#T. Rowe Price

[lefkosahaberleri]

Tahvil Piyasasında Yükseliş Beklentileri: 2025'te %5,5 Tahmini

New Post has been published on https://lefkosa.com.tr/tahvil-piyasasinda-yukselis-beklentileri-2025te-55-tahmini-33051/

Tahvil Piyasasında Yükseliş Beklentileri: 2025'te %5,5 Tahmini

Tahvil piyasasında 2025 yılı için %5,5’lik yükseliş beklentileri üzerine derinlemesine bir analiz. Ekonomik göstergeler, yatırım stratejileri ve piyasa dinamikleri hakkında bilgi edinin.

https://lefkosa.com.tr/tahvil-piyasasinda-yukselis-beklentileri-2025te-55-tahmini-33051/ --------

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part Nine: The Expo

Your eyes widen to saucers as you climb out of John’s work van. The event hall in front of you is huge - the largest in the city. A big, glass dome with a high-end hotel attached. It glows in the morning sun. Lines of people have already formed out front. You passed them on your way around to the vendor entrance. It’s the twentieth anniversary for the Tattoo Expo, apparently, which means they expect massive crowds.

“I hate that Kyle couldn’t come.” You frown as a security worker hands over your badge. It’s fancy - heavy weight with brightly colored, neo-traditional graphics. Something about having the word VENDOR hanging around your neck makes your heart skip.

John sighs, heaving one of the boxes of his books onto your dolly. “Yeah. He tried but he couldn’t get his head out of the toilet long enough to do much of anythin’.”

You wrinkle your nose. Apparently he had caught some nasty stomach bug, poor guy. You thought about calling and checking in on him, but you worried that was too clingy. After… everything, you don’t want to come off as anything other than normal about it. Which you are. Totally normal.

At least Johnny was home for the day to help him out.

“Has Simon ever come?” You ask, titling the dolly pack to push into the convention hall.

John’s arms flex as he fights with his rolling tool box to get the handle back out so he can pull it. He just had to wear a sleeveless muscle tee, didn’t he? It’s rude, frankly. You look over his more rarely exposed shoulder and upper arm pieces - some more faded than others. Some more colorful, some better crafted. Part of you wants to reach out - to trace them the same way you want to with Simon. You want to ask him in detail about each one. Maybe he’ll let you, someday.

“Can you actually picture Simon in a convention hall?” He chuckles eventually, finally getting the toolbox rolling properly.

You laugh. “Guess not.”

The 141 booth sits in the center of the floor, surrounded by a few other big-name shops and figures in the community. You glance around at them, only recognizing a few. You don’t get much time to look around. There are only a couple hours designated for set up and you have to help hang all the flash options, get the cash box sorted, and be ready for the flood when it comes. You’ve mentally prepared for chaos, reading through pretty much every reddit and twitter thread you could find about convention disasters. You know that won’t happen here, and even if something did, John wouldn’t abandon you to it. Still, you feel better being mentally prepared for anything - no matter how unrealistic.

“Why do you still do these?” You ask, pinning one of the large flash sheets to the display board. “I mean - you don’t exactly have to get your name out there.”

“I enjoy them- the community. I was here when this was still bein’ held underground in an old warehouse.” John looks around, eyes scanning the rows of artists. He doesn’t share his thoughts, just stands there quietly for a moment with his hands on his hips. After a few beats he grumbles quietly, “Gettin’ old…”

You focus on setting up the front table where you’ll be stationed. John brought a few prints of work as well as several copies of his book. He brought a few signed ones as well, only selling them for about twenty more bucks than the usual price. You asked why he doesn’t mark them up more, but he just shrugged you off with a mutter of ‘I’m not all that’ before moving on to another task. You decided it was best not to argue that he is, indeed, all that. His books are literally filled until the late fall.

Maybe you shouldn’t be so proud of setting up a decently aesthetically pleasing display all on your own when you’re surrounded by real artists, but you still grin wide with your hands on your hips. It’s simple, with cards for each of the boys lining one sit and a roll of tattoo tickets for the day beside the cash box. The table cloth with the shop’s name looks nearly identical to the sign. One might call it lazy marketing, you find it charming.

“Somethin’ happen with you and Kyle?” John asks suddenly, back turned as he messes with something in his rolling tool box full of supplies.

You freeze, eyes wide and mouth dry. Did Kyle say something? You thought you’d been normal about it. Kyle hadn’t acted any differently - which shouldn’t have hurt your feelings - and you were sure you’d met him with the same level of normalcy. The past weeks race through your mind. Every moment, every interaction, picking each apart into threads in milliseconds.

“Uh, no? Why?” It comes out squeaky. Unsure. Lord, you really are a terrible liar.

John hums. He’s quiet for barely a beat, a moment that seems to stretch for lifetimes. You can almost feel your cells aging while you wait. “You’ve been quieter than usual around him. Just wanted t’make sure.”

“Oh.” Had you? You thought you’d been the same as always. Both of you totally moved on from… the incident. Well, except for those few times you caught yourself staring - zoning out while thinking about the way his lips pressed to yours. Imagining Kyle pulling you into the back room again. Another kiss with less nervousness and more heat. Actually bending you over the desk properly-

“Y’with me, love?” John snaps you back to reality.

“Yeah!” You jump and stutter. “Yeah. No. We’re fine. I’m… fine.”

You wonder if the giant guy in the weird homemade mask at the booth across from yours would smash your head in if you paid him. Let him free you from the torment of embarrassment. It had been eating away at you, if you’re honest with yourself, and now lying right to John’s face just feels… awful. He’ll find out. You know he will. Maybe he already knows as that was a test. Fuck if it was, you totally just failed.

The clock turns to nine, and you have no choice but to let that be a problem for your future self.

Something you realize rather quickly as the attendees begin to flood the hall is that John is a god here. People don’t meet his eye. They speak meekly, even to you, with voices low and faces flushed. The line for your booth stretches down the walkway as soon as the doors open - appointment tickets practically flying out of your hands. You overhear a pair of friends muttering about sleeping outside overnight to get in early enough for John’s booth. It makes your head spin.

You wonder if they’d still act that way if they saw him snoring open-mouthed at the desk in the back room mid-afternoon.

“Thought I heard 141 got a new front desk girl.” A syrupy southern accident lilts above you just as you finish selling tickets. He’s handsome. Blonde and blue eyed with a little scar gracing his cheekbone. Not much younger than John, you don’t think. Probably around Simon’s age.

You slip on your usual customer service smile. “Hello! How can I-”

“Graves.” John grunts behind you, not even looking up from the work in front of him. “What d’you want?”

“Just wanted to come see how you were.” The man - Graves - grins wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “And to meet your new front of house. Philip.”

You take the hand he holds out, giving a perfunctory shake and your name. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that John doesn’t like this guy, whoever he is, and you’re inclined to trust his judgement. You opt for basic small talk. “Are you an artist?”

Graves nods. “I own Shadow & Co. It’s a few blocks over from your place.”

Oh. You’d heard of them. They came highly recommended when you were looking for artists in the area initially. In the end you opted for John based entirely on vibes. The Shadow building is far too modern - to minimalist - for your liking. Too corporate.

“Y’know, we’re looking for a new desk girl as well.” Graves smiles. You do your best not to sneer at his use of desk girl. “We’re growing pretty quick - even if you wanted to split your time-”

“She’s full time with us.” John snaps - blatant irritation lining the edges of his voice. He still doesn’t turn around.

The blonde man pauses, glancing between you. Something passes over his eyes - some implicit knowing that you don’t quite get - but it’s gone just as fast as it came. He digs into his pocket, flipping open a too-new wallet and pulling out a business card. “Well, if you ever want to work somewhere more exciting-” you nearly laugh at that. “-give us a call, hm?”

You glance up to his face, then back down at the card. John’s tattoo gun continues to buzz behind you, but you can tell he’s slowed down. He’s listening. Before even really thinking you extend your hand, pushing the card he holds away from you.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m very happy here.”

Philip scoffs, dropping the card on the table. “Keep us in mind, yeah?”

He disappears into the crowd easily - blending in just like his shop’s namesake. Your nose wrinkles. You snatch up the card and tear it in two. “Dickhead.”

You think you hear John chuckling behind you, but can’t be sure over the roar of the convention.

The day flies by - people bustle by your booth. You run out of signed books just over halfway through - prints not long after. Your voice feels hoarse from talking to so many people. The hall has grown quite hot and you’re sure that your hair looks insane at this point. Either way, you’re having a great time. You get to talk to a with full body trash polka that you like for some reason. You get to meet one of the people involved in the stage competition - her massive thigh piece holding some of the best color work you’ve ever seen. All in all, despite the discomfort, you think this ranks in your top ten favorite days. Maybe top five.

“Excuse me?” Murmurs a voice so soft you almost miss it entirely over the roar of the convention. When you look up, you’re met with a painfully young face. Definitely not old enough for the 17+ entrance requirement.

“Hi!” You put on your warmest smile. “How can I help you?”

“I, uh, I was just…” They stutter, shifting in place. “I- Are there any signed copies left?”

You look them over, a too-familiar pang in your chest. You know those eyes, that anxiety. The jumpy way they look around at the people passing by and tug at their sleeves. Your teeth sink into your lip and you look over at the three blanks that make up your entire left over stock. Glancing over your shoulder, you see John finishing with his current client - giving the man a firm handshake before turning to clean up his station. There’s a fifteen minute break until the next one - his last for the night - and as much as you don’t want to take up his precious little time to set up…

“Let me check!” You squeak, shaky as you grab one of the blanks with all the subtlety of a brick over the head and cross the few feet over to where John sits. You lean over to speak in his ear, low enough that the kid won’t hear you. “John?”

“Hm?” He hums, turning slightly on his stool.

“Can you sign this one?” You chew your lip. “I know you had a set amount but this kid looks so…”

He glances behind you at the teenager in question, bashfully staring at their feet.

“I’m sorry, I know you need to set up for the next-”

John cuts you off by taking the book from your hands and standing.

“Thanks, dove.” He gives you that lovely, warm smile and rolls his shoulders before making his way over to the front table.

The teenager’s eyes go so wide you think they might pop out of their head. You decide to hang back and not interrupt their moment. John sets the book on the table and grabs a sharpie from your back up stash of pens. The kid mumbles something you can’t understand. John’s voice lowers as well. You can’t hear them, but you watch John scrawl something in the book and hand it over. He pushes away the crumpled, messy wad of cash the teenager tries to give him, shaking his head and saying something else that you don’t catch. The kid looks like they’re about to cry, a wide, wet grin splitting their face as they say goodbye and practically prance away.

You melt, shoulders slouching and what you’re sure is a very stupid smile breaking out across your lips. You don’t know why you doubted him for even a moment.

“What’s that face?” John scoffs, cocking a brow at you.

“Nothing.” You shake your head and re-take your spot at the table.

The ending of the convention is rather uneventful. Some of the other booths begin clearing up early. You take the time to count the cash box - which is absolutely stuffed to the brim. John rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck about five times in the span of a few minutes. Maybe you could convince them to do a company yoga class. It’s easy to see how tense and tired they get. You file that idea away for later.

Luckily most of the booth set up belonged to the venue and, since you sold out of books and prints, you don’t have haul those back to the van. All you have to take is John’s rolling toolbox and tattooing table. All things that easily fit in your bag and dolly. Thank god. Neither of you speak much on the drive back to the shop - opting for comfortable silence. Your ears ring ever so slightly from the noise of the convention hall. When you were in it, you hadn’t realized just how loud it was. John’s eyes are locked on the road, the slight glow from the setting sun warming his skin.

The sun just disappears over the horizon as you put the last of the equipment in the backroom - stacked rather messily but that’s another problem for future you. You’ve been working for a grand total of fourteen hours and, somehow, it still has yet to hit you. Adrenaline and excited energy still pulse under your skin.

John sighs loudly, crossing each arm over his chest to stretch them out. “Could really go for a scotch right now. You want a nightcap?”

Your cheeks warm, still riding high from the excitement of the day you agree easily. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

He gives you a gentle smile, softened further by the low street lights. “Let me show you a spot.”

The place John leads you to is small. Local. You sit at the bar and take a moment to look around. Three pool tables take up half the floor space. It looks like a small tournament is going on - a white board showing the matches and who will go against who next. Two ski-ball machines are tucked in a corner beside the bathroom, currently taken up by two younger men who you aren’t completely sure are drinking age. The lights and music are both low. One of the bartenders is posted up on the opposite end of the bar with two other people watching Shin Godzilla on the mounted television. It’s cozy and oh-so very John Price.

You get an easy sipper, something fruity and sweet as a treat for the long day you’ve had. It’s nice against the warmth of the summer evening. A heat that’s only aggravated by the one that settles in your spine whenever the guys are around. John especially.

“Think that kid was a little young for the event…” You blurt in a poor attempt to make conversation.

John nods along. “Definitely.”

“That was really nice of you. I didn’t want to… I don’t know.” You murmur, unsure why exactly the words won’t stop. You blame the drinks and exhaustion. Seems realistic enough. “They just seemed so sad.”

“Wasn’t nice. Just the right thing t’do.” John shrugs. His words come slow, almost as if he’s unsure if he should say them. Though, you find it hard to believe he has ever been unsure about anything in his life. “I know what its like… to need t’escape. Lied about my age just to enlist.”

Your eyes widen. “R-really?”

He hums. “They didn’t care much back then.”

For some reason you never thought about John’s childhood - his homelife. You know he has a mom somewhere. Kyle let it slip a couple of times - said she’s a really good cook. John doesn’t volunteer information about himself often, you gathered that much. He’s worse than Simon, somehow, which says a fucking lot.

“Did-” you mull over your words. “You didn’t grow up around here, yeah?”

It’s a clumsy attempt at getting him to talk, but it works well enough. He nods. “Hereford. My mum’s still out there.”

Score. “Do you visit her much?”

John shrugs, chuckling. “When I can. I could move back home and it wouldn’t be enough for her.”

You snicker.

“She’s the best woman I’ve ever known…” He murmurs, eyes far away. It’s only for a moment, but they look past you. Defocused in a way that seems to out of character for the hyper-aware man.

Your faces are close. Hunched in like school kids exchanging secrets and gossip during recess. Your eyes dart from his to his lips and back. It’s confusing. All of this. The intimacy you have with each of them in these moments is overwhelming. You like Kyle - you liked kissing Kyle - you really shouldn’t be wanting that from your boss, though. A co-worker is bad enough but John… John is off limits. You know that. Even so, you find yourself subconsciously leaning just a bit closer, eyes roving over the freckles you don’t see standing further away and the grey flecks in his eyes. You think, for barely a millisecond, that he leans in too.

Until he sits up straight, tossing back what little is left of his drink. “Let’s head out. Could go for a smoke.”

You nod, swallowing down your thoughts and following him out of the bar like a lost puppy. You’d follow him to the end of the earth, you think. Even if it hurts that you can’t get as close as you want, you’d go anywhere for him. Yeah, that’s definitely the drink and tiredness talking. Part of you also knows that it is undoubtedly true.

John rounds a corner to the side of the bar. It’s moderately lit, a single street lamp just down the way giving you just enough light to see. You lean against the wall beside John, the exhaustion beginning to cling to your eyes.

“Are you?” John asks suddenly.

“Hm?” You hum, unsure of what he’s asking about.

“Happy here?” He cuts the end off a cigar he pulled from the silver box that lives in his back pocket.

In the low light of the alley, his pupils overtake most of his irises. Dark and intense as he looks you over from head to toe. You see it, suddenly. The god that the others do. He’s not as physically large as Simon, or as loud as Johnny, but he fills every inch of any space he enters regardless. You suppose you became so used to being in that radius that you forgot just how much presence he carries. You’ve wrapped yourself in it like a blanket. A shield.

Your cheeks warm and you shuffle your feet. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” John sighs out a cloud of smoke. “It’d be a pain in the arse to replace you. The boys care about you too much.”

You stare up at him. You can feel something on the edge of his tone - some weight that you don’t understand. There always seems to be another layer to the things he says. Implications that you can’t understand, context that you’re missing. Part of you wants to ask, needs to ask, but the words get stuck in your throat. What would you say? You’re not even entirely sure what you need to ask. You know they care about you, and you care for them in turn, so why does it feel like there’s something missing?

“Does the boys include you?” You blurt, one again wishing that big guy from the convention was here to smash your head in like wile e. cayote and the anvil.

He looks you up and down, slightly taken aback while you debate on bolting. “Thought that was obvious.”

You scoff, still flustered. “You’re hard to read.”

“Am I, now?”

You nod. A comfortable silence falls over you, despite the awkwardness surely emanating from you. Your lip catches between your teeth, eyes on your feet. “John?”

“Dove?” He tilts his head, once again leaning ever so slightly closer to you.

“Thank you. For everything.” You murmur, voice low and unsure. “It’s… it’s really good here.”

“Think nothin’ of it, love.”

You look up at those pretty blue eyes. They always make your chest ache with some deep hole you haven’t been able to pin down. At first you could blame it on wanting to do well - to be a good employee. It’s more than that, though. It starts in your chest and seeps it’s way through the rest of you. A want. A craving. That’s the word. You crave those eyes on you. The weight of his hands, the fortitude of him.

You’re not sure who closes the gap - whether it’s you or him - but either way it closes. It’s too natural for the context of your relationship. You slot together too well. It’s not like with Kyle. John carries an intensity with him that Kyle never could. His beard scratches not unpleasantly. His lips are warm - you can taste hints of scotch and his cigar. He smells of spice and earth. Your hands rest on his broad shoulders - unsure of where to put them.

This is wrong. It’s messy. You already lied about Kyle, which he’ll surely find out. If he hasn’t already. What about Johnny? Or Simon? Will they think less of you? Are you less for this? For impulsively kissing your boss in some back alley? Will Kyle be angry if he finds out? Your thoughts surge, all chaotic waves crashing against each other in an attempt to make sense of this situation you find yourself in.

John’s arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. Your arms drape around his neck as you push onto your tips toes to meet him.

That’s a problem for future you.

A/N: Sorry this part took so long, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to escalate it or not but I want to get a move on with these boys

[killerpancakeburger]

Scary Dog Privilege w/ Ghost

PART 2

With the captain's away, you're left to deal with his intimidating lieutenant's temper.

Tags: civilian!reader, gn!reader, mostly fluff, suggestive at the end, GuardDog!Ghost x Handler!Reader, smug!Ghost. Reader is careful of Ghost's boundaries. 1.3k words

Ghost's "outburst" (no idea how to call it tbh) is based on how @valiants drew them here and there. I just love this depiction so much, it's too relatable.

Part 1. Part 3.

Heaving a sigh, you glower at the shiny plaque adorning the mahogany desk you’re sitting at.

Cpt. John Price.

The aforenamed is away for a week, something about a higher-ups seminar. Left you in charge and, when you started to heft some heavy cardboards full of paperwork, he suggested you take his office too. It wasn’t conventional by any means, but what John Price wants, John Price gets.

You imagined that being the big boss would be fun.

You didn't expect his men to be… such a hassle.

Soap could not go one day without getting involved in a fight.

Gaz was sweet as pie to your face, only to use your own gratefulness against you later when he wanted something.

And Ghost. Oh, Ghost. From the very start, he had been playing with you like a cat plays with his food. Acting like your right-hand man. Always by your side, dutiful shadow. His relentless stare was like a torch against the nape of your neck, like the tangible weight of gloved hands on your shoulders. Following instructions but always with a snarky reply, and a smirk on his lips that you could guess behind the mask simply by the look in his eyes. Not mentioning the times you were alone together and he'd stop covering the bottom of his face. Made it easier to drink — tea but also bourbon —, to smoke, to tempt you with his scarred lips—

You shake your head in an attempt to refocus.

Your concentration doesn't last a mere minute that it's already shattered by the slam of a door.

A familiar slam and a familiar door, if that is even possible.

One of your men is acting out again.

You slip through the group massed in front of the room you need to access, ignoring their warnings and brushing off their attempts to make you turn back.

Knocking three times in rapid succession so he knows it's you, you glide in wordlessly, taking care to lock the door behind you so there won't be any interruption. You lean your back against it, taking a moment to assess the situation.

Your eyes linger on the knife lodged into the table before fixing upon the sizable being sitten nearby. Bending at the waist under an invisible force, his elbows rest on his knees while his fingers clutch the part of his mask that covers the back of his head. One word immediately comes to mind— overwhelmed.

His back is turned on you. You can almost distinguish the dark aura he exudes, an inky blackness that matches his t-shirt and his gloves.

You pull away from the door and join him, absently noticing that your steps are loud enough for him to locate you— force of habit.

“Ghost?”

A metaphorical outstretched hand.

Silence.

Stopping behind his back, you instinctively raise a tentative hand— to ensure his attention? To provide comfort?— before halting halfway, reconsidering. Pulling it back, you opt for a verbal approach instead.

“You really need to stop terrorizing the new recruits.”

You can’t help the fond, amused smile that stretches your lips as you say it.

Silence, still.

It doesn't deter you. After all, you’re no stranger to the need to drop verbal communication in favor of onomatopoeias or hand motions.

Nevermind that, you can fill the silence with retelling of your day.

As the quiet remains your only interlocutor for the third time in a row, you decide to cut your losses, at least for today. You’re unsure whether Ghost's in a mood where he'd rather stay alone, or one where he'd appreciate company but only the silent kind. Eyeing the knife again, you reckon it must be the former.

But as you turn around to leave, a pair of arms circle your waist, putting a swift end to your exit. The sudden embrace causes you to sway a bit, nonetheless you keep your cool.

“Changed your mind?”

A light gibe, essentially harmless, but provocating enough to prompt an answer.

He replies with a muffled groan, before pulling you closer and pressing his face into the small of your back. The contact, admittedly unexpected, but not unwelcome, sends shivers down your spine.

“That's certainly an… interesting position,” is all you find to say, picturing the expression someone would make if they were to stumble upon you two.

Twisting around a bit, you manage to see half of him, and use the view to reach back and pat his head. You quickly come to the conclusion that you’re stuck there for a while, same as if a pet cheetah nominated your lap for its nap.

A few moments later, a minute or an eternity, you end up chuckling to yourself. There's a grumble in your shirt, and it takes a second or two for you to comprehend that the grumble is actually words.

“What's so funny?”

You sigh pensively.

“Was thinking about the recruits you scared. They were shaking in their boots when I got here, you'd think they've seen worse than a ghost. But the most formidable thing here is a cuddle monster.”

The limbs around your torso release you unpromptedly, and as you pivot to face the lieutenant, he only has one step to take to corner you against a wall.

“S'that so?”

The sarcasm in his tone is familiar, yet you fail to see what he's getting at.

“... yeah?”

You don’t try to hide the interrogation in your voice; you want your confusion to be known.

He props one forearm on the wall, right by your head, and leans closer to murmur huskily:

“Do I scare you?”

You bite your lower lip not to laugh, his antics evoking some sort of dark, tortured protagonist. Yet, you'd be lying if you pretended this little display was leaving you indifferent.

Hell, you wish you were scared, because then you wouldn’t long to reduce the distance between your two bodies, already scandalously limited.

Wavering about your reply, you ultimately select the truth.

“Not anymore.”

You swear you can make out the corners of his mouth rise behind the mask.

“Good,” he appraises, laconic as ever.

Stricken by a timidity as sudden as it is intense, you start to ramble nervously, avoiding his intense stare.

“No but, for real, you'd laugh too if you'd seen their faces. They were so worried, imploring me not to go. It's like they were convinced you'd eat me alive.”

“Could be arranged.”

The suggestive line has the merit to make you stop dead in your tracks. His insufferable confidence fills you with irritation and arousal yet again.

You can’t let him win this one, you categorically refuse to let him have the last word. So you bring your face even closer to his and purrs:

“It's such a shame you’re wearing a mask, otherwise I would have already shoved my tongue down your—”

He rips off the bottom part of his mask with such haste that it would be comical if you weren't busy being squished between him and the wall the next second. He presses you against the stone the same way he presses his lips against yours— insistent, warm.

Once again, his hands settle on your hips like they belong here, and his thumbs slip under the cloth to stroke your hipbones.

His newfound urgency is the antipodes of the restraint he manifested until now, leaving you short of breath.

A call of your name pulls you apart, but barely, noses almost brushing. You shoot a look at the door just to see the handle lowers in vain. Letting out an amused and relieved scoff, you rest your forehead against Ghost's torso, thanking yourself for locking.

The voice persists, asking if everything's okay. You raise your head but, as you open your mouth to answer, Simon silently orders you to stay quiet with a forefinger across his lips. You frown and mouth silently— no, YOU shut up— before hollering to be heard.

“All good, thanks!”

Obviously, answering is a much better solution than a suspicious silence. Yet Ghost doesn't seem to share that opinion, as he stares at you unimpressed, but you kiss him before he can make any disagreeable comment.

[shotmrmiller]

Spotter!141 this time is the captain of my heart, Price. Look at him! He's a bloody unit.

It was back day, and you were squatting down to raise the bar between your legs. The lifting belt around your waist is tight and with an exhale you tighten your grip on the t-bar row handle— hissing at the callouses on your hands— and lift. 

Your legs are bent as you lower the bar with control before raising it again, plates hitting your sternum. Your back is on fire, drops of sweat dripping off of your forehead, and with one last rep, you let go of the handle.

Breathing heavily, you bend over to pick up your aminos when as you turn around, you see him. A tall man, broad and muscular with ice-blue eyes, and a mutton chop beard— and he’s pointing at the bar by your feet.

You take one earphone out and look at him.

“You mind if I work in with you?” 

Giving him a thumbs up, he sets his gym bag by yours and grabs one, two then 3 plates. Guess that explains the wings he could fly away with. He does his set and you try to not stare at his vascular thick forearms, the way his traps bunch up with every up motion— or the grunts he lets out from deep in his chest with every rep. Jesus Christ. 

It’s your turn now, and after he removes the plates he used, you get into position when a gentle tap on your arm gets your attention. It’s your temporary gym buddy. 

“Your form looks great but you could make some adjustments. If I may?” and well, you’d never turn down help from someone who clearly knows what he’s doing.

 You nod and then he says, “Get into the starting position.” The authoritative tone in his voice sent shivers down your spine. Always weak to men with accents.

Squatting down, you pick up the bar and before you even get a rep in, he says, “Hold.” 

His commanding voice is going to ruin you. He snaps you out of your inner musings when he approaches you to fix your posture. A large hand pressing into your lower back— almost upper glutes.

With a little more strength, he pushes your hips down further as he murmurs, “Lower,” and now you’re definitely being a reprobate. 

“Good. You want to be going into a partial romanian deadlift in order to get the full extension of the row.” 

You wonder if you could partial RDL on that co— 

“Y’okay, love? You’re not hurting or anything, eh?” 

Blushing, you nod aggressively, as if to physically shake off your filthy thoughts. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m finished with my workout anyway. Thank you for the help!” you grin at him and the soft smile he returns makes your heart flutter. Damn.

“Of course. If you ever want to workout together again, I usually arrive at 7. Look f’me.” then his soft blue eyes look at yours, “I’m John.” 

Cheeks burning up, you tell him your name and he just says, “I know, love. I always notice when you’re here.”

And if that isn’t him giving you the green light to jump his bones, you don't know what is.

[agentmarvel]

Can we have headcanons of fem!reader wife x 141 guys and how they each handle her leaving for girl’s night out in a really skimpy dress?

I think they’d all have hilarious reactions.😂

Omg yesssss

NSFW under the cut

MDNI - 18+

♡ Price:

Oh lord, that man is NOT letting you out of the house.

"Where ya think you're going in that?"

gets a little pissy when you remind him you have one girls night a month, and you have every right to wear whatever you want

"Doesn't mean you have the right to show anyone else what's mine, love."

will physically block the door with his whole body, knowing you won't be able to move him unless he allows it

he isn't mad - no, quite the opposite! it's taking every ounce of his self-restraint not to rip that damn thing in half and have his way with you right there on the foyer floor

"John, move. I don't want to be late!" - "Shame... You should've thought about that before you put on something you know damn well I can't resist."

he thinks it's cute when you argue with him, but you both know this ends up with your front pressed up against the door, panties pulled to the side, and his cock buried to the hilt inside you

after he cums, he pulls your panties back into place and gives you a harsh swat on the ass, not caring that your make up is a little smudged or that your legs are jello while he's giving you that smug look he wears so well

"Enjoy your night out, Mrs. Price. Hurry home."

♡ Gaz:

he's on you before you even walk out of the bathroom after you finish your hair

wraps his arms around your waist, puts his chin on your shoulder, tells you how pretty you look

"This dress new? Haven't seen it on the floor before."

ohhhhh, he is so down bad for you, even after as long as you've been together

makes it a point to grab a quick selfie bc he knows it's a solid confidence booster, and he wants you to feel as beautiful as you look

it doesn't really cross his mind that anyone would try anything on you - you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and he knows who you'll come home to; he knows who's bed you'll be in tonight, who's name you'll be calling in the dark

he even helps you pick the right shoes, even though you know he picks his favorite pair in hopes of seeing you in just those when you get home

ever the gentleman, he walks you out to your car, reminds you to drive safe, call him if you have too much to drink, etc.

he does, however, make it a point to send you some downright raunchy texts and a photo of his more... physical reaction, just in case you needed some motivation to come home a little early

when you get home (early), he's still riled up; he's too impatient to wait for you to make it upstairs, much less to unzip your dress for you, so you end up riding him on the landing until he's too tongue-tied to keep telling you how hot you look

♡ Soap:

you're not making it out of the house. Period.

the SECOND Johnny lays eyes on you, it's over

he's grabby as hell, digging his fingers into any part of you that he can - squeezing your ass, your hips, your thighs, tits, tummy, anything - while he navigates you to the nearest surface

"Yer so fuckin' pretty, baby. Never seen something so fuckin' perfect in my god damn life."

it doesn't matter if you end up on the couch, the kitchen counter, in the back yard; he's eating your pussy like a death row prisoner's last meal until you're crying, trying to wrench his head away with the hair tangled in your fist

he has your dress bunched up around your waist, straps pulled down so he can play with your nipples, but uses the whole garment as leverage while he fucks you stupid

you should've known better than to put a t-bone in front of a starving dog and expect it not to bite

"Go ahead, bonnie; text your little friends, tell them you're not gonna make it, yeah?"

♡ Ghost:

"'course, love. Have fun, be careful, call me if you need a ride."

Simon isn't too worried initially; he knows there isn't going to be a single soul in that bar willing or able to face his wrath should anything untoward happen. but then he actually sees what you're wearing, and all bets are off

that's why he follows you, he tells himself, it has nothing to do with the insatiable urge to destroy your ability to walk tomorrow

nothing trumps your safety, in terms of his priorities. he's simply here to look out for his wife, right?

wrong. he spends the next hour and a half watching you from a darkened corner of the bar while his palms itch with a need to touch

opportunity knocks when you excuse yourself from the table, and he follows you into the restroom, slipping in before you have a chance to lock the door

you're not surprised to see him (duh, you know him better than just about anyone), but you are surprised to find yourself bent over the sink, looking Simon in the eye through his reflection. he's fucking you mercilessly, spewing absolute filth while he pulls your head back by your hair

"My perfect little whore, hmm? Waltzing around in that tiny dress, wearing my fuckin' ring, rubbin' it in everyone's faces that you only open those pretty legs for me."

he wants to cum on your face, but you pout about the possibility of it getting in your eye, or worse, on your dress, so he settles for letting you swallow it instead

his impulses return not much longer after you return to your table; instead, he texts you that he's ready to head out, and you are all too quick to oblige

[ccrites]

chokehold

listen, I've had this idea in my wips for a while (since the begnining of the year actually) and the fat reader worms have been wiggling in third gear with all the awesome stuff early ( @391780 ) has been putting out lately. So have 6.4k words of Soap being an absolute pussy eating freak but you know you love him

(also on ao3 if you prefer the formatting there, or if you want to drop a kudo)

.

The second the doors swing back closed behind you, you start feeling the scratchy feeling of doubt at the back of your throat.

It was predictable, really.

A small gym in a small town, heads turn when the hinges creak, not because they’re staring at you specifically, but because it’s a reflex.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to keep the scratchy feeling from turning sour in your mouth. Or make you throw up from embarrassment.

Perhaps your New Year’s resolution should’ve been to start on a home gym type of situation. Buy yourself some girly weights, a mat, and some sort of stepping device, and do those easy exercises every slim, pretty, high-ponytailed YouTube instructor seemed to preconize people out of shape do. Like a hamster on a wheel inside their cage. A rat chasing its own tail, maybe.

No, you promised yourself no more fake promises. Perhaps the money spent on the gym membership (stupid fucking New Year’s promotion) would motivate you to use it, lest it’s just money down the drain. 

You wore the stretchiest, thickest pair of black leggings you owned, hoping no one would see the terrible shape of your underwear through it. On the opposite spectrum of things, you knew the largest hoodie you owned would smother you and make you boil with sweat, so you chose the next best thing: the widest black t-shirt you owned. It was definitely not black enough, the dye faded into a dark gray from use over the years, but it was the only thing that camouflaged your body enough from the others’ sight. God forbid they imagine what your body actually looks like underneath.

The heads pretty quickly turned back around as you started walking towards the empty treadmills. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but the combined weight of at least a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes would’ve been enough to make you turn on your heels and back to your car, fuck the membership price.

At the very least, you could convince yourself that walking in place (no better than a hamster on its wheel but oh well) would be enough to get you started. Baby steps, and all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize the treadmill fucking sucks. Why would anyone suggest looking at a parking lot while suffering instead of the pretty scenery of a park or forest (while also suffering, but still).

The timer you’d set for the warm-up (ten minutes, just like the pretty blonde coach suggested!) crawls by way too slowly for your taste. You’d be all but whooping with joy when it beeps if you weren’t so out of breath and conscious of a gaze on you.

You’d seen him as soon as you walked in.

Between figures of balding men trying to get rid of their beer gut with abs, two thin women whispering to themselves in a corner while trying to look inconspicuous, and a few other, completely average-looking men and women, there he stands, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he deadlifts an impressive amount of black plates.

He immediately looks straight ahead, correcting his stance, as if there were anything to be corrected, in your unathletic opinion. The muscles in his arms bulge even through the thin, grey hoodie, and the ones in his legs coil tight as the weight is lifted off the ground in a slow, controlled motion. Not even a grunt escapes his lips, at least no one you could hear from where you stood, completely mesmerized.

There was always something almost unappealing about overly muscled men. Their wife’s not feedin’ ‘em enough, your granny would grumble when passing by the rows of magazines at the checkout of the supermarket. 

Yet this man.

Yeah, he was muscled. But in a way, he looked… almost normal. Like he was built for strength, not necessarily vanity. Each bend of his legs, each twist of his arms…

You’d swoon if you hadn’t lowered your standards so low he’d trip on them. Accepted it a long time ago. Fats belong with fats, thins with thins, and if there’s a thin with a fat, either one’s getting fattened up, or the other’s getting dumped. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, and one you’d rather not be a part of.

You walk with shaky legs to the water dispenser, then get ready to grab the second to lightest weights to try some bicep curls.

You try to remember the positioning from the videos. Rotate in… or out? Should the wrists be like this? You go through ten repetitions on each side, before you think that you should’ve gone for the abs straight away. God knows there’s fat to burn there, and that the flab under your arms can wait.

You turn back from the rack and walk straight into a wall.

No, a chest.

Fuck.

“Sorry there, miss,” says a deep voice. You detect some sort of accent, unable to quite place it right away.

Your eyes run up, instinctively stopping for a second at chest level (holy heavens that’s a Chest with a capital C if you’ve ever seen one) before finally meeting that same pair of eyes you met a few minutes ago, through the mirror.

Double fuck.

“S-sorry, it’s me, wasn’t watching,” you stammer out, gesturing to the weights in a panicked way. “Just, y’know, switching exercises,” you sputter with a nervous laugh, like it was a completely normal thing to switch exercises after one rep.

He chuckles, and you really need to start planning your escape, because holy shit the way his pectorals rise and fall as his chest puffs up is getting a bit too much for your poor little humiliated self to handle, but he doesn’t let you as he speaks in a soft tone.

“I’m getting arms aren’t really your thing, eh?” he asks, not unkindly. Gosh, did it have to be a Scottish accent?

You can’t meet his eyes, they’re too blue, too piercing for your liking. “To be fair I don’t know what’s my thing yet, I’m just starting out, y’know?” you shift your weight on your legs, conscious of the size difference, and not in the way you wanted to be. Your neck is very warm all of a sudden.

He laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and you almost want the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely unexpected.

“Figured! A girl with thighs like yours, I’m sure you can deadlift more than me with just a lil’ training. I’m Johnny, by the way,” he adds in passing, as if offering his name is the least of his concerns. “You ever got someone to train you?”

You’re entirely unsure if you’re dreaming or not. Did this Scottish hunk of muscle really just offer to be your personal trainer?

“Never - uh… lifted anything, I guess. Just when moving, my couch and bed and all, but I had a friend help me.” You definitely feel like you’re oversharing and you’re struggling to ignore the weight of the gaze of the two thin women, burning through you as they whisper among themselves, when you realize you hadn't answered the second part. “Oh and, uh– no. I’ve never… trained. Been trained. It’s my first time in a gym since- a while. I don’t want to bother you.”

You finally look up at him, and you’re unable to read his expression. There’s a sort of curiosity, a fascination, that blends fast into a wide-eyed joy that’s so open, so sincere that it makes your head spin as he gently but firmly grabs your wrist and pulls you where his bar stands on the thick mat, ignoring your sputtering protests. “Not a bother at all, lass!” He lets go of you as he bends down and effortlessly racks the barbell, starting to remove plates as he continues. “We can start by measuring your max lift, then the one where you can easily do three reps, then we’ll hike it up till failure, so I can calculate your starting training weight!” he rambles on excitedly. You nervously shift on your feet, conscious of more curious gazes on you, but then he’s back in your bubble, pulling your attention towards him like a magnet.

His smile is like a blazing sun, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to prepare for disappointment.

He’s infinitely patient as he shows you how to place your feet, and the angle of your hips (oh, how you feel your knee weaken at the feel of his light tough through the leggings, nothing short of electrifying, despite being perfectly friendly), the hold on the bar. It’s all a blur till you find yourself bent over in front of him, looking in the mirror at your position and trying not to feel conscious of the way he’s placed behind you. Or let your mind wander in inappropriate places.

“Whenever yer ready, hen.”

You brace yourself, close your eyes for a brief second, wondering how the hell you’d landed on this planet, then breathe in, open your eyes-

The weight is in your hands. Not on the floor. You’re holding it.

You almost drop it when he cheers behind you, warm palms rubbing down from your shoulders to your elbows and back up. “Easy! I told you you’d be a natural! ‘S all in the legs and you’ve got awesome legs, bonnie! Let’s add twenty more.”

It’s a blur of racking and de-racking and lifting once and setting back, and redoing it again and again. You’re out of breath, sweating like a sinner in church, but you’re smiling along with him, finding yourself giving him double high fives, and doing small, excited jumps.

“Next one’s exactly my weight, if y’can lift that, I’ll be losing my bloody mind! D’you realize how well yer doin’ for a first-timer?” He says as he bends next to you, adjusting the bar for the next set of weights. With a wipe of his forearm over his forehead, he crouches slightly down, placing his head right above your shoulder and looking your reflection in the mirror straight in the eyes with a conspiratory grin. “Swear to God, if ye can lift it off the ground, I’m buying you the most expensive drink at the bar next door!” he says, grin blending into a blinding smile, too genuine for your own good.

He’s just friendly, just friendly, just friendly, you say to yourself like a mantra as you position yourself. He stands again to his full height behind you, hands ready under the bar, a safenet.

Deep breath in– hold it…

Slowly but surely, you lift the weight off the floor, your ears ringing from the effort. You see his lips move as he cheers you on, but the blood pumping in your eardrums makes it impossible to hear him. Suddenly, the weight is back on the ground and your feet are off the floor as you’re lifted in a tight embrace and spun around like you weigh nothing.

You yelp and flail but he’s holding you tight, face pressed smack-dab in the middle of your chest, between your tits, rumbling praises about your prowess while you’re trying to figure out whether this can be something that your brain is capable of summoning as a dream.

“Put me down, Johnny, oh my God, put me down!”

He thankfully complies but not before squeezing your ass tighter, and suddenly nothing feels real anymore.

“Jesus, I knew ye were perfect,” he says, pulling back reluctantly to rerack the bar and put back the weights. “I cannot wait to properly start training ye’ tomorrow, but for now, I have a promise ta’ keep, and, uh, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind using those strong thighs as earmuffs with this freezin’ weather. On the way back from the bar, what d’ya say?” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows with a crooked smile that lets you know he’s joking around. (Is he?)

You laugh with him and for a second, you forget what you were here for.

+++

The way to the bar is short. It was just a block away (Good for business, he jokes), but the conversation with Johnny made time really fly by. 

He seems genuinely glad when you tell him you’d decided to head to the gym not just as a New Year’s resolution, but trying to simply become a better you. There’s no condescendence, no talking down, no (God forbid) pity, just an overall nice interaction the whole time. He tells you about being on leave as a soldier (Medical leave, he specifies, a fucked up knee can work in a gym, but it’s a different story out in the field), you tell him about your studies and how that led into a “big girl” job that left you no time for yourself.

“But I’ve always been a big girl,” you feel the need to justify. “Just… gotten bigger as I stopped finding time to move. The desk and the laptop are pretty stationary,” you joke, still trying to make sense of why a man like him (broad, and tall, and strong, and… gosh, just perfect-looking) would even deign to accept being seen with you.

(It’s not a date, you dumbass)

“I happen to like big girls,” is what you don’t expect him to say.

Wait, what?

His blue eyes glue you to your seat, and you respond dumbly. “What?”

“I mean, why do you think I’d offer to train you?” he continues, placing his hand, big and warm over your thigh. It’s squished as you sit, wide and flattened in your seat, yet his hand covers a good amount, almost covering the whole width.

Your brain is short-circuiting but you have to answer something.

“Out of– uh… out of niceness?” you stammer out, feeling your insecurities climb back out of the hole they’d been sleeping in all this time, making you shrink even more, trying to cover yourself as if he didn’t see right through you with that piercing gaze. “To feel good seeing you be the reason I lose weight?”

He chuckles, squeezing your thigh as his head hangs down, almost as if to hide the smile that spreads on his lips.

“Strength training doesn’t work like that, bonnie.” He looks back up, and his eyes are blue, and wide, and so pretty, that you can’t find anything to argue back. “Ye’ think building glutes underneath that fat arse does anything but make it bigger?” He shifts, inching closer as he licks his lips and drops his voice lower. “Ye’ think growing your quads will make this,” he gives an even firmer squeeze, wiggling the fat back and forth, and you tense under his grip, but he’s got you pinned down, “any less wide and soft?”

He presses closer, and the booth has no escape room, you’re practically squeezed into the corner as he pushes his body against yours, bending to whisper lowly in the crook of your neck.

“I did not joke when I said I want yer pretty thighs wrapped tight around my head.”

You can’t be blamed when you don’t remember how you ended up in the back of a cab, Johnny barely taking the time to bark an address to the poor driver and throw fifty quid on the front seat before kissing you absolutely senseless, shamelessly groping your tits with a hand and wrapping the other around your thigh, squeezing you close.

You should probably think more about going home with basically a stranger, no matter how hot, but when he presses his entire palm against your cunt, cupping it over the quickly dampening pair of leggings that didn’t seem so thick anymore, you can’t think at all. He swallows your quiet moans, and hums contently against your lips, taking each gasp for air as an invitation to slither his tongue into your mouth. God, you’d forgotten what a good makeout session was like, and you can’t even find it in you to be embarrassed when you see the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly looking away when you see him staring. 

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind either, and when he notices you looking in the front again and again, he crowds you against the door behind the driver with a huff, half-climbing over you until his knee is pressed against your core, and the only thing in your field of vision is him.

“Johnny,” you try to say, but it’s getting hard to think, with the way you’re being squeezed in a corner, this hunk of a man of pure muscle pressing against you like a weighted blanket, kissing you like you were a drop of water in the desert and he was a parched man drinking you for his salvation. You feel his excitement pressed against your thigh, and it gives you enough lucidity to try again. “Johnny,” you gasp out again, “aren’t we going a little fast?”

He laughs instead, choosing to focus on the side of your mouth, pressing fervent little kisses down your neck before starting to suckle the delicate skin over where your clavicle is. “I can go as slow as you’d like, bun.” He takes the spot an inch next to the previous one into his mouth and sucks again, this time more forcefully, marking you, and oh God you’re going to have to conceal it before work tomorrow, unless you can find a turtleneck to wear–

The cab driver clears his throat, and you notice that the car is stopped in front of a small apartment complex. Johnny says a cordial thanks as he pulls you out of the car and throws another twenty on the backseat, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and taking all of the thinking out of the equation as he walks you to the entry.

His flat is pretty well furnished, all things considered, but he doesn’t give you enough time to observe the deco as he presses you against the door and slides his hand under your leggings.

“Got me starin’ at that ass the second you walked in, best fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in months, d’ye realize that, bonnie?” he breathes out against your ear as his entire palm cups your sex, and you can only whine as you press your forehead into the crook of his neck. “And by how wet this pussy is, I think you liked starin’ at me, too.”

“You are–” you say, but he curls his middle finger in, spreading your lips and spreading the wetness to your clit, making you choke on your words, “-very nice to stare at.”

“Yeah?” you hear the grin in his voice.

“Mmhm,” you nod, as he keeps the back and forth of his finger, never dipping in too far, just keeping you hungry for more.

“Then how’d ye like to stare down at me as I taste this wet cunt of yours?” he purrs in your ear as he stops moving completely, letting the words process.

Brain.exe has stopped functioning. 

Had you ever had a boyfriend willing to speak filth like that to you when you were down to do the deed, maybe you would’ve gotten enough practice to know what to answer something sensible and intelligible to that, but as it stands, all you can muster is a very dumb-sounding “Huh?” as you stare back at him.

And that, apparently, is the funniest thing in the world to him, because he dips his head down and laughs, almost like a boyish giggle. Not only does that not stop him from kneeling in front of you, but it also somehow gives him more confidence to keep talking like that.

“How about you look down into my eyes as I eat out your pretty little pussy and make you come around my tongue, how’s that sound?” His baby blues bear no trace of maliciousness, no trace of a joke, as his fingers hook around the waistband and trace it around your stomach. You have to make a very conscious effort not to suck it in immediately in preparation for the letdown, but he doesn’t pull them down yet, only moving his hand alongside the edge. Your silence as you try to process what is happening only seems to spur him on instead. “In fact, how about you close your eyes, I close mine, and you hold my head close as I devour you, would you let me do that, pretty girl?”

“I’m not-” you can’t think of any way to properly let him down, not when he looks up with such pleading eyes, so the words stumble out gracelessly. “I’m sweaty, you don’t wanna–”

But he interrupts as he pulls your leg closer by gripping your thigh and squishing it against his cheek “But I do.” He inhales deeply, and your own breath shakes at the sight of how blissed out he already looks. “God, I want it. Let me have this.”

A voice somewhere inside yells at you that this has to be some sort of weird fetish, and that he most certainly won’t be having the same aura of desperation around him tomorrow, when post-coital rationale shows up and he sees your body past the veil of lust, but for now, you think that getting some with Johnny cannot be that bad compared to any one of your past encounters. Might as well enjoy it when you still can.

You wrap your hand around the one he still has around your waistband, and see his face positively light up as you softly caress his cheek.

In the end, you’re the one that pleads.

“Johnny, please.”

Your pants are off you and your leg is over his shoulder before you realize what is happening.

The feel of his warm tongue against your slit makes any thought, any doubt, any fear positively vanish, and the content sigh that he lets out as he licks at you is the same sigh as finally removing a bra at the end of a long day, it’s the sigh of laying down carelessly onto a soft bed after standing up for hours, it’s the sigh of the first bite of the best meal a man has after starving for weeks.

It should be awkward the way his arm wraps around your thigh and sinks into the softness of your stomach, using it to pin you up as he uses his other hand to spread you out enough for him to work his jaw the same way he did when he was making out with you in the car… Yet it’s not. It’s natural, the way his hand squeezes you as he licks, and sucks, and kisses around your pussy, unhurried yet passionate, languidly but firmly, pressing his tongue in, licking around your lips, and maddeningly avoiding the place you wanted him to touch most.

“Johnny,” you moan as he grazes his teeth around your sensitive nub in response. You almost buck out of his hold, but he’s firmly keeping you in place. “Please, don’t tease.”

He hums in response and dives back in, eyes fluttering closed as he ignores your whines. Every time his tongue or lips graze your clit, he works his mouth the opposite way, holding your thigh harder and pressing his palm up as he counters your hip movements with a clever swipe of the tongue. It’s absolutely maddening. “Johnny, please!”

He chuckles as he pulls back, an obscene string of spit lengthening as he pulls back, only breaking when he runs his tongue against his reddened, swollen lips. “Thought ye’ wanted me ta’ go slow, bun.” His eyes sparkle with challenge, but you can also discern a veil of unhidden desperation, of waiting for you to give the go-ahead for him to let loose.

“I’m fine with faster–” you start, but the words dissolve into a barely restrained moan as he hikes your leg up more, getting you closer to him, and immediately singling onto your neglected clit.

His forehead rests onto your belly now, and if you had more than two functioning neurons you’d wonder how he is that he’s breathing, but his hums and moans let you know that he’s perfectly content burrowing his nose in your pussy, nudging at your clit with the tip of it as he licks you with all the dedication you’ve never been shown from a man of his caliber.

He builds it up, and soothes it down, knowing exactly when to put more pressure, or when to teasingly swirl his tongue around your entrance, or to lave broad strokes of his tongue, so much so that the knee that’s not hooked over his shoulder almost gives out on a particularly forceful suck of your clit.

“Easy there,” he groans almost petulantly, