#Stylish White T-Shirts for Men

[layartstore]

Why Best White T-shirts for Men are a must-have Options?

White t-shirts for men are the most versatile and straightforward wardrobe staple  available. They form the foundation of many stylish outfits and can be worn on any occasion in both formal and casual settings. This article explores why white t-shirts are a must-have for every man. A simple, loose-fitted cotton white t-shirt never goes out of style. Opt for affordable and comfortable brands. The relaxed cut works for all body types and frames the body nicely without clinging.

[parth0238u]

Discover the perfect blend of style and functionality with our cargo pants for men. Explore a versatile collection designed for comfort and durability. Elevate your wardrobe with fashionable yet practical cargo pants that seamlessly merge fashion-forward trends with everyday functionality. Shop now for the ultimate combination of utility and style in men's cargo pants.

[ciyapaofficial]

Elevate Your Wardrobe with Stylish and Versatile T-Shirts for Men

In the world of men's fashion, t-shirts are a timeless and essential staple. They offer comfort, versatility, and endless style options. Whether you're aiming for a casual look or want to dress up a bit, finding the perfect t-shirt is key. In this blog post, we will explore stylish t shirts for men, the best plain t-shirts, and the ultimate white t-shirts that every man should have in his wardrobe.

Stylish T-Shirts for Men 

When it comes to stylish t-shirts, the options are abundant. From graphic prints to bold patterns and unique designs, there's a t-shirt to suit every man's personal style. Experimenting with different colors, cuts, and textures can help you create a distinctive look. Opt for t-shirts made from high-quality materials like cotton or a cotton-blend for comfort and durability. Brands like Nike, Adidas, and Supreme are known for their stylish t-shirts that combine fashion with functionality. Don't be afraid to embrace your individuality and express yourself through your t-shirt choices.

Best Plain T-Shirts for Men 

Plain t-shirts are the foundation of a versatile wardrobe. They offer a clean and minimalist look that can be easily dressed up or down. The key to finding the best plain t shirts for men  lies in the fit, fabric, and quality. Look for t-shirts that have a flattering cut and are made from soft, breathable materials. Brands like Uniqlo, Everlane, and J.Crew are renowned for their high-quality plain t-shirts that come in a variety of colors to suit your personal style. Consider investing in classic colors like black, navy, and gray, as they can be effortlessly paired with any outfit. Plain t-shirts also serve as a great layering piece under jackets, cardigans, or flannel shirts, allowing you to create different looks throughout the year.

Best White T-Shirts for Men 

A white t-shirt is a timeless wardrobe essential that exudes simplicity and elegance. It can be worn on its own or combined with other pieces for a sophisticated yet laid-back look. When searching for the best white t shirt for men pay attention to the fit and the quality of the fabric. Look for t-shirts that are neither too loose nor too tight, striking the perfect balance between comfort and style. Premium brands like Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, and Armani Exchange offer white t-shirts that are made from high-quality materials, ensuring they will last for years to come. A white t-shirt pairs effortlessly with jeans, chinos, or shorts, making it a versatile piece for any occasion.

Conclusion

Stylish t-shirts for men, the best plain t-shirts, and top-notch white t-shirts are essential items for a well-rounded wardrobe. They provide comfort, versatility, and endless style possibilities. By investing in these wardrobe staples, you can effortlessly elevate your fashion game and create a multitude of stylish looks.

Original Source :https://bityl.co/Ju2S

[hotbuttonin]

Feeling fresh and stylish in this @hotbutton.in half-sleeve printed collar white t-shirt for men. 🔥✨ Perfect for the summer vibes! 😎🌴 Embrace the bold patterns and stay cool with this trendy pick. 😍👕

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[hellotailor]

Apologies if you've already done a post on this and I've just missed it, but can I ask for your take on the pyjamas worn by the cast of interview with vampire? I mean technically they're not a 100% necessary item, but just from a quick look there seems to be a lot of variety and they do change over the series

ok, i’m delighted by the specificity of this question, and it turns out that i have a VERY extensive answer.

there’s a lot of sleepwear in IWTV due to the volume of bedroom/coffin scenes, and like any other outfit, these costumes are shaped by characterization and historical period. for instance claudia initially wears a long, modest, frilly nightgown - an old-fashioned style that plays into her girlish doll wardrobe purchased by louis and lestat. however her sleepwear matures over the years, including a trendy lace nightdress with bloomers in the 1920s (note the rectangular silhouette), and a pink padded jacket/pastel robe outfit in 1940s paris. she's following contemporary trends while charting a visible trajectory from child to adult.

when i wrote about the Théâtre des Vampires coven costumes, i noted that while their wardrobes share certain themes (ie. monochrome patterns and stripes), they each have specific personal tastes. that holds true for sleepwear. in the S2 finale we see the coven going to bed in their coffins, with Eglee in a gorgeous (maybe 1940s?) robe, Celeste in a striped pajama suit reflecting her 1920s-30s cabaret style, and Armand in a plain grey set of prison jammies because he's Suffering.

of course, the star pajama outfits all belong to Louis and Lestat, playing into their wealthy domestic aesthetic in S1. they receive multiple bedroom/coffin scenes, and Lestat's gold Leyendecker robe is obviously iconic.

touching on the historical side of things for a moment, pajamas (as in a matching buttondown top and loose pants) were popularized in the western world in the 19th century, as a repurposed south asian import - kind of like how banyans became trendy among the upper classes in 18th century england. this was when loungewear started to catch on as a concept, both in terms of dressing gowns and smoking jackets (which you could wear while socializing at home) and actual pajamas, which became unisex in the 1920s.

back in his human life in the 18th century, Lestat probably slept naked or wore a shapeless white nightgown (and possibly a nightcap, the sexiest of garments). but in New Orleans he adopts Louis' lifestyle, which involves a luxurious wardrobe of fashionable menswear. they're both into shopping and looking good, and i think they enjoy the ritual of getting dressed together each night.

(i also have a personal theory that Lestat may prefer to sleep fully clothed because his formative traumatic memory involves waking up naked in the dark. after all, he doesn't need pajamas to stay warm, and he doesn't have a recent habit of wearing them in his human life like Louis does. then again, maybe he just enjoys having a new outfit for every occasion!)

in Dubai, we only get one scene (iirc) with Louis and Armand in their pajamas, lying in bed wearing outfits that tie into the striped prison bar imagery of their bedroom. Armand is in warmer brown tones (like his Paris wardrobe) while Louis is in black and grey, like the rest of his Dubai outfits. i'd also note that this is the one place where they're genuine in private, meaning that they aren't putting on a show for Daniel. so this is potentially Armand's most relaxed costume in the present day.

the fact that they're wearing this kind of old-school sleepwear feels very appropriate for their whole deal, imo. in the 21st century, a lot of people just sleep in boxers and t-shirts or whatever. there's a slightly 20th century vibe to wearing a full set of buttondown pajamas, and Armand's outfit reads as more stylish (and possibly more wealthy) than your average millennial guy. which makes sense! they're old men.

i think we can assume that every single thing in their Dubai home is ferociously expensive, even when it doesn't need to be. considering the way Louis gives himself a modern makeover in the finale, i do wonder if he'll switch over to sleeping in t-shirts etc next season, or if he'll stick with variations of the same sleepwear he wore during his mortal life.

p.s. all of my iwtv design posts are available on this tag!

[running-with-kn1ves]

Got me awe struck how you write so well kinda wish i had that skill too! Anyway, how about boyfriend praising reader(who felt insecure) starting from sweet then getting creepier. Like something in the lines of "praising their kindness, so lucky to have them" to "he knows , he will kill for them."

A/N: A/N: sacrificed my soul for this one and it didn't turn out as slayful as I wanted.. Anyway, I hope this is what you were thinking anon :D sorry for any mistakes and thank you!

Synopsis: Your boyfriend's compliment goes a little too far when he tries to cheer you up.

T/W: Mildly graphic threats of violence, forced kissing, manipulation, insecure reader, yandere themes/behaviors

WC:3000

You found yourself in a bathroom stall for the fifth time in one evening, sitting on the toilet with your head in your hands. You just wanted it all to go away: the people, the drinks, the music that boomed in your ears. You had already stained your sequined clothes with spilt champagne earlier that night, the stickiness of it on your chest beginning to mix with the thick sweat crawling down your neck. It was too damn hot in here, the buzz of the bathroom fan making you claw at your updone hair. 

The mass amounts of club goers here were far more accustomed to this lifestyle than you. Which was intimidating, to say the least. They all looked so perfectly dolled up-- not a smudge of makeup out of place, delicious scents of colognes and perfumes mixing together. Not to mention, they could hold their alcohol far better than you could. 

One bitter cocktail and you were already hazy-eyed, your face warm and balance a little loopy.  You were by no means drunk, but the contents of your drink had certainly offered a level of instability to your emotions and movements. 

The image of men in their chic dress shirts that showed hours of gym time and girls in their tight party dresses made you want to curl up in the corner and marinate in self-pity. It was hard not to compare yourself, not when you spent hours searching for the right clothes that would fit with your boyfriend’s stylish accents, constantly perfecting your concealer to hide the dark bags beneath your eyes. 

And yet, even with your hard work, you still felt out of place, still felt the pinch of hundreds of passing stares and biting grins of condescension as you stood next to your overly charismatic significant other. 

Through your pounding headache and shaky breaths, You could hear the winding creak of the bathroom door being pushed open. 

Narrow-footed shoes echoed on the white tile floor, slowly passing each bathroom stall and sink basin. 

“Sweetheart?” A voice questioned. “You in here?” 

You stayed silent, covering your mouth and lifting your feet from the floor. You didn’t want him to know you had spent the past 20 minutes in here wiping away stinging tears from your eyes, shoving paper towels down the front of your dazzling shirt to soak up champagne. You smelled like alcohol and whatever cleaner they used to permeate the bathroom with, and it certainly wouldn’t be a sight that you wanted your boyfriend to see. 

However, despite your attempts to make yourself disappear, you saw his clubbing shoes patiently make their way to the front of your stall. You looked within the separating crack of the door and the wall, seeing a blur of black clothes and sun-kissed skin. Your eyes focused and without warning you made eye contact with him, his face showing a worried, yet sly grin. He was waiting-- peering in on you sitting there in ruin. 

You jolted in surprise, your foot slipping from the toilet seat as you looked away. You hoped if you moved fast enough, that maybe he would think you were someone else.

“C’mon, let me in.” He pressed against the door, trying to open it from the outside. 

Well, seemed like tricking him didn’t work. 

“Don’t come in here Ezra! I--” You weren’t sure how to convince him to go away. “I don’t want you to see me.”

He went quiet, keeping his hand atop the door handle and watching the door.

“Why not?”

Panic rose in your chest again, forcing you to try to come up with a way to get him to leave you alone, atleast long enough to make yourself look presentable. 

“I-... I just--”

“C’mon, I promise I won’t make fun of you or anything, just open the door,” He raddled the handle, pressing his face against the crack of the door. 

“Don’t!” You shout, trying to cover the crack with your hands.

Your boyfriend let out a low grunt, annoyed at your stubbornness. 

He tried rattling the door once more, pulling hard enough to make the hinges creak. You feared that if he pulled any harder, he might rip the entire door off. 

“You’ve been in there for almost a half hour,” Ezra impatiently replied, putting his hand on the top of the stall door. “If you don’t open up, I’m going to force my way in there.”

He began to pull, jerking the door hard enough that the other stalls began to clatter. 

“No-- wait okay okay okay!” You panicked, trying to pry his hand away from the top of the door. 

Instantaneously he grabbed your wrist, pulling it upward to get a good handle on you. His fingers were warm, as if he had his hands clenched for a long period of time. 

“I’m not letting go until you do.” He said coldly, squeezing your hand. He was serious, holding your wrist securely enough to show he meant business: he’d stand there all night if that's what it took. Your several disappearances had worried him enough.

His thumb moved up to caress the dip in your palm, turning your hand to face outwards. Ezra’s face was still pressed up against the door crack, looking to provoke you further out. 

Stomping your foot, you wracked your brain for something-- anything, to deter him away. But the lingering threat of his hand left your mind to draw a blank. 

“....Fine.” You mutter, pulling the paper towels out of your chest. You try to wipe away any leftover tears, but you know it does little to lessen the redness of your eyes. 

With a shaky breath, you ask him to stand back, and slowly unlock the door. Purposely taking as long as possible, you keep your feet moving at an inchworm's pace, hardly stepping away from the stall. 

Your boyfriend tears open the stall door now that its unlocked, not yet releasing your arm. 

You see his figure in front of you but refuse to look up, instead turning away and allowing him to drag you out of the small confines of the stall. He pulls you to the large sink basins, reaching for your chin. You flinch a little as he turns your head, looking at your tear stricken face. You felt like a mess, but he didn’t seem to change expression as you stared back. 

 “Now, what’s been the matter sweetheart?” 

You feel the cold of his rings against your balmy cheeks, his thumb running over your wet eyelashes to brush away unfallen tears. 

“I just don’t feel good…” You say, relishing in the affection, even though it makes your stomach churn.

“What doesn't feel good?” He asks, letting go to inspect the rest of you. 

You relax against the low counter, feeling it hit your tailbone. 

“Did someone hurt you?” He searches your body for marks. “Are you feeling sick? Had too much to drink, baby?”

You shake your head, suddenly feeling like a child answering to their mother. 

“You’re going to have to tell me what it is, then. I can’t read your mind.” He lightly scolds.

There’s a gentleness in the deep vibrato of his voice as he bares the blunt words, looking at you with an expectant gaze.  

You fidget a tad, beginning to pace in a small two-step dance. 

“I just--” You turn away, fidgeting with your fingers. “I feel, ridiculous.” 

You move to grasp your forehead, avoiding your boyfriends gaze. 

“Dressed up in this stupid get up, surrounded by these people who-- who I don’t belong next to, who make me look like a fool for being here…!” 

You fold your arms over your chest defensively, turning away from the man. 

