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loversandantiheroes · 4 years ago

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Okay my whiskey fantasy. It’s a holiday, anniversary, I dunno. But he comes home. You’re in lingerie, teddy, the garter belt, the thigh high tights (I am having an absolute brain fart and can not remember the name), the high heels. you’re cooking him dinner in it. Somethin real texas for dinner. He wants to immediately fuck yiu, BUT NO he has to WAIT bc its dinner time and you worked hard. He’s waiting, and he’s watching you, you’re bending over at the stove, all that. Dinner is served, you —-

You lounge on the table to eat like a decadent and gorgeous pain in the ass, so he can see you’re whole body while he eats, forced to be patient. You’re being an absolute menace. He’s running his mouth the whole time OBVIOUSLY. Then he fucking wrecks you

No Candles Necessary

As I am a bonafide yeehonk foole (and I have the t-shirt to prove it), I could hardly resist this idea. Nonny, I hope like hell I did you proud.💗

Shameless Whiskey/F!Reader smut (18+ and yes that means you), 5.3k+ words (they just wouldn’t shut up), mildly beta’d and lightly edited.

Warnings: established relationship, unsafe food preparation practices, light foodplay (it only goes in appropriate places I swear), egregious dirty talk, improper use of a dining table, Switch!Whiskey returns, Switch!Reader by extension, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, PIV sex, unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I fictionalize), cream pie (bc I’m lazy quite frankly), actual pie (peach!), a little soft schmoop in between the smut just because I can.

Permatag: @missredherring @dovesnroses @astroboots @magpierhymes @alienprincesspoop @aasimarr @maythxthirstbxwithyou @recklesswit

Pedro Permatag: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa (sorry bab, more yeehonk) @corvueros @thirstworldproblemss @littleferal @krissology @frannyzooey @forallthstarsinthesky @princess76179 @keeper0fthestars @venusandromedadjarin

Cooking your boyfriend a birthday dinner in lingerie is probably not the best idea you've ever had. The man isn’t even home yet to witness the trouble you’ve gone to, still wrapping up a day’s work at HQ after closing out another mission. So you didn’t jump right into cooking in your frillies. No, you did the bulk of the work in sweats and a t-shirt, only stopping to change once you were down to the last stretch and the steaks had come off to rest. You've got sense enough at least to put on an apron, not wanting to risk getting hot grease on the delicate fabric or the vast amounts of bare skin the thing doesn't cover, and while you've already donned the garter belt and stockings you've left your heels up against the island counter so you can slip them on quickly when you hear the door. Still you can't quite help but feel less sexy and more silly as you stand there carving up a pair of garlic butter basted steaks while your forehead prickles with sweat and your ass, covered by neither the teddy or the apron, feels ice cold.

The things I do for love of a goddamn cowboy, you think with a shake of your head. Your whole plan is honestly on the high end of ridiculous. But then Jack is a ridiculous man, and he always seems to drag you headlong into absurdity with him. Some days it's his only saving grace - the boyish playfulness that tempers his arrogance into something charming rather than infuriating. It seems only right to be a little ridiculous for the occasion.

Once the carving’s done you give yourself a second to go over the spread and make sure everything's ready to go. It's early yet, but you're expecting to hear Jack's key in the front door any minute. He's made no mention of returning home early, of course, but he is every bit the sort that would try to surprise you on his birthday, and you’ve developed an uncanny ability to anticipate his moves ahead of time.

As it turns out, you have just enough time to slip on your heels before you hear the front door open and Jack calls out your name. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction - you do love being right when it comes to this sort of thing - and slip into your heels.

“In here, baby,” you call back, stepping out to lean against the door frame.

“Somethin’ smells like heaven,” Jack says, rounding the corner into the dining room. He stops dead when he gets a look at you, mouth falling open in surprise. He’s hung his hat at the door, his hair already flopping over in a revolt against the slicked-back way he styles it in the morning, his suit jacket still on and buttoned. “Looks like it, too,” he finishes, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. “I feel overdressed all of a sudden.”

You can’t help but answer that grin. “Happy birthday, cowboy,” you tell him, beckoning him over.

He all but rushes across the room to slide up against you, hands curling around your hips and playing with the tie to the apron. “Sure as hell is now,” he mutters. His palms slide down, cupping your ass to pull you in close. You bite back a hiss at the warmth, and he gives a low approving hum at the expanse of cool, bare skin. “Looks like I don’t even need to unwrap my present.”

“Patience,” you insist, pushing his shoulders back and grazing your lips over the tip of his nose as you evade the kiss he tries to pull you into. “No dessert until after dinner.”

“Dinner can wait-”

“No it cannot. I did not just spend the afternoon trying to keep hot butter off my tits so you could get impatient and let your supper get cold.” He traces a finger across your cleavage as you talk, tugging at the top of the apron to get a better look at the skin underneath. You feel the quip coming before he even opens his mouth, so you take the opportunity to give him a little push and show him just what he’s in for tonight. You bring up your hand, fingers curling under his wrist, turning his hand away and using it to pull him flush to you, the line of your thigh landing against the covered denim crotch of his jeans with just enough force to make him jolt.

“Be a good boy, Jack,” you say against his open, breathless mouth, “or you won’t get any dessert at all.”

Whiskey pouts, but his eyes have that dark glint that says he knows he’s in for trouble and he is just as pleased as punch about it. “You mean to torture a man on his birthday, honeybee?”

The smirk you give him makes his heartbeat kick up a little faster - you can feel the quickening of it in the pulse point against your fingertips. “Absolutely.” You stretch up enough for one brief, warm kiss and then step back, jerking your chin towards the dining table where there’s already two glasses of wine poured at the ready. “Sit. I’ll bring out dinner.”

He nods, tongue rolling slowly against his bottom lip. “Yes ma’am.”

His gaze is a heavy weight on your body as you walk away, raking down across so much exposed skin. You hear him groan at the sight, low and appreciative. He’s always been fond of seeing you wrapped up in lingerie, even more fond of tearing up the expensive scraps just to get you bare for him. You’d chided him about it the first time - the bodysuit he’d ripped clean in half from gusset to tit hadn’t been cheap, even though that little display had thrilled you far more than you’d ever want to admit - but he always replaced what he ruined without fail.

When you come back, divested of the apron with plates in hand, Whiskey is sitting just as instructed, elbow on the table, chin resting on his knuckles. He tracks every move you make, every sway of your hips, a playful smile hiding the effort of his restraint as you set his dinner in front of him. He barely spares the food a glance when you elect to forego your own chair and simply hop up onto the table, setting your plate near his and dragging over your glass of wine.

“You’ve outdone yourself, honeybee,” Whiskey rumbles, sliding a hand up your knee to your thigh, and he could not be talking less about the food.

You only smile, taking an unhurried sip. “Somehow I thought you’d prefer this to a new tie. How old are you now, anyway?” you tease.

“Sweet sixteen,” he says dryly, hiking an eyebrow while he squeezes your thigh for your cheek.

You chuckle. “Uh-huh, and I’m Mother Theresa.” You lean in, spearing a slice of steak on his plate with your fork and holding it out for him. “Now, I worked very hard on this, and I am going to be very disappointed if you try to skip dinner on me just ‘cause you can’t quit eyeballing your dessert. Open.”

He tips you a wink before dutifully opening his mouth, letting you feed him. The soft, indulgent moan that leaves him as his eyes slip closed is too subdued to be anything but real. “Honeybee that is gorgeous. My compliments to the chef.”

“The chef is glad to hear it.” You swipe your thumb over his lip, collecting the sheen of juice and garlicky butter and bringing it to your own mouth, delicately sucking it off. “Could’ve used a bit more rosemary.”

Whiskey shakes his head. “Mm-mm. This is perfection on a plate, baby. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The smile that earns him is genuine, and you bend to give him a quick kiss. He presses it, just a little, a swipe of his tongue that you open for just enough to nip at before pulling away. “Eat.” You gesture meaningfully at his plate.

All told, there isn’t actually much on it. Steak, roasted new potatoes, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. You’ve only served up maybe half of what you’d usually set in front of him for dinner, opting for more reserved portions. It’s a favor to you both - his patience wouldn’t last through a full meal without the need for physical restraints. There’s more in the kitchen, of course, and an actual pie for dessert if you happen to get that far. You’re both bound to be hungry again after.

Whiskey tucks in, fork in his left hand while his right stays comfortably curled around your thigh, slowly creeping higher and higher until he’s playing with the lacy top of your stocking. You give him a warning tilt of your head, your own fork poised halfway to your mouth. All you get in return is those plaintive, innocent puppy dog eyes of his, but his hand doesn’t advance further.

All in all you’re rather proud of his restraint, at least until one spear of asparagus manages to drip hollandaise down onto your cleavage. Suddenly that quietly repressed hunger cracks and he’s surging up towards you, mouth half-open and tongue peaking out, ready to clean you up.

But that won’t do. Not yet. Your reflexes might not be as good as his, but they’re nothing to balk at, either. You brace yourself back on one hand, leaning away and planting one of your high heels against his shoulder to shove him back into his seat. The look on his face is priceless; mouth agape and pupils blown.

Slowly you shake your head. “You know better, Jack.”

His eyes track up the inside of your thigh to the crotch of your bodysuit - or rather, the lack thereof - and the split strips of lace that don’t cover your mound, but frame it prettily for him. “Fuck, honeybee,” he mutters breathlessly.

Dinner and a show was always the plan. So you take your time, dipping your finger and swiping up the stripe of creamy yellow and holding it out to him. Whiskey stares you down as he takes the tip of your finger into his mouth and sucks dutifully, his tongue plush and soft and working against the pad of your finger the same way he worries it over your clit. A rush of heat rockets through you, leaving your belly warm and a sweet tingle tripping down your spine in its wake.

Biting your lip hard to rein in the impulse to just slide into his lap, you drag your finger out of his mouth. It’s what he wants; to make you break first, to make you lose at your own game. And where’s the fun in that?

“It is your birthday, so I’m going to cut you a little bit of slack, but if you can’t mind your manners and do as you’re fucking told, you’re gonna get a lot worse than a birthday spanking, pretty boy. Now, I told you: no dessert until you finish your dinner.” There’s precious little left on his plate; a few scraps of steak, a couple potatoes, one lone spear of asparagus. You stab this last with your fork and hold it out to him. “Last chance, baby. You open your mouth for me and be a good boy, and you can have me any way you want.”

Whiskey looks dazed; seething and starved and love-struck all at once. You don’t even need to look down to know he’s hard. But he hesitates just for a moment, whether it’s deliberate or accidental you’re not really sure - sometimes the man just really wants to be punished - but in that space you see his body jerk, hunching slightly as his abdominal muscles contract involuntarily. You follow the movement with your eyes and sure enough, there he is. Full mast and straining hard against thick denim.

Smiling sweetly, you wave the fork at him. “Your choice, Jack.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, and the roughshod timbre of his voice says it’d be a fine way to go.

Whiskey opens his mouth and takes what you give him.

You’re slow about it. Careful. Admonishing him when he tries to chew a little too quickly. Whiskey stares you down with eyes like coal seconds away from ignition. He holds your gaze while you slip another bite of food into his mouth, then lets his eyes slip down until they fix firmly on your half-exposed and already glistening cunt, and you know the moment you give him an inch he’s going to wreck the hell out of you for this.

When the last bite passes his lips he curls his hand around your ankle, squeezing. Always pushing his luck, this man of yours. You set his plate aside, glancing away like it’s no effort at all as he very methodically wipes his mouth with his napkin.

“Now can I have my dessert?” Impatience roughens the low gravel of his voice into something dangerously sharp.

You smile, leaning back on one hand. “There’s peach pie in the kitchen.”

He presses forward, left hand sliding big and warm up the inside of your thigh. The motion presses the leg you’ve used to pin him to his chair back until your knee is nearly flush with your chest, opening you up wider, the rush of air between your legs now shockingly cold against the wetness that had gathered there.

“Woman, the only pie I want a piece of is the one sitting right in front of me.”

The stretch along the back of your thigh burns, so you shift, hooking your leg over his shoulder instead. “I haven’t finished my dinner yet,” you protest cooly, reaching down to snag a strip of steak off your still half-full plate and popping it into your mouth.

Whiskey’s hands slip higher, and this time you don’t stop him, too busy sucking the buttery juices off your fingers. When the very very tips of his fingers brush the spread lace at the crux of your thighs he freezes, waiting for the rebuke, for fingers around his neck or your other heel to plant square in his chest. You consider it, sure; it’s certainly not a prospect without its merits. A man that enjoys being under your thumb is satisfying in a way that few things in life ever fully measure up to.

But honestly, you’ve worked hard enough tonight. Time to let him put in a little effort.

A tilt of your head and a curl of your foot against his shoulder is permission enough; slipping off the leash by way of a gesture, and the low smolder in his eyes blooms to a full burn. Whiskey stands to his full height, looming close enough for you to feel the heat bake off him as he shrugs off his jacket and unbuttons the cuffs on his dress shirt, rolling them up with a few quick turns of his wrists.

“Can’t let my girl go hungry now,” he hums in a voice like burnt molasses. “Lemme give you a hand there, honeybee.”

Smirking, Whiskey wraps an arm around you, brushing the tip of his nose against yours as you wriggle against solid heat of his body. His left hand wanders out of sight on the table as his lips meet yours, teasing your mouth open with the barest brush of his tongue, while his right hand trails warm and slow around your side and down and down to cup your mound.

It’s hard to believe you ever felt cold. You’re burning up now, skin flushed hot as his mouth grazes yours and breathes out: “Open up for me.”

And just like magic, you do. No input needed on your behalf; your mouth simply drops open and your legs shift wider in accommodation for him. There’s a clink of silverware and then he’s waving a fork at you, a strip of steak speared on the end. Whiskey’s eyes glitter as he pushes it into your waiting mouth. Each bite he feeds you is accompanied by a teasing dip of his fingers into your core, feeding you with his left hand while he touches you with his right. Your slickened folds part smooth and easy as he pushes his fingers inside you, a welcome but all too brief intrusion, before they trail up again to stroke at your clit. Again and again you rock your hips up, trying to encourage him to slip into you deeper, to give you a taste of the fullness and pressure of his cock, but every time his touch retreats.

You whine; a strange mix of frustration and pleasure. “Tease.”

“Takes one to know one,” he coos, the hand between your legs working faster. Heat builds quickly under his fingertips, a friction far more appetizing than anything else you’ve set on the table tonight. “You made the rules, honeybee. No dessert until after you finish supper. You do want your dessert, don’t you?”

He brings the next bite up, holds it tantalizingly close. You stretch out and he draws it back, and suddenly his fingers are rubbing a firm, determined circle on your clit. Your whole body jolts, gasping air with a pitiful little whine. There’s nothing but mischief on his face as he watches you, tongue sweeping against his bottom lip. He slows his fingers, brings the fork down again, closer this time. The food brushes your bottom lip before he pulls it away, fingers quickening again.

“Jesus,” you all but squeak. “Jack, don’t be mean.”

Whiskey gives you a considering hum, leaning forward to suck the sheen of butter off your bottom lip. “Oh darlin’ I would never,” he insists, punctuating the sentiment with a kiss that’s tender enough to be very nearly sincere if it weren’t for the fact that the motion of his hand never slows. A sweet, bright heat begins to build under his fingertips. “How could I be mean to my girl when she worked so hard for me, hm? I’m just paying that back in kind is all. You wanna come on my fingers, baby, you can do that all you like. I’ll make you come ‘til those pretty little legs can’t do much more than shimmy. You know I can. But you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ else until you clean your plate like a good girl.”

“H-ha-ah, fuck-how much more?”

He grins devilishly. “Just this last bite.”

“Oh you f-fucking jackass!”

Whiskey laughs. “Guilty as charged. Open up, baby, take what I got for you.”

He pushes the last bite past your lips and immediately delves his fingers into your warm and waiting cunt. The breath shudders out of you, fingers digging into the tablecloth as you try to hang onto enough composure to remember to chew and swallow. He’s slow for a moment, pumping and curling his fingers gently while he watches you eat. There’s a clink of silverware as he discards the fork and puts his arm around you, pressing his lips against your forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs sweetly.

Mouth empty now, you nudge your nose against his chin, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Jack-”

And then his grip becomes determined. The fingers inside you flex, the heel of his hand pressing hard against your clit and all you can do is cry out against the soft skin of his neck and hang on for dear life while he works you up and over the edge with shocking speed.

Trembling, you lock your legs around him as you come down, dragging his collar aside to bite lazily into the place where his neck and shoulder meet.

“Fuck,” he groans, hips rutting up against the back of his hand between your legs. “How do you want me, honeybee?”

That earns him a breathless laugh, goosebumps raising along his neck. “It’s your birthday, Jack. What do you want?”

Whiskey’s eyes drop to your mouth and he makes a considering sound, pulling back to suck you delicately off his fingers. “I think I want your mouth. And then I think I want to fuck you right here on this table until that divinely sweet little pussy wrings me fucking dry. Sound good to you, honeybee?”

“That can be arranged.” His eyelids flutter as you reach down to his zipper, not even bothering with his belt before you reach inside his jeans and the button fly of his boxers to tug his cock free, cupping your fingers to draw his balls out, too.

You move to stand and he shakes his head, caging you in. “No. Not on your knees, baby. On the table. I wanna see you all spread out for me. My pretty little present.”

He helps you. Sweeps your hair back as you lie flat on the dining table, scooting back to let your head hang just a bit. It’s not exactly comfortable. The edge of the table digs into your neck a bit, and the way the blood rushes to your head is not entirely pleasant either. But you watch Whiskey pace around you to take his place in front of your waiting mouth, cock bobbing and just barely beginning to leak for you, and you feel a gorgeous rush of heat at the sight.

Whiskey slides his palm up your stomach to cup one barely-covered breast. “Gorgeous,” he mutters, squeezing. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Jack.”

“I know, darlin’, I know. But my God you’re a picture.” He cups your cheek, absently brushes the corner of your mouth with his thumb before sliding his hand back to give your head a little support. “Open up for me, angel.”

And once again, you open up for what he gives you. The angle makes it strange, the topography of Jack’s body less familiar as he slips into your mouth, your tongue dragging wet and slow over foreign terrain. The taste of him, hot skin and the tang of bitter salt, that you know well enough. You close your eyes at it, bring your hands up to his hips to tug him slowly forward and listen to the way he moans.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, breathless and a little awe-struck. “Jesus fucking Christ. You spoil me, baby. Sweet as fucking honey, my god.”

A light touch against your breast makes you shiver, goosebumps raising as it draws lightly over your skin. A single fingertip, sliding the lace of the bodysuit aside to bare your breasts to the chill of the room and the warmth of Whiskey’s hands.

He mutters sweet things as he begins to move; sweet, tender, unconscionably filthy things. All the things you do to him. Do for him. The rocking of his hips is gentle at first, feeding you his cock inch by cautious inch. When he hits the back of your throat he pulls back on reflex, but the light scrape of your teeth and the sudden tightness of your grip on the plush meat of his ass sends him forward again. The angle eases the motion, and you relax into the pressure as he pushes in and in and...oh.

You feel the resistance at the back of your throat give gently; strange, but not uncomfortable. Above you, Whiskey lets out a pained groan.

“Shit. Oh shit yes, honeybee. Take it. Ohhh s-shit. Take all of it. Every goddamn inch. Fuck.”

And then his hips are flush with your mouth, the soft skin of his balls pressed up against your nose. Panting, he wraps a hand around the stretched column of your throat, swearing breathlessly. He moves, a small, careful thrust, and you can feel the tremor that ripples through him at the feeling.

“Just a little more baby,” he mumbles, pulling back until just the head of his cock rests within the warmth of your mouth. You suckle at it, working it eagerly with your lips and tongue while you breathe raggedly through your nose. Your hips jut up into thin air on their own accord, just as eager for him as your mouth is.

“I got you, honeybee.” The hand at your neck slips down, skimming over skin and lace until he finds your clit. The first touch jolts you, your cry stifled on his cock as you shudder up against him. “Good girl. I got you, baby. Jack’s got you. Keep going. Just a little more. Just a little more and then I’ll fill you right on up. Fuck my sweet girl’s brains right out of her head. Prettiest fuckin’ thing I ever fuckin seen, baby, holy fuck.”

You moan something against him - pleasure, acquiescence, god only knows - but the sound of it is lost as his cock slides steadily back into your mouth. The pressure in your head is distracting, tears prickling your eyes when he pushes in deep, but the stroking of his fingers and the feel of him in your mouth, sliding hard and slick and effortlessly down your throat is far more consuming than the discomfort.

He rocks into you. Fucks into you. Moans and gasping praises falling thick and fast from his lips as he moves. You don’t need to feel the way his balls draw up tight to know how close he is, how tight he’s riding the line between what he wants to do and what his body wants to do. You’re lost in it all the same; his pleasure and the fraying thread of his restraint. Your own pleasure, building quick and low and locking down the muscles in your thighs until they tremble. You float in it, overwhelmed and dizzy, until, very suddenly, you break.

Whiskey curses, pulling back to listen to you cry out, to let you curl up and clutch at him as he pants above you, muttering broken, desperate please of: “yes god yes honeybee all of it, gimme all of it, every last bit.”

You’re a wreck in the aftermath; pliant and limp, face teary and slick with spit and precome. He draws you up, wiping your face with a clean napkin before pulling you into a kiss that steals away whatever remained of your breath. He gathers you up, turns you until you can wrap your still-tingling limbs around him. Nudges his hips against yours, his wet cock dragging against slick skin and fragile lace.

“You okay, baby?” he asks, trailing soft kisses over your face.

You have to clear your throat before you can respond, the sound of it harsh and ragged like an engine turning over. “Y-yeah. Yeah I’m good. Dizzy, but good.”

“You ain’t the only one, honeybee. Almost didn’t make it in time. Wanted to fill up that pretty mouth so bad. You just about did me in.”

He laughs and you join him, breathing ragged joy into each other’s lungs.

“Still want me to fuck you?” The question should be coarse, but somehow isn’t. Not with his sweat-slick forehead pressed to yours and his lips ghosting kisses against your mouth with every breath.

“So sweet,” you mutter, combing your hands through his hair.

“LIke hell,” he scoffs, holding you tight to his chest. “I ain’t and you know it.”

“You are to me,” you insist, pressing a kiss against the tip of his nose. He smiles, softens everywhere but that place that throbs with impatient heat against you. “Now fuck me, pretty boy.”

A flash of a grin is the only warning you get before he’s hooking his arms under your knees and pulling you to the edge of the table. “Yes ma’am,” he says obligingly, planting a hand between your breasts to push you back against the table as he lines himself up, sliding into you with one smooth, achingly deep stroke.

You moan, knees drawing up as his hips meet yours and he fills the space inside you that’s been aching for him all day. Whiskey lets out a groaning sigh, leaning into you like he wants to bury himself whole inside you. He hoists one of your legs up against his chest, nuzzles the inside of your knee while he tries to find his breath again. The length of him inside you is rigid as steel and blindingly hot, still so close to his own end that he has to wait, worrying his teeth over your skin, until the urge to just rut against you like an animal until he comes finally passes.

And when it does, when he opens his eyes at last, he looks down at you with a dazed, hungry smile. He presses a kiss to the tip of his finger and brings it down to your lips.

“Love you, honeybee.”

Heavy-lidded and so wonderfully full, you kiss his finger and arch your back. “Love you, too, cowboy.”

And that’s the last intelligent thing you manage to say. Finally - finally! - Whiskey fucks you, each pounding swing of his hips making the china rattle like nervous teeth. Your arms strike out, curling and flailing, trying to find something to grab onto as he fucks you. The heel of your hand strikes one of the wine glasses and sends it tumbling to the floor where it shatters. The breath leaves your body in tiny bursts with each impact; little monosyllabic cries punctuating each one.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Whiskey murmurs. He cups your breasts, thumbing the pebbled sharpness of your nipples before his hands slide lower, finding the deep notch of the bodysuit between them. “Wrapped up so pretty for me.”

The lace tears away like it’s nothing, a clean rip down the center. Oh well. He’ll buy you another.

Whiskey folds over you, pulling you down closer so he can get an arm under your back, his hand grasping the back of your neck and pulling you up to meet his mouth. He’s still wearing his tie, the drape of fabric laying cool against your chest. Blessedly he’s not wearing his usual belt buckle. Foresight or oversight you’re not quite sure, but you’re grateful all the same as he grinds into you, a press of cold metal and leather against your belly.

He’s not going to last long, but it hardly matters. You’re too worked up, two orgasms down already, cunt so swollen and sensitive it’s hardly an effort to get you there again. But the feeling of him inside you turns that bright burn into something lower, deeper. Something that makes your muscles lock and tremble, straining up against him and gasping into his mouth.

“Jaaaack,” you whine, arms locked around his neck.

“Yes, baby,” he groans, voice quivering with every thrust. “Fuck yes I’m right there too, c’mon. Come with me, honeybee, come with me.”

His rhythm falters, grinding deeper and deeper, and all that strained tension in your body snaps like a rubberband. You sob, grabbing fistfuls of his dress shirt, twisting and jerking as you come apart under him.

All Whiskey can do is growl as you bear down on him, gritting a litany of “yes, yes, fuck yes, god yes, that’s my girl that’s my girl that’s my fucking girl.” And then he’s gone, too, driving into you with a sudden jolt and crying out against the side of your neck as he comes.

You’re holding him too tight, clutching him to you as you both lie there, panting and shuddering, a spreading stain of red wine pooling next to your head.

“Jesus,” he whispers, tries to shift up to find your mouth, but even that amount of drag on his oversensitive cock is enough to make him hiss and jerk. “Fuck.”

“Mm-hm,” you agreed dumbly.

Whiskey lets out a growling hum, smoothing your hair. “You good, honeybee?”

You trail kisses up to his ear, still breathless. “What do you think?”

He wheezes a laugh. “I think I gotta replace a lot more than your frillies this time.” The laugh turns giddy, and Whiskey presses his forehead against your temple. “And I think I’m hungry.”

“Pie in the kitchen,” you mumble, too drowsy to do much more than nuzzle into the damp tangle of Whiskey’s hair.

“What kind?”

“Peach.”

He hums, smiling drowsily. “My favorite.”

You give a slow nod. “I know. Happy birthday, Jack.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet. “Best I ever had,” he murmurs.

#Anonymous #agent whiskey #jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fic #citrus variations

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clarketomylexa · 6 years ago

Text

that’s what best friends do, chapter two

“Boys suck,” she decides.

Lexa blinks at her, blank faced.

“I’m gay,” she says, just like that. It’s as simple as if boiled down to a definition, poetic as Gatsby’s ending and Clarke opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to say other than what they are told in health class but all of that seems too wrong when faced with Lexa looking at her like this.

“Okay,” she says, because there’s really nothing more than that.

Lexa has always been hers.

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At Clarke’s behest, Lexa details her in all the things she forgot to tell her about camp; the color war, ‘swim the lake’ which Lexa finished in record time in the seventh week of her session after training every day with a group of twenty other girls, and Costia who lives in Connecticut and writes Lexa every week of the school term, hoping she will come back to camp next summer.

She reads one of the letters aloud one day after school as they sit on Clarke’s bed. Clarke is cross-legged with the back end of her pen in her mouth as she noodles through a workbook and Lexa hangs halfway off the narrow mattress with her wet hair in a drooping top knot, laughing at sentences Clarke thinks must be inside jokes. She has taken up swimming three days a week this year and Clarke won’t admit it but she loves going to the pool on Saturday mornings to watch her train.

A picture printed on glossy photo paper falls out of the bottom of the envelope when she looks. It’s of Lexa in a tie-dyed tee and tiny denim shorts, clinging to the back of a wiry redhead with the bandana Lexa now keeps pinned to her bedroom wall, tied around her head. Both girls are soaked and covered in what looks like colourful powder, set against the backdrop of a picturesque lake complete with an intricate dock system and sailboats anchored at the bank, the girls around them armed with plastic water pistols.

Clarke tries not to be too happy when Lexa announces one day in late May that she won’t be going back to camp this summer. She comes to the lake instead but wears her camp tee instead of her piñata socks and because of swimming, when they go to put on their usual life vests to go boating, Lexa’s doesn’t close properly and Jake teases her about ‘bulking up for the season’. She goes bright red and apologises profusely but Jake laughs it off, hanging it back on the hook and Clarke is antsy the entire way into town to buy a new one.

She blames it on the syrupy heat and the fact that on their second day they still haven’t gotten onto the water.

It’s neither of those things.

When Clarke is fifteen their double-bed shrinks.

It doesn’t literally shrink of course; Clarke is fully aware she is the one doing the growing. Aware of it too much maybe because the growth spurt may have been the start of it, it certainly wasn’t all that puberty had to offer and ending Freshman year in a C-cup was an uncomfortable experience to say the least.

Lexa has grown too—even more than she had when she returned home from camp two summers ago with the beginnings of abs beneath the skin of her midriff—as Abby prophesied she has well and truly grown into her lankiness and the extra inch or so she has on Clarke when they stand side-by-side.

The discovery that she doesn’t have to make a conscious effort to be touching Lexa when they sleep isn’t exactly an unpleasant one, but neither of them wear novelty pyjamas now or pug socks. It’s all Clarke’s middle school track t-shirt and foraged sleep shorts and sometimes Lexa doesn’t even wear pants at all, lamenting that the heat is stifling and sliding into bed in her camp tee and Calvin's that forces Clarke to banish blush-worthy thoughts from her head. In fact, she almost hates herself for thinking them in the first place.

Having both started at the same high school at the beginning of the last school year, it became easier and easier for Clarke to shove the unbidden feelings into the back of the proverbial closet and shut the door tight as they settled into the routine of pop quizzes and high school hierarchy. Lexa had swimming, Clarke had lacrosse. They tried to find each other in the cafeteria but with different lunch hours any sort of midday reunions had been hard to find. Other than Mr. Ramon’s fifth period math class, it was almost as if they were still at schools half a county away.

Summer had come as a breathless reprieve.

She lies next to Lexa in a bed that seems to be growing narrower by the day—wincing at the way Lexa’s toes brush the bottom of the mattress—and hates the way the world is encroaching on their little Eden.

They have a bonfire down at the lakefront, three houses down where the bank gives way to a patch of grainy sand. Abby has begrudgingly decided that at fifteen they are old enough and by the time Clarke and Lexa wander down after dinner

The flames are four feet tall and paint what they can see of the lake in the dusk in a hazy purple that looks syrupy and thick.

Clarke raided both of their suitcases to find an outfit, landing on a skimpy jean skirt that made Jake’s eyes bulge and Lexa’s ACDC t-shirt to make up for it—she takes a handful of the fabric and ties it into a knot above her belly button as soon as they get out of eyeshot of the house and she catches Lexa eyeing her fingers as she does it but doesn’t say anything. Lexa on the other hand is wearing her jean shorts and a baggy striped long-sleeve that she has tucked into her waist band. She is altogether different from the Lexa that Clarke met that Sunday morning but the string friendship bracelet that Clarke gave her after spending the better half of a month weaving it out of thread from Abby’s sewing kit sits faded and worn against the tan of her wrist like a reminder of how much they have grown.

When they arrive a bottle of cheap wine has already been cracked open and is being passed around, and open cans of beer sit wedged in the sand. Couples sit clinched together, lazy and drunk on one another in the way that the couples at school seem to be as they pin each other to the metal of the lockers or duck into empty classrooms when they think they are being inconspicuous and music is being wired in from somewhere, the generic kind from the radio that will leave Clarke humming for days.

They are greeted where they stand, fingers locked on the lip of the bank, by the flannel-wearing junior and Lexa drops her hand so quickly, it’s as if she has been scalded. Clarke shoots her a frown but doesn’t manage to catch her downcast eyes and tries not to let the sinking feeling that she has been plagued with for a while now pull her under.

Whenever she brings the sense of impending doom Abby assures her that people change as they grow but Clarke is never satisfied with that answer. Lexa isn’t supposed to change. They’re supposed to live next door to each other, and have summers together and visit each other at college and buy houses in the same town and still be here come July twenty-second when they are eighty years old and their children’s children have grown up, it’s a truth that has kept Clarke afloat since the moment she met her best friend. The sudden realisation that her mom is right is not one she signed up for at seven-years-old, but she can’t stop the thought that maybe it’s true.

Because, try as she might, she can’t seem to fathom living out the plans that they have made like they planned them anymore.

They sit side-by-side on the sand as the wine bottle is drained to play spin the bottle—Lexa passes diligently on her sip but when it reaches her, Clarke grasps the bottle by the neck and takes a swig of what tastes like a cheap version of what she had at her cousin’s twenty-first and backwash and winces.

“Don’t let Abby see you,” Lexa nudges her with an elbow, “you’ll get a lecture on liver health.”

Clarke laughs but can’t bring herself to reply.

The bottle is laid down and a junior with dirty-blonde hair and hard, angular features leans forwards to spin it—she has a scuffed leather jacket on over a tight-fitting tank that makes Clarke irrationally angry because in the heat of summer, there is no way she has put it on because of the cold.

The jacket is a calculated move.

She lets the bottle go with an inelegant flick of her wrist, shucking her sleeves up to where they hang against her forearms and Clarke watches it spin—the bottle-green blur like a harbinger of certain doom, panic flashing white hot down her spine as it lands on Lexa where she sits cross legged in the sand, leaning back onto her hands so that she exudes an aura of confidence Clarke knows it an act. She can read Lexa better than anyone. Even despite the way she has refused to look at Clarke almost since they sat down, Clarke can see the tension in the cords of her neck.

A boy lets out a low whistle and Lexa’s cheek go red. Leather-jacket grins cockily and crawls across the awkward circle they have made, planting her hands on either side of Lexa’s thighs so that she hovers over her, brow piqued as if to dare Lexa to say no.

When they kiss, Clarke looks away. Something ugly knocks on the underside of her skull and she has to pretend to find interest in the knotted hem of her shirt to stop herself from acting on it until a sharp cheer goes up and leather-jacket is pulling away to retreat back to her seat, wiping a thumb over her mouth as she does and Clarke tries not to think of the fact that her lip gloss now shines in the dip above Lexa’s top lip where the line of her scar sits.

When Clarke gets banished to a game of seven minutes in heaven an hour later, as immature as it is she has all the intentions of asking to sit it out. The boy she has been paired with is in her grade, with hair just on this side of too long and an oil-stained flannel on over dark wash jeans. He rubs his hand over the nape of his neck in what Clarke thinks must be a nervous tick and she is sure if she asked he would say yes without question but a desperate, restless thing grips her as they round a thatch of trees so that they are out of sight of the bonfire and when he does ask what she wants to do she pulls him by the collar of his flannel in a move that is supposed to be somewhat sexy but just ends up clumsy and awfully amateur. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline in what she hopes is pleasant surprise.

She’s kissed two boys before. The first, Octavia argues, hardly counts because in the sixth grade Miller went around kissing every girl in their class on a bet after Murphy started spreading the rumour that he saw him and Nate kissing in the boys bathroom. It’s a thought that seizes so terribly in her chest every time she thinks of it and she refuses think that it’s for any other reason than Miller is her friend and he took so much shit for those rumours that he didn’t come to advisory for a week. But it puts Clarke on par with Octavia though so she includes the rushed half-peck in her tally whenever asked.

This, however, is altogether different.

She lets him prop her against the nearest tree, his hands sure on her waist as she sighs into the hesitant brush of lips on lips, their noses bumping as Clarke flushes, head spinning at the taste of what she thinks is cheap beer on his lips and she plants her hands atop of his to ground herself. He asks her if she’s ‘okay to do this’ and she nods eagerly and leans in again. She loves the way his steady frame feels beneath her hands when she curls her finger into the shoulders of his flannel. His hair comes untucked from around his ears and they tickle her forehead where their shallow breaths rally it between them. Every so often they stop to breathe, laughing softly into the stagnant night air—tinged with a cool wind off the lake and flushed cheeks from the heat of the fire—and Clarke lets the simplicity of it soothe away the confusion she feels when she thinks about Lexa. She doesn’t know this boy. She doesn’t know his name or where he lives. There aren’t any expectations that will come out of a stupid game of seven minutes in heaven other than maybe a smile at the end of the night and she feels exhilarated.

It’s easy.

She likes easy.

By the time they make it back to the bonfire it has been decidedly longer than seven minutes but Clarke feels ascended nonetheless. She ducks her head against the raised brows they receive as she eases herself back onto the sand—next to Lexa who keeps her eyes on the tips of her shoes like Clarke knows she does when something is bothering her—but at this stage in the night, couples have mostly paired off anyway so she takes their knowing looks with a grain of salt.

Across the circle, leather-jacket smiles lazily at Lexa and on impulse, Clarke grabs flannel-shirt’s hand.

The rest of the bonfire is passed in restless silence on both of their behalves and when Abby texts to warn them of their curfew drawing ever near, flannel-shirt puts his number in Clarke’s phone under ‘Finn’ with the flame emoji next to it. She laughs at it when he does and waggles her eyebrows, but Finn insists that it’s nothing more than to remind her he is the boy she met at the bonfire so she takes his word for it because she’s sure he’s too sweet to think of it any other way.

He texts her a short ‘hi’ when they are halfway back to the house and, hands tucked into her armpits, Lexa scoffs at the burgeoning smile that tugs at her lips.

“What?” Clarke snaps, face turning stony. Aside from the gentle lap-lap of the lake on the bank, the cicadas and the occasional bird call, the lakefront is silent as they traverse the lengths of the two or three properties that lie between them and the Griffin’s house. The night air is thick with the heavy scent of smoke and all the way around the lake, lights sit in the windows of houses like tiny flames. She plants her feet into the grass and watches Lexa’s face contort into a horribly unaffected pout that is contrived at best, genuine at worst.

She can’t decide which is better.

She thinks the answer might be neither of them.

Lexa swallows hard. “Nothing,” she grumbles, finding a dip in the soil with the toe of her sneaker and digging into it. The rubber connects with something hard, making a low thunk every time she hits it. The sound grates on Clarke.

“It’s not—will you stop that!” Annoyed, she grabs Lexa by the forearm. Lexa blinks in shock, yanking her arm away and tucking it back into herself as they stare at each other hard, chests heaving. “It’s not nothing,” Clarke repeats, softer this time. “You haven’t looked at me all night.”

“Good that Finn couldn’t take his eyes off you then,” Lexa fires back.

Clarke frowns, willing the hot, rattling thing in her chest to stay where it is. “Is that what this is about? You’re mad because I kissed him?” When Lexa won’t answer, she takes it as a confirmation. “It’s not like you were such a saint either,” she retorts hotly, “you kissed that seventeen-year-old no problem!”

“Kissed, Clarke!” Lexa all but yells. “I kissed her! I didn’t suck face with her for half an hour!”

“Why do you care, Lexa!”

For a moment it looks like Lexa is going to yell again and Clarke braces herself for an impact that never comes. Instead, Lexa leans forwards and presses her lips to her and Clarke feels herself burning over and over again until she is sure there is nothing left to her, to the lake or the house or the town beyond it, other than ash. She can taste the syrupy-sweet strawberry lip gloss and roasted marshmallows and Lexa’s lips tremble when Clarke stills enough to feel it.

It’s over as quickly as it started and Lexa is staring at her—eyes red and bottom lip trapped between her teeth, fists wound so tightly in the hem of her shirt her knuckles are white like it will keep her from doing it again. She looks at Clarke like she’s imploring her to understand but Clarke is dizzy and she thinks the wine and cheap beer has gone to her head. She tries so hard her eyes water and her throat burns but all that she can see is the minute quiver of Lexa’s lip and the haze of the lake and it builds up in her chest until she’s gasping for breath and looking away.

When she looks up, Lexa has shoved her hands into the depths of the pockets of her jean-shorts and is retreating, leaving Clarke oddly on edge, like she’s riding a rollercoaster and waiting for the stomach-flipping drop that isn’t coming.

It’s off putting and a little bit nauseating and Clarke thinks she may just explode, or implode—she can’t remember the difference. She’s sure that if she were to ask, Lexa would give her the textbook definition and then some, but as they enter the house through the open French doors, Abby asks them if they had a good night and Clarke can’t bring herself to reply so she doesn’t. Instead she lets Lexa shower first and stands under the hot stream when it’s her turn determined to scrub the scent of burnt-wood and Finn’s cologne off of her.

She lays next to Lexa in painful silence, toes tucked into the end of the bed, hating the thought that they are outgrowing themselves.

It rains the next day and Clarke can’t explain the inherent restlessness that she feels.

It’s all encompassing, leaving an awful, sickly film on her tongue and she wishes so badly she can reclaim the things she said to Lexa and shove them back into the depths of her chest where she keeps her other ugly feelings but it’s too late now.

She feels like all of her dirty laundry has been aired out to dry and it’s in bright neon orange so that it’s impossible people haven’t seen it.

Abby tuts at the weather over serving them waffles pried out of the iron and sliding the syrup across the counter and Jake emerges from the bunk room with a stack of board games in tow. He doesn’t see the way Clarke’s stomach positively flips at the sight. She wants to spring away from the breakfast nook and burrow into her bed until she suffocates herself but Lexa is staring at her and something about it screws her to her stool.

They play monopoly until Clarke’s brain bleeds. She’s so eager to do something that she drowns herself in properties and in turn, debts that she can’t pay off and bankrupts herself almost immediately and they listen to the old CD’s Jake fishes out from the dusty bookcase in the hall until she is sure the thing growing inside her will crawl up her throat and spray itself across the walls. She stands up from where she sits on the wooden floors, staring dumbly at her Clue cards like—the knife, the ballroom, the reverend—like they could be a tarot deck, legs screaming in protest. Her parents stare at her, a collective frown hidden beneath obvious concern, but Lexa just cocks her head and peers at her from the ground.

The rain beats at the windows, hard and sharp and with no intention of stopping considering the thickness of the heavy clouds that hem in the lake and the syrupy heat clogs up her lungs until she can’t breathe. She crosses the room with sure-footed intent, flinging open the doors, all trembling hands and pent up anger until she can feel the cold needles of rain on her face and her tee sags, waterlogged under the weight of it.

Lexa’s fingers find the hem of her shirt, begging her back inside but she garbles something childish like ‘last one in’s the loser’ and takes off, across the deck, down the stairs and over the grass at terrifying speed, rain in her eyes and mud underfoot. Her hair is soaked and it hangs thickly off her lashes and somewhere beyond the loud thump-thump of her heart in her ears she thinks she can hear Lexa behind her, heavy big breathes and screaming at her to stop.

The hard wooden planks of the jetty come as a shock and they jar something loose in her chest. All of the terrible feelings come spilling out and she can barely see past the opaque sheets of rain but she launches herself off the end and this time, the ice-cold impact of the water does come.

She sinks like a stone fully clothed, water roaring in her ears and when her bare feet brush the silt at the bottom of the lake, she kicks off and surfaces a second later, blinking water out of her eyes to find Lexa standing at the edge of the jetty staring at her.

Suddenly, the memory of being in this exact position eight years ago hits her hard enough to knock the breath out of her—Lexa’s striped swimsuit, the tire-swing and the high-on-life feeling of elation when she surfaced to see Lexa cheering for her.

“Come on!” Clarke hollers over the rain, shielding her eyes with her hand as her legs fight to keep her afloat.

Lexa scoffs and shakes her head but unlike last night, Clarke thinks it’s a smile hiding beneath the curve of her lip. “You’re crazy!” she laughs in disbelief but she has this look—this lopsided, word-splitting look—on her face and Clarke knows she has her.

When she jumps in, the world somehow rights itself and Clarke is sure that the sun will come out again with the sheer force of Lexa’s smile.

They go from Juniors to Seniors and, despite Clarke’s valiant effort to make it fit, they grow out of their double bed.

Jake offers to make up the bunk room but Lexa respectfully declines, electing to sleep in their usual room on the trundle bed and Clarke is not-so-silently grateful. She laments mournfully that Lexa needs to stop growing, poking her in all the soft places that make her squirm as they lie upside down on the too-small bed, as if wishful thinking will make them seven-years-old again.

Lexa is already thinking about college—she has her sights set on UPenn or even Harvard and while Clarke knows without a doubt she will get in, the thought of Lexa being hours away makes her chest uncomfortably tight.

“I won’t be any more than a couple of hours away,” Lexa hums, catching Clarke’s offending fingers in her hot hands. “Even if I get in to Berkeley it’s only a five hour flight.”

Clarke peers at her in faux-concern. Berkeley was a late comer on Lexa’s college radar but when the guidance counsellor suggested it might be a good idea to apply on the West Coast, she had taken it on board. Clarke is thinking more liberal like NYU or BU. She hasn’t told Lexa yet that her mom has a contact at CalArts and that—after surveying the portfolio she put together for an school exhibition—they said she was a shoe in for early admissions. If Lexa doesn’t get into Berkeley she isn’t sure she could make the five hour journey and leave her best friend a whole country away.

“You and I have a very different idea of what ‘only five hours’ means,” she groans, laying back on her back and tucking her head into her best friends shoulder. They still have senior year left to decide. Her mom tells her that that’s what it’s for but Clarke can hardly stand all of this not knowing and ‘end of an era’ bullshit that their principal had starting spouting in the last week of Junior year. As if they needed a reminder that next year might as well be the most important of their life. The opposite of invigorating her for her future, all it has done is make the hot ache inside her chest grow stronger; it’s almost over and Clarke can’t help but feel like she has less than nothing figured out.

“Will it really be that bad?”

It seems Lexa has a bad memory.

“Do you remember summer camp?” Clarke asks pointedly and when Lexa nods, she grins, “case and point. And college is longer than an eight-week summer session.” She settles when Lexa taps at her own shoulder again with her pointer finger; a wordless invitation that Clarke takes up eagerly. They haven’t talked about the kiss since the bonfire two years ago.

In fact they haven’t talked about it hard enough—almost made a point not to bring it up—that Clarke has managed to convince herself it didn’t happen.

She plays with the soft hem of Lexa’s tee and closes her eyes against the smell of washing detergent and summer and roots far enough into Lexa’s shoulder that she is sure she can stay that way. Lexa laughs and she can feet the vibrations against her cheek, then even stronger when Lexa, in the midst of a soft chuckle says, “I love you.”

Clarke cocks her head at the odd cadence of her voice. “I love you too, dork,” she says because ‘that’s what best friends do’, “even if you are leaving me for a better climate.”

Lexa grumbles absently that ‘nothing is set in stone’ and ‘applications haven’t even come out yet’ but settles beneath Clarke regardless. They eke as much as they can out of the evening before Lexa has to retreat to her trundle bed and Clarke turns the light out, feeling aloof and untethered without the warm mass of Lexa’s body next to her.

Usually she longs for the quiet moments—the nights she spends with Lexa in their Eden of floral sheets and patterned wallpaper but instead, she finds herself restless and searching for something she isn’t quite sure how to find.

She wants to go to into senior year on solid ground, not feeling like she is wading through molasses but the truth is, as the summer wanes on, she isn’t any closer to finding her feet. They swim and sunbathe and eat sticky marshmallow straight from their sticks—Lexa gets it stuck above her lip and Clarke leans over to wipe it off with her thumb.

Jake takes them out on the boat and Abby comes with them into the dinky little eatery in town that has outdoor picnic tables and Lexa spams her phone with pictures of Clarke in a summer dress and a straw hat, hair in a single, twisted braid. It’s all wonderful and quintessentially summer but it isn’t what she wants.

While Lexa spreads herself out on a blue and white blanket with next year’s reading—it’s not like she didn’t read ‘The Great Gatsby’ in the eighth grade on a whim because Clarke liked the cover art depicting the ‘eyes of God’—Clarke finds Finn. They stand in the woods, not far from where they kissed the first night at the bonfire, with fervent hands on each other and weird energy rattling in her chest. Her heart isn’t in it when he places hot mouthed kisses along the column of her neck and she lets him ruck her shirt up over her chest just because he looks so earnest when he asks her. She knows it’s not at all a good reason to—as mortifying as it was her mom had been thorough when she sat Clarke down at the beginning of sophomore year to give her the talk and although it was more clinical than touchy feely she did make sure to instil a sense of its importance in her. It wasn’t that she shouldn’t be in charge of her own body, it was just that she should be careful who she is in charge of it with.

But all that feels so utterly faraway right now, like a picture just out of focus.

He smells like Axe body spray and even though she’s sure neither of them are wearing it, the sticky scent of sunscreen hangs in the air. She wrinkles her nose against it as he sucks down her collarbones and frowns at the hard, scrape of teeth, tugging him away by the hair at the nape of his neck with a sharp hiss.

“Ow,” she breathes.

“Sorry,” he huffs, flashing her a brilliant smile. He roots his hands back under her shirt. “I almost ignored your text when I got it this morning,” he hums against her, “I nearly deleted your number after the bonfire. Atom said you were too good for me and that you’d never text me back.” He raises his brows as if to say ‘let’s show him’ and Clarke is immediately repulsed.

“Finn,” she whines, high pitched and breathless as she tries to pull his hands off her. His fingers catch on her belt loop and she unhooks his thumb before giving his chest a light shove. “I need to go.”

He frowns. “But—”

“I have to get back,” she shakes her head decisively. “Bye Finn.”

There’s no other way to describe what she feels as she hikes back up the back to the house than ‘icky’. She has enough sense in her head to know for sure that she is anything but a summer conquest and, she thinks, if Finn wants to impress Atom so badly maybe he should feel him up instead.

Lexa is where she left her in her short-sleeved linen shirt and denim shorts, hair in its topknot and glasses perched on her head as she skims Gatsby’s tragic death and laments over Daisy’s poor character choices. She quells the itchy dizziness within Clarke immediately and as soon as she makes it over, she collapses down on the grass, rolling easily onto her back and landing her hands on her stomach with a heavy sigh.

“Boys suck,” she decides.

Lexa blinks at her, blank faced.

“Okay,” she says, because there’s really nothing more than that.

Lexa has always been hers. A three letter word isn’t going to change that—she hopes against hope that Lexa didn’t believe it would—but there are tears clinging to Lexa’s lashes like dew on the spiderwebs they used to find under the picnic table when they were seven and the sight sticks in Clarke’s chest, so painfully it’s all she can do to pull her into a hug. She hooks her arm over Lexa’s shoulder and pulls her into her chest, letting Lexa root into her shoulder until she thinks nothing could separate them. “Oh, Lex,” she coos, “you’re okay,” and more than that, “we’re okay.”

When Lexa pulls back she’s trembling. The breeze is hot today but Lexa looks as if she is in the middle of a tundra in a swimsuit because her shoulders shake and her chin quivers and is it bad of her to think that right now she is the prettiest that Clarke has ever seen her?

“Thank you for telling me,” she whispers.

Lexa nods, her chin wobbles.

“How long have you known?”

Clarke doesn’t know why she asks other than that it seems of the utmost importance. It’s awfully dramatic but she feels like her entire life will rest on this moment, like she will look back at it through the lense of experience to either wallow or regret or point to it as the thing that changed everything. She only hopes it’s the latter. Lexa’s eyes are seven different colours through the prism of the tears held captive at her lash line and it’s all Clarke can do not to let it take her breath away.

“Two years.”

Clarke feels the air evacuate her chest. She feels like she is on fire, her body tingles and she is relatively sure she isn’t a whole person—not yet at least, not with Lexa looking at her the way she is—but half of one, made of nothing but open nerve endings and raw want. It all knots inside of her and swells until it is impossible to ignore.

Clarke kisses her.

She grasps Lexa by the shoulder, the linen of her shirt crushed against the heat of her palm, and leans in with her mouth open and a fervent kind of desperation she hasn’t kissed anyone with in her life. It’s heavy and bold and oh so desperate. Lexa’s brows shoot to her hairline before coming back down as her fingers find the hem of Clarke’s tee and fist in it like she needs something to keep her from inevitably floating off into space.

Clarke knows the feeling.

It feels like every single moment of her life has led to this point, and now that she’s here, she is sure she isn’t. Her hand comes up to rest on Lexa’s jaw and she takes stock of what she knows: the colour of Lexa’s eyes; the shape of the scar above her lip; how she scrunches her eyes when she is happy and throws her head back when she laughs, and when she is troubled by something, she gets a look on her face that is both devastating and beautiful.

It’s there now, caught in the place between her eyebrows.

It makes Clarke nervous.

She feels clumsy and inelegant but Lexa tangles their fingers together. She tastes like summer and everything good, Clarke feels drunk on it.

“I love you,” she whispers because that’s not what best friends do.

“I love you,” Lexa says.

The entire world feels encapsulated into a heartbeat Clarke thinks it might just be her last.

Maybe she doesn’t like easy after all.

#clexaweek2019 #day 7 #free day #clexa fic #childhood au #clarke griffin #lexa

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alljaankari · 2 years ago

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These 10 Markets in Delhi Have Affordable and Trendy Clothing for Everyone

Until recently, women were the only ones who went shopping. The metrosexual men of the modern day know how to look sharp, so this summer, prepare to look dashing and fly without spending a lot of money. You’ll find funky graphic tees, cheap jeans, breezy khaki pants, and more at these cool markets in the city. You can give your wardrobe a makeover without the guilt of spending too much on clothes!

1. Sarojini Nagar Market

Sarojini Nagar was meant to be the setting for the phrase ‘the sky’s the limit’. Can you think of any other place which offers such an incredible variety of everything? Among Delhiites, this flea market is the place to go for all kinds of fashion needs, and for good reason. It is a haven for all the guys in town because they can buy jeans, tie-dyed t-shirts, khaki pants, button-ups, blazers, and just about anything else they need at throwaway prices!

Where | Central Market – Lajpat Nagar II, Lajpat Nagar

Timings | 10 AM – 9 PM

2. Janpath

In terms of fashion clothing and junk jewellery, Janpath is a popular market among college students. The attraction is not only for girls anymore. It is also possible to find many options for men on the market. They have it all, including graphic t-shirts, belts, shoes, and denim, at really affordable prices. You can find some great deals if you use your bargaining skills. During chilly weather, you can find jackets or sweats to keep you warm.

Where | Janpath Market, Janpath Road, Janpath, CP

Timings | 11 AM – 9 PM

3. Karol Bagh Market

There is no better place to get affordable yet trendy clothing than Karol Bagh Market in Central Delhi. A polo shirt can be purchased here for as low as Rs 200, and a sweatshirt can be purchased for as much as Rs 300. In the market, you can find everything you need for a stylish wardrobe, including shoes, accessories, jackets, jeans, and more. You’ll also be able to enjoy some delicious street food while you’re there. Take advantage of your visit to Gaffar by checking out the latest electronics!

Where | Karol Bagh Market, Block 1, WEA, Karol Bagh

Timings | 11 AM – 10 PM

4. Palika Bazaar

You feel as if you’re in another world when you’re in this underground shoppers’ paradise. With around 390 shops, it’s an air-conditioned shopping hotspot where you can score an array of great clothes at affordable prices, among a gazillion other things. In spite of how many criticize the products here as defective, the range and variety you’ll find here is pretty friggin’ impressive. In order to shop here, you need to be a good bargainer because you can even negotiate to have a glow-in-the-dark tee reduced to just 200 for Rs 800.

Where | Palika Bazaar – CP

Timings | 10:30 AM – 8 PM

5. Central Market

When you step foot in Lajpat Nagar’s Central Market, your inner shopaholic will rise from the depths of abyss. You’ve got to keep your eyes peeled for funky graphic tees from roadside stalls at this market, so get ready for a total wardrobe revamp. So gear yourself up to be spoilt for choice with apparel in many styles and colours. This bazaar offers a huge variety of shops, and you’ll never be able to choose between them all!

Where | Central Market – Lajpat Nagar II, Lajpat Nagar

Timings | 10 AM – 9 PM

6. Atta Market

Atta Market in Noida, located in sector 18, is famous for its affordable attire from shops such as New Look Collection, JMD Fashion Zone, and others. Stylish jeans, hoodies, shirts, t-shirts, and hoodies in a variety of fabrics and prints are available in bulk in this store. Clothing stores regularly offer sales starting at Rs 150, isn’t that unbelievable? However, once clothes are sold in these shops, they cannot be taken back! Wear it or throw it! Even though it’s a bit far, you’ll be glad to make the trip when it gives you export surplus clothes!

Where | Atta Market – Sector 18, Noida

Timings | 10 AM – 9 PM

7. Chor Bazaar

Chor Bazaar offers goods from virtually every manufacturer in the country, and sometimes even from other countries. In the heart of Old Delhi, close to the Lajpat Rai Market, this flea market comes to life on Sunday mornings. You’ll find almost every type of clothing here at really affordable prices that you might forget you’re even in Delhi for a moment. There’s a famous store named Prince Majestic, which sells a wide variety of clothes in abundance, including really dapper sherwanis and traditional Indian suits for men at incredibly low prices.

Where | Chor Bazaar – Chandni Chowk, Behind Red Fort

Timings | 6 – 10 AM (Every Sunday)

8. Monastery Market

Located right in our very own capital, this market feels like a mini Tibet. There are many options to choose from here, such as shirts, t-shirts, jeans, bags, belts, caps, and even shoes at very affordable prices. College-goers & tourists alike are attracted to its Tibetan charm. It is usually filled with woollen clothing, such as pullovers, sweaters, cardigans, and gloves. A leather jacket is another item that makes people want to shop!

Where | Monastery Market – Bela Road, Monastery Market, Ladakh Budh Vihar Colony,

Timings | 10 AM – 8:30 PM

9. Mohan Singh Place

As we know it, this area was probably the birthplace of the shopping mall. This shop offers custom-made clothing for men since 1968, including suits, jeans, shirts, kurtas, and trousers. A perfect fit is ensured by measuring everything precisely. We can confidently say that their clothing has for sure won over the game of custom clothing since they feel like second skin when worn. The best feature is that they have all kinds of fabrics, so you can bring your own fabric and have them make you a shirt that highlights all your toned muscles. It’s time to throw away those baggy tees & droopy pants & slip into something more classy this summer.

Where | Mohan Singh Place – Baba Kharak Singh Marg, Outer Circle, CP

Timings| 10 AM – 9 PM

10. Yashwant Place Commercial Shopping Complex

This hidden gem is nestled among the affluent suburbs of Chanakyapuri and houses all types of leather items at the most affordable prices and of such high quality, that you won’t believe it’s there! There are a lot of foreigners who come here to purchase high-quality leather clothing, bags, and accessories. For some cool leather jackets this winter, head to this awesome complex!

Where | Yashwant Place Commercial Complex – Opposite Post Office, Satya Marg, Chanakyapuri

Timings | 10 AM – 10 PM

#Markets in Delhi

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rozellanelson-blog · 2 years ago

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thebridgelee-blog · 7 years ago

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Sydney, Australia Trip Look Book+What to Pack for One Week Vacations+Follow-up on my Previous Reblogged and Recommended Post++BONUS TIPS

Hello everyone! I am quite thrilled to finally get the time to write this hopefully not-too-lengthy post, as I just arrived from my vacation to Sydney Australia when I sat down for this. I am so grateful for having been given this opportunity to travel all the way to Australia and sky dive as well! The whole travel was such an expensive experience, but all well-worth it. Today, I figured I would share what I wore for each day from the day we went to the airport to fly to Sydney up until the last day when we went to the airport to fly back to the Philippines. Hopefully, everyone would find my look book and tips on what to pack helpful.

Sydney Australia Trip Look Book

Day 1

For the first day, I wore my faux wool-knit shirt with a zipper accent from Oxygen and paired it with my knee-ripped medium washed jeans from Lee for the simple reason that they are the simplest but still good looking pieces that I have planned for my trip. I also layered it with my new pink leather jacket from Zara, which I fell in love with immediately the first time I tried it on. It was the perfect fit! I added a few accessories such as my silver ring, my trusty Skagen watch, and my marble beaded bracelet, which I used for all of my outfits because unfortunately, my faux turquoise beaded bracelet from SM Accessories started fading, a perfect example of one of my tips from my second blog post, which states to never buy fake stone bracelets from cheap stores such as SM Accessories, unless you are okay with risking deterioration. I guess it is just time to purchase a new real one. For my bag, I used my new authentic leather bag from McJIM Classic Leather, and I added a hint of edgy elevated style by adding my Kenneth Cole Reaction aviator shades to the side of my bag, which was meant for the straps of the bag. For my shoes, I decided this outfit called for my light grey rubber shoes from Reebok.

Bonus tip: When planning what to wear for the first day of the trip, wear your least favorite items. However, still look good by making sure the over-all aesthetics of the outfit is preserved. For me, my least favorite piece was my shirt from Oxygen, which I still love but not as much as my newer shirts. This is because you really would rather save the better pieces for the next few days of the outing as the bulk of the trip is done in the mid-part of the adventure. To help the simple shirt, I used my pink leather jacket, which, being a very new and nice piece, would contradict my point about using your least favorite items. However, since it is a jacket, I can still sport it again on the next few days unlike items such as shirts that you may only use once before washing.

Read on to find out what I wore on Days 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7, plus what to pack to get a wide range of outfit possibilities for one week vacations in colder areas.

Day 2

For the second day, I decided to wear something a bit edgier, so I thought I’d wear my black leather jacket from Forever 21. I also wore my horizontal striped shirt from Cotton On, paired with my medium washed blue denim jeans, which, similar to the knee ripped jeans from the previous outfit, is also from Lee. Keeping all of my accessories from the previous outfit, I wore my shades instead since majority of the time was under the sun, walking on the streets and the beach of Manly. Also, wearing the shades gave the outfit just a bit more edginess. For my shoes, I wore my Tinman camel color boots. To finish the look, I used the same bag, which I also used for the rest of the trip for one reason, which I will explain in the latter part of this blog post.

Day 3

For the third day, I wanted to wear something more casual, but still put together. I decided to go for a sweater look. However, I do not advise wearing only sweaters in such a cold place such as Sydney in winter, so I wore a long sleeves thermal underneath. Also, I kept on-hand my pink leather jacket, just in case it does get too cold.

Bonus tip: When going for the sweater look in colder days, always have your jackets with you, but do not wear it. While yes it is a bit of a hassle to keep it on your arms the whole day, it will keep you warm when it is needed without destroying the sweater look when it isn’t

To continue the look, I paired my sweater with the same medium washed blue jeans from my previous outfit; and for my accessories, again, I used the same watch, bracelet, ring, and bag for the same reason stated from the previous outfits. I will not be mentioning these as they are redundantly seen (or not seen as I had long sleeves on all of the outfits to follow).

Day 4

For the fourth day, I decided to wear my very comfortable and relaxed fitted maroon tee from H&M. I paired it with my black denim jeans from Jag. Also, to layer the look, I added my dark blue jacket from Zara to give it a more elevated look since I found the jacket to look quite elegant but masculine. To finish the look, I put on my light grey rubber shoes from Reebok.

Day 5 (features the followup on the previous Reblogged and Recommended post)

For the fifth day, I decided to wear my new wool pea coat from H&M, which I purchased just the day before at the Westfield Mall in Sydney. This pea coat looks very similar to the one I found in H&M about two years ago, which I mentioned in my previous R&R post featuring a similar pea coat from another tumblr post. To match the coat, I used my dark charcoal knit short sleeve sweater from Penshoppe’s Relaxed Fit Collection. While normally, I do not like Penshoppe garments as I find that the design and quality usually looks cheap, having been there to try this on for my sister’s friend, I found this one to just dropped on my body so wonderfully well. It was very flowy but not baggy and loose. It was very relaxed, probably hence the name of the collection. Best part? It was just Php500. While I have scored items with the same price in the past from sales, this one was at full price, so it is really cheap for something I purchased in a mall. Check the store out if they still have it in your size and hopefully on sale.Anyway, to pair with the dark top, I put on my medium washed blue denim jeans from Lee. I also used my camel boots from Tinman.

Day 6

For the sixth day, I switched out my wool pea coat for my black leather jacket. For the base, I used my white fish scale print shirt, which I thrifted in Greenhills at Php250 because I thought it matched the sea landscape by the Sydney Opera House, which was where we went that day. Since the outfit looks very similar to Day 2 outfit, I decided to use my black pants and light grey rubber shoes to transform the outfit’s look a bit more. I also tended to use my Kenneth Cole Reaction aviator shades more as I was under the sun quite often that day.

Day 7 (also featuring another followup on the previous Reblogged and Recommended post)

For the seventh day, I packed all my clothes except my outfit for that day, which was my light grey beige short sleeve sweater and my black Jag jeans. To add as a layer, I used my very bulky pea coat. To finish the look, I used my camel Tinman boots. Side note: I did not realize up until I was reviewing and editing all my photographs that I wore a very similar outfit to the guy in the R&R post. The slight difference of the shoe color is the only thing hindering it from really looking similar to the clothes he wore. Of course, my type of shirt is different, but even the color is quite similar.

Bonus tip: When deciding on what to wear on the last day, wear the bulkiest things to save room in your luggage for souvenirs and other things you did not anticipate to bring home from the trip. For me, it was my coat and my boots that were the bulkiest, so I wore those to the airport that day.

What to pack when going on a one week trip in a freezing area to maximize outfit combos

Jackets and coats

I would suggest bringing at least two, so you can switch between jackets. I, however, broguth three and had a surprise fourth during the trip. While I did do that, I do not advise this if you have a small luggage. Mine is pretty huge. The luggage one can see above is not mine. Mine is quite larger than that, so unless you do have a large luggage, bring two.

Bonus tip: For smaller luggages, it is advisable to just have one of the jackets on the arms as hand-carry. This way, one can still bring two without having to put both in the luggage, which saves tons of space.

Pants

Normally on a daily basis, I would suggest wearing pants a couple more times (around 5) to preserve the quality and prevent them from fading from wash. However for trips, I always love to have choices when bringing my clothes, so even for a 7 day affair, which, if I were to follow my rule of using a single jeans five times, would only require one-two, I would suggest bringing three. Two jeans to have a decent amount of outfit combinations plus one more for those emergency bubbly semillon wine spills.

Shirts and sweaters

Thicker shirts and sweaters are your best friend. While one does not necessarily need to have thick shirts, it is advisable.

Bonus tip: If one plans on wearing something thin, he can opt to use a thermal undergarment. A short sleeve one is advisable for short sleeve shorts. However, if it is not available, a long sleeve one is fine as well. Your jacket, which will cover the long sleeve thermal will most probably be worn throughout the whole day anyway.

Accessories

Bring two to three bracelets and one to two watches to be able to have different options and combinations. While I did not have this option because my faux turquoise beaded bracelet faded, I do truly recommend bringing a bit more accessories for easy outfit transformations. Best part? It takes little to no space in the luggage!

Sunnies!

Always bring your shades! Shades are very versatile. It can be dressed up or a more elegant look or dressed down for a more rugged look. A simple classic pair can truly elevate your style. I suggest investing in a good and a bit pricey pair if you do not have one. I say pricey only because I find that sunglasses are one of those pieces worth spending on.

Bonus tip: Always have your shades with you when you are on the go. Whether it is being worn or simply hung by the side of your bag. Shades can instant add a little bit of style to a simple outfit, plus it gives one the option of wearing it when he is under the sun.

Scarves

Another easy way of transforming an outfit for the winter is a good scarf. I would recommend bring two to three different styles or designs of scarfs.

Bonus tip: If you do not have an infinity scarf, you can mimic this effect by wrapping a regular scarf around twice and tying the ends at the back of your nape just under the first layer of scarf to hide the knot.

Shoes

If you have the luxury of bring two pair of shoes, do that. If not, then do not. However, I highly recommend bringing two because shoes, being one of the bigger kinds of accessories, can instant change the look of an outfit.

Bonus tip: To pack shoes in luggages without dirtying the other garments, put it in a plastic bag. This way, one can keep it from touching the other clothes and still have it at its least bulkiest, without the box and all.

Bag

Always have one versatile bag both in terms of what can be placed in it and the the number of outfits it can make. For example, I brought my McJIM cross body leather bag. I could have chosen to bring my beautiful black leather envelope bag, but I chose this one as it can hold more and it can definitely be worn more than one way. What do I mean by that? Well, this bag’s straps can be removed and in turn, transforms the bag into an almost briefcase style bag. What I love especially about this bag is that it has a very sleek vertical design, which I find to look very interesting and out there, yet still very classic and versatile. In a way, by bringing this one bag, I am able to bring two type of bag styles by just removing or placing back on the leather straps.

Other necessities

While I do not believe I need to mention this, I will anyway. Do not forget to bring your toiletries, shampoo, tooth brush.

Bonus tip: Bring a hairdryer always because some hotels do not have this, and often times when they do, the hairdryers are not that strong and will not do the job quickly for you. Every hairdryer is different, and most likely the one you are using at the moment is easy for you, so make sure you bring it for a more convenient time preparing in the morning.

Bonus bonus tip: Transfer your perfumes and hair products to smaller containers, which can be purchased at Beabi. I love their very basic and generic looking bottle, which are perfect for storing different items. They sell small tubes and pans, so I really advise buying one those for travels.

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dippedanddripped · 6 years ago

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Tokyo-based Hiroshi Fujiwara may be a household name in streetwear circles, but he is far from a fashion celebrity.

“I like to be mysterious,” he says when we meet him in Hong Kong during the annual Art Basel event in March. “I don’t think I need to explain what I do. You can say designer, producer, musician.

“Last night I was at this Prada party and nobody knew who I was. I just went as a guest of my friend, who took me there. I like that people don’t know what I do. Some think that I’m a designer but I am not. I don’t even know what I really do.”

Fujiwara was in Hong Kong to take part in a talk with Hans Ulrich Obrist of London’s Serpentine Gallery and Kevin Ma, founder of online platform

Hypebeast

. Clad in a black jumper from his range with Moncler, dark trousers and trainers, he looked anonymous and low key.

While Fujiwara is considered a streetwear guru, his interests vary from fashion and music to retail, media and even food. The day we met him, he had just returned from Macau, where he had attended the announcement of Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants.

To call Fujiwara a pioneer in the interconnected world of art, fashion, media and technology is a bit of an understatement. Point to any disruptive developments that have shaped the way we consume fashion in the last three decades, and it’s likely that he was behind most of them. Put simply, Fujiwara did it first, paving the way for brands such as Supreme, companies such as Hypebeast and the explosive growth of the sneaker industry.

Born in a coastal town in central Japan, Fujiwara moved to Tokyo as a teenager. After travelling to the US, he brought American street culture to Japan, turning the Tokyo neighbourhood of Ura-Harajuku, back then a sleepy area, into the epicentre of Japanese street fashion.

A young creative with an entrepreneurial spirit, he famously helped two then-unknown designers – Jun Takahashi, founder of Undercover, and Nigo, who went on to found A Bathing Ape – open a store named Nowhere.

His foray into design, a label named Good Enough, was short-lived as he soon realised that he was better at working with other companies rather than making things himself, a low-risk strategy that puts him at the forefront of today’s collaboration-driven culture

“I stopped doing what I was doing before, which was mainly retail, because I wanted to be independent,” says Fujiwara of his decision to become a free agent and to establish fragment design in 2003. “I decided not to make products in a studio or an office and to just start collaborating with other people.”

While the idea of partnering with various brands seems far from novel, it was a new thing when Fujiwara started doing it in the late 1980s and early 1990s.

“That was the only thing I could do when I started working by myself,” he explains. “One of the first collaborations was with Porter Yoshida in the late ’80s or early ’90s. My thinking was that Porter is a great company that makes great bags so if I want to make a bag I should do it with the best in the industry.

“Same with sneakers. I don’t want to make my own sneakers because Nike already makes them so I did it with Nike. Or Moncler, which has a great winter collection, or Levi’s, which makes jeans.”

Fujiwara, who admits that he cannot even remember all the brands he has worked with, does not take it personally when those companies end up not producing his work.

“They steal my ideas; that’s what I do for them,” he explains. “I have a lot of freedom but sometimes the things I make are not made for sale and I don’t mind. That’s their decision and their choice. I just make stuff that I want to wear and that I like.”

That big companies such as Nike, Levi’s,

Moncler

and even Starbucks or Sony give Fujiwara such freedom speaks to the respect and authority that he commands.

“The Japanese have a good eye. Americans make good things but don’t have a good eye,” he says of his ability to suss out what’s cool. “When I was travelling to the US years ago I would go to vintage stores and they would sell all this denim in bulk. They didn’t care what it was and it was very cheap but out of 50 pairs I would always find something super rare that was worth a lot of money and they didn’t even know.”

He explains that the Japanese developed their own sense of style because they were never bound by preconceived notions of what an army jacket or a pair of denim pants should look like, twisting them and reworking them until they often looked better than the original.

While he is not entirely disillusioned with the current state of affairs, Fujiwara believes that “fashion itself is not trendy any more”.

“People don’t buy as many clothes or want to become fashion designers. I’m looking forward to seeing what happens with 5G and Google’s new game platform. I don’t play games but I want to see what technology companies will do,” he says.

Whether it’s a Moncler ski jacket, Nike trainers or a pair of Levi’s jeans, Fujiwara is drawn to things that are real and authentic. “Personally I don’t buy trainers from luxury brands. I’d rather buy real trainers but I understand why fashion brands want to do streetwear and why people want to buy it,” he says.

He has no objections to the way high-end labels have been making inroads into streetwear, or to the commercialisation of street fashion.

“I don’t mind if streetwear has become corporate because I’m not corporate,” he says. “I don’t see it as a bad thing as long as I can do what I want to do.”

#fashion #hiroshifujiwara #japanese style #japanese fashion #streetwear blog #womens streetwear #streetstyle

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athletaint · 6 years ago

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armory-rasa · 8 years ago

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Leatherworking Lecture: Casing

Hey, wow, I just hit 500 followers, thought I'd say thanks to everyone out there who's stalking me and do something to celebrate. So here, guys, have something nice -- have, uhh... *digs through closet* ...a tutorial on how to prepare leather for tooling & shaping! :D

Greetings! Today I shall deliver an excessively long lecture on casing, aka, getting leather properly wet in order to carve it, tool it, and mold it. (You will be astounded how many words I have to say on the subject of "get it wet.") This is not the most glamorous part of leatherworking, but it is an important one -- properly cased leather will give you better results on your finished product, and also make it easier and more fun. Working with good, properly-cased leather is a genuine joy -- working with cheap or badly-cased leather is an exercise in frustration.

I haven't really found anywhere else that puts all this information in one place. Other people have talked extensively about tooling, because that's the fun part, but I've never found a comprehensive guide to casing. When newbies get on leatherworking forums, etc, and ask for advice on casing, the old-timers tend to say things like "You'll learn to tell when it's properly cased" or "You'll get a feel for it" -- which is true, but not all that helpful when you're first starting out.

So, what kind of projects do you need to case your leather for? In short, anything that involves molding, aka rounding and shaping, such as bags and pauldrons, anything that has that nice three-dimensional curve to it....

...Or tooling, which is when you put a design in leather by carving and stamping it.

...Or both. Most of the projects I do involve both -- I tool the design onto the surface and then shape them into something wearable.

Casing is for VEGETABLE-TANNED LEATHER ONLY. Chrome-tanned, aka garment leather, the soft and colorful stuff that's used for leather jackets, pants, upholstery, etc, doesn't have any of the same properties as veg-tan. It's usually got a glossy, textured surface on one side and suede on the other. (Or suede on both sides.) You can't mold it, you can't tool it, and if you get it wet you'll only ruin it. This is chrome-tan:

Meanwhile, veg-tan is this stuff:

Veg-tan comes in one color, that distinctive pinkish-tan, and it's much stiffer than chrome-tan. You will not be sewing any clothes out of veg-tan, it's for belts, shoes, hard-sided bags, and armor. This is your tooling leather. It should be smooth, not textured, with a matte surface. Don't worry about the color, veg-tan is very good at taking dye, which chrome-tan is not.

(For a longer discussion of chrome-tan vs veg-tan, see the post I dedicated to the subject.)

Honestly, I think it's incredibly confusing for beginners that both of them get referred to as just "leather" without any qualifiers, since their properties are as different as worbla from denim. So if you've accidentally bought chrome-tan, put it away, save it for another project, go get some veg-tan, and come back.

Okay? Okay.

Veg-tan leather is a lot like a sponge -- it's a bunch of interconnected fibers that soak up water extremely well, and when it's wet it becomes quite malleable. I like to call it the medieval version of plastic, because of how incredibly versatile it is.

So much shape!

The key to casing is to make sure that your leather is wet all the way through, right to the core, because you're not going to get the right results if the core of the leather is still dry -- it's not going to stretch (for molding) or cut deeply (for carving) or compress (for tooling). You need to let the water penetrate all the way through -- and then you need to let some of it evaporate off again.

This is the essence of proper casing: that the core of the leather is damp, but the surface is relatively dry. It allows the leather to hold a new shape when you stretch it, but also allows your stamping to be crisp instead of squishy.

You soak the leather with more water than it needs and then let it start to dry out again. "Properly" casing the leather just means being able to identify when it's at the sweet spot between too wet and too dry. The old-timers are right when they say you'll learn that from experience, but seriously, it’s not voodoo and it’s not rocket science -- they just know what to look for, and after you read my cheat sheet, you will know what to look for too.

So, rookie mistake number one: just getting the surface wet. Spritzing it with a spray bottle, running it briefly under the tap, etc, isn't going to do the trick. That gets the surface of the leather wet, but it's going to evaporate long before it gets to the core, which is the part that actually needs to be wet.

Not good. In fact, very bad. The only time you should be using spritzed leather is when you are at the leather store and wanting to try out a stamp before you buy it.

Fill up a bowl with water (or a sink, depending on the size of your project), and then submerge the entire piece in the water face-down. It will start wicking up water immediately and you'll be able to see it bubbling and fizzing as the air inside gets squeezed out and replaced with water. No need to fold or bend it, just put it underwater and hold it there.

Or if you’re doing in bulk:

You don't have to hold it under until it stops bubbling altogether, because you don't need the piece to be completely waterlogged -- recall that the goal here is to get it wet enough that the water can work its way to the core. But when you're just starting out, before you have a good feel for what the right amount of saturation is, you can err on the side of caution by holding it under until the fizzing stops or until it slows ways down. Being over-saturated doesn't do it any harm -- it isn't going to hurt the leather or damage your project, it'll just take longer to dry out before it's usable.

When you pull the leather out, you'll see the water on the surface disappearing as it's absorbed into the leather. The leather also becomes much more flexible as the water penetrates -- flexibility and speed of absorption are your main indicators of how saturated the leather is.

Hard to show in a freeze-frame, but that water is actively disappearing into the leather. Ten seconds later it was gone altogether.

If the leather is still very stiff, you should probably give it some more time underwater. (On the other hand, if it's gotten all soggy and floppy, you're done.) Or if you take it out and the water on the surface is immediately sucked into the leather, it probably needs more time. (Conversely: if the water on the surface is just sitting there, ie, the leather is no longer absorbing water, it's done.)

A good level of wet: leather that is still absorbing water, but rate of absorption has slowed.

So how long do you hold it underwater to reach that “good level of wet”? That'll depend on the thickness and the density of the leather.

For thin leather (up to 5 oz, re: ~1.5 mm), a couple of very quick dunks is usually all you need, we're talking just a few seconds at a time, adjusting your grip on it so that your fingertips don't leave dry spots. Thin leather reaches saturation very quickly -- but it also dries out again very quickly, so it's not a big deal if you overshoot.

For thicker leather, it will vary greatly depending on density. For leather in the 8-10 oz range (about 4 mm), some of it will be completely soaked through in under fifteen seconds, some of it will still be fizzing even after several minutes underwater.

Leather that's very spongy and porous will soak up water MUCH faster than dense leather, and then it'll take commensurately longer to dry, because it's carrying more water to get rid of. You can identify spongy leather because (1) it has a looser grain on the underside, one that likes to tear away from the rest of the hide if you pull on it and (2) it's relatively flexible, even when it's dry.

Whenever possible, avoid leather that looks like the one on the right.

Leather that's exceptionally dense will take a very long time to absorb enough water, since the water has a hard time working its way in. You can recognize super-dense leather because it is VERY tough and difficult to bend, and after you put it underwater there's a noticeable delay before it starts bubbling.

When the leather starts absorbing water, it immediately becomes much darker (though don't worry, it will return 100% to its original color once it's dried).

Be careful not to get spatters of water droplets on dry leather, unless it's going underwater almost immediately afterward, because it will leave circles on the leather where it swells and then shrinks back down.

So, looking at some pictures:

Judging by the flexibility, this is where I would stop. It's not completely sodden and dripping, but it has enough water to migrate to the core.

Soaked. If the water is pooling on the surface and NOT being absorbed, it's more than saturated. If the water is still being sucked into the leather very quickly, give it another couple few-second dunks.

That's the protocol if you're preparing leather for tooling or doing some moderate shaping to it. If you're going to be subjecting the leather to very dramatic stretching and shaping (such as using a bag mold), I've heard people recommend leaving it underwater for as long as 5-10 minutes. This will ensure that every last bit of air has been replaced with water, and the leather is as malleable as it's ever going to get.

The next step is to put the leather in an airtight (or airtight-ish) container and let it sit for many hours, so that the water it has absorbed can disperse evenly through the fibers. I usually put it in a plastic bag (gallon ziplock bags if it'll fit, plastic grocery bags if it's too big for that), and let it sit at least overnight.

The key is uniformity: you want to get water dispersed evenly through the leather, not drying out in some patches while staying soggy in others. It's still not an exact science, because the density of the leather affects the speed of absorption/evaporation, and the density of the leather can vary even across the same piece, but you do the best you can.

That light blotch is a patch where the leather is denser and therefore not absorbing water as quickly as the surrounding area. All you can do is keep applying water to that one patch specifically and try to make it even out.

There is no such thing as over-casing, so it can sit in that plastic bag indefinitely. The most beautifully-cased pieces I've ever worked with tend to be ones that have sat in the bag for a couple days, or even a week or more -- but if it's going to be more than a few days before you get the chance to work with it, I strongly recommend putting it in the fridge so it doesn't start to grow mold. Chilling doesn't do your piece any harm, but mold definitely will.

Ewwwwww.

(Freezing, mind you, WILL ruin the piece, so be careful if you've got a fridge that likes to freeze things.)

I tend to let it sit in an airtight environment (ie, the ziplock bag) for the hours that it’s soaking, so that it doesn’t risk drying out while the water is working its way to the core of the leather; then a little while before go-time, I take it out of the bag and let it sit exposed to air to get the surface of the leather to the right level of dry.

So I said that "properly cased" is the sweet spot between too wet and too dry. If rookie mistake #1 is trying to work with it when it's too dry (aka, just dampened on the top surface), then rookie mistake #2 is trying to work with it when it's too wet.

It is too wet for tooling if:

- The color is still as dark as when you first pulled it out of the water

- It's still sodden and floppy (won't hold a curve, just falls over)

- When you press on the surface of the leather, with a tool or even with just your finger, you can see water rising in the indentation. (Holy shit, son, look at the gif I made!)

- The leather doesn't change color where you indent it (it all just stays the same level of dark)

- The surface has noticeable friction -- it "drags" on your stamps and your swivel knife, tugging the leather in the direction your tools are moving. You find your tools catching on it and making a lot of mini-jumps instead of gliding smoothly along the surface.

- The leather is too squishy to hold a shape. When you hit it with a stamp, it makes an indentation, but then when you make an adjacent stamp, the previous section squishes right back up instead of staying down. Makes for very lumpy tooling. Also if the grooves you've cut with your swivel knife are too soft, and your stamps are trying to walk over the line instead of being guided by it.

If it looks gross when you tool it, it will not get any prettier when it dries:

(So that tooling is awful, the way you can see the individual lumps from every stamp strike, but in my defense I was working under seriously sub-optimal conditions: the piece had already been dyed, sealed, and shaped before I decided to take it apart again and add more bling. It was a nightmare to work with, and the results are not nearly as good as if I’d done it correctly from the start.)

If you're putting a dramatic curve in the leather, like the kind of rounded pauldrons where you're practically wrapping it around a bowling ball, you can do a lot of your preliminary stretching while it's soaking wet, but you can't make your final shape -- unless you're letting it dry over a mold, it's too floppy and won't stay in the shape you put it.

This is also a good time to point out that leather is not a particularly forgiving medium -- once you put an indentation in it, there is no way to get it out. If you scratch it with a fingernail, miss the stamp and hit the leather with your hammer, or space out and stamp in the wrong place, that mark is there to stay.

(For this reason, I recommend against wearing bracelets, a watch, or cuffs with buttons on your non-dominant hand when you're tooling -- you're likely to roll your hand wrong and leave unwanted dents in your project. And if you're bored, cold, and/or tired when you're tooling, you're likely to miss the stamp and hit the leather with your hammer, just sayin' is all, not that I've ever done that. >_>) You can smooth out very shallow dents/scratches with the back of a spoon, but really, it's better to just be careful.

So if you’re hitting any of the points on the “too wet” list, there’s an easy solution: let it dry. Leave it out on the shelf and go do something else. Depending on temperature/humidity/etc and depending on how saturated you got your leather, this can sometimes take many hours. Check back on it periodically to see whether it’s ready.

You know your leather is at the sweet spot when:

- The color is about halfway between totally wet and totally dry

- The surface of the leather feels dry, but is still slightly cold to the touch. (You can gauge this better by pressing it to your cheek than trying to feel it with your fingertips.)

- It has regained some of its stiffness, and will hold a curve if you bend it

- Swivel knives and stamps such as smooth bevelers & smooth pear shaders should be able to glide across the surface without sticking or catching. This is what smooth carving looks like:

This is what smooth stamping looks like:

- It takes stamps *beautifully* and gets that lovely burnishing where you hit it. Properly cased leather will actually change color when you indent it, either with a stylus or with a stamp. The effect is called burnishing, it's lovely and it's *vital* if you're going to be keeping the leather its natural color, otherwise your design won't show up very well.

***

When it’s at the right level of casing, you can put it back in the bag until you’re ready to work with it, and also between steps. This will halt the drying, and keep it at the perfect state until you have time to do the next step. Trace the lineart -- back in the bag -- carve your cutlines -- back in the bag -- do your stamping -- back in the bag -- shape it -- now you can let it dry.

You're probably not going to accidentally let the leather dry too much before you start working with it (because we're all eager to get on with our exciting projects, yes?), but if it's a large piece and you're working in a warm, dry location, it's not unusual for the piece to get too dry before you can finish it.

Amount of saturation, plus air temperature, ventilation, and humidity will affect how quickly it dries -- leather will dry slower indoors than out, and slower in the shade than in the sun. I STRONGLY recommend against carving and tooling in direct sunlight -- it gives you precious little time to do your thing before it's too dry to work with.

My advice is work quickly, work in the shade, work from the outside in (because edges will dry out faster than the center), and when you’re not actively working on your piece, put it back in the bag to keep it cased until you come back to it. Other people have recommended covering parts of your project to keep them cased until you're ready to work with them.

Once you've started carving/stamping, you can't soak the leather again without fucking up the work you've already done. You can buy yourself more time by carefully administering more water with a damp washcloth/sponge to the underside of the leather, but avoid applying water to the surface that you’ve carved or stamped -- you don’t want water in your cutlines or they will become swollen and less sharp, and you'll lose a lot of your fine textures.

The leather is too dry if:

- The color has entirely returned to its original state

- The temperature of the leather is as warm as the surrounding air

- It gets harder to stamp -- you find yourself having to whack the stamps harder in order to get the same depth

- Your swivel knife won't cut very deep into the leather

- If you bend the leather, it springs back to its previous form, you can’t give it a new shape.

- The color doesn't change where you indent it (stays light)

Too dry is a better mistake than too wet, in my opinion, but it does put the time crunch on.

So what do you do with it, now that it's properly cased?

Now you get to tool it, which is usually the step that tutorials on leatherworking skip directly to. You can google it -- “leather tooling/carving tutorials” -- and someday I’ll probably make one myself.

If you're going to do both tooling and shaping on your project (such as decorated armor) your order of operations is crucial: you HAVE to tool it before you shape it, because you can only tool leather when it's flat against your work surface -- once you've put a curve in it, it's going to be difficult-nigh-impossible to stamp.

Moreover, you can't let it dry out between tooling and shaping, because you can't re-case it after tooling -- it’ll kill the details in your design. If there's going to be a delay between finishing your tooling and working it into the final shape, put it back in the plastic bag and seal it up again. Putting it in the bag again halts the drying process, and it will remain at the same level of cased almost indefinitely.

Other things to do while your leather is flat, before you shape it:

- Round off your edges -- with an edge beveler if you've got one or with an exacto knife + sandpaper if you don't. Not only is this more easily done when the leather is still flat, before you stretch it into a three-dimensional shape, but damp leather is also kinder to blades than dry leather. (Like how your stylist gets your hair wet before cutting it.)

- Dye it. Better when flat, because you're less likely to get streaks of dye running down the sides, and better when damp, because it's still permeated with water, which means that dye doesn't absorb as quickly and you can "float" it further across the piece, giving you a much more even application of color.

- Punch any holes you need. Seriously, hole punching can be a pain the ass when your piece isn't flat.

And now, once you've done everything else you can conceivably think of to your project, stretch it into the shape you want, and prop it up to let it dry.

How long it takes to fully dry will depend on a lot of factors -- temperature, humidity, the thickness of the leather -- but in general it takes armor-weight leather about 8 hours to mostly dry, and by the 24-hour mark it will be totally dry. (This is why tooled projects take at least a couple days, even if I were to be working on nothing else -- the hours needed to case, the hours needed to dry.)

Now you can apply your finishes, edge coats, waxes, etc, and assemble your final project.

THE END

#leatherworking #tutorial #cosplay #instructional #casing #the most under-appreciated skill in leatherworking

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