#One Mint Julep

[whileiamdying]

Quincy Jones, Giant of American Music, Dies at 91

As a producer, he made the best-selling album of all time, Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” He was also a prolific arranger and composer of film music.

By Ben Ratliff Nov. 4, 2024

Quincy Jones, one of the most powerful forces in American popular music for more than half a century, died on Sunday night in his home in the Bel Air section of Los Angeles. He was 91.

His death was confirmed in a statement by his publicist, Arnold Robinson, who did not specify the cause.

Mr. Jones began his career as a jazz trumpeter and was later in great demand as an arranger, writing for the big bands of Count Basie and others; as a composer of film music; and as a record producer. But he may have made his most lasting mark by doing what some believe to be equally important in the ground-level history of an art form: the work of connecting.

Beyond his hands-on work with score paper, he organized, charmed, persuaded, hired and validated. Starting in the late 1950s, he took social and professional mobility to a new level in Black popular art, eventually creating the conditions for a great deal of music to flow between styles, outlets and markets. And all of that could be said of him even if he had not produced Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” the best-selling album of all time.

Mr. Jones’s music has been sampled and reused hundreds of times, through all stages of hip-hop and for the theme to the “Austin Powers” films (his “Soul Bossa Nova,” from 1962). He has the third-highest total of Grammy Awards won by a single person — he was nominated 80 times and won 28. (Beyoncé’s 32 wins is the highest total; Georg Solti is second with 31.) He was given honorary degrees by Harvard, Princeton, Juilliard, the New England Conservatory, the Berklee School of Music and many other institutions, as well as a National Medal of Arts and a National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Master fellowship.

His success — as his colleague in arranging, Benny Carter, is said to have remarked — may have overshadowed his talent.

Mr. Jones at his induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2013 in Los Angeles.Credit...Danny Moloshok/Invision, via Associated Press.

In the late 1950s and early ’60s, Mr. Jones led his own bands and was the arranger of plush, confident recordings like Dinah Washington’s “The Swingin’ Miss ‘D’” (1957), Betty Carter’s “Meet Betty Carter and Ray Bryant” (1955), and Ray Charles’s “Genius + Soul = Jazz” (1961). He arranged and conducted several collaborations between Frank Sinatra and Count Basie, including what is widely regarded as one of Sinatra’s greatest records, “Sinatra at the Sands” (1966).

He composed the soundtracks to “The Pawnbroker” (1964), “In Cold Blood” (1967) and “The Color Purple” (1985), among many other movies; his film and television work expertly mixed 20th-century classical, jazz, funk and Afro-Cuban, street, studio and conservatory. And the three albums he produced for Michael Jackson between 1979 and 1987 — “Off the Wall,” “Thriller” and “Bad” — arguably remade the pop business with their success, by appealing profoundly to both Black and white audiences at a time when mainstream radio playlists were becoming increasingly segregated.

At 11, a Pivotal ‘Whisper’

Quincy Delight Jones Jr. was born on the South Side of Chicago on March 14, 1933, to Quincy Sr. — a carpenter who worked for local gangsters — and Sarah (Wells) Jones, a musically talented Boston University graduate. At one point in the late 1930s, Quincy and his brother, Lloyd, were separated from their mother, who had developed a schizophrenic disorder, and taken by their father to Louisville, Ky., where they were put in the care of their maternal grandmother, a former enslaved worker.

By 1943, Quincy Sr. had moved with his sons to Bremerton, Wash., where he found work in the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. They were eventually joined by his second wife, Elvera, and her three children, and four years later the family moved to Seattle. Once there, Quincy Sr. and Elvera had three more children; of the eight, Quincy Jr. and Lloyd perceived themselves to be the least favored by their stepmother and were often left to fend for themselves.

But the young Quincy was hungry to learn, and eventually to leave. At 11, he and his brother broke into a recreation center looking for food; there was a spinet piano in a supervisor’s room in the back, and as he later told the story in the BBC documentary “The Many Lives of Q” (2008), “God’s whispers” made him move toward it and touch it.

He went on to join his school band and choir, learning several brass, reed and percussion instruments, and music became his focus.

At 13, he persuaded the trumpeter Clark Terry, who was in Seattle for a month while touring with Count Basie’s band, to give him lessons after the band’s late set and before his school day began.

At 14, he met the 16-year-old Ray Charles, then known as R.C. Robinson, who had come west from Florida; they became close, and both worked for Bumps Blackwell, a local bandleader. At 15, Quincy gave Lionel Hampton an original composition and was hired for his touring band on the spot, only to be dismissed the next day by Hampton’s wife and manager, Gladys; she admonished him to go back to school.

After graduating from Garfield High School in Seattle, he attended Seattle University for one semester, then accepted a scholarship to attend the Schillinger House in Boston, now known as Berklee College of Music.

In 1951, Hampton’s band came calling again. This time, Mr. Jones joined and stayed for two years, as a trumpeter and occasional arranger. He wrote music quickly — including his first complete and credited composition, “Kingfish”— and got it sounding good quickly, through preternatural skills of charm and organization.

Mr. Jones circa 1974.Credit...A&M Records/ Michael Ochs Archives, via Getty Images.

During that time he settled down with his high school girlfriend, Jeri Caldwell, and had a daughter, Jolie, in 1952, although the couple did not marry until 1957. (She was white, and the early days of their relationship and child-rearing met much disapproval. It was the first of Mr. Jones’s three marriages, all interracial.

By the end of 1953, still only 20 and with a young daughter, he left Hampton’s band to settle in New York and work as a freelance arranger for Count Basie and the saxophonist James Moody, among others.

Mr. Jones’s true education was only beginning. In 1956, he was hired as musical director, arranger and trumpeter in the trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie’s band, which traveled under the auspices of the State Department for three months through Europe and the Middle East and then took a second trip to South America.

Mr. Jones recorded the first album under his own name, “This Is How I Feel About Jazz,” in 1956. A year later, he moved to Paris to work for Barclay Records and stayed in Europe on and off for five years as the label’s staff arranger and conductor. He took advantage of the opportunity to write for strings — because, in his view, a Black arranger was much less likely to be given the chance to do so in America — and studied music theory with Nadia Boulanger.

In 1958, Mr. Jones signed with Mercury Records. For his albums “The Birth of a Band!” and “The Great Wide World of Quincy Jones,” both released in 1959, he assembled a big band including Mr. Terry and other first-tier jazz musicians. Mr. Jones’s vision for this band grew out of the tight and smooth sound world of the 1950s Count Basie Orchestra.

Offered the job of assembling a jazz band to lead the orchestra in a musical — “Free and Easy,” about the post-abolition South, based on the work of the Black American writers Arna Bontemps and Countee Cullen and with a score by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer — Mr. Jones used many of the players from his working ensemble. The idea, as he explained in “Q,” his 2001 memoir, was for the group to “work the kinks out of the show” in Europe before it moved on to London and, potentially, Broadway.

Hobbled by a problematic script and an 11th-hour change in director, “Free and Easy” opened at the Alhambra Theater in Paris in January 1960 and closed within a few weeks.

Turning to Pop

Wanting to keep his band together at all costs, Mr. Jones kept 30 people on the payroll and assembled concerts around Europe for 10 months; deep in debt at the end of the tour, he sold publishing rights for half of his songs to get his retinue home. (He would later buy back those rights at a much higher price.)

Back in New York, the band dissolved, as did Mr. Jones’s first marriage — although, given his acknowledged chronic infidelity, that might have been some time coming. “It got so out of control,” he wrote in his memoir, “that at one point I was in love with and dating Marpessa Dawn, the leading lovely from ‘Black Orpheus’; a Chinese beauty; a French actress; Hazel Scott, the gifted, cosmopolitan ex-wife of Adam Clayton Powell Jr.; and Juliette Gréco, the Queen of French Existentialism, all at the same time.”

Mr. Jones took the job of musical director at Mercury in 1961, assembling its jazz roster: He signed Dizzy Gillespie, Gerry Mulligan, Shirley Horn and others. But this was a moment when pop was taking over; jazz’s margins, and perhaps its audience, too, were in steep decline.

He changed his focus accordingly. His first pop success was with the singer Lesley Gore, who was only 16 when he came into possession of her demo tape. “She had a mellow, distinctive voice and sang in tune, which a lot of grown-up rock ’n’ roll singers couldn’t do, so I signed her,” Mr. Jones wrote. He helped make the song “It’s My Party” (1963) into a No. 1 hit for Ms. Gore, rushing acetates to radio stations just before another version of the song, sung by the Crystals and produced by Phil Spector, which remains unreleased.

Mr. Jones ascended at Mercury, in 1964 becoming the first Black vice president of a white-owned record label. (He also won his first Grammy Award that year, for his arrangement of Count Basie’s “I Can’t Stop Loving You.”) He kept the position for less than a year, until he scored “The Pawnbroker” — one of his greatest achievements as a composer — and moved to Los Angeles to work in films and television.

His most frenetic years, professionally and personally, began in the late 1960s and stretched to 1974. He married Ulla Andersson, a 19-year-old Swedish model, in 1967 and had two children with her, Martina and Quincy III; they divorced in 1974. His dozens of film-score credits in those years included “The Deadly Affair,” “In the Heat of the Night,” “In Cold Blood,” “Mirage,” “For Love of Ivy” and “The Getaway.” And he composed theme songs and scored episodes for “Sanford and Son,” “Ironside” and two different shows starring Bill Cosby. He also produced the 1973 television tribute “Duke Ellington … We Love You Madly.”

Mr. Jones with Duke Ellington, seated, during a recording session in 1973.Credit...David Redfern/Redferns, via Getty Images.

At the same time, Mr. Jones was making large-ensemble jazz-funk records as a leader, including “Walking in Space” (1969), whose title track won a Grammy for best instrumental jazz performance by a large group. He soon moved toward a more purely commercial kind of funk and R&B with “Body Heat” (1974).

He was working on “Mellow Madness,” a follow-up to “Body Heat,” when he suffered a brain aneurysm in 1974, resulting in two operations. After the first, his friends, not expecting him to live, organized a memorial concert at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles. The concert went on as planned, with a roster that included Cannonball Adderley, Sarah Vaughan and Ray Charles. Mr. Jones attended, under strict orders from his neurosurgeon not to get excited.

“It felt like I was watching my own funeral,” he later wrote.

For a few years Mr. Jones slowed down, comparatively. He married the actress Peggy Lipton and had two daughters with her: Kidada Jones, an actress, model and fashion designer, and the film and television actress Rashida Jones.

He produced hit records by the Brothers Johnson, who had sung on “Mellow Madness”; contributed music to the celebrated mini-series “Roots” in 1977; and in 1978 served as musical supervisor for Sidney Lumet’s film version of the Broadway musical “The Wiz,” working with Michael Jackson for the first time. That led to their collaborations on the albums “Off the Wall,” “Thriller” and “Bad,” whose combined certified American unit-sales amount to 46 million, and whose worldwide figures are said to be more than double that.

As a joint venture with Warner Bros. Records, Mr. Jones started his own label, Qwest, in 1980. The label’s first release was the singer and guitarist George Benson’s “Give Me the Night,” which won three Grammys; otherwise, its quirky discography — the list includes not just stars like Frank Sinatra, Lena Horne and the R&B singer James Ingram, but also the post-punk band New Order, the gospel singer Andraé Crouch and the experimental jazz saxophonist Sonny Simmons — proved, if it needed proving, that Mr. Jones was not concerned only with the bottom line.

Clockwise from left, Lionel Richie, Daryl Hall, Mr. Jones, Paul Simon and Stevie Wonder recording “We Are The World” in 1985.Credit...Associated Press.

His profile was raised even higher in 1985, when he produced, arranged and conducted a supergroup of more than 40 singers — including Diana Ross, Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen and Stevie Wonder — under the banner name USA for Africa, in “We Are the World,” a fund-raising single for famine relief.

The recording, with an accompanying video, was an international hit, becoming the industry’s first multiplatinum release, raising millions of dollars in donations and winning four Grammys, including “Song of the Year.” (The making of that record was the subject of a 2024 Netflix documentary, “The Greatest Night in Pop.”)

Shortly after that, Mr. Jones served as associate producer of Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of Alice Walker’s novel “The Color Purple.” He also wrote the score, in less than two months.

To Tahiti and Back

Meanwhile, Mr. Jones’s third marriage failed, he became dependent on the sleeping pill Halcion, and he was not making good on plans for a follow-up to “Bad.” In 1986, he fled to one of Marlon Brando’s vacation spots — “a cluster of islands he’d owned in Tahiti since filming ‘Mutiny on the Bounty,’” as he described it in “Q.” He spent a month recovering, overcame his Halcion addiction and bounced back.

The 1989 album “Back on the Block” served as his official return, with a guest roster that typified his cross-generational, cross-stylistic dream of Black American music: Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ice-T, Luther Vandross, Barry White. The album won six Grammys, including album of the year, and Mr. Jones was named nonclassical producer of the year.

The documentary feature “Listen Up: The Lives of Quincy Jones,” which told his story through the recollections of his colleagues, was released in 1990. That same year, his record label became part of a larger multimedia entity, Quincy Jones Entertainment, which produced the sitcoms “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” and “In the House” as well as the sketch show “Mad TV.” The business eventually branched out into publishing: He helped start the hip-hop magazine Vibe, and published Spin and Blaze with Robert Miller.

Mr. Jones with students at the Montreux Jazz Festival in 1991.Credit...Alain Benainous/Gamma-Rapho, via Getty Images

In 1991, Mr. Jones produced a concert at the Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland — of which he, in typical factotum spirit, had become a co-producer — reuniting Miles Davis with the arranger Gil Evans to play music from the albums “Sketches of Spain” and “Porgy and Bess.” It was there that he met the actress Nastassja Kinski, with whom he lived for four years, a union that produced his seventh child, Kenya Julia Miambi Sarah Jones, who became a model and is known professionally as Kenya Kinski-Jones.

By that time Mr. Jones’s life and work had become entwined with hip-hop, with or without his direct input. At his death in 1996, Tupac Shakur had sampled, for his own No. 1 hit “How Do U Want It,” a piece of Mr. Jones’s “Body Heat” — a track that has also been sampled by Das EFX, Mobb Deep and Tyrese, among others — and was dating Mr. Jones’s daughter Kidada.

According to his publicist, Mr. Jones is survived by a brother, Richard; two sisters, Margie Jay and Theresa Frank; and seven children: Jolie, Kidada, Kenya, Martina, Rachel, Rashida and Quincy III.

In his final decades, Mr. Jones dedicated much of his time to charity work through his Listen Up! Foundation; established a Quincy Jones professorship of African American music at Harvard University; produced “Keep On Keepin’ On,” a 2014 film about the teacher-student relationship between the 89-year-old Clark Terry, Mr. Jones’s old mentor, and Justin Kauflin, a young blind jazz pianist; and released the album “Soul Bossa Nostra,” reprising songs he’d produced in the past, with appearances by Snoop Dogg, T-Pain and Amy Winehouse, who contributed a louche version of “It’s My Party” — her last commercial release before her death in 2011.

Mr. Jones stayed in the public eye. In 2018, he made headlines when he gave wide-ranging interviews to New York and GQ magazines that contained surprising comments about Michael Jackson and other subjects.

In 2017, he helped launch a video platform, Qwest TV, offering high-definition streams of jazz concerts and documentaries, and in 2022 he appeared on the album “Dawn FM” by the Weeknd, performing a monologue on the track “A Tale by Quincy.”

But even his not-fully-realized back-burner projects tell a story of their own, a kind of secondary biography of the obsessions and connections of a constantly busy man. Among them were a musical about Sammy Davis Jr.; a Cirque du Soleil show on the history of Black American music, from its African roots; a film about Brazilian carnivals; a film version of Ralph Ellison’s unfinished novel “Juneteenth”; and a film on the life of Alexander Pushkin, the Russian poet who was said to be of African origin.

[monogramsalarm]

various foods i had on my trip :3

[lichqueenlibrarian]

Leonard please stop trying to get the Vulcans to drink mint juleps.

[fishysos]

I just know High Elves would love the (kentucky) derby.

[royalarmyofoz]

*sends you every single gasteyer video I come across* youtu. be/jcQ6NAuClNM

*doesn't stop you* her vocal warm up sdkjfsgh now i need to look up the music video for one mint julep. idk if i'm ready honestly. that clip was super sexy. god she is so smart and she talks really fast with seth and it's really hot<3

[aeondeug]

miryem and the staryk king get their photo taken with mickey and they are both just ):< the entire time

[glitteratti]

i always feel a little bit insane when i talk about liquor but i cant help it!!!! i just think it is sooooo interesting. if actually distilling liquor didnt require so much chemistry i would be ALL over that

[rememberwren]

Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand her horizons, gets her first tattoo from Simon. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

-

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep. 

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!” 

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking. 

“What guy I recommended?” she asks. 

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?” 

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.” 

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.” 

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day. 

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life. 

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.” 

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?” 

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all. 

-

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it. 

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line. 

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?” 

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him. 

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says. 

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted? 

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?” 

“Five. Don’t be late.” 

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

-

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in? 

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy. 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost. 

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting. 

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize. 

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek. 

“The water is for you,” he says. 

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.” 

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh. 

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.” 

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.” 

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

 He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question. 

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair. 

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing. 

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book. 

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?” 

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer. 

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.” 

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him. 

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again. 

“Here.” 

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean. 

His thoughtfulness touches you. 

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you. 

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?” 

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death. 

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.” 

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?” 

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.” 

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears. 

-

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend. 

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks. 

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?  

Masks are cute, you say. 

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free. 

You’re terrible. 

You’re…thinking about it. 

-

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST. 

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness. 

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one. 

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.  

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that. 

-

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another. 

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.” 

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed. 

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.” 

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions. 

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’. 

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary. 

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that. 

What is it? 

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true. 

But all he said back was: how can I help?  

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working. 

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better? 

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better. 

-

You bring the pasties anyway. 

-

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass. 

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs. 

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free. 

“Hi,” you squeak. 

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t. 

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more. 

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.” 

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing. 

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years. 

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length. 

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas. 

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you. 

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way. 

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.” 

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.” 

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face. 

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.” 

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax. 

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt. 

“Thank you,” you say softly. 

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.” 

“I’m not backing out.” 

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line. 

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Good,” you squeak. 

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.” 

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs. 

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it. 

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up. 

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats. 

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through. 

His thumb gently strokes your sternum. 

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast. 

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again. 

He hushes you, surprisingly tender. 

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.  

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain. 

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.” 

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again. 

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again. 

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow). 

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length. 

“Eager to be done?” you wonder. 

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said. 

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply. 

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently. 

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.” 

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.” 

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way. 

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?” 

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.” 

-

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable. 

-

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call. 

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much? 

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.   

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring. 

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering. 

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello. 

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry. 

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?” 

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.” 

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.” 

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?” 

“Twenty minutes from now?” 

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye. 

-

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop. 

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow. 

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes. 

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.” 

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands. 

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation. 

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks. 

“Not that I’ve noticed.” 

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit. 

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.” 

“Forget what?” 

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.” 

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one. 

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?” 

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.” 

“Nosey.” 

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out?  “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.” 

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt. 

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off. 

“Maybe you should look closer.” 

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.” 

“You could—if you wanted to.” 

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat. 

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair. 

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.” 

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.” 

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness. 

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex. 

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple. 

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind. 

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?” 

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing. 

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips. 

“What else do you need?” he asks. 

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly. 

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.” 

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure. 

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth. 

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh. 

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso. 

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola. 

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite. 

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.” 

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?” 

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?” 

You nod, feeling like a bobble head. 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps. 

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter. 

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art. 

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.” 

“Good,” you breathe. 

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right. 

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length. 

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily. 

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure. 

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?” 

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.” 

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin. 

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it. 

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.” 

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit. 

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat. 

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms. 

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit. 

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex. 

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again. 

He hums behind you, a smug sound. 

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.” 

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead. 

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you. 

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you. 

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?” 

“Yes.” 

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see. 

-

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself. 

“Regretting it already?” 

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.” 

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

He scoffs a little. 

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.” 

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly. 

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.” 

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

[nesquikflavoredchapstick]

i have the inredience and the power to make all of the cocktails from the stardrop saloon cutscene :smirk_emoji:

[bunnys-kisses]

Hi bunny, sorry this is such a long ask, but you’re writing is so yummy I had to see this play out… can i get a mille-feuille, sausage roll, pithivier, s’mores, mint julep, whiskey, and dark roast coffee served by charles or max, you can chose which one:)

bakery menu!!

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! thank you to all the submissions for the bakery! i love them all and i am going through all of them slowly, haha. i love writing these so keep 'em coming!! thank you! a few things were changed regarding pronouns

mille-feuille (“that’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl.”) + sausage roll ("i wonder how much i could get for photos of this cunt.") + pithivier ("if you don't behave, i'll let the boys take care of you.") + s'more ("The accent gets to you, doesn't it?") + mint julep (punishments) + whiskey (degrading language) + dark roast coffee (sub!character) served by charles leclerc (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, dirty talk/degrading language, sub!charles, punishments, motor mouth charles, bondage, implied oral sex, cowgirl position

charles could be bound to your bed, but as long as his mouth wasn't gagged. he would be a good submissive and make sure that his mouth ran until you finished. you loved that, his dirty talk. it drove you crazy, crazy enough that you'd bind him to the bed and take a ride on his cock to fill that sexual itch you had all day.

you panted with your hands on his shoulders, "if you don't behave, i'll let the others take care of you." an empty threat. as if there were others. charles just chuckled and gave you that winning smile.

"The accent gets to you, doesn't it?"

in a traditional sense, you were the dominant one and charles was more of the submissive type. he aimed to please in the bedroom, it was a reason why he was always a favourite with the women of monaco. but while he enjoyed his time with them, he fell nicely into your arms.

it was evident that you were more of the one to take charge in the relationship. like when the press caught a photo of you feeding your darling charles strawberries while you were out. or another time when you had your hand on his lower back as you stayed close to him. even though he was a big taller than you, you were still protective of the angel you called a boyfriend.

"such a good boy." you panted as you rested yourself up onto his chest. mindful of the weight on it. you had spent the last ten minutes with your hand in your boyfriend's dark hair while you rubbed your achy cunt up against his face. he was bound to the bed, seated upright with his hands behind his back. enough pillows to cushion them from the headboard.

he tilted his head back and nodded a little, "oui, madame." he panted before he looked at you. those green eyes hazy from the intense lust, "je veux plus. i want more." he swallowed, his chin and lips were covered in your wetness. the angle he orally pleasured you was odd, but he devoured you like a hungry man.

you got down to his waist and easily sank yourself onto his cock. he yanked against the binds a little bit. you were giving him exactly what he asked for and he could feel the buzz of pleasure in his brain as you wiped his face with your hand before you pulled him in for a hot kiss. he groaned against your lips as you continued to rock your hips against him.

"that’s it, fuck, that’s a good boy.” you said when you pulled away and continued to hold onto his strong shoulders. you moaned loudly against him. you could feel the heat through your body as you two moved together.

"always for you." he said, "anything for you. why don't you take this ropes off of me and let me show you how to fuck properly. i know you want it, my love. to feel me much deeper." he could feel the rush of pleasure through his body.

he knew this was a punishment.

"i don't think so, my love." you replied as you continued to ride him. your short nails dug into his shoulders as you moved against him, "you know what you did wrong. we have rules remember?"

he moaned when you kissed him once more. he felt excited and hot all over. he was always expected to be the big strong dominant one in the relationship. and while he could easily dominate on the track. it was nice for the bedroom to be under you so pretty. to let you work his cock and leave him in a state of heightened bliss. he groaned a little louder when you broke the kiss and started to move your hips faster.

he moaned then said, "i wonder how much i could get for photos of this cunt." he said with lust in his voice, "get a lot of photos of it while you rode me." he chuckled a little bit, "you like how it all feels, you around me. you are so good to me, mon cherie." then shuddered when your pace slowed down by the thrusts got longer. the strength of them pulled words out of charles' mouth.

you made out with him sloppily as you continued to move. allowing your lover to be placid under you. you came first, your lips against his. when you finally broke the kiss after you hit your peak, you saw the redness around his soft lips. you continued to move and he continued to run his mouth.

the throb in his head was strong, the want in his body made him tense up. he shuddered at the feeling of you, you felt well beyond a dream. "you're pretty like this, madame. you take me so well. i love you, i want you. you treat me so well." he groaned a little bit as he yanked at his constraints a little more. he felt the urge to orgasm down to his bones and he knew he'd finish in you soon enough, "you complete me. you make me dirty like an animal who needs you. give it all to me." he said between hearty pants, his toned chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

he was only able to climax when you pulled him in for another hot kiss. then he arched his back a little bit. he always looked so beautiful when he climaxed. the type of beauty that struck you to your core. you managed to make yourself climax one more time before you slowed your pace to a stop.

you held his face in your hands, he rested all the weight in his head against you and looked in a state of heightened bliss. he groaned when you got off his cock and kissed his forehead. his brain was running hot and he yearned for his madame's sweet touch.

"you're going to be a good boy for me now? no more being a jealous submissive and telling your teammates how good i fuck you. i don't need the entire world to know how much of a good boy you are for me."

he gave you that charming smile and said, "mon amor." he chuckled, "i want them all to be jealous over how good we are for each other." and while you couldn't argue too much with that. as you undid the ropes, it was about the principle of the matter.

you didn't want everyone to know how much of a slut charles was <3

[poohsources]

🐝  *  ―  𝑪𝑶𝑪𝑲𝑻𝑨𝑰𝑳 𝑸𝑼𝑰𝒁. ( send one or multiple of these to learn a little more about my muse(s). )

[ mai tai ]  if they could have any superpower in the world, what would they choose? [ white russian ]  what would they do if they won the lottery? [ grasshopper ]  what / who would they dress up as for halloween? [ tequila sunrise ]  how would they spend their perfect day? [ californication ]  what do they think is their greatest achievement in life? [ caipirinha ]  if they could change one thing about themself, what would it be? [ painkiller ]  what is their greatest regret? [ moscow mule ]  if they could travel through time, where would they go? [ dry martini ]  what is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to them? [ tom collins ]  which living person would they most want to meet? [ greyhound ]  if they could have a dinner with just one person ( dead or alive ) who would they choose? [ planter's punch ]  how long does it take to befriend them? [ sangria ]  do they have any special routines they follow every single day? if yes, which? [ whiskey sour ]  what is the biggest lie they ever told someone? [ zombie ] do they believe in life after death? [ margarita ]  what are their biggest pet peeves? [ mojito ]  what is one goal they are working towards? [ appletini ]  who do they consider the most important person in their life? why? [ cosmopolitan ]  what is their happiest memory ever? [ gin tonic ]  who influenced them the most? [ bloody mary ]  what would they do if they only had one week left to live? [ manhattan ]  where would they like to travel the most? [ old fashioned ]  what would their adult self tell their kid self if they could go back in time? [ blue lagoon ]  how do they typically react when faced with something they fear? [ sidecar ]  what type of person are they most likely drawn to? [ negroni ]  what is one piece of advice they would give others? [ hurricane ]  which song describes them the most? why? [ sex on the beach ]  what do they consider red flags in a relationship? [ mimosa ]  which incident shaped them the most? [ long island iced tea ]  if they had the chance to redo their life, what would they do differently the second time around? [ mint julep ]  which was their dream job as a kid? [ singapore sling ]  how do they react to disappointments? [ alexander ]  what would they do with one million dollars / euros / pounds / whatever currency they use? [ screwdriver ]  which habit do they wish they could get rid of? [ gin fizz ]  do they consider a glass half-full or half-empty? [ aperol spritz ]  which is one thing they still think about a lot? [ piña colada ]  how do they show affection? [ swimming pool ]  what is the most important lesson they've learned in recent years? [ b52 ]  how would they describe themselves in as few words as possible? [ daiquiri ]  do they believe in true love? why or why not?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

More Writing Notes: Cocktails

Traditionally, a cocktail (or a mixed drink) is a beverage that contains a mixture of alcoholic spirits combined with other ingredients, such as simple syrups, tonics, bitters, fruit juice, club soda, or other fizzy waters.

Today you can also find a variety of nonalcoholic spritz cocktails that combine alcohol-free spirits with mixer ingredients.

6 Mixology Tools

Bar spoon: long-handled spoon that makes it easy to stir drinks in tall glasses or pitchers.

Citrus juicer: extracts juice from citrus fruits and vegetables by shredding the flesh of the food item.

Cocktail glasses: there are several different shapes of cocktail glasses, and each corresponds to a different type of mixed drink.

Cocktail shaker: A shaker is a tall container (usually metal) that makes it easy for bartenders to shake crushed ice and cocktail ingredients together to quickly cool down the beverage.

Cocktail strainer: The strainer fits over the shaker and lets you pour the cocktail into the glass while leaving behind the ice and any other ingredients, like herbs, that you used to shake the cocktail.

Muddler: When a cocktail recipe includes directions to muddle ingredients, usually fruit or herbs, it means to smash them to release the essential oils and fruit pulp. A muddler is a small handheld rod that lets you easily muddle ingredients in a cocktail glass.

Some Popular Cocktails

Bloody Mary: This classic brunch cocktail contains vodka mixed with tomato juice, horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, and a combination of herbs and spices. Bartenders typically serve a Bloody Mary in a tall glass, such as a pint glass or highball glass, and garnish with a celery stick.

Daiquiri: One of the classic rum cocktails, a daiquiri contains rum (white rum or Cuban rum), lime juice, and simple syrup. Today’s drink menus typically contain a variety of daiquiris that range from classic cocktails like the Hemingway Daiquiri (which contains lime juice, grapefruit juice, and Italian maraschino liqueur) to fruity cocktails like a shaken strawberry daiquiri.

Gimlet: Contains three ingredients: vodka (or gin), fresh lime juice, a splash of simple syrup for added sweetness, and an optional lime wedge for garnish.

Manhattan: Containing whiskey (or sometimes cognac), sweet vermouth, and a few dashes of bitters, the Manhattan is a simple yet elegant cocktail. The classic cocktail, which was invented in New York, is stirred, not shaken, and garnished with a maraschino cherry.

Margarita: There are several variations of margarita recipes. The classic margarita is served over ice cubes and contains lime juice, tequila (or mezcal), orange liqueur (such as Cointreau or triple sec), and lime and salt for the garnish. Experiment with other flavors—use lemon juice instead of lime, add a dash of agave syrup to sweeten the drink, or add a hint of spice with the addition of a few slices of jalapeño. For those who prefer fruit flavors, try making a watermelon, pomegranate, or strawberry margarita.

Martini: The classic martini is a boozy cocktail. The original contained three parts gin to one part vermouth with an olive or onion to garnish. A vodka martini calls for vodka in place of gin. Other drinks—such as an espresso martini, fruity drinks, or vodka cocktails like a cosmopolitan (often called a Cosmo), pear, or apple martini (also called an appletini)—are not considered martinis. Instead, they get their name from the cocktail glass.

Mint julep: Famous as the refreshing cocktail served at the Kentucky Derby horse racing events, a mint julep contains bourbon, simple syrup, and a muddle of mint. It’s typically served over crushed ice with a sprig of mint leaves.

Mojito: A highball cocktail with origins in Cuba, the mojito is a popular cocktail across the globe. Mix up white rum, sugar, mint, lime, and club soda (or soda water), and then add ice. The mojito is often called a perfect summer cocktail.

Moscow mule: Contrary to its name, the Moscow mule cocktail likely originated in New York, not the Russian capital. To make the fizzy drink combine vodka, ginger beer, and lime juice, and garnish with lime slices and sprigs of mint. It’s usually served in a copper mug, though food experts note the copper does not impact the flavor of the drink.

Negroni: With its balance of sweet and bitter, a classic Negroni is an ideal apéritif. Combine equal parts gin, Campari (or Aperol), and sweet vermouth. Shake them with ice and serve the drink with an orange twist. Other varieties of Negronis add additional layers of flavors using ingredients such as orange bitters, Champagne or prosecco, and a lime or lemon twist.

Piña colada: This favorite summer cocktail, which reportedly originated in San Juan, Puerto Rico, is traditionally made with white rum, pineapple juice, cream of coconut, and a squeeze of lime juice, and served with fresh pineapple for garnish. Blend the ingredients with ice cubes to create a slushie drink.

Tequila Sunrise: With only three ingredients, fresh orange juice, tequila, and grenadine syrup, the Tequila Sunrise tastes best when you use high-quality ingredients. White tequila is recommended for a fresher taste and a more vibrant color. You can make a variation of the cocktail called the Coconut Sunrise, which uses coconut rum instead of tequila.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Cocktails ⚜ Food History

[fandomnerd9602]

Can you please make one like this one https://www.tumblr.com/fandomnerd9602/758811539153223680/gambit-and-yn-howlett-talk-about-a-common?source=share but with y/n being a mutate (human turned into mutant) with Gambit's powers and immunity to Rogue's powers?

Rogue snuggles into Y/N’s chest…

Rogue: oh sugah I love you so much

Y/N kisses her head and flings a charged card onto the logs, igniting them…

Y/N: anything for my mint julep

The two snuggle, warmed by each other and the roaring fire…

[hometoursandotherstuff]

What an elegant little Victorian home in New Orleans, Louisiana. 3bds, 3ba, $899K.

Imagine sitting on that porch swing with a Mint Julep.

Enter a lovely living room with an original brick fireplace.

To expand the living room, they took a wall down, so there is another fireplace back here. These homes traditionally had very small rooms.

It takes a creative architect to determine how to reconfigure these original floorplans, leaving fireplaces and exposed brick walls.

Lovely dining room with wainscoting.

Big galley kitchen. Love the cabinets and brick counters.

A door in the kitchen conveniently opens to the deck.

What a great room for either a library or a collector.

The primary bedroom has one of those wonderful fireplaces, too.

Very nice bath.

There's a nice home office, or it could be an extra bedroom or craft space.

Bath #2 is beautiful, too.

Spacious secondary bedroom has built-in shelving.

Large laundry room has potential for storage or a pantry.

Beautifully landscaped yard has a garden and a sweet little shed.

Next to the shed is this structure that you climb up, chill, or take a nap in the hammock.

This is beautiful.

[the-kr8tor]

could i pretty please request ttn!hobie finding out that while she was overseas, r got the nickname MJ? (“i spill a mint julep one time!” or smth). like maybe they’re hanging out with danny and he calls her that or smth, and he’s like “wait a minute, what” and no one knows exactly why hobie is so impacted by that, he just is. like hobie knows that it’s not some sort of cosmic force that keeps them together, but it still makes him a little extra smiley (as always feel free to decline, no pressure) -@thesevenofstaves

Aizjjwisjsjjs this is genius! Thank you for requesting, bestie 💕

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw drinking, TTN! Hobie and R, Thread the Needle AU, R has nicknames, fashion designer! Reader, Fluff.

Thread the Needle Masterlist

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

“So, your girl here straight up tells our supervisor to basically eat a bag of dicks but in a corporate way and you know what fucking happens?” Danny rambles on about your time in the US enthusiastically with him loaded in with a few drinks in his veins. Surprisingly enough, he's still coherent.

The entire pub is abuzz, people clambering around the telly to watch a football game that you care less about. Your glass sits empty in your hand, a cocktail mix that has the lights swirling in your vision. Hobie is doing better than you and Danny combined. He's four whole pints in and yet he's still sober enough to reply in a full sentence without sloshing his words together. But you know he's in too deep when he has basically clung to your side inside the booth like velcro. His hands roam up and down your back, knuckles tracing your spine as you lean closer on the table while your vision swirls. You've once told him that he's a clingy drunk, to which Yuri replied for him, saying, “Is there a difference between a sober Hobie and a drunk Hobie?” He couldn't even retaliate with a clever answer because it's true.

Hobie smiles against the mouth of his glass, fingers drawing patterns on your back. “No, what happened next?” He indulges your drunk childhood friend. He knows the story already, but it was told from your perspective, which you were apparently told too humbly. Meanwhile, you hide your flustered face behind your cool glass.

“She got a bloody promotion! Turns out, it was a fucking test and now she's here and handling her own team!” Danny exclaims above the cheers, still in disbelief at what happened years ago.

“Talk ‘bout lucky, eh, love?” Hobie squeezes your hip, glancing at you with a proud smile. You groan, heat behind your cheeks from the memory.

“You've got lady luck on your side, right, MJ?”

Hobie almost breaks his neck at how fast he turned to look at Danny, eyes wide, hands paused from his squeezing. “What? M.J? I thought you called her Cherry?”

“Oho! Hobie here doesn't know the story, huh?” Danny finishes his drink and then winces when he could only get a single drop. Hobie cranes his neck towards you, eyes soft, arm snaking around your waist slyly. You can practically see his mind running a hundred miles per hour, but you're not sure why. “Be right back, I need a refill.” He stands up, staggering a bit before pointing at you. “MJ for MJ?”

“That was one time, Danny! And no, I'd like a pint.” Your friend cackles, Hobie looks between you and Danny all confused.

“You smoke?” Hobie knits his brows, now he can feel all the alcohol he drank.

You chuckle, thumb wiping along the corner of his mouth to clean a stray foam. “It's a drink, Hobs. Mint julep.”

Danny makes a sound akin to an evil laugh. “You better tell him the story! Another pint for you, mate?”

Hobie doesn't spare a glance towards Danny, his eyes are all on you, staring at you like a lovestruck teenager. “Sure,” Danny shoots him a thumbs up, and then tries to straighten up to walk towards the bar.

“What?” You giggle as Hobie abandons your back to hold your hand over the table, fingers intertwining around your own. “You okay? Are you that drunk?”

“Nah, ‘m fine, tell me the story.”

“Danny hyped it too much, it's not that interesting.”

“Still,” Hobie brings your hand to his chest, holding it with both hands and then kisses your knuckles with his warm lips, leaving it atop his heart. You sigh in content, eyes tender for your best friend. “I want to hear how you become MJ.”

You smile, head leaning down on the backrest of the seat, watching the warm light illuminate his chiseled face. “It was a company-wide holiday party.” Hobie listens, mirroring your position as he places his head on the cushion on the booth, smiling wider and wider at your every word. “And there was an open bar which was a disaster waiting to happen by the way. But they only had three drinks to choose from, and one of them was a mint julep.”

“What were the other choices?” The background noise fades out, as if it was only you and Hobie inside the pub.

You snort, rubbing your thumb across the back of his hand. “I really don't remember.”

“You got too drunk?” Hobie beams at you whilst you groan from the memory. “Really, Gromit? At a holiday party?” He teases you further, nudging you with his knee under the table.

“It tasted nothing like alcohol! It deceived me.”

“Ah yes, mint julep, a very deceivin’ drink. What happened next?”

You shake your head. “Nothing, nothing happened next. I just got too drunk and started to draw designs in my sketchbook in silence. They weren't very good by the way.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Yeah, I know, I'm a genius when it comes to fashion.”

“Not that. Although you're right, love, you're a bloody genius.” You smile brightly, your turn to kiss his knuckles. “But I think there's more to the story.”

You scoff, “nope.”

“I've known you for almost our entire lives.” Hobie comes closer, breath fanning your already warm cheeks, batting his lashes at you. “Did you beat up someone? Cause damage to the building?”

“Hobie!” You slap his bicep, earning a feigned groan from him. “Nothing that bad! I just spilled it all over me.” Hobie raises a brow. “And all over my boss.”

Hobie guffaws, “way to fight the system, lovie.” He kisses your cheek while you wiggle away from embarrassment.

“I had to pay for his dry cleaning, Hobs!” Hobie squishes your face in between his hands, puckering your lips. “Not funny.” Your words are muffled, an adorable sight for him.

“It's a little funny.”

“Fine, a little.” With your words and giggle, he finally lets you go, but of course he had to steal one last kiss on your lips. It's quick, but it still leaves you in a mushy mess on the booth.

“So MJ, huh?” He'd tell you why the simple nickname had his heart palpitating. Once you two got back home, he'd tell you the significance of that name.

“Don't get used to it. Everytime I smell mint I want to vomit.”

Hobie's laughter reverberates in the pub, hand splayed on your back. “Is that why our toothpaste isn't scented?”

Before you could answer, Danny comes back with a tray full of shots and one mint julep.

“Oh dear God.” You and Hobie speak at the same time. Maybe it's time to call it a night for Danny.

[rosewaterandivy]

sugar & mint

masterlist - steve  

Summary: Lazy summer evening with your ol’ man Steve.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem reader

WC: ~2K

Warnings: NSFW 18+, drinking, cursing, fingering (Steve performing & reader receiving), kissing, & cumming quick (!!!)

A/N: Inspired by “Julep” by the Punch Brothers; some domestic summer!steve. Likes, reblogs, & feedback are appreciated - reposting is not. Enjoy! 💜

🎵🎵 Heaven's a julep on the porch, you and me rocking, a grandfather clock is tick, tick, tocking to time 🎵🎵

A warm breeze blew through the early summer evening, the light scent of magnolia trees in bloom wafting to his nose as he sat on the swing of the wraparound porch. The sun continued its slow crawl toward the western horizon, painting the sky in hues of candy pink bleeding into blues and lilacs. 

Soft music played from the kitchen, sailing through the open window accompanied by bare feet padding on the worn wood floor. The water turned off, plates going in the dishwasher interrupted by giggles. Childish laughter recedes and replaced by the creak of someone going upstairs. A muttered, “Gotta fix that step,” and then nothing, save for the cicadas in the yard. 

Steve sighs content, but tired, back resting against the porch swing as it sways lazily to and fro. His skin prickles with beads of sweat in the heat, idly wonders if it isn’t worth it to just head back in for the night.

A brief stumble down the stairs, “Damn it,” and the whine of the screen door as it’s pushed open. Your beaming face behind the mesh screen, stepping onto the porch with an ice bucket and cocktail shaker. “Hey you.” Your voice is soft in its greeting, accompanied by that sweet smile you save just for him.

Setting the bucket and shaker on the table, you join him on the swing. His hand finds your legs to drag them to his lap, allowing you to recline against the bench. “Hey baby,” Steve says, thumb working in circles against your knee. “How’s that trick step treatin’ you?”

Your laugh is glorious and bright, head thrown back to expose the column of your neck damp in perspiration. He eyes the pulse of your throat, would like nothing more than to get his mouth on it and suck until you make those pretty high-pitched noises he loves. 

Instead, he pulls you closer on the swing so that you’re sitting in his lap. Your arm drapes casually around his neck, hand threading through his hair, ends curling up in the heat. “S’fine,” you say, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

Steve laugh as that. “Babe,” his eyes cut to yours mischievously, “You’ve been saying that for years.”

“And I’ve meant it,” you tease back, “For years.” 

It’s an old argument between you now, the consistent creak of the step serving as both burden and reminder of that never-ending ‘to-do’ list. Twisting in his grasp, you begin to mix the drinks. “D’you bring the whiskey?” Muddling the mint, you add some ice and measure the simple syrup.

“Depends,” he muses, “Did you bring the sugar and the mint?”

A snort. “Uh, obviously.” 

Fingers brushing against his when you take the bottle from his grasp, deft and warm. A healthy pour of Kentucky's finest followed by two handfuls of ice and you’re off to the races. Capping the mixture, you shake it vigorously, condensation building on the silver cup in beads and cascading down your wrist.

Two glasses hooked in a hand, ice and mint slosh against one another as you pour. Steve observes intently, still marveling after all these years at your finesse and ease. Though, he supposes tending bar would do that to a person. Regardless, he adores it.

Another stretch to set the shaker back on the table with the ice. A cool glass thrust into his hand, the clink of glasses as your tip yours to his. “Sláinte.” 

Silence settles between you, comfortable and welcome. His arm around your hip, yours draped over his shoulders, a couple of sweethearts enjoying a summer’s evening. He sets his drink to the side in favor of palming your thigh. Rucks up the hem of your shirt, overly large and hiding summer hued skin. 

A small noise of surprise before you toss back the rest of your drink. Setting it down on the porch, you pull yourself back up to straddle him—thighs settling on either side. Half-lidded eyes fix him on the spot, “See something you like Steve?”

He huffs, mildly perturbed and wholly impatient. Grips the hem of your shirt and gives it a tug, “I would be, if it weren’t for this monstrosity you’re wearing.”

Mouth dropping open in offense, you push back against his chest playfully. “What are you talking about? This shirt is a collector’s item!” Pulling at the fabric to display the faded Corroded Coffin logo and Munson’s dumb mug. 

“Well, it’s blocking my view. So.” His hands grasp the swell of your hips, thumbs circling the jut of bone there. 

Laughter rings out once more, spilling from your mouth in a cheerful crescendo. He continues to sip from his drink, ice all but melted in the glass. Prompted by the push of his heel, the swing rocks slowly in the fading light. His glass joins yours on the porch as your lips work up and down his throat. 

Steve drags you closer, hips flush against his, the scratch of worn-in denim against the silk smooth of your legs. He grunts lowly as you press against the bulge in his jeans. His fingers find your chin, pulling you from an extended perusal of his neck to face him. Lips glistening and full, pupils blown wide. 

Breath coming in puffs and pants from your sweet mouth, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. Hand cradling the base of your skull, Steve draws you in for a kiss—honeyed and filthy. You groan, lips slotting against his, tongue caressing him, hips bucking impatiently. 

“Gonna give it to you good, baby.” He promises, fingers meandering to leg of your shorts and making quick work of your current state. 

Slick and inviting, your heat welcomes the intrusion, finger sliding in easily while the pad of his thumb presses against your clit. With a groan, your lips part from his, foreheads resting against each other as your eyes fall to where you’re joined. “S’good,” you breathe, watching when he quickly adds a second and plunges back in.

His lips chase you down as he works you open in his lap. Shorts and panties shoved to the side, shirt rucked up and falling against your tummy. Steve encourages the punishing pace of your hips, soft murmurs echoing around you as you chase your peak. 

Already wound tight and near breaking when he, impossibly, works in a thick third finger. Rasps, “Such a good girl,” and bites the hollow of your throat. Shuddering as his tongue lovingly laves at the bruised skin, you moan.

Wet sounds of his fingers fucking in and out of you join the soft music from the house and chorus of cicadas and crickets. Frantically, you work your hand in an attempt to find and pop the button of his Levis. 

“Later.” He says placating you, thumb circling your clit just as he brushes against that one spot just right. Suddenly, your hurtled headlong to your climax, vision nearly whiting out as the taut chord behind your belly button snaps.

Mouth dropping open in a breathy whine of “Fuck,” Steve works you through it and plays you for all you’re worth. Knows which buttons to press and when to render you near boneless in pleasure. You shiver in his hold and gush into the cup of his hand. 

Fuck indeed.

He lathers you in praises of how well you did for him, how pretty you look in his lap, how sweet you taste. Once he’s satisfied that you’re alright, he reluctantly draws his fingers out of you and brings one to your lips. 

With a suck, you bring it to your mouth and glide your tongue against it, savoring the familiar musk. Steve groans at the sensation of it, eyes drinking in the image of you—perfectly sated and sunk into his lap, eyes heavy-lidded while your wicked mouth sucks your slick from his fingers.

How did he get so lucky?

Reverie broken by the telltale sound of the trick step, his fingers drop from your mouth while you quickly move your shorts back into place. A brief kiss to his lips before you’re up and off his lap to investigate.

“Hey munchkin,” you coo. Your gaze softens as the screen door is slowly pushed open, a sleepy girl toddling onto the porch. Crouching down from the swing, you scoop her into your arms as she rubs her eyes. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Head nuzzling against your throat she nods, letting out the cutest yawn you’d ever seen. Blanket clasped in one fist, she grabs at your hair with the other, settling against your shoulder. 

Steve smiles as you absentmindedly rock her on your way back inside, second nature at this point. Warm fondness washes over him as you whisper sweet nothings into her hair. He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, surveying the glasses and bottle on the porch as the door clatters closed. 

He picks up and sets it down in the kitchen, leaving the rest for tomorrow. Pushes the window shut and locks the door. Treads carefully on the stairs, expertly avoiding the trick step to see you slowly close her bedroom door—leaving it open just slightly.

You tip-toe back to him, a playful smirk pulling at your lips. Hooking your fingers through his belt loops, you pull him into your shared bedroom and nudge the door closed with your hip. He presses you closer, arm winding around your back, to drop a kiss to the crown of your head. 

You hum contently and push him back onto the bed. “So,” you whisper, voice raspy and worn. “Later, is what I believe you said.” Your fingers deftly pop the button of his jeans, tighter now from earlier activities.

“Is that right?”

“Mmhm.” You slowly unzip his fly, fingers trailing on the fabric of his boxers. 

He bites back a groan. “No,” he drawls, voice low. “Think I’d remember something like that.”

“Pfft.” You settle on his lap once more, hands resting on his chest. “We both know you can’t remember shit Harrington.”

He laughs, fingers tangling in the hem of your shirt. “Touché.” Sits up on his elbows and pulls you close, “What did I say about this shirt, hmm?”

“That it’s a collector’s item?” You squirm on his lap purposefully.

Shakes his head and scrunches up his nose, “Nah, pretty sure that was you.”

“Huh, lemme try again.” You kiss his nose. “Was it that this shirt would look better on the floor?”

He arches a brow in interest. “Y’know, that sounds like me.” His hands cup your hips, securing you in place as you peel the Corroded shirt off and toss it behind you. “One of these days,” Steve says, fingers caressing your skin, “You’re gonna misplace that shirt and I’ll have a new rag for the windows.”

A gasp, “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I though?”

His mouth tugs at the corner, eyes light in jest. Steve smiles up at you, bright and wonderful. You fall into him with a fit of laughter and teasing, fingers snaking up and around his chest to find that spot that makes him lose his breath under your relentless assault of tickles. 

Down the flight of stairs, dodging the trick step (“Gonna fix that!”), the night birds sing their tune. Summertime cicadas screech, crickets hum along in the yard cluttered with toys and a tricycle. Front door pulled tight against the wood trim, magnolia blossoms decorating the roof of the veranda. A dull golden glow shines from the upstairs window, a pair shadowed silhouettes disappear from view.

It’s a midsummer’s night, and he’s just getting started.