“Did you see the way everyone was looking at me? I looked so stupid, standing next to you! Or even next to them, as if I could convince them that I belong here, next to someone of their own.” You turned to stare at your reflection in the mirror, not recognizing the person who stared back. “I just.. I don’t belong here, with you… with these people… I feel absurd for even trying.” 

You hear your voice shake at the last few words, not realizing you were getting worked up enough to cry. But then there it was, that burning in your nose and the blurriness of tears in your eyes. You felt your face scrunch and tense up, the ugliness of your cries breaking out to make you feel even smaller.

Putting a hand to your mouth and turning away from the mirror, you hoped your boyfriend hadn’t seen or heard the way you appeared ready to sob. 

But a heavy, commanding hand pulled your shoulder back, turning you around with ease as you let your body fall to whatever whims he desired.

Your nose was shoved against Ezra’s chest as he pushed your head against him, wrapping his arms around you. He stroked your hair, pushing it off your sweaty skin. It was almost suffocating, the way he trapped you against him. But it made you feel secure, knowing that he couldn’t see your face full of tears and shame, that you didn’t have to continue to spill your heart out to him. 

“Baby….” He said. It was in such a soft, understanding tone that you didn’t think it came from his lips at first. “How could you ever, ever, compare yourself to these… strangers?” 

You sniffled against his dress shirt, hiding yourself in his chest and expensive cologne, a scent so familiar and potent that it put your body at ease. 

“I mean, you? Versus them? These half drunken idiots who can barely hold themselves up?” Your boyfriend chuckled, shaking slightly against you. “Darling why would you ever want to be like them?”

You wiped your eyes, trying to keep your emotions at bay.

“I thought thats what… you wanted. How else am I supposed show up when I meet your friends.” You mumbled. 

Your boyfriend pulls your chin, lifting you to face him.

“I brought you here to meet everyone because I wanted them to meet you, not whatever persona the rest of the assholes here portray.” 

You looked away, letting his words sink in. 

“Besides, they were only looking at you because you were the most captivating thing in that room,”  He ran his pointer finger over your bottom lip, the cold of his rings hitting the bitten skin. 

“The most,” He cut himself off with a kiss to your neck. “Stunning,” kiss, ” “kind,” another kiss, “and amazing thing in that room. They were just how awestruck I was when I first saw you.” 

He softened as he saw you squeeze your lips shut, preventing a smile from escaping. 

 “Though I won’t let them make the same moves on you like I did.” He joked, laughing as he saw you roll your eyes. 

Brushing his thumb on your cheek, Ezra took away the remnants of tears. A pit of shame grew in your stomach when you saw him frown at your saddened state. 

“But listen,” He bent closer to your face, shifting his warm hands to cup your cheeks. “You’re the best thing to happen to me, hands down. And I wouldn’t trade any of the bastards in here for you, so enough self-loathing.” 

Your cheeks squish as he pressed his palms against them, forcing your head to nod as you went limp. 

“Good.” He smiled, grinning at how you seemed to wait for his next response.

You let him let go, even though you wanted to stay in that position of safety for longer.

He ruffled your hair back in place, fixing the few scraggled strands that he could. Ezra talked while fetching a paper towel to clean the goo beneath your eyes, originally from your tears.

“I mean, honestly, do you think I wouldn’t kill the bastards in here if they tried to look at you wrong? Come on, no way I would let that slide.” 

You smiled at hearing that, thinking he was just being dramatic. 

Paper towel in hand, Ezra lifted you up from the ground slightly. He put you down on the sink counter, keeping his hands planted to the sides of your abdomen. 

Letting out a low laugh, he continues to wipe away at your eyes. His demeanor shifted to be quieter; something you aren't used to from your blab of a boyfriend. 

Dark hair covers to his eyelids, sticking to his skin as the heat from the bathroom has begun to her to him.

The humming of the bathroom fan is all that fills the room for a few moments, Ezra’s concentration on your eyes leaving you both quiet. Though, you could tell he still had something he wanted to say.

"I mean, you don't understand how many times I've had the urge to mutilate the men in this club for staring at you, just from tonight alone" he licked his lips, curling his unmoving hand beside you. He seemed to be… nervous. "I'd pull their teeth out first, working my way down. Tearing each fingernail off one by one, pulling the veins from their wrists… I'd remove anything they have to witness you with."

He looked back up at you, staring within your eyes as if he was lost in them, as if he was looking inside of you. Despite his tender look that seemed to crave your cooperation, that should have made you blush– your smile fell. The warmth once spreading in your chest was now going cold, sinking to your stomach. 

"You captivated the whole room, and I can't stand it…" he didn't seem to notice your fallen expression, or the shaking in your hands on the counter. "I hate the way they can hear your laugh, sit beside you and feel your warmth… how you can smile at them and let them make you feel as if you aren't the best thing to ever walk into this club. I hate it so fucking much."

Your boyfriend trailed his finger down the sequins on your clothes, trying to hold himself back from getting too close. 

You shifted uncomfortably as your he leaned up close to your mouth, just far away enough to where he couldn't indulge in how badly he wanted to kiss you. There was this suffocating desire inside his chest to paint his claim violently upon your body in this bathroom right now, to let you walk put of this club with everyone staring at the little pieces of him only, forcing them all to know who you really belong to. 

You didn't know what to say to his confession…. Should you thank him? Run away? Beg him to go to therapy? 

Instead you stayed quiet, searching for the right words to not tick him off, now that you knew what he was potentially…. Capable of. 

"They want to hurt you, to use you and then throw you away like some brainless sex doll. They only have bad intentions, baby."

Your boyfriend slid down to your knees, crouching down as you sat on the counter above him. He pulled your left leg toward him gently, kissing up from your ankle, to your shin, to your knee. 

"But i'll take care of you, I won't let you be tricked.."He looks up at you with fluttering lashes, raising your leg ever so slightly to press his lips against your inner thigh. 

"You know how much I adore you… right?"

 Your skimpy clothes gave him even more access than you felt comfortable with, seeing the adoration pulsate within his eyes and the desperation in his hands.

"Of course," you reply, hesitantly bringing a hand up to his cheek, hoping he wasn't thinking of murdering you too in this bathroom. 

 His warm, damp hands molded the flesh of your bare thighs in his fingers, pushing in between the tight layer of where your tiny shorts and your skin meet, trying to dig beneath them. He wanted to hold all of you, to keep you in his arms so you couldn't even think of leaving, of running to someone else.

"You know that I'd never hurt you… that I only want what's best for you… that I'd kill for you--…" he mumbles the last bit, pressing your hand deeper against his cheek as he looks up from below at you, giving a cheeky grin. 

You nod your head, hoping his homicidal thoughts were just that-- thoughts.

He was quick to fool you again with that sweet, lovely smile that seemed to bask in your presence, the smile that made you feel like the most desirable person in the world. No matter how many threats he gave out they never seemed to deter the fact that his soft, adoring expression made you feel like he'd choose you in a room full of thousands. 

Your small assurance gave him the confidence to press his head further between your legs, running kisses back up from your knee to your thigh. 

He trailed up your skin, kisses growing hungry. Pulling your sequined shorts, your boyfriend buried his head between your thighs– trying to get where he knows he'll have full control over you. 

"Not here," you said breathlessly and bewildered, trying to push away his head. "We can't do that here–!"

His hair was soft, even with the thin spread of gel that kept it in place as you ran your hands down to his neck. Tugging at tufts of his hair and using your legs to push him away, you found little to nothing dispirited him. 

"Just let me show how much I love you..."

Each time you tried to use your knee to push him, Ezra pushed it against the sink countertop with the heavy weight of his hand. He looked up at you with a sick grin that meant: “just try and beat me.” A part of you felt panicked, not just from the compromising position-- but from how insistent he was. Like he was trying to prove something to you.

It wasn't until the echo of the bathroom door swinging open and hitting the wall, did he lift his head. His eyes went wide, jaw clenching as he whipped around to look. The fearful expression would've been funny if you weren't just as scared. 

You quickly jumped off the counter and pulled your shorts back into position, watching to see someone peak around from the corner. But the sounds of drunken laughter faded away, and no one made themselves apparent.

You and Ezra sighed simultaneously, the heat from the stuffy bathroom showing to have been too much for the both of you. 

He reached for your hand, pulling you towards him. Ezra goes quiet, and you keep your gaze to the ground. He had shown sides of himself tonight that you weren’t exactly sure how to process. 

“Lets just go home, okay?” Ezra says after a few moments, whispering with a grin.“I wanna finish what we started.”

What were you to say? You stuttered, thinking to protest, to run away or maybe even admit how afraid you were. 

But with a kiss to your sweaty forehead, your boyfriend slung his arm over your shoulder and began leading you to the exit of the bathroom. 

Your feet had moved on your own, your mouth still lingering to form words. As Ezra opened the door, the stench of alcohol and cheap perfume hit you once again.

[fafnir19]

The lingerie boutique

Leif stood at the threshold of the lingerie boutique, an unfamiliar nervousness pricking at him. His girlfriend's incessant chatter about her friends' partners embarking on risqué escapades for special occasions echoed in his mind. "Sexy photos, Leif. Sexy surprises! That's what other guys do," she had pouted, twirling a lock of her hair in that alluring way that always made his heart race.

Leif, a man in his early thirties with a burgeoning beer belly that spoke of late-night pizza indulgences, found it absurd. Despite his skepticism about the "sexy" trends of middle-aged men in lace and leather, Leif decided to take the plunge. His mind echoed with her words, urging him to step out of his comfort zone. So here he was, on a mission to find something "sexy" for her birthday.

Pushing his doubts aside, Leif entered the shop, greeted by a universe of lace and silk. He couldn't help but feel out of place amidst the sea of women browsing the intimate garments. His eyes darted around the shop, trying to avoid the judging gazes of the ladies as he tentatively made his way towards the men's section tucked discreetly in the corner. Among the crowd of women, he noticed only one other male in the shop, who exuded a confidence Leif could only dream of.

"Maybe he's buying something for his girlfriend," Leif thought, feeling a pang of insecurity as he fingered a delicate lace brief. This man was a stark contrast to Leif's own self-image, muscular and undeniably handsome. This type of guy seemed to belong in the sensuous garments adorning the displays - not Leif.

Gathering his resolve, Leif made his way to the changing rooms, his mind swirling with thoughts of how ridiculous he must look with his chubby frame and hairy chest. Once inside the changing room, Leif stripped down and reluctantly put on the lace briefs. Looking at himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but cringe at the sight. "I look ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

Tugging at the fabric, he realized it clung to him stubbornly, refusing to budge. Panic welled up inside him, and he made desperate attempts to free himself from the unforgiving lace. Frantic now, Leif made a decision born out of frustration. With a sudden burst of strength, he tried to tear the briefs off, only to be met with excruciating pain that shot through his body like a lightning bolt. The room seemed to spin as agony consumed him, and he closed his eyes against the relentless torment. It was as if tendrils of magic seeped into his being, reshaping him from the inside out.

Moments later, as the pain ebbed away, Leif cautiously opened his eyes and glanced at his reflection once more. What he saw left him speechless. Staring back at him was a young man in his twenties, chiseled features and a physique that seemed sculpted by a divine hand.

A mixture of shock and disbelief coursed through him as he whispered, "What happened to me?" In a daze, Leif hastily donning his old, oversized clothing over the lace briefs. However, to his horror, his t-shirt began to tighten around him and the fabric of his t-shirt transformed before his eyes, changing from drab cotton to elegant white lace. The cut of the shirt reshaped itself into a stylish button-down shirt, and as if by magic, the sleeves rolled up on its own. Buttons of his button-down shirt slowly unfurled, unveiling a smooth, hairless chest that bore no resemblance to the man he once was. The transformation didn't stop there. His jeans shimmered and turned into tight luxurious silk pants. The silky texture against his now slender thighs and sculpted buttocks elicited an unexpected sensation of arousal, causing a soft moan to escape his lips involuntarily and shocking Leif to his core. "That's not me. I need to get out of here," he whispered to himself, a sense of urgency driving him to leave the changing room. Finally his worn-out trainers transformed into stylish loafers, completing his new look, showcasing his now naked ankles and leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Overwhelmed and confused, Leif stormed out of the changing room, intent on escaping the eerie enchantment of the shop.

In a twist of serendipity—or perhaps cruel irony—Leif collided with the other male customer in the shop, a man named Brandon. Brandon smirked at Leif, his green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Leaving so soon, my handsome boy?" his smooth voice resonated in the small space, sending shivers down Leif's spine. Startled and unsure how to react, Leif stammered, "I-I... I need to go." But Brandon's hand reached out, gently touching Leif's arm. "How about we grab a coffee? It's the least I can do after causing such a commotion." His grin was playful, enticing.

Leif was taken aback, unsure of how to respond to such an unexpected proposition. His initial reaction was a mix of alarm, disgust and discomfort at the suggestive undertones in Brandon's words. “This imposing man sees my young and delicate silk- and lace-clad form only as an invitation to bring me to suck his cock," Leif mentally recoiled, trying to find a way out of the situation.

As Leif crushed his mind about an non-offensive response and gazed incidentally at Brandon's muscular frame, a wave of envy washed over him. Brandon exuded confidence and power, a stark contrast to Leif's own insecurities. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at Brandon's commanding presence, his own sense of self-doubt magnified in comparison.

Leif felt a rush of conflicting emotions flood his mind – despite a tinge of jealousy at Brandon's apparent confidence he also felt admiration for the man's muscular physique and his intense green eyes.

Thoughts raced through Leif's mind like a wild stallion, each one more scandalous than the last. He couldn't help but notice how impeccably dressed Brandon was and how good he was looking. His tailored suit hugging his muscular frame in all the right places. The younger version of Leif felt a tingle of attraction towards this dominant man standing before him. But then, a scent caught Leif's attention - the pleasant, manly smell of Brandon's cologne. It enveloped him like a warm embrace, stirring up desires he never knew he had. Images flashed through his mind like lightning, each one more erotic than the last. He imagined what it would be like to kiss Brandon, to feel the roughness of his stubble against his skin.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, a shocking confession slipped past Leif's lips before he could even process it. "Yes, I want to suck your cock, Brandon!" he blurted out, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment as soon as the words left his mouth.

Brandon's lips curled into a sly smile, a predatory glint shining in his eyes as he seized the opportunity presented to him. Without a word, he guided Leif into a secluded changing room, the air thick with anticipation.

The small confines of the room felt suffocating yet thrilling, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound between them. Leif's heart pounded in his chest, his body responding to the primal call of desire. Kneeling before the man whose dominance seemed to awaken a submissive side within him, Leif delved into uncharted waters, his actions guided by a primal urge he had never acknowledged before.

The taste of danger lingered on his lips as he took Brandon in, exploring a side of himself he never dared to acknowledge. Brandon's fingers tangled in Leif's hair, guiding him with a firm yet gentle touch. Leif's breath ghosted over Brandon's skin, each whispered touch sending shivers down his spine. Pleasure mingled with trepidation as Leif traced his tongue along the length of Brandon's cock, savoring the salty sweetness that teased his senses. With each passing moment, Leif found himself consumed by a heady mix of apprehension and exhilaration as he pleasured Brandon.

After the storm of passion subsided, Brandon's fingers threaded through Leif's hair, a silent gesture of approval and satisfaction. With a whispered "Thanks, boy," Brandon left the changing room without a backward glance.

Leif was confused and still kneeling there, as a sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. Despite the raw intensity of the moment, he couldn't shake the feeling of being used, of being reduced to a mere object of desire. Nevertheless, his relationship with his girlfriend, once a cornerstone of his existence, now seemed like a distant memory.

[restinslices]

Silly little request but how do you think LKB would dress like casually? Like once every blue moon they have a day off and ding need to wear their uniforms? Can you do this in bullet points?

Them not in their uniforms is such a normal concept but it seems so weird for them if you know what I mean. Like, wdym they don’t wear those outfits to sleep? Also this is probably shorter than other posts because it’s about outfits, yk?

Bi-Han

Black. Moving on-

On some real shit though, I feel like this man’s entire wardrobe is in greyscale 

Someone’s like “hey there’s this event coming up! Can you wear a blue shirt?”

You’d think he’d have blue but nope. Nothing but blacks and greys and maybe a white in there 

I saw a post of biker Bi-Han and I definitely see it now 

Idk if the pictures imma attach at the end are really biker tho so that’s why I’m saying mainly blacks 

Like Elsa, the cold doesn’t bother him anyway so jackets aren’t really a thing he has to wear. He kinda just does because it makes the outfit look better 

That’s all the brain power he puts into it though because this man doesn’t care about his wardrobe at all 

He cares enough to not look sloppy but he doesn’t care about piecing shit together or brands and designer. If you look closely you can see he’s wearing the same shirt he was wearing yesterday 

He wears black because he’s still thinking like an assassin. The whole “I shouldn’t be noticeable” thing 

Which is wild when you think about how he’s definitely noticeable in that blue outfit but idk

He also wears black because… he doesn’t know 

He checked his closet and realized that shit looked like a black void but refuses to actually wear more color 

I don’t see him accessorizing much either. He only carries stuff he can fit in his pockets 

Kuai Liang

Lazy 

Bi-Han adds a jacket for a bit of razzle dazzle but Kuai Liang doesn’t 

In all fairness, he gets hot easily (this is stereotypical but idc) so a jacket isn’t gonna work 

He wears the most basic t shirts and pants 

Like he legit got the same white shirt 50 times 

The shit is despicable 

I don’t think he adds many accessories either. He probably doesn’t carry much on him 

Long sleeves never really happen either 

Honestly I don’t think of any them dress with any special aesthetic in mind

But him? Extra lazy

I am being so serious when I say he buys the same clothes over and over again. He forgets he has a white t shirt in his closet so he buys another and the cycle repeats 

Probably doesn’t care as much because what are the chances he’ll be out of uniform?

You know how people say men's outfits are so boring? He’s the main example they use because there’s no personality with his shit 

I don’t see him doing much on his off days though so that’s probably why he just throws something on

He’s just getting dressed to go grocery shopping 

Tomas Vrbada 

The one with the most style 

Which isn’t saying a lot 

Wears multiple layers 

Why do I think this way? Idk. But if I said they all dress the same, it’d be boring so here we are

He probably has a normal type of body heat since he’s not a pyromancer or cryomancer so he’s wearing hoodies and jackets because he’s genuinely cold 

He accidentally has style 

Wearing a hoodie and jacket is stylish to people for whatever reason. He doesn’t get it but he’s like “yeah, I definitely have fashion sense. It’s definitely not because I’m cold all the time. That just doesn’t sound like me”

May accessorize a bit but not as much 

As a whole I think accessories can become heavy and get in the way and our boys gotta be ready to bust a move if something pops off. Just because they’re off duty doesn’t mean they’re not paying attention or in danger 

So that’s why our boys travel light 

He has those smoke bombs and shit so he might have a little pouch with him but I don’t think he’d carry a backpack. Goes back to being too heavy 

If something can’t fit in a pouch, it’s staying home 

Dresses in neutral colors. I don’t think any of them are necessarily into bright colors 

Doesn’t have the same exact clothes but wears them the same exact way. His outfits look like a skin variation 

He’s doing his best 

Remember all I do for you because imagining them in normal clothes fucked me up more than I’d like to admit

[sashaisready]

Chapter Twenty-Three - Hell if I know

Bucky Barnes Mob AU x Femme Reader

You're hard at work in Pepper's Bakery when notorious mob boss James 'Bucky' Barnes darkens your doorway one typical afternoon, and life is never the same again.

Warning: PTSD/trauma response, Steve being cute

18+ - see Masterlist for full list of warnings

Chapter 24

Series Masterlist

Thank-you to everyone who has read, liked, reblogged and commented on this series! It means so much and I love hearing your thoughts!! Just two parts left now - to be posted tomorrow (13th Dec).

You had finally peeled yourself out of bed so Bucky could debrief his men after the events of last night. He’d shown you the ensuite bathroom and laid out some spare clothes so you didn’t need to put last night’s back on (you’d asked him to throw them out). He told you firmly to come downstairs and have some breakfast when you were ready. Not that you were particularly hungry, but after you’d protested he had shot you a warning look and you’d buckled – not wanting to put a dampener on the mood after your morning together.

It was easily the best shower of your life. Bucky’s guest bathroom was impressive, a huge walk in waterfall shower amongst brand new fittings and slate grey tiles. There were array of fancy toiletries on the shelf, each stylish bottle probably the same price as your monthly electric bill.

The water pressure was intense, you closed your eyes and allowed the hot water to wash everything away. You took your time washing your hair, taking care to scrub every inch of yourself and wipe away every trace of HYDRA and that night. Every speck of dust, blood, sweat.

You lost track of time as you enjoyed the feeling of the warm water on your skin. After washing your hair you took a moment to lean against the tiles, which proved to be a mistake.

You weren’t sure if it was the feel of the hard surface on your back but suddenly you were transported back to the attic in the warehouse, folding yourself into the corner and holding tight against the wall as you hid and waited in the dark. Your breaths became short and laboured as the room started to spin. The steam from the shower, once comforting and soothing, suddenly seemed stifling and threatening. Fear coursed through you as you were struck by the idea that there was someone in the bathroom with you, hiding within the steam, waiting for you, even though you knew the door was locked from the inside.

You were bent over double as you finally began to push through it. Eventually you managed to regulate your breathing and calm down, switching the water off and wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel as you cautiously moved to the door. Nobody there, of course, nobody in the bedroom either. You exhaled, taking a second to adjust. You had a feeling that wasn’t going to be a one off.

The bathroom was also generously stocked with toiletries - everything a guest might need including new toothbrushes and hair products. After making use of the deodorant and toothpaste you pulled on the clothes Bucky had left for you, navy blue sweat pants, a t-shirt and a large hoody - a pair of boxers too. Everything was too big for you but they were comfy, and they smelled like him too.

You gingerly left the room with your wet hair and borrowed clothing. No Scott guarding outside any more, the house seemed quiet. You crept down the stairs, once again in awe of Bucky’s home. You couldn’t believe anyone in New York had this much space, your shoebox apartment could fit in this floor alone several times over. Everything was modern and looked brand new, pristine white walls and immaculate floors. He must have a cleaning team working round the clock.

You didn’t see anyone as you went down the stairs, crossed the hall and made your way into the intimidatingly enormous kitchen. Nobody there either, just every food gadget you could ever imagine and a table big enough to host a small army. But you supposed that made sense, there seemed to be dozens of people here at any one time. You fantasised about baking there, using the state of the art food mixer and spreading everything out across the many surfaces - a world away from your tiny kitchen at home, where you huddled everything onto your meagre counter with your well-trodden mixer running on nothing but sheer force of will at this point.

You fought your way through the seemingly hundreds of cabinets to finally retrieve a cup and then moved on to trying to figure out the coffee machine. Unfortunately you seemed to need an engineering degree to work it, so hadn’t got very far when you heard someone come into the kitchen behind you.

“She’s awake! How are you today, cupcake?” A cheerful voice called out.

You whipped around to find Steve walking towards you, grinning. He was wearing a slick grey suit, looking every inch the part of second in command.

“Cupcake…? Oh, ‘cos I’m a baker…yeah I get it. Clever” you giggled, rolling your eyes.

“I’m not just a pretty face”. He shot you a wink as he moved to the coffee machine and started pressing buttons .

“She’s got a bit of a knack to her, just need to show her who’s boss and-“

The machine whirred to life and he turned to give you a satisfied smile.

“Thank you, Steve” you beamed back at him. “Where’s Bucky?”

“A little caught up - he’ll be back later. Sorry to say you’re stuck with me for now. So, what we having?”

He takes off his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. You blink at him for a moment before you realise he’s offering to make you breakfast.

“Steve…you don’t have to babysit me. I can make my own eggs” you chuckle.

“Eggs it is…”. He retrieves a carton from the fridge. “So how we doing this? Fried? Boiled? Scrambled? I can even poach if that’s what you’re into…”

“It’s fine…I can do it” you lightly scold him.

“Mmm sorry but I’m under strict orders here. So drink your coffee and tell me what how you like them before I pick for you” he says sternly.

“Fine. Scrambled, please. On toast” you sigh in defeat.

You feel uncomfortable being doted on like this. You’re very independent and used to taking care of yourself. This isn't you.

“Perfect. Let’s go” Steve replied, pulling out a pan and moving to the stove while he grabbed a loaf of sourdough.

“So is this how it all goes down every time?” You tease. “You distract the girls with breakfast the morning after, while Bucky makes a quick exit?”

Steve turns to you and grins. “This is the first time, actually”.

“Bullshit”.

“It is! Would you believe me if I told you most girls don’t even make it to breakfast?” He tells you wickedly.

“Wow, charming” you scoff.

“Well, Bucky knows you’ve had a rough night and asked me to take care of you” he admits earnestly. “You certainly keep him on his toes, cupcake”.

You blush at that, averting your eyes as you clutch your cup. You sit in a comfortable silence for a few minutes as Steve hums and cooks. The toast pops up, Steve plates up your meal and brings it over as you take a seat at the kitchen island.

“Thank you, Steve. This is very sweet of you”.

“Don’t thank me yet” he shoots back, waving a spatula warningly as he puts the pan in the sink. “I’m a bit rusty in the kitchen. This isn’t one of my usual duties…”

You laugh and take a bite, humming with happiness as you chew.

“Good, huh?”

“I mean it’s possibly because I haven’t eaten in like…seventeen hours? But yeah it’s really good, thank you”. You smile at him.

And you are grateful. As much as you don’t like people fussing over you, you can’t deny it’s nice to be cared for - particularly after the last twenty four hours. And you’re touched that Bucky is looking after you even when he’s not there.

“Oh almost forgot….” Steve leans over to where he put his jacket and reaches into the pocket. “We salvaged this for you. Case is a bit cracked but the screen seems okay”.

He throws you over your phone and you catch it, thanking him. You unlock the screen and see a few messages. One from Wanda asking how your date went, another from Peter saying he enjoyed hanging out and you should do it again sometime (platonically of course). You reply to Peter with some non-committal enthusiasm and tell Wanda you’ll call her later as you have lots to tell her. It feels strange that their world is just carrying on as usual around you, while yours had changed forever in a matter of hours. Pepper also let you know she’d offered the Assistant job to the top candidate and was waiting to hear back.

You see the texts HYDRA sent on your behalf and the reply from Bucky and hastily delete them before you can fully react to them, wishing you could remove your memories just as easily.

“So you and Buck…” Steve questioned warily.

“Me and Buck what…?” you ask as if you don’t know what he’s implying.

“What’s your deal? Are you actually together now?”

You shrug animatedly as you eat your breakfast. “You probably know more than I do…”

And that’s the truth. You have no idea what is going on with you two as you hadn’t discussed it. Yes, he gallantly came to your rescue (although he was somewhat morally obligated as he was the reason you needed saving…) and yes you’d slept together again…but nothing had been explicitly said between you. From your perspective…you felt like something had shifted between you now. You knew in your heart wanted to be with Bucky. Really wanted to be with him. Despite his flaws, despite everything that had happened. You were still cautious but nonetheless drawn to him like a moth to a flame, unable to stay away. It was hard to imagine your life without him now.

Steve laughs and shoots you a ‘Hell if I know…’ look.

“Steve…” you ask cautiously as your fork plays with the last of your toast. “What did you mean when you said I keep Bucky on his toes?”

He chuckles. “C’mon cupcake, you know exactly what I meant”.

The two of you stare at one another for a moment and you feel yourself flush as you finish your final bites. Steve picks up your empty plate and takes it to the dishwasher.

“All I’m saying is he’s got it bad” Steve continues as he cleans up. “There’s a reason I’m standing here cooking for you”.

You nod, finishing your coffee as his words sink in.

[a-boca-do-inferno]

trouble with a capital T (tony montana x reader)

summary: (y/n) has an unexpected admirer.

warnings: angst, smut-bit of a size kink? idk u tell me, violence, drugs, abuse, dubcon, blood, swearing, domestic abuse, fluff and a little stalking ig. also tony montana

words: 8.9k

notes: this is toxic asf pls beware when reading it. also reader here is stupid asf for narrative purposes do not be like that irl im begging you. i rly have a concerning taste in men and if someone ever finds this i dont kno any of you <3 enjoy!

There’s this new guy in town who looks like trouble with a capital “T”. Everyone has seen him in person, except (y/n). However, by the stories and theories she hears, the figure of this man becomes even more macabre. Nobody knows his real name. He’s known only as Scarface, which should be an indicator of his perhaps not-so-scary nature, but (y/n) is a bit of a coward, if she’s being honest.  

Still, when the girl thinks of him, she likes to imagine he has his own reasons for doing what people say he does. It is a morally questionable service, certainly illegal—considerably inhumane—, yet something inside of her extends this guy the benefit of the doubt. It’s not an uncommon theme in Florida, anyway, selling drugs and whatnot, so perhaps Scarface isn’t of all bad. He is still surely just a man, right? But when she received Elvira’s messages saying there was a shooting in her neighborhood, and that Scarface was arrested for allegedly taking part in it, (y/n) felt a little overwhelmed about her previous considerations. Even if the guy wasn’t the devil like everyone made him to be, he was a criminal. A violent one at that, putting innocent people’s lives in danger, like her friend’s. 

She couldn’t go see Elvie that day, but (y/n) told her she’d drop by as soon as possible. Elvira sent some pictures of her neighbor’s window with bullet holes, six of them. The neighbor was a man who lived alone and listened to loud music all day on Sundays. Why anyone would have ordered his death, they had no idea. But then again, (y/n) didn’t really trust men who’d hit on women even after being told “no” a couple of hundred times. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if he was a rapist, or a pedophile, or both. Anything was possible nowadays. The neighbor managed to escape the sniper’s attack and left through the back, anyway, and Elvira said he entered the backyard of her house to protect himself. She was really lucky that by that time, the police had already arrived at the scene and readily took the shooter into custody.  

Scarface, according to Elvie’s description, was a short, rustic-looking man. He was white, but sunburned, with a stylish haircut reminiscent of the ‘80s and a shaven face. His eyes were big and dark, with a prominent nose, and there was a scar on his left eye, which obviously earned him the infamous nickname. He walked around with a worn Hawaiian shirt and a white wifebeater under it, the one everybody says he’s always wearing; from the waist down, he had shabby jeans held up by a leather belt and old-fashioned cowboy boots. The kind they used to wear in the Wild West, probably.  

The guy was just an almost cartoonish figure, a villain straight out of some children’s TV show. And still, somehow, he was the terror of this city as of lately. Everyone licked his balls in an attempt to spare their own lives. Uselessly, of course, since he didn’t seem to have any real consideration for anyone or anything, except for money. So, it wasn’t exactly a certainty that he wouldn’t kill any of his so-called “friends” downtown, unless they owned something valuable to him—drugs, for instance. 

And him being detained now, for the hundredth time that month, wasn’t really a relief, since he would soon be out. Because no one could ever catch him in the act—he was a professional, after all—, his stay in the precinct’s modest jail was only for a few hours. At most one night. Five hundred, even a thousand dollars in bail—or a bribe, in fact—was enough for the sheriff to release him with a faithful promise he would see Scarface again the following week. And it was no sooner said than done. 

Nobody knew where he lived. There were rumors his home was in the neighborhood next to (y/n)’s, but it was never confirmed. It also wouldn’t make any difference to know where his residence was. Again: the guy was a professional. Even the mayor licked the floor he walked. But Scarface also had his enemies, obviously. On her block alone there were four or five men who would kill him in broad daylight with their bare hands, if given the chance. She didn’t know the story very well, but it obviously had something to do with settling scores. It always did.  

Scarface, the cowboy-boots and burnt-skin, revolver-stuck-to-spine and walk-of-an-insufferable-bastard Scarface, was the greatest example of how the universe does not give any tips. The divine does not send signs. And when it does, it’s a bullet in the head, right in the middle of your eyebrows. Scarface is the universal clue of at least three people a week, but no one recognizes him as such. They’d rather bow to his feet, fearing for their lives, as if the devil had any sympathy in him in the first place. It was a funny paradox. Furthermore, the universe is also a sneaky son of a bitch. So, of course her brother would get into some trouble and end up in jail. And of course he would ask (y/n) to save his ass as she often did.  

She quickly turned around the way she was making to the supermarket and parked in front of the station, luckily only a few blocks away from her destination. The girl entered the room in silence and wrinkled her nose slightly at the strong smell of pee and cigarettes coming from the back, where the small jail was. In the waiting room, there were only two men sitting with their heads down and a guard in front of the hallway that led to the detainees.  

(y/n) went to talk to the guard and before disappearing, he told her to wait right there. She took a sit as far away from the two ominous-looking men as possible and pretended to be fiddling with her phone. In fact, she was distressed. Despite Manny being known for his little transgressions, he’d never been arrested before, so she had also never been to a police station up until that point. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her fingers were trembling slightly.  

The guard finally returned and she let out a sigh of relief. He handed her some paperwork to fill and she paid the bail in silence. While she gave him her signature, loud voices and laughter could be heard approaching in the hallway next to the waiting room. The laughter was undeniably masculine, a deep voice reverberating through the walls of the quiet police station. (y/n) held her breath as her eyes landed on brown shoes touching the floor. She didn’t dare look up and quickly finished signing the papers, going back to her chair while the guard went to get Manny.  

She stared down at her phone, her heartbeat speeding up again. The disturbing laughter ceased and the girl heard a rattle of keys followed by another clang. A thick accent thanked someone and (y/n) let out her breath, thinking he was leaving at last, but the heavy boots made their way to the water cooler right next to her. She bit her lip and sighed shakily, still not daring to look up. The way he was standing betrayed the lack of care for his spine, as he was unnecessarily leaning too far back. His loud gulps almost made (y/n) roll her eyes, despite her nervousness. He really looked like he came out of a cartoon with such deliberately theatrical behaviour.  

The two men sitting away from her got up at the same time and walked out of the station, leaving just Scarface, another guard who was on the computer, and her. But as she had no luck, a voice called that damn guard and he left them both alone in the waiting room. At that point, (y/n) knew the asshole was just messing around with that glass of water he’d been drinking for the past two minutes. And for that reason, she decided to stand up straight and look at him. There was nothing to fear. She had nothing to do with his drug shenanigans. 

The girl was only still hesitant of Scarface maybe trying to do something inappropriate, but she didn’t have time to run when he threw the cup in the trash and sat down on the empty chair right next to her. That man’s sly smile and predatory gaze made her shiver from head to toe. “Mornin’”, he states, his deep voice very close to her ear.  

(y/n) turned to look at him and kept her expression solemn. “Morning”, she simply replies, and perhaps it comes out too imposing, because Scarface raises his eyebrows and looks at her with some humor.  

“A tough one, huh? Just the way I like it.”  

She wants to laugh at his words, but only shakes her head. “Are you fucking serious? You wish....” 

“I wish what?”, he grabs her face tightly, forcing her to look at him. (y/n) freezes under his touch and can’t hide her panicked expression. He smiles satisfied and moves closer to her. “Your mama never told you not to talk to strangers, huh?”, she tries to pull away from his grip, but he pushes his fingers harder against her cheeks to the point of hurting. “Answer me.”  

“You’re not a stranger, Scarface”, she grins and he lets go of her at last. (y/n) takes a deep breath and clears her throat, checking the time and tucking her phone into her front pocket. Thankfully, Manny’s voice is approaching in the hallway and she gets up, giving the guy a scowl. “I know you think you own this town, but remember you’re still just a guy. Get over yourself.”  

“Oh, I know”, Scarface mutters, smirking like she’d just told him a great joke. He stands up and tries to touch her again, but (y/n) manages to avoid it. He then pulls her closer by the waist for a split second, as the guard and her brother appear in that instant. The man lets go of her quickly, and before he leaves, he flashes her a wink, “have a good day, baby.” 

She watches angrily as Scarface disappears, caressing her aching face. The girl turns around to find Manny with a sorry expression, and she clenches her jaw. “Let’s go”, it’s all she says, walking out of the station without waiting for him. 

♡♡♡ 

A week after that incident, (y/n) never left the house again. Until today, that is; she only went to her brother’s because he was starting to get a little worried about her confinement. She didn’t think of telling him why she was hiding for protection, because the less her family knew about that crazy drug dealer bothering her, the better.  

(y/n) walked out of her car fast so she wouldn’t bump into Scarface on the street by any chance. Although it was pretty unlikely to happen, seeing as he didn’t usually hang out in her neighborhood, but she wouldn’t take any risks. No one besides herself knew what went on in the station and she didn’t intend to tell anyone else. The girl didn’t even know if she should have told anyone in the first place. The guy had this city in his hands. If he wanted to find her, it was a snap of his fingers.  

But of course, (y/n) couldn’t run away forever. And the day she decided she’d go to Manny’s without any fear, while she was sitting on the sofa, that damned thick accent came from the front door. She widened her eyes and got up quickly, but when the girl reached the kitchen door, her scared expression met the man’s pleased one. He was smiling at something her brother was saying, however, as soon as he saw her, the mirth on his features was borderline sickening. Still, he visibly tried to play it cool because Manny was there.  

(y/n) pretended not to care as she made her way to the bathroom and locked herself there, hands shaking violently. She sent millions of desperate messages to Elvira. The voices continued to chatter excitedly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have Scarface at her brother’s place. Like they were buddies. 

Suddenly there was silence and someone knocked on the bathroom door slowly, barely audible. Her heart raced and she felt a lump forming in her throat, eyes watering without warning. Another knock. She put her phone away and slowly opened the door, not knowing what else to do or where else to go. The man’s intimidating presence greeted her and a victorious grin hovered on his lips. (y/n) looked into the living room for Manny, but there was no one. He seemed to have left for some reason, and she felt her world fall apart.  

The girl stared back at Scarface and he was now serious, examining her body up and down with no shame. “So you’re family, huh?”, he muses, his terrifying voice making her shiver sharply. She sighed and went to sit back in the couch, accompanied by him, who was leaning against the doorway and still gazed at her without blinking. “When they told me you were Manny’s lil’ sis, I couldn’t believe it, baby! But here you are, I guess that makes him my brother-in-law”, he states, content as a child who solves a puzzle. “He told me you live alone, right? I might pay you a visit someday.”  

“Right”, she merely scoffs, attempting her best not to show the shift in her seat hearing his words. 

He smiles macabre, moving his index finger from side to side in denial. “You don’t talk to me like that, tigress. Let’s start there”, he looks around, making sure Manny’s still not there, and approaches her. (y/n) instinctively pulls away and he grabs her face just like before, forcing her to glance at him. “You don’t talk to me like that. Got it?” She doesn’t answer and he squeezes her cheeks even more, making her let out a groan of pain. “Got it?”  

“Got it”, she spits out, begrudgingly.  

(y/n) thinks he’s going to let go, finally, but first he gives her an awkward, aggressive peck on the lips. She instantly shoves him and wipes her mouth to somehow undo that contact. Scarface laughs, “you’re so cute, baby.”  

“What are you doing with my...” 

Manny arrived as soon as she closed her mouth, readily engaging in another conversation with Scarface while ignoring her presence there. They talk about people and places she knew nothing about, it sounded like a bunch of codes, and she gaped at each sentence they exchanged. How the hell did they know each other? What was that asshole doing with her brother?!  

Dinner came and Scarface—his name was never mentioned, for some reason, and she wasn’t about to ask—made a point of sitting next to her, but if Manny noticed their closeness, he didn’t pay any mind. They continued talking through the meal and Manolo chit-chatted (y/n) now and then, forcing her to answer Scarface’s falsely innocent and curious questions about what she was talking about. As if he didn’t already know everything about her life, apparently.  

After helping clean the kitchen, (y/n) said goodbye to her brother. Scarface watched them silently from the sofa and she tried to keep her focus on Manny. “I have some stuff to do at home now, gotta go.” 

“You going alone? It’s late”, he frowns.  

She waves her hand to make light of it. “It’s fine, Manny. It’s a ten minute ride.”  

Manolo shakes his head. “Even so, (y/n), you know this neighborhood ain’t safe. I can’t take you home, but Tony can.”  

So that’s his name.  

Scarface—Tony chimes in, not letting her answer Manny just yet, “c’mon, let’s go. I’ll take you.” 

“It is not necessary. I literally drove here!”, the girl huffs, already taking the first step to leave.  

Manny stops her before she reaches the door. “No, no. It’s too dangerous here at night, you better go with him. C’mon, you take her, Tony. She’s just a little stubborn.”  

(y/n) locks her jaw, but doesn’t say anything.  

“I noticed”, Tony mutters tauntingly, giving her an ambiguous look that surely only she saw. The girl took a deep breath and surrendered, waving goodbye to Manny as she walked with Tony to her car. They strolled in silence to the garage and as soon as she opened the door of the vehicle, he pulled out a little plastic bag from his pocket, full of a white powder. He pointed with his chin at it, raising the object. “I just made some business with your brother today, baby, no worries.”  

(y/n) stared at him confused, but still didn’t say a word. Manolo was really going down an irreversible path, it seemed, and there was nothing she could do about it. With a heavy heart, she could only get in her car and pray she’d make it home safe that night. Scarface followed her and started driving, shooting her a smile or two over his shoulder. Luckily, it wasn’t long until they parked in front of her building. He turned off the ignition and got out of the car with her, obviously inviting himself in.  

Of course.  

(y/n)’d been trying for a few seconds to open the stuck gate and Tony notices her suffering, helping her to complete the task. She doesn’t thank him and simply walks into the house, knowing he’s on her tail. His eyes burn into her back, but she tries not to focus on it while starting to unlock the door. She is greeted by her cats rubbing against her heels and she smiles automatically. Forgetting for a brief moment that Scarface is there, the girl takes the smaller one in her arms, hugging and kissing her soft dark fur. When she puts her down, the man is watching her with an amused expression.  

Her cheeks tingle and (y/n) makes her way to the kitchen, with Tony still following in silence. She pours herself a glass of water and offers it to him next, which he accepts, still staring at her with the same predatory demeanor. He’s going to try to do something ugly to her, obviously, and she is trying not to think about it, but it’s getting harder and harder. If she screams, no one will hear her. Fortunately or not, she has no neighbor on her floor. She makes a mental list of what objects she can throw at his head to make him pass out like in the movies; a brand new moisturizer that is full; a makeup bag; her favorite pan. If she is quick enough, maybe she can lock him in her room and call the police. 

(y/n) snaps out of her thoughts when Tony approaches her behind the counter, while she still holds a glass of water. She is staring at his chest when he calmly takes it from her hands and offers her a smile. She tries to hide her trembling fingers from his vision, but he notices them and takes her palm in his, raising it to her eye level.  

“Not so tough now, huh?”, he mocks, making (y/n) bite her own tongue so she doesn’t give him a sharp answer and gets punched because of it. He kisses her fingertips softly, catching her off guard. Tony notices her confused expression and grins again, lowering his face to bring it closer to hers. “What, you think I was gonna keep scaring you off? I’m not that bad, baby.” 

“If you say so.” She mutters reflexively, regretting it right away when his dangerous orbs fall on her. She sighs and looks away. “Sorry.” 

He nods approvingly. “Good girl.”  

There is an old gouache paintbrush she could use to pierce through his neck in case it gets bad. The glass pitcher is over the sink. (y/n) looks at the table and there’s a fork and a spoon. The big knife is in the drawer— 

Tony lets go of her hand and walks to her room. She listens to the sound of his wooden soles echoing against the tile floor a little astonished, before following him. She opens the door, which creaks imposingly through the empty, closed house, and her heart skips a beat when she hears the mattress shift, indicating he has settled into her bed.  

(y/n) is in front of her window to open it, but before she can do it, his arms wrap around her from behind and pull her away from it. She widens her eyes and tries to pull away, however, the grip tightens. She starts to shake more aggressively and an agonized scream leaves her mouth, causing his hand to slam against it, muffling the sound. She looks desperately at Tony and he’s signaling her to be quiet. Panic takes over her body and she gives up trying to get out of his grip. He seems happy with this decision and removes his palm from her lips, laying her body down on the bed and straddling her, legs wrapping around her waist as his knees sink into the mattress.  

Her eyes water and she closes them tightly, waiting for the inevitable. (y/n) remains like this for a few seconds, but nothing happens. She thinks maybe Tony has given up on what he wanted to do, however, when she opens her eyes again, his face is hovering over hers. His brown eyes are scrutinizing the girl minutely, there’s not a single vestige of that villainous smile that lives on his lips. She returns his gaze and they stare at each other in silence. His elbows are propped up against the mattress and his hands are still gripping her arms, holding them in place, but with no force.  

(y/n) wants to ask him what he’s doing, but the thought leaves her mind as soon as he takes a gun out of his pants. She screams in desperation, “help! Help! Someone help me!”  

“Shhh. Hey, calm down!”, Tony puts his hand over her mouth yet again, holding her down so she’ll stop her kicking. She watches, still horrified, as he places the gun on the chair beside her bed. “I’m not killing you, baby, calm down”, there’s a smirk on his features that makes her stomach turn. “Yet”, he adds, taking his palm away from her trembling lips. (y/n) tries to get up, but he pushes her back down. “I ain’t killing you, but I’m gonna do other things.” 

“No, no, please...” 

She can’t finish her pleas as his full lips crash onto hers, now in a kiss deeper and less brusque than the peck from earlier. The girl tries to resist at first, but soon her body speaks louder and she ends up giving in to the contact. She lets out an involuntary groan as his rough fingers lift the hem of her shirt, almost like an animal in heat. Damn hormones, she thinks in the back of her mind, not really caring for that much when his fingertips send shivers through her skin.  

Tony pulls apart so he can remove her garment, smirking at her bra-covered breasts. She blushes terribly. “You’re so cute, baby.” 

He kisses her again and (y/n) reciprocates vehemently this time, wrapping her legs around his waist tightly. His lips trace down her neck and she faintly laughs at the little tickle there, making him lift his face to look at her intently. There’s something different in his eyes, almost adoration, but she can’t finish the thought as he unbuttons her pants and unceremoniously pulls them down, leaving the girl in her underwear.  

Tony drops to his knees on the bed and shrugs off his iconic floral shirt and wifebeater. (y/n) can’t help but smile seeing his near-athletic pecs and gets on her knees too, silently volunteering to strip him out of his own pants. He watches closely as she unzips his jeans and unbuttons them, sliding them down his toned thighs. Tony finishes getting rid of the piece and goes back to kissing her neck urgently, leaving more aggressive caresses in place. A chill travels her spine when his member bumps into her stomach and she squeezes his arm reflexively, catching his attention.  

“You good?”, he asks, sounding so worried he seems to be another man completely different from the Scarface criminal who’s been with her until now.  

She simply nods and lets out another moan as his lips descend to the gap between her breasts, leaving sinuous kisses all the way down. He licks at the sweat accumulated there and kisses her again; a salty, icy kiss. A hand finds her face and trails her cheek lightly, while his tongue invades her mouth shamelessly. His touch is so gentle it looks absolutely nothing like the man who bruised her face twice with his brute strength. Tony gropes down her back and unbuckles her bra, making the girl shiver as he grips her nipple. Soon, he pays attention to them with his mouth and she bites her lip so as not to make too much noise. Still nibbling at the sensitive skin on her breasts, his deft hands slide down her panties and her face heats up violently.  

He slips two fingers into her without blinking an eye. (y/n) arches her back and blurts out a high-pitched groan, which had him chuckling, turning her on even more as his thick voice vibrated against her nipple. When his tongue meets her clit, the feeling is indescribably divine. She’s now a carefree mess of moans and ragged breathing. Tony’s hands grip her hips strongly, holding back her unconscious thrusts.  

He lifted his face again before she came, his chin visibly wet. “Got protection, baby?”  

“No”, she lets out an incredulous laugh. “I never did that, I didn’t have to...” 

“Right”, he says thoughtfully, as if just connecting the dots now. Tony fumbles in his pockets and doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, so he looks back at her. “I got nothing on me either.”  

“What now?”  

They exchange a silent look and he shrugs, getting back on top of her body. “Now I’m pulling out y qué sea lo que Dios quiera.”  

(y/n) is going to protest, but Tony takes off his boxers and invades her without warning, causing her to groan in pain. He soon notices her expression and stands statue over the girl, waiting for her to recover. Tears form in her eyes once again and he leaves light kisses on her cheek, trying to calm her down. She smiles softly at the delicate and unexpected gesture. Soon she’s ready and he starts to move, gradually increasing the pace.  

The solemn creak of the bed is the only sound besides their gasping breaths and moans she can’t contain. Every now and then his golden chain hits her chin, however it doesn’t hurt, it’s but a little friction. His big hands are squeezing her breasts as he speeds up the movements little by little. (y/n) looks to the side and sees the revolver on the pink chair, the contrast of that scene making her want to laugh. She returns her attention to Tony and he’s got his eyes closed, mouth open, leaving wet kisses all over her cleavage. He’s dripping with sweat, just like her.  

He takes her lips again and only then does she return to the moment, losing herself in her own pleasure and letting the orgasm overtake her without precedent. Next up is Tony, who comes with a husky moan and one last kiss. He lets his body slide off hers, pulling out his cock while his cum paints them both. (y/n) kisses his face after the effect of orgasm and he returns the caress, pulling her into a fairly tight hug. She smiles at the contact and lets him hold her there for a few minutes. They’re silent the entire time, until he pulls the sheet from under the pillow to cover them. Tony and her exchange indecipherable, sinuous looks, and that’s when her penny drops. She just had sex with a criminal.  

Jesus. 

“This shouldn’t have happened”, she say abruptly, sitting up.  

Tony also sits down and shrugs.  “But it did. So what?”  

“So it won’t happen again!”, (y/n) exclaims in annoyance, not caring that this man has a gun and isn’t afraid to use it at all. “You need to go.”  

“Already? You just wanna use me and throw me away, huh? Now that’s cold, baby”, she rolls her eyes at his mockery and stares at the wall as he stands beside the bed, his stuff swaying back and forth. “Hey”, he calls, but she doesn’t answer. He then touches her chin and gives her a lingering, incredibly soft peck. She sighs as Tony pulls away and there’s a gentle smile on his face as he puts on his clothes. “You’re cute, (y/n).”  

“Thanks”, she timidly blurts out, not really knowing what to say. The girl looks for her underwear and tenses up as she watches him handle his revolver, placing it on his back again.  

He notices this. “I ain’t hurting you with that gun, you know? You can relax.”  

“Even if you don’t use it against me, it’s still a weapon”, she mutters seriously, turning her back to him so he can buckle her bra.  

He does the task and hugs her from behind, kissing her locks. “You don’t have to be afraid of anything with me, baby, not even a weapon.” 

She turns to face him, hugging his waist lightly. Tony gets serious all of a sudden and lets out a long breath as he finally releases her. He checks his pocket and fixes his messy hair in the small mirror on top of the dresser. Before leaving, they exchange one last look. None of them says a word. (y/n) watches him disappear behind the gate and looks around the empty house, returning to her room and closing the door. She stares at the completely messed up bed and the sheet painted by drops of blood and sperm, which they shared for a few seconds, now on the floor. Ha.  

Trouble with a capital “T”. 

♡♡♡ 

Two weeks after the incident, (y/n) didn’t go to her brother’s house anymore. But Elvira, being such a pain in her ass sometimes, had practically bullied her into going out tonight.  She was anxious, it’d been a while since she went out to have fun like this. Her fear of bumping into Tony—Scarface wasn’t exactly as strong as before, for obvious reasons, but she’d still rather not take her chances in finding him again. No matter how good his dick game was, he was a dangerous individual. Better to stay away. 

So, for the record; she fucked a hitman and was most likely falling in love with him, maybe even reciprocally, just after he got violent with her several times. Elvie obviously didn’t know about it yet, but what would she do when that time inevitably came? Because (y/n) was going to tell her, no doubt. She couldn’t keep it all to herself forever, hiding it from everyone like it was some sort of crime. Elvira would probably call her crazy and even threaten to lock her up in an asylum, wanting to choke Tony if it was as much as hinted he laid his hand on her. And she wasn’t even wrong for that! 

But what about her family? God, if her father knew... He’d go after Tony’s blood. He would simply never look her in the face again, especially since their relationship was already fragile enough because of Manolo. And what of her reputation? All of Miami would talk about this. She’d be the new bitch on the block for sure. No one would respect her, she’d become a joke. Not that she cared about what those people think of her, but it would be nice to stay anonymous. It was safe, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. 

With a heavy sigh, (y/n) finished getting ready and stared at her reflection, smiling faintly. Perhaps it was best to let those corrosive thoughts for tomorrow’s hangover. She grabbed her bag and locked her apartment, walking down the deserted street. As the club was close to her house, there was no reason for anyone to come and get her, so she’d go alone with no worries. It wasn’t like anyone was going to do anything to her on her quiet neighborhood, anyway, much less on the weekend. Plus, criminals in this town had a schedule and they liked to stick to it. At least the ones who grew up there. 

Already approaching the place, she saw Elvira with some of her friends waiting for her in the line. They greeted each other and entered the club, going for a table next to the bar. (y/n) immediately asked for a strong drink to try and calm down her nerves, feeling rather unfit for that environment after such a long time away from it. At the first glass, she felt lighter and smiling, pulling Elvie to the dance floor.  

They’re dancing and laughing like idiots when a tall man approaches them. He is moving to the song and calmly smoking a cigarette while he watches the girls, eyes glued to (y/n)’s form in specific. She doesn’t hear a word Elvira is saying over the music as she stares back at the guy, so distracted she accidentally knocks over a waiter’s tray behind her, making a huge mess. (y/n) apologizes quickly and starts clumsily picking things up on the floor, while the mysterious guy crouches down and helps her with it. She smiles shyly and they finish fixing everything in place.  

She thanks him softly and turns to go back to her table, but he grabs her arm gently. “In a hurry?”, he questions playfully, an amused smile on his full lips.  

She blushes. “Oh, no, I was just…”  

He shakes his head. “You’re a little shy, I can see that. Let’s put an end to this shyness now, come with me!”, he walks off, dragging her to the bar. “So, what’s your name?”, he asks, signaling for the bartender to bring them two beers.  

“(y/n).”  

“Frank, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Their drinks arrive and they make a toast, while she takes a big swig. Frank smiles and pulls her by the waist, taking her by surprise. “Lost your shyness yet?” 

“I...” 

He attacks her lips before she can finish, leaving a wet, beer-tasting kiss on her mouth. (y/n) has to make a tremendous effort not to drop the beer from her hand, making way for his tongue to explore every corner of her mouth. Frank separates them just to take another sip of his drink and starts kissing her neck. Elvira’s eyes from afar give her a surprised and mischievous look. She flashes her a smug smile, but as soon as she does, her friend’s expression completely shuts down and now it’s one of sheer panic. (y/n) frowns and turns to look at where she’s staring so terrified.  

She’s greeted by Tony’s aggressive hands pulling her away from Frank in a sudden movement. He drags her out of the man’s arms, keeping her behind his body. Tony then hits him with his fist. (y/n) widens her eyes with the amount of punches Tony is throwing at Frank and tries to get him off the guy, but he pushes her away. She looks around and people surround them, watching the fight in silence and astonishment, however no one moves a finger to help break it up. Of course. It’s Scarface.  

No one would dare stop him.  

Frank managed to leave a blow on Tony’s stomach, but he couldn’t dodge another punch to the jaw and fell to the ground, looking dizzy. When she thought Tony would back down and leave it at that, he went over to Frank’s body on the floor and striking him wildly again. She was desperate for help to separate them, but nobody did anything. (y/n) tried to pull Tony away from him and he pushed her once more, only this time she didn’t give up so easily. She grabbed his arm with all the strength of a slightly intoxicated person and made him look at her. The fury in his eyes slowly seemed to soften and he dropped Frank’s semi-conscious body. 

Once on his feet, Tony looks around him, menacingly showing his gun tucked into his pants. Everyone scatters like startled ants immediately, without him having to say a word. When they’re alone, he glances at Frank one more time and looks back at (y/n). His anger seems to have returned.  

“I wish I done that to you”, he begins, his thick voice making her shiver. She takes a step back, but he grabs her by the neck and pulls her close again. “Lucky for you, I’m doing good lately, baby. So I’m generous, you know? But you both should be fucking dead now.” (y/n)’s hands start to shake and her eyes water instantly at his words, fear taking over her entire body. She tries to free herself from his grip, but he won’t let her. He continues, “you are mine. Ain’t no one touching you but me from now on. Got it?” 

“Yes”, she chokes, tears falling down her face uncontrollably.  

Tony, however, doesn’t seem to feel any remorse for her deplorable state. Finally his hand lets go of her neck and she takes a deep breath, sobs leaving her throat aggressively. (y/n) gets as far away as possible and before she knows it, she’s running away. He doesn’t come after her, which she mentally thanks. She felt so scared and angry at that moment that she couldn’t think of anything but running, running for her life.  

♡♡♡ 

(y/n) got home and locked the door thoroughly. She isolated in her room and cried herself to sleep. It was dawn when she managed to close her eyes and rest for a few hours, only to be woken up by a loud noise outside the next day. There were loud bangs on the door, nearly knocking it over. Her breath hitched and she made sure to lock the bedroom door. Maybe she could just pretend nobody was home.  

Another banging thud, now it sounded like someone jumping on the floor. Then there was yet another furious knocking, this time on the front door. Her stomach turned. A bang on the window echoed in her ears and (y/n) began to cry profusely, sobbing in terror. A crash startled her and her eyes widened seeing the wooden blinds breaking in front of her.  

She unlocked the bedroom door in a second and ran behind her apartment, opening the kitchen door as it lead to emergency stairs. Footsteps approached once she managed to get out and run across someone’s yard. She looked for somewhere low enough for her to reach so she could climb, finding a little doghouse in the corner. There wasn’t anybody or anything around, thankfully. However, as soon as she started to take off, big arms grabbed her waist from behind, pulling down her body violently.  

She kicked as hard as she could, but Tony wouldn’t let go. He towed her back into her house and locked the kitchen door, dragging her by the arm back to her room. He threw the girl on the bed without any delicacy and looked at her from where he was standing. She continued to cry copiously, all her strength quickly draining away. (y/n) crouched close to the headboard and watched him sit on the far side, studying her in silence.  

“Crying ain’t doing you no good, baby.” She turns her face to the wall and he walks in her direction, crawling until he’s next to her. He whispers in her ear, “you can’t win for losing.” 

“Shut up!”, she pushes him away, taking Tony by surprise. He looks at her with raised eyebrows, but he doesn’t look annoyed.  

He looks pleased.  

“C’mon, now”, Tony approaches again, grabbing her chin to make her eyes stay on his. “Now, now you look like the fucking girl I met in that station. Badass baby”, (y/n) tries to pull away, but he doesn’t let her and gives her a forced peck. His stubble scratches her face and she grimaces, dodging and breaking the contact. This seems to irritate him deeply, because in the next second, his palm meets the soft skin of her cheek and the sensation burns. Tony pointed in her direction, warning, “don’t you ever do that again.”  

“I do whatever the hell I want”, she spits out, not caring about the consequences at this point.  

He gets hold of her neck, glaring. “No. You do what I want, you bitch.” 

(y/n) smirks, mockingly. “You think you’re offending me? How cute.”  

Tony then slaps her again, this time much harder, and she laughs out loud at his fragile ego. She pulls herself together and faces him again, pretending not to be shaken. Tears have dried under her eyes and she only cracks a half smile, taking in his scowling features. “You men are such a joke, so easy to figure out.”  

“Careful, baby”, he says in a warning tone, making her chuckle once more.  

“Who do I have to be careful with, you?”, she asks smugly, smacking the hand he lifted to squeeze her neck again. Tony is surprised, although he’s trying really hard not to show it. “You...”, she continues, lightly touching the collar of his shirt. “Who would never hurt me with a gun?”, (y/n) mimics his thick voice. He seems to get annoyed at that and takes her hand away from where it was, which makes her smile victoriously.  

Okay, so it’s not so bad having a criminal with a crush on her.  

“Shut up”, he orders.  

She simply shrugs and brings her face closer to his. Tony places a gentle kiss on her lips and excitement burns inside her as his palm goes straight to her ass, squeezing it. “Hold up, cowboy”, (y/n) mutters, although not really caring about his impatience. “Wanna explain to me what was that about last night?”  

“Told you, you’re mine.” He reiterates casually, trying to pull her onto his lap and kiss her, but she doesn’t allow it. Tony frowns again, speaking with a heavy accent, “what is it now?”  

“You almost killed the guy”, (y/n) points out. She didn’t want to make him feel remorseful or anything, she knew he just wouldn’t; it was all on her curiosity about the sick psychology in his head. She touches the collar of his shirt again and looks into his eyes, the most sincere she’s been so far, and practically begs, “what do you want from me, Tony?”  

Something very similar to confusion runs through his brown orbs, but it’s only for a millisecond, as he looks at her sternly right after. His hands remain promptly by each side of his body, and it makes her a little bit relieved he’s respecting her wishes. It’s a start. 

Of what exactly, (y/n)?  

“I want you, baby”, he says. His voice doesn’t betray any kind of vulnerability, though his gaze conveys less solemnity than his words. She watches him in silence until her eyes inevitably water. Tony frowns and touches her face quickly, holding her like she was the most delicate thing in the world. “What is it?”  

How can he not see? How does he have the courage to even ask what happened? Or are his actions merely impulsive and completely thoughtless, is that it? Does he not know that he was just hurting, hitting her? Does he not know that he was just insulting (y/n) and treating her like a goddamn worthless object? Because the same hands that slapped her cheek minutes ago are now hugging her and stroking her back, as if in an attempt to ease her loud sobs.  

She hears his voice in her ear, soothing, kissing her neck lightly. Maybe it’s all a dream, a hallucination in her head as she’s unconscious with this man doing God-knows-what to her. But it is not. His touch is as real as it was the last time, his pleasure intertwining with hers in a magnificent, if improvised, dance. And it’s as real as the first time their lips met, in a sheer display of power and dominance on his part, but which now reminded her only of a caress exchanged between two lovers. A comfort.  

“(y/n)...”, his deep voice calls again, however her eyes are glazed over the shattered window in front of her. He lifts her face to look at him and there’s a kind of desperation in his expression, even if it’s held back by pride greater than his own ego, if that’s possible. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

“I know.” She hears herself speak, sort of in reflex, since it was true. She knew deep down he didn’t mean to hurt her. Maybe at first, yes, but then... Following that afternoon, a new chapter of this crazy story began to unfold. And they are entering one more after last night.  

“It’s true”, he reenforces, and (y/n) really wishes she had the strength to tell him that it’s okay, she understood, but the truth is that she was tired. Sold out. It had been so long since she had slept or eaten anything and she felt her limbs giving up on supporting her body at any moment. “(y/n)”, Tony insists, yet his voice is already a low sound that becomes more and more distant in her mind.  

Soon she doesn’t feel anything anymore.  

♡♡♡ 

The first time (y/n) opens her eyes, everything is blurry. On the second attempt, she notices a figure sitting on the chair beside her bed and a dim light coming from the window. On the third blink, she realized she had probably passed out—for how long was her first question, as the sun outside seemed to point at one or two in the afternoon.  

Tony was silently watching her as she positioned herself and felt her head almost explode into a thousand pieces. Her throat was dry, an unparalleled taste of shit in her mouth reminding her she hadn’t even brushed her teeth due to everything that had happened that day since she woke up. A sigh escaped her lips and (y/n) closed her eyes again, giving up on her efforts to sit up against the headboard. She felt so weak. Her fingers were trembling slightly and she was freezing to death, even with the sun at its peak and all the covers over her on the bed. She felt dizziness enveloping her body and thought she was going to faint again, but a large, rough, careful hand touched her arm.  

Tony looked hesitant, worried, recluse even. His eyes didn’t leave hers for a second and she felt slightly invaded, undressed as his irises watched over her without blinking. She stared at his palm on her forarm and tried to calm down, although her heart hammered inside her chest. “You didn’t eat anything today, did you?”, he asks, but it’s a rhetorical question.  

Tony then leaves her alone, not waiting for an answer, and returns with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other. (y/n) stares at the image in front of her and feels like chukling, but she contains herself. Instead, she sits up with some difficulty as he hands her the meal, returning to his rightful place on the pink chair. She takes a couple of bites and a huge relief rushes through her body as the food reaches her stomach. It had been almost a day since she had anything to eat. She didn’t even know how she didn’t vomit her ass off with all the alcohol she had last night.  

The girl sipped the juice as she paid more attention to her surroundings. Tony took care of her while she was unconscious and even cooked. He, the hitman who scared even the most dangerous gangsters in Miami, cooked her a stroganoff and made her an orange juice. It sounded like a scene from a sugary romance movie.  

“It’s just a hangover”, she finally speaks up, her throat still a little dry.  

“It’s not”, Tony turns around and sits leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at her intently. She gazes at her plate and continues to eat in silence, while he continues, “I’m real sorry, (y/n).” If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have spit out her juice in surprise. (y/n) glanced at him completely horrified, as if he had confessed to an atrocity. Tony stays with the same solemn expression, a little less proud now.  

“For what?”, a shiver runs down her legs. She didn’t want to be insistent, but curiosity was killing her inside.  

Tony, on the other hand, didn’t seem bothered by the question. “For hitting you. And for doing all of that last night.”  

“You shouldn’t apologize to me for what you did”, she mutters bitterly. 

Tony only shrugs. “I didn’t mean to hit you.” He repeats, and she closes her eyes when all that tangle of feelings hits her chest once more. He reaches over and takes her hand, giving her a pleading look. “I swear I ain’t ever laying a finger on you again, baby. You gotta believe me.”  

Her eyes water involuntarily and she holds his hand back firmly, looking at him with a half-broken smile, trying in vain to give him some comfort. “I know”, she begins, voice cracking at the end. “I know, okay? You were angry. I understand.”  

Tony scowls and shakes his head. “No. (y/n), that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t...” 

“I know. It was wrong, Tony, I know, but you didn’t think straight. And neither did I, actually. It happened, there’s no reason to dwell on it. Everything is fine, really.” She looks into his eyes once more and smiles when he nods after a while, still a little hesitant. The girl brings his hand to her lips and kisses it slowly.  

He smiles weakly. “You scared the fuck out of me, you know”, he mumbles, and there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. “I thought I did something to make you pass out. The fear, I don’t know...”  

“That wasn’t it. I’m not afraid of you, Tony”, she assured him, since it wasn’t a total lie. When he was just him, without that domineering, abusive criminal side, she wasn’t afraid of Tony. No longer. (y/n) sighs and finishes her meal, setting her plate on the table beside her, feeling considerably better. “Come here”, she extends her arms to him and Tony goes without blinking, hiding his face in her neck and lying with her on the bed.  

She didn’t know exactly what that meant. Having sex with a murderer who only mistreated her already wasn’t so understandable, but having some kind of relationship with him? It sounded pathetic in her mind. It’s not like he would even want anything to do with her besides sex, but she couldn’t believe that as the seconds went by and he kissed her neck so softly, apologizing endlessly for his transgressions, mumbling that he would never hurt her again, that she’d never need to be afraid of him again...  

Her head was going to explode.  

(y/n) looked down to meet his gaze and stroked his hair, smiling like a lovestruck idiot. She just couldn’t believe this was happening—and somehow she did. Because of course she wouldn’t resist for long. Even when she was shaking like a leaf, still she couldn’t fight his caresses, imagine it now that Tony seems so willing to make up for all his mistakes? 

“Antonio...”, he mutters, barely audible, making her frown. He gives her a small smile and kisses her, mumbling against her lips, “my name.” 

“Really?”, (y/n) asks in disbelief, since now she was probably the only person in town who got that information, but Tony seemed more than comfortable sharing it with her.  

He’s still looking at her with the same little smile on his face. “Really. Why?” He lifts his body to rest on one arm, staring at the girl with some amusement.  

She grins and kisses him again, leaving several pecks on his stubble. “For nothing. It’s just a really nice name.”  

Her eyebrows dance and he laughs, making her insides melt at the sound of his laughter. It was the first time she heard it and she didn’t want to hear any other sound for the rest of her life. It was such a full 180 from the big, bad Scarface. 

(y/n) knew “I want you” was very far from “I love you”, but that knowledge didn’t stop her heart from skipping a beat whenever she remembered those words. Besides, even if the latter was the case, it was just never going to be that simple with Tony. She looked at his sparkling brown eyes and let out a deep, dreamy sigh. She was down hard for that dangerous, dangerous man, yet there was nothing but softness inside of her as he held her into his arms. What he did away from her could be as ugly as it came to be, and it still would never compare to how warm she was in his presence—be it for the anger, for the lust or for the comfort he made her feel. So, it was fine. She could handle it.  

She’s always been a bit of a troubleshooter, anyways. 

[male-body-swap-lover]

Thanksgiving Transformation Nightmare - Part One

BlueLite on main was the hottest gay bar in town. Next week is Thanksgiving so they are hosting a special Thanksgiving theme party. “Dress as your Parents” since so many people go home for thanksgiving. However, BlueLite has special powers. Let’s follow some of our friends on their life changing adventure.

Eric and Steve were hanging out at Bluelite just like every Saturday night. They had both grown up in the Midwest with stereotypical parents, so they dressed like their suburban dads. White t-shirts tucked into sexy jean shorts, white tube socks and sneakers, with phone clips and baseball hats. Eric even grabbed a pair of fake glasses to wear.

“Eric, we look ridiculous. Let’s pray to Madonna herself that we never turn into our fathers.”

“Steve, hon, absolutely not. We are two hot, stylish gay men. No way would we ever dress like this.”

“Get us two more of these lime life twisters. I can’t believe they have never served these before. So good!”

Eric went to the bar to order two more. They kissed each other, cheered their drinks, and drowned them. After they finished, they realized everybody had stopped dancing.

“What the hell” Eric said.

Suddenly, a wind whipped around them and they started changing. First, the weight packed on everywhere on their body. Their faces sagged and they gained second chins. Their stomachs bulged and sagged over their belts. Their jean shorts repaired themselves and lengthened to their knee caps. Their bodies aged 35 years so that they were 63 years old. Bushy gray moustaches grew on their upper lips. Their baseball caps became generic and flipped around to face the right away. Eric’s fake glasses blew over to Steve’s face and turned into real glasses. Finally, every memory of their old lives disappeared, and were replaced with new memories of marrying the women of their dreams, settling down in the suburbs, and raising multiple kids. The winds disappeared and everyone was dancing again.

“Eric, are we in one of them gay bars?”

“I think so Steve. How’d we end up in here. I thought we were going to Richie’s down the street for some beer.”

“Well, it’s too late now. I have to get home and help Carol get the house ready for Thanksgiving.”

“Sounds good buddy. See you soon. Tell Carol and the kids happy Thanksgiving from Susan, the kids, and I.”

“Will do, Eric.”

Both the men got into their Ford F150’s and drove home to their loving wives.

They were the first of only many victims of the Thanksgiving Theme Party at Bluelite. Better watch out, I hear those lime life twisters are vicious.

[jaketposts]

shears | jtk

a/n: i was very inspired by cob's haircut and had to put it down in words. this is the result. also this is my first fic! warnings: none! just a lot of fluff. mention of scissors maybe? word count: 3.7k

You weren’t exactly thrilled that your first job out of cosmetology school was at Great Clips. You hoped to score a job at a fancier salon as you had shelled out a pretty penny for a more prestigious beauty school, but it was, at the moment, your job.

You didn't even like men’s styles. You thought the endless slew of clipper cuts and fades were repetitive, and you longed to get your hands on a head full of long, luscious hair. Sadly, most women already had a stylist that they trusted and had a bond with, so you were stuck with every Joe Schmoe in Nashville who didn’t care to run a dab of pomade through his comb-over every once in a while. 

Sometimes your customers were even rude. Many pompous businessmen who never looked up from their phones had sat in your chair. You had cut the hair of just as many older men who made crude comments about your figure or told you to smile while you tried to fix up their rapidly thinning crew cuts. Neither of these groups tipped very well. 

Truthfully, you loathed Great Clips, but the job kept you afloat while you built a resumé. 

You found that you had much to complain about while idle at the front counter, waiting for a walk-in when the doorbell pulled you from your daydream of a real salon. 

The bright chime of the bell echoes through the empty lobby, alerting you to someone's presence. Your eyes rip away from the spot on the wall you had been absentmindedly staring at while your mind wandered, falling to the man stepping through the doorway.  

He was gorgeous, you thought. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat and a stylish pair of sunglasses. Between the two accessories, you weren't sure what he actually looked like, but you just knew he was pretty. He wore a pair of off-white linen pants paired with a black linen button-down that looked to have been cropped to his hips. The shirt was mildly wrinkled but barely buttoned, which gave you an ample view of his smooth, tan chest adorned with a couple of silver pendants. 

You were enamored with his jewelry and open shirt before you realized the most important part of his appearance.

His hair.

He had wavy chestnut hair that spilled over his shoulders and fell past the collar of his shirt. You hadn't had hair that long walk through the doors in months, maybe ever. 

You were pulled out of your silent admiration by the sight of him walking towards the counter, towards you. You quickly shut your mouth, as your jaw was beginning to hang open at his beauty, and flash him the brightest smile you could muster. 

"Hi, welcome to Great Clips! Do you have an appointment?" you chirp, silently thanking whatever power was above that your voice didn't crack. You bit your lip in anticipation of his answer. You were next up to take a walk-in, but there were stylists in the back who had appointments with regular customers. You hoped he was not one of them. 

Even his voice was gorgeous, "No, just looking for a walk-in if you have time," he replies. He had a perfectly deep, but kind rasp to his voice. You felt your cheeks redden at the sound. 

"Sure! Follow me, please." This time, you aren't so lucky, as your voice breaks and your face flushes deeply. You quickly turn and motion for him to follow you to the chairs, attempting to hide your undoubtedly scarlet face. You could have sworn he chuckled under his breath at your shyness. 

Once you arrive at your station, you gesture for him as you take your spot behind the chair. You start to introduce yourself, "My name is y/n and I'll be cutting your hair today." You pause, expecting him to remove his hat and sunglasses. 

Instead, he rasps, "Hi y/n, I'm Jake." He smiles a gentle, toothy grin at you that you can't help but return. He still does not move to take off his hat or glasses yet, so you pause again, moving to lightly graze your fingers along the brim of his hat. 

"Can I take these off?" you ask. 

Jake's eyebrows raise in realization, "Oh! Of course." He reaches up to lift his hat off his head and place it in his lap, which you had been avoiding looking at. Then, he removes his sunglasses, folding them and sliding them into the top of where his shirt was buttoned, no higher than the bottom of his sternum. He looks back up expectantly, finally making real eye contact with you for the first time since he arrived. Tragically, your face flushes again, but he seems to blush as well.

"There we go," you whisper. Then, in a louder voice, you say, "It's nice to meet you, Jake. What are we doing with your hair today?" You move to run your fingers through your hair to feel the texture and judge the care that it might need. 

"Well," he starts, "My little brother says the ends of my hair look ratty and that I need a haircut. So, here I am." He grins. As you comb your fingers through his hair, you understand what his brother meant. His hair is soft until you get two inches from the ends, where it feels rougher and dryer than the rest. He continues, "Take off whatever needs to come off."

Your mind automatically ponders the dirty implications of his directive, but you furrow your brow to push that thought away, "When did you last have your hair cut?"

Jake squints in thought, then shrugs, "Eight months? Maybe a year? I'm really not sure. I've been so busy with work lately, I just haven't had time to think about a haircut."

You hum and nod at his answer, "What do you do that has you so busy?"

His face splits into a wide smile and his eyes shimmer at your question, "My brothers and I are in a band. We've been on tour and finishing up our next album," he replies, still wildly grinning. You smile back and your heart flutters at the passion for music he exudes.  

"Very cool, anything I might have heard?"

He shrugs nonchalantly, but with a tiny smirk that you almost miss, "Maybe," he starts, but he turns his focus back to his hair, "what's the damage?"

You pull the pieces of his hair that lay in front of his shoulders between your index and middle fingers and let the hair feed through until you reach where you think his locks need a chop. About two inches of hair needed to be cut off to keep it healthy. You reply, "About this much."

His eyes widen in shock at how much you indicate. He swallows, then asks, "Are you sure?" Jake's voice is almost timid, and your heart aches.

You nod solemnly, "Sadly, yeah. You have a good bit of split ends here and the only way to get rid of them is to cut them off." He nods back in understanding. 

"I get it. It just seems really short. My hair hasn't been that short in a while." 

You can tell Jake is a little nervous about the necessary length, so you lean over so that your head hovers right next to his, just above his shoulder. You look deeply into his eyes in the mirror and smile, "Yeah, but I promise you'll still look amazing," you reassure him. 

This time it's his turn to flush a deep crimson, which he couples with a shy smile, "Whatever you say."

"Perfect," you reply as you stand up. You pat his shoulder and he follows you to the shampoo bowl. You grab a towel and lay it over the divot where his head is to rest. He sits down and leans back, his hair falling into the bowl. Usually, your customers focus on a spot on the ceiling, but he looks directly into your eyes. His gaze is piercing but soft, his smooth chocolate eyes dulling the sharpness of his glare. The pesky flush of your cheeks rises again, so you quickly avert your gaze in search of the shampoo and conditioner. You could feel his eyes tracking your movements.

You turned the water on, waiting longer than usual to make sure that the water was warm enough. You wanted it to be perfect for him. You ran the shower head over his hair, soaking it in the warm water and turning the faucet off when it was saturated. After pumping shampoo into your hand and lathering it between your fingers, you started to work the solution through his hair. His eyes, once trained on you, flutter shut with a sigh at the feeling of your hands massaging his scalp. His cheeks were rosy and you swear you saw a content smile play across his lips. 

With his head stretched back, the smooth column of his neck was on display, leading your eyes down to his necklaces, which glinted in the overhead light. Your eyes moved to the smooth expanse of his chest, and you almost wished you could run your hands down the warm, tanned skin. At that moment, you realize you had been massaging the shampoo into his hair for too long, distracted by the man in your chair. You rush to grab the showerhead and turn it back on. You gently rinse the suds from his hair, holding your hand between the water and his forehead, protecting his face. Once his hair is clean, you grab a couple of pumps of conditioner and work it through his ends. As you run his wet hair through your fingers, you can tell that his hair really is gorgeous. It just needs some care. 

After rinsing the conditioner from his hair, you gently squeeze out the excess moisture. His eyes open at this, sensing that you're done washing his hair. His eyes find yours again and he gazes up at you. You try to cut the tension with a joke, "Good morning, sleeping beauty," you say softly while a wry smile creeps across your face. 

Jake flushes at your bold joke, "Oh hush," he replies. His words don't hold any malice. He continues, still making eye contact with you, "It felt nice." His face pulls into a shy smirk. 

You have him sit up, and when he does, you grab the corners of the towel by his face and fold his hair up into the towel on top of his head. You lead him back to your salon chair and he sits down. After you grab a cape from the hooks on the wall, you drape it over him. The movement of the cape wafts the sweet smell of the conditioner towards you, but you can smell something else, a scent that is uniquely Jake. 

After you snap the cape around his neck, you remove the towel from his head. You match his gaze in the mirror. He flashes a grin at you, again, and says, "Cut away, Doc." You nod in return. 

You turn to grab a comb and a pair of shears and get to work. As you work through his hair, you strike up a conversation. "What kind of music do you and your brothers play?"

"Rock 'n roll mostly. Maybe a little bit of blues. Whatever we want, really," he replies. You can't see his face from your position behind him, but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

"Ooh, rock 'n roll? Are you a rockstar, Jake?" you tease. You move to cut the hair on the side of his head. 

"Maybe a little bit," he chuckles. He tries to turn his head towards you to punctuate his reply. 

"Hey, keep your head straight." You stop his head with the back of your hand. He raises his eyebrows and flushes with embarrassment as he snaps back to face the mirror. 

"Sorry," he replies. He averts his gaze in the mirror. 

You smile reassuringly, "No worries," you say. He settles again, "What instrument do you play?"

This question truly makes him light up, "I play the guitar." He beams at you in the mirror and continues, "I started when I was pretty little, and it's taken me a lot of cool places." His grin shows off his shiny, white teeth. 

"Any Grammys yet?" you jest. You assumed he was a small artist waiting for his big break. 

He looks down at his lap and chuckles, "Just the one."

Your head snaps up to look at him in the mirror, "Really?"

He lets a small smile play across his face, "Yeah it was kind of a miracle, actually." You stand up as your mouth hangs open. Then, you begin to laugh, full and from your belly. He flushes again, "What's so funny?"

It takes a second for you to stop laughing and collect yourself to answer him, "You've won a Grammy and you're getting your hair cut at a Great Clips!" The thought, once said out loud, sends you back into a laughing fit. His own bright and genuine laughter joins yours. 

When the laughter dies down, he turns his head towards you and you let it slide this time. He looks up at you and says, with a smirk, "Yeah, but you're cutting my hair here, aren't you?" He wiggles his eyebrows at you. 

You blush furiously, but roll your eyes and turn his head back to the front with a hand on top of his head, "Oh, stop it," you mumble. His self-satisfied smirk remains as you finish cutting his hair.

Once pleased with your work, you set down the comb and shears. You reach for a bottle of light mousse and pump a small amount into your hand. Jake looks at the product in your hand, then up into your eyes, and asks, "What's that?"

You rub the mousse between your hands and start to rake it through his hair. "It's a mousse. It'll make your hair voluminous and give your waves some definition," you reply.

"Oh," he whispers and nods as you finish with the product. You grab the hairdryer and run it over his head for a few minutes, spinning the chair as you evenly dry his hair. 

Once you've finished, you run your fingers through his locks one last time, breaking the cast and giving his hair the tousled look he came in with. You suspect he likes that look. 

You finally spin Jake back around to see the final look in the mirror. The corners of his mouth and his eyebrows rise in unison. He turns his head from side to side, examining his new style. He brings his hands up to his scalp to tousle his hair from the roots. The wide, sparkling grin you were newly familiar with grows even stronger across his sharp features. 

"It looks amazing. You were right about the length," he says. The gratitude is evident in his voice, and you match his grin. 

You watch him admire his haircut in the mirror for just a little longer before he meets your gaze and sighs with contention. After standing there for just one more moment, you pat the back of the chair and say, "Alright, let's go get you checked out, Jake." He stands and follows you as you lead him back to the lobby. You notice that he puts his sunglasses back on his head, but continues to hold his hat in his hands. 

You resume your spot behind the counter and give him the spiel on the cost and other services provided at Great Clips. When it's time to pay, he slides a shiny card toward you. Upon picking it up, you find the card is heavy for such a small item. Your eyes widen at the weight of it in your hand and he chuckles. You look up at the sound, and he shrugs, "Rockstar money, I guess."

You laugh at his jokes one last time before you swipe the card and hand him the receipt with a pen to sign. He scribbles something on the receipt and hands it back to you. Your fingers brush as you take the paper from his hands and a shiver runs down your spine. You smile as he pats the counter, rings clacking against the hard surface. He puts his hands in his pockets and goes to leave, but before he opens the door, he turns around to say, "Thank you, y/n, it really does look great." A kind grin accompanies his expression of gratitude. 

You match his grin with a sugary sweet smile, "No problem, rockstar. Good luck with the new album." He waves and continues walking backward toward the door. It comes up quicker than he was expecting, and he turns around with surprise and embarrassment when he runs into the door. He waves goodbye before he's out the door and never to be seen again. You watch his profile walk down the street through the window, illuminated by the warm afternoon sun. 

You looked down at the receipt, hoping to find a sweet message or even a phone number, but you were met with a tip that far outweighed your service. Your heart flipped at the bittersweet gesture until another customer strolled through the door. 

❁❁❁

After closing out your last customer for the day and sending him out into the night, you began to sweep up. All the other stylists had gone home, so it was just you closing up the shop. Technically, you didn't close for another five minutes, but nobody was coming in, so you figured you would get a head start on cleaning up. 

You had just begun sweeping up the loose clippings left over from the day when the doorbell chimed again. Your heart sank at the sound. You hoped to get home early, but it seems your dreams were shattered by the high-pitched chime. You turned to see who had ruined your plans, but you froze mid-spin. The sight of Jake leaning on the counter shocked you. His elbows rested on the counter with his arms crossed while his fingers absentmindedly tapped at his bicep and his eyes darted around the lobby nervously. His sunglasses were perched on top of his head. 

"Back again, rockstar? Wanna go shorter?" you tease as you saunter back to the counter. You stand across from him, arms spread and hands grabbing the edge of the counter. You pop your hip out to the side and wait for his response with a smirk on your face.

He laughs at your question, "No, this is perfect actually." He moves to run his fingers through his hair.

"Well, what can I do for you? We close in," you check your watch, "two minutes." 

"I have a question for you, actually."

"Sure! Is it about the mousse? I can sell you a bottle, or I can let you take a picture of the label. If you don't like it, I can recommend you something else, too!" You start to ramble a little bit, flustered at the proximity. 

"No," he pauses, "well, actually I'd love to take a picture of the label, but that's not why I'm back."

You quirk an eyebrow at him. You don't want to get your hopes up, but you like the direction this conversation is going. You reply, "What is it?"

He takes in a shaky breath, "Well, uh, I really enjoyed my haircut."

You smile at his accidental display of nerves, "I'm glad you did. Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

"No. I, um, well, I really enjoyed your company, and, uh," he pauses to search your eyes, biting his lip, "I wanted to know, well I wanted to ask if, maybe, um." He stutters and trails off.

You try to help him out, "Wanted to know what?"

He stands up and sucks in a deep breath, "Are you free on Friday night?"

His question, though it was the one you had hoped to hear, hits you like a freight train. Your eyes widen and a giddy smile slowly creeps across your face. 

Jake is seemingly impatient, pushing for an answer, "Well?"

You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding as you reply, "Yes, I am."

He doesn't celebrate yet, but asks, "Can I take you out to dinner, then?"

Your smile stretches even further across your face, "Yeah, I would love that."

The biggest smile you had seen from him that day erupts onto his face. You stand there grinning at each other for a second until he breaks out of the trance, "Great, it's a date," he exhales, "could I maybe get your number before I go?"

You nod, "Of course." He hands you his phone, already open to a new contact. You type in your number and your name, making sure to add a ":)" at the end. While you type, you can see him bounce on his toes with anticipation, and it makes you smile. You hand the phone back to him and he smiles down at the contact. You watch him for a moment before you lean across the counter and give him a quick kiss on the cheek, against your better judgment, "See you Friday, Jake."

He quickly looks up, having flushed scarlet yet again. He smiles and whispers, "Yeah, see you Friday." He turns to leave, clutching his phone to his chest and still gazing at you. He runs into the door again, distracted by you, but finally makes it outside. You watch as he exits and holds his phone up to his ear, smiling as he speaks to whoever is on the other line. 

❁❁❁

Your phone buzzes in your pocket as you shut the door to your apartment. You drop your keys into the bowl by your door and scramble to fish your phone from your jacket. Only one notification is displayed on your lock screen. 

unknown number: hey gorgeous :)

You immediately save his number and giggle to yourself. You lean back against your door as you type out a response. 

you: hey rockstar :)

❁❁❁

if you'd like to be tagged in any future works let me know!

[twopoppies]

"""normal-guy era"""", I can't believe they can write those kinds of articles, they're trying to say that Harry wasn't "normal" before, was he an alien? and the number of likes ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️

https://x.com/wewerebraverOTB/status/1830581324912169166?t=Xt63rs1RdFtgTwdL7MFpEw&s=19

I think the OP is good intentioned, and some of the article is a bit icky (he’s always been daddy, but now he’s dad, the comment about Liberace, and the use of the word “normal” especially). And it sounds like the author dismisses the fact that all of Harry’s eras were trend setting—even the flamboyant ones (how many men are still wearing Pearl necklaces today?).

Also, comparing every day outfits to his stage outfits, or what he wore when he was 16 or 20, is just silly. He’s dressed casually in his off hours for years. It’s just now it seems to be a “trend” (which really is the point of the article). But I think it’s a little hyperbolic to say it’s homophobic/transphobic.

x

[…] This is Harry we’re talking about, so of course he’ll never look like your average man, but his early-30s normal-guy era is as close as he’s ever been. Open-collared shirts and wayfarers at an England match. Some shorts and battered Sambas in Soho, London. A big Umbro hoodie, white socks and aviator shades on the streets of Primrose Hill. In fact, if you were to look at any of Harry’s big fits in 2024, they wouldn’t look out of place on any 30-something guy with a model-influencer girlfriend, a predilection for Lime bikes and a tab at The Spurstowe Arms. This is Harry at peak internet-boyfriend-slash-sports-dad, with a not-quite mullet and some kind of neutral oversized sweater hastily thrown on. Just like Jeremy Allen White and Paul Mescal, he has become slacker hot personified.

[…] While Harry spends less time in LA these days, his look is very 90210: the sort of incognito style that men tend to go for once they reach a certain level of fame and wealth and just want to knock around Erewhon in Beverly Hills all day. It’s supposed to help them blend in, but also: not really? Because if you spot someone in designer shades and a “covert” hoodie while paps hide in the bushes nearby, you’re going to assume they’ve got at least three properties with infinity pools and a lengthy IMDB profile.

[…] At 30, he wears pressed cotton shirts, spends time in Rome and watches golf tournaments. While he’s always given off daddy energy, he’s now also giving off dad: someone who reverses a car with one arm and likes to be in charge of the barbecue tongs. And it’s working for him. Not everyone can get away with wearing a mega-worn band tee and half-destroyed Vans – but Harry isn’t everyone. He could wear a bin-bag and sliders and still appear stylish. “Normal” looks so good on him because he’s not normal; he has a face sculpted by the Gods and a £50 million real estate portfolio.

[…] I’m sure that, come his next LP or Michele’s first proper Valentino collection in September, Harry will launch himself into another daring fashion phase. There will come a point when he needs to make a red-carpet appearance, or attend the Grammys, and only something Liberace-esque will do. Until then, though, let’s just appreciate the vibe of this 30-year-old man in Adidas trainers, short shorts and slightly greying sports socks for what it is: a masterpiece.

Link to the full article

[thegatesofsilverandbone]

On a bright and sunny afternoon, two men, Jason and Mark, stood on the pier of a bustling seaside town. They had come as protesters, driven by misguided beliefs and fueled by a hatred they barely understood. Armed with signs and slogans, they shouted at the rainbow flags that fluttered in the gentle sea breeze.

The sky above was clear except for a peculiar, shimmering cloud that seemed to hover directly above them. As the sun reached its zenith, a beam of prismatic light shot down from the cloud, bathing Jason and Mark in its iridescent glow. The light felt warm, almost comforting, as it enveloped them.

Jason's transformation began with a tingling sensation in his chest. His heart, which had been filled with anger and resentment, started to beat with a new rhythm. He felt his muscles relax, the tension draining away as his body began to change. His torso slimmed down, revealing a well-defined six-pack, and his skin took on a healthy, sun-kissed glow. His hair darkened and styled itself into a neat, fashionable cut. His old clothes melted away, replaced by a white tank top that accentuated his new physique and a pair of stylish, slightly distressed denim shorts.

Next to him, Mark experienced a similar sensation. His posture straightened, and he felt his body growing stronger, more confident. His features softened and became more defined, his jawline sharper, and his eyes brighter. He watched as his old, worn-out clothes transformed into a tight black t-shirt that hugged his newly toned body and a pair of khaki shorts that showed off his muscular legs.

Their minds, once clouded with prejudice, began to clear. Memories of hatred and ignorance faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of acceptance and love. They felt an undeniable attraction towards each other, a bond that had been forged in the prismatic light. Jason and Mark turned to face one another, their eyes meeting with a newfound understanding.

As the light dimmed, they found themselves standing hand in hand, a serene smile on their faces. They looked around, bewildered at first, but then it all made sense. The flags that had once incited their anger now filled them with pride and joy. They were no longer the men they once were.

Jason, feeling a playful surge of confidence, wrapped an arm around Mark's waist and pulled him close. Mark responded by resting his head on Jason's shoulder, a contented sigh escaping his lips. The pier, the sea, and the flags seemed to welcome them into a world they had once rejected.

As they stood there, basking in the glow of their transformation, they realized the true power of love and acceptance. They were living proof that even the most hardened hearts could be changed, that even the most entrenched beliefs could be transformed in the light of understanding and compassion.

From that day forward, Jason and Mark became advocates for love and acceptance, their story a testament to the incredible power of transformation. They traveled together, sharing their experience, and helping others to see the beauty in diversity. And every time they looked into each other's eyes, they were reminded of the prismatic light that had brought them together and changed their lives forever.

[sideshowkaz]

Hart shaped things.

I have this odd mild loathing of heart shaped things. It’s the twee side of it and how cute they can be. That single heart shaped pretty necklace thats supposed to signal love to everyone around feels like there’s horrible under tones to me.

I got to see little girls like me wear those lovely little pendants as the only decoration they were allowed because too much was too much and the church didn’t like over doing it. Little girls with their hearts overflowing with innocent love.

Children at eight years old being made to make a covenant when they still hadn’t grown out of that cute stage. Boys and girls both not knowing what they got into.

They grew to twelve years old and boys got the kind of power in the church where they had more power in their little finger than their grandmothers will ever have or have had.

Lessons with undertones of punishment though teens that men are men and women are women. Each needing to act accordingly and dress accordingly. Those heart shaped pendants for the ones that noticed became like weights around our necks dragging us down. We had to appear feminine enough and cute and unthreatening enough. God didn’t want women acting like men. I didn’t want ether. Into my teen years I was being told I had to wear makeup and stylish clothing. Women needed to look just nice enough to be interesting to men but not to interesting. You have to be feminine enough to attract a good man but also men are the huge monsters in ally ways and car parks. Men were the enemy you had to let into your life and run it because god said so. It wasn’t who I was. Hearts began to signify that forever innocence women were supposed to have. They were worn like shields against gods wrath just in case a woman were to show a bit of strength or stand up for themselves. But they were never worn much only just enough. Women had to be modest and cover enough of themselves that their bodies felt foreign to them and didn’t belong to them but show enough to show they were still ladies.

And then I got to see adult women after years of having men run their lives tired and sick. All being told they aren’t bringing enough children into the world wile they had so many they didn’t keep track of the ones they had. They worried they couldn’t do enough with ‘populating the earth’ which terrified me. All that modesty enforced with garments so now the church dictates and mandates under clothes.

Then much older women beaten down and unable to fight back every time a man spoke or communicate what they want because men run things to them. Some were obviously abused and some were willing submissive.

But wile all this was going on I was told I was a special spirit and I’d never find a man anyway unless he was the bottom of the pile. The meat market of young single adults never interested me. I wasn’t the best looking, I was disabled to the point I couldn’t just try to be better and somehow look normal to the right guy. Men and women were forced into roles that made them interchangeable in so many ways. Faith in god was supposedly all you needed for a good marriage. What was left as far as characteristics went for anyone to pick what they wanted from? Appearance. Ugly girls got treated with pity. Ugly girls like me. I was told I could fix it if I basically wasn’t me.

It all started with a heart symbol that even people out of the church wear but to me I can’t separate it off from outdated hairstyles, being made to keep my ‘natural’ hair colour, no other subjects being ok but bitching about the unfaithful, skirts you can’t run in but you have to wear them anyway, not being allowed to wear certain colours because they are too bright or give the wrong message, white T-shirts under anything that showed of shoulders or collarbones, lace up to the neck to the point of being choking, not being able to stand up for myself when I need to, being told I couldn’t stand out in any way in my own community but to outsiders I had to look a certain type of strange, being told I had to keep pure but if a priesthood holder said something I better listen even if it wasn’t a good idea, not being allowed to be me but having to be some image of a woman that everyone else wanted me to be, seeing men as both saviours i needed to get into heaven and the demons we were meant to fear and if we showed off our knees men would go from one straight to the other.

The overly cuteness of the little heart symbol jewellery was a part of femininity I never resonated with and for a long time because of that I felt like I was nothing. Now I know there’s just nothing for me in a church that only allowed me one way to express myself and kept telling me what myself was when it wasn’t that at all.