks down at me, searching my face with a bemused expression. 

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?” 

“The swagger gave it away,” I answer, “the Bronco, the sunglasses, the song, the shirt.” 

Rooster holds his hand up in offense. 

“What’s wrong with the shirt?”

I shake my head, innocently shrugging. 

“No, no, I like it,” I declare, meeting his tinted eyes, “really brings out your eyes.”  

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes glimmer. He likes to be teased. 

I gulp the limeade. My toes start to feel fuzzy.

“You here for the mission?”

He rests part of his weight on my arm. The heaviness of his arm makes a certain warmth pool in the pit of my belly. 

“My mission is to observe and record,” I say, straightening my shoulders and squaring my jaw to imitate Cyclone, “for the Official Navy Record.”

Rooster whistles, feigning impression. 

“How can you live with the pressure of it all?” 

I shrug, stirring my drink with my finger before sucking it clean. He’s watching me, a perpetual grin tickling his mouth.

“I’m an alcoholic,” I retort. 

Rooster laughs loudly--the same laugh from outside. Phoenix and Bob glance up at us from the pool table, quiet smiles on their lips. Bob glances at Rooster, then flickers his gaze back to me, narrowing his eyes just slightly while nodding. He’s saying oh, yeah. He’s a good one. I’d almost forgotten about that secret language we share; the secret language of old friends.

“So…you’re sitting this one out because it’s below your paygrade, then?” 

I blink up at him. He cocks his head. 

“You’re the best of the best,” he remarks, “isn’t this mission for the best of the best?” 

My belly turns sour. I finish my drink again, setting my glass on the stack of chairs. I wipe my damp palms on my dress, studying the floral print as I chew my bottom lip. I can feel my cheeks gathering redness, can feel the lump growing again. Rooster watches me think.

“Aren’t you a cocky creature,” I tease, “is that what all this Rooster business is about?” 

Just as I return his gaze, just as I recognize how fuzzy and warm I feel, there’s a tap on my shoulder. Rooster and I turn at the same time. 

It’s a man a few years older than me, dressed in a khaki uniform. He’s smiling like he knows me, and leaning closer to say something to me.

“You’re Clover, right? Not the other one?” 

Not the other one. I nod.

“I think so,” I say, pretending like I can’t see Rooster beaming. 

“This is for you,” he shouts, holding his closed fist in the air near my face. 

I lay my hand flat in the air, palm-up. He drops three shiny quarters in it. 

“Oh,” I say, feeling flustered, “oh no, that’s okay, you shouldn’t--!” 

The man is already walking away, immersing himself in the crowd. I stare down at my open palm, the quarters ringing as I force them against each other. 

“What was that about?” Rooster asks, gingerly picking a quarter up and studying it.

I close my fist and let it fall to my side. 

It doesn’t seem possible without Maggie wrangling everyone in, doesn’t seem possible to pick the right songs and dance without being embarrassed. 

“Secret’s out,” I sigh, “I’m also a hooker. A bad one.” 

He bites a grin. I hold a finger up to him. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

I muscle through the crowd with my hand still closed around the quarters. As soon as I make it to the bar, Penny meets me, like she was waiting for me. 

“In need of some serious liquid courage,” I tell her, “two shots of tequila?” 

Penny nods, not asking any questions. After she pours the shots and hands me a lime, she glances over her shoulder at Maverick. He is on his phone and I almost warn him, but it’s too late--he sets it on the bar. 

Penny rings the bell with a smirk. The bar erupts in cheers, a few men clapping Maverick’s shoulders. Penny points to the sign and before I can chicken out, I bottom out the first shot glass and suck the lime. Maverick sits at his seat with a look of disbelief, mouth slightly ajar. 

“Did you know about this?” He yells to me. 

I grin something fierce, hold my shot glass up to him. 

“Cheers, captain!” I bottom the other shot, grimacing. 

The sour lime cuts the tang of the tequila. My belly sloshes with liquid. 

“Penny, my dear,” Hangman sings, “I’ll have four more on the old-timer.” 

Hangman is standing behind me, his scent strong. He smells like the outdoors, if the outdoors was freshly polished and sanitized. 

“Why do they call you Hangman?” 

Hangman registers my presence and smiles down at me in the way men do when they see something they like. He leans against the bar, looking at me, my empty shot glasses. 

“Long story. They call you Clover cause you’re lucky?” 

Lucky. I almost laugh in his face. Blood rushes to my ears. 

I’m too drunk to feel upset, to feel angry. My lips never lose their smile.

“You know, I actually read a Cornish legend about clover,” I say, leaning towards him, “a young maid put a fistful of clover on her head to alleviate the pain of carrying a heavy pail of milk and got instant relief. Not only that, but she could suddenly see dozens of fairies and elves all around her.” 

Hangman considers my story, cheeks dimpled. 

“So, if I put you on my head, I’ll be able to see fairies?” 

I shrug, blushing. 

“I guess we’ll never know.” 

Penny hands the beer to Hangman and glances at me. I can hear my own heart hammering in my chest. Hangman turns around to rejoin the group, but first sends a wink my way. 

“Maggie would have ate him alive,” I laugh. 

Penny doesn’t laugh--just smiles sadly. The pit in my belly grows. She touches my hand softly, squeezing it. I wonder how much Penny knows. After Maggie, I came to The Hard Deck rarely--first opting for a harsher scene, then no scene at all. Maybe Penny still feels fresh about Maggie. 

“I think I’m drunk,” I tell her, waving myself off, “I should close out my tab.” 

“Rooster put your drinks on his,” she waggles her eyebrows. 

Just as I muscle my way back to the group, Penny rings the bell. More cheers erupt from the crowd and Hangman and Payback trample to the bar with ornery grins splitting their faces. 

Bob is still in the middle of a game of pool, chatting with Phoenix. Rooster has disappeared. I sink into the stack of chairs, not bothering to turn around and crane to see what’s happening over the bobbing heads of the bar-goers. Everyone is chanting the same thing and I strain to understand it. 

Overboard! Overboard!

Suddenly, the jukebox blinks off. A chorus of groans echo. I drop the quarters into my dress pocket. 

Somebody starts to play the piano--I’ve never seen anybody play the piano here. Phoenix grins across the room and I follow her eyes. Rooster is sitting on the piano bench, fingers working the keys effortlessly, beautifully. 

“C’mon, guys,” she says, giddy. 

Bob glances at me and I wave him off, giving him my best I’m totally okay smile. I am alone by the pool table. It still smells overwhelmingly like beer. My chest is growing warmer and heavier by the minute, my cheeks a deep read. Crimson. 

“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain,” Rooster croons. 

His voice cuts through the bar like a pair of heavy scissors. The patrons are all starting to flock towards Rooster, who is basking in the attention, smirking. 

“Too much love drives a man insane! You broke my will, but what a thrill!” 

The pool table is abandoned. I think of all the times Maggie slinked around the table, putting on her best pout, waiting for someone to let her in the game. She would play the first round or so cluelessly, letting men put their arms around her to help her shoot. It wasn’t until there was money put down that she revealed her talent. Maggie was good at everything. 

“Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!” 

Other people are singing with Rooster now. 

I make my great escape, stepping on cracked peanut shells and cocktail stirrers as I cross the bar. Not one person is watching me, not even Penny. 

The night is warm outside. Without the competing conversations and booming jukebox, I can just barely hear the ocean. Salt prickles my tongue, the air holding me close. 

I sit there, under a palm tree, looking up at the star-dotted sky. Something metal clatters beside me. It’s one of the quarters. It shimmers under the moon and I bring it close to my eyes, squinting to see the date. 

1992.

I whimper softly, eyebrows pulled together. There is no evading the lump in my throat--no Rooster to dissipate it, no friendly face out here in the lot. My tears are hot on my cheeks as they race down my face. 

With quivering lips, I bring the quarter to my mouth and press a kiss to it. 

“Hi, Maggie,” I whisper.  

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: like this if you cry every time  

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[melted--roses]

and i want to take all the scraps that you dislike in yourself and display them on my refrigerator to show you I'm still proud of the person you are and the person you are becoming

i want to wrap them up in linen and place them in an old cigar box, I'd tuck it away safely in the top drawer of my bedside table, so you know i'll never let those pieces of you go

but most of all, i want to spin you like a globe and drag my finger across till it stops to discover the pieces of you that you've yet to reveal to anyone else

because when you share hidden parts of yourself with someone else,

you're trusting that person to hold the secret sections of your heart and to love the bits you thought were unlovable

[unicornacopia]

S.O.S Character design help!

Hi guys! I'm here with another OC from the RP server, and this time it's a villain! I was wondering if anyone with some drawing skills might want to take a crack at him? Even just a rough sketch of your impressions of what he might look like from the description below. Trying to get my players avoid using AI as much as possible and figured I'd see if anyone wanted to give this fella a try. Anyway, Thank you so much for reading and considering. Character details are below:

Character name: Maksim Baerun Age:38 Gender:** Male

Class/Title/job:** Blacksmith, but dresses very well.

Where are they from?: Way up North

Physical description: Roughly six and a half feet tall. Long oily black hair, that is almost pearlescent to white when the light hits it, shaved on the sides and always tied back. He has eerie ghostly blue eyes, several ear piercings, and 2 brown piercings very close to the skin. The right side of his mouth has a large scar deforming that part of his face slightly.

Typically wears tailored slacks and nice leather boots. Linen shirt and leather vest with either a long coat or the sleeves rolled up. Usually has a cigar hanging from his mouth. His Gurahl essence is that of a Polar bear, all forms except his human reflecting that. His frame though is imposing, being tall and bulk with muscle (Not body builder cant put arms down big, but just *THICK*)

Special abilities/powers: Gurahl (werebear,) Commands the Forces of Nature. Similar to a lycanthrope but slightly different, Gurahl are not always bound to change by the moon and often retain their human intelligence and abilities despite their form. Because of where he grew up, far in the northern frigid mountains and ice of the Motherland, his Gurahl form has the features of a Polar Bear.

Background: A child of a powerful Romani healer and a Mob boss, he was found at a young age to be gifted in the natural magic arts. Though he was the younger of two brothers and the more gifted naturally, he tended to get overlooked for his brother. This was especially hurtful because their father left when Maksim was a toddler, and because he looked and acted similar to his father, it caused his mother to become cold and distant with him. As he grew into adolescence and his abilities grew, he began to get cocky, hunting larger and larger prey, usually solo.

At 16 he attempted to track and kill a feral dire bear on his own. He managed to finally down the beast, but was mortally wounded in the process, he barely made it back to town alive and very nearly died on his brothers table. Mikhail managed to tap into his Romani roots and managed to restore Maksim to life, but very badly scarred. Even though he felled the bear alone and survived, the praise was given to his brother for saving his life. Tired of living in that shadow, he left. At just 17 he was on his own, left to fend for himself. What he didnt realize is that the Romani magic his brother accidentally tapped into, as well as the latent power in his blood, changed him into a creature known as a Gurahl in Romani culture, or a Werebear.

After two years living partially in the wild and partially on the streets of various cities, while learning to control his newfound abilities, he made his way to the capital. There he made a name for himself in the fighting pits, catching the attention of his father. He brought him in as muscle, after a few years working with his father, a bad deal ended even worse, sending him into Crinos form in a full feral rage. Most of the crew was killed including their father. Maksim ashamed and enraged left The Motherland forever.

[odessa-2]

This fandom sure is a roller coaster. Reading the start of waypoints, I’m both curious about how Sam could alter facts so much to remove any hint of caitriona being at his home and part of his life, and also reassured that he’s a sensitive, kind, thoughtful person. It doesn’t jive at all with the image others try to sell. How lucky caitriona must be to know the real him, and I hope they’re so happy. And I don’t care if this makes me sound like a crazy obsessed old lady. I thought I had a question somewhere here, but I guess I forgot it! 🥴

Hehe. You're so sweet Anon. Sam has that impact on many. He has a graciousness and gentleness to his nature that makes people like him and empathise with his situation and forgive all lies told. He knows it too. Regarding Sam leaving all accounts of a shared wholesome family life out of Waypoints, did anyone here actually think he was going to do a grand reveal? SC Have implemented so many falsities to date pertaining to their personal lives that have broad reaching and serious implications for them. Most recently Cait had Tbag listed as the son in law on her fathers death notice.

They are in soooooo deep I question if there will be an out for them. No way have they gone to such incriminating lengths including an MC and a babies paternity incorrectly assigned, to just go ahead and reveal all truth in Sam's memoir. Sexy Single bachelor Sam is what he is sticking to especially for the purposes of selling his book to all those horny grannies.

Problem is, his contrived public image of a chronically single cigar smoking, whisky chugging sleaze that has a bi annual fuck with some desperado young enough to be his daughter, is at total odds with the way he represents himself; his other public persona of a single, fit, health concious, mountain climbing business entrepreneur, who munches on veggies and tucks himself into his rustic earthy linens at night while dreaming of finding love. This is the persona that evokes empathy. Sam is basically like that imo except has a wife and children. There was literally no need for them to hide and lie like this. People/fans/ the industry would have loved them together.

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 8, vol. 19, 21 février 1897, Paris. 8. Costumes de cyclistes. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

1. Costume en chevîotte bleu marine. Pantalon plissé, petit figaro avec revers, ouvert devant sur un double gilet en même tissu laissant voir une chemisette de toile, col droit, manches d'une seule pièce. Chapeau de feutre noir orné de côté par une aile.

1. Suit in navy blue cheviotte. Pleated trousers, small figaro jacket with lapels, open in front on a double waistcoat in the same fabric revealing a linen chemisette, straight collar, one-piece sleeves. Black felt hat adorned on the side by a wing.

Matériaux:  4m50 de cheviotte.

—

2. Dos de la figure 4.

—

3. Dos de la figure 8.

—

4. Costume en serge noir et piqué blanc. Pantalon-jupe plissé, paletot sac en piqué formant revers châle ouvert sur une chemisette de flanelle surmontée d'un col lingerie, cravate de soie, ceinture de cuir. Manches d'une seule pièce. Chapeau canotier avec fond toile cirée, garni sur le côté de deux ailes.

4. Suit in black serge and white piqué. Pleated skirt-pants, piqué bag overcoat forming an open shawl lapel over a flannel chemisette topped with a linen collar, silk tie, leather belt. One piece sleeves. Boater hat with oilcloth bottom, trimmed on the side with two wings.

Matériaux: 4 m. piqué, 2m50 de serge en 1m30 de large.

—

5. Costume en corkscrew cigare. Jupe courte plissée; corsage-veste boutonné légèrement de côté par des brandebourgs et formant revers, ouvert sur un plastron de lingerie surmonté d'un col rabattu et cravate de soie noire, dos ajusté avec basque plate fendue au bas, manches garnies de piqûres au bas. Chapeau de feutre orné plumes de coq.

5. Cigar corkscrew suit. Short pleated skirt; bodice-jacket buttoned slightly on the side by frogs and forming lapels, open on a linen plastron surmounted by a turned-down collar and black silk tie, fitted back with flat basque split at the bottom, sleeves trimmed with stitching at the bottom. Felt hat decorated with rooster feathers.

Matériaux: 5m50 de corkscrew.

—

6. Dos de la figure 5.

—

7. Costume en corkscrew noir et piqué blanc. Pantalon-jupe plissé du haut, serré au bas par un poignet, figaro en piqué blanc formant revers avec col rabattu, manches unies, chemisette de lingerie et cravate, ceinture de cuir noir. Chapeau canotier orné de plumes de coq.

7. Suit in black corkscrew and white piqué. Pleated trousers-skirt at the top, tied at the bottom, white piqué figaro jacket forming lapels with turn-down collar, plain sleeves, linen blouse and tie, black leather belt. Boater hat adorned with rooster feathers.

Matériaux: 2m50 de corkscrew 3 m. pique.

—

8. Costume en drap chocolat. Jupe cloche plissée derrière, corsage plissé aux épaules et boutonné au milieu, dos tendu, ceinture de cuir, col lingerie rabattu et cravate de soie noire, manches d’une seule pièce garnies de boutons. Chapeau avec aigrette de plumes.

8. Suit in chocolate cloth. Pleated bell skirt behind, pleated bodice at the shoulders and buttoned in the middle, stretched back, leather belt, folded linen collar and black silk tie, one-piece sleeves trimmed with buttons. Hat with feather aigrette.

Matériaux: 6 m. drap.

—

9. Costume en cheviotte beige. Pantalon de forme zouave plissé du haut, corsage croisé devant et à pointe, boutonné par deux rangées de boutons, col châle très ouvert, laissant voir un plastron de percale avec col rabattu et cravate de soie, dos uni à pointe, manches unies, chapeau tyrolien orné plumes de coq.

9. Suit in beige cheviotte. Zouave-shaped trousers pleated from the top, crossover bodice in front and with a point, buttoned with two rows of buttons, very open shawl collar, revealing a percale plastron with turn-down collar and silk tie, plain back with a point, plain sleeves, Tyrolean hat decorated with rooster feathers.

Matériaux: 5 m. cheviotte.

—

10. Costume en corkscrew noir et piqué blanc. Jupe courte plissée, corsage figaro très court, garni d’un col marin en piqué formant revers devant terminés par une patte boutonnée, manches unies, blouse froncée en percale rose, ceinture de cuir blanc, chapeau canotier orné d’ailes, bas noirs, souliers cuir jaune.

10. Suit in black corkscrew and white piqué. Short pleated skirt, very short figaro bodice, trimmed with a piqué sailor collar forming lapels in front ending in a buttoned tab, plain sleeves, gathered pink percale blouse, white leather belt, boater hat adorned with wings, black stockings, yellow leather shoes.

Matériaux: 6 m. corkscrew, 1m8O percale, 0m50 piqué.

—

11. Costume en cheviotte gros bleu. Jupe cloche plissée, corsage blouse boutonné de biais garni d'un col châle croisé, dos uni tendu, manches unies, plastron lingerie surmonté d'un col droit, cravate lavallière en soie bleue. Chapeau canotier orné de satin blanc, bas soie bleu, souliers jaunes, gants suède foncé.

11. Suit in blue cheviotte. Pleated bell skirt, blouse bodice buttoned on the bias trimmed with a crossed shawl collar, plain stretched back, plain sleeves, linen plastron surmounted by a straight collar, blue silk bow tie. Boater hat adorned with white satin, blue silk stockings, yellow shoes, dark suede gloves.

Matériaux: 6 mètres cheviotte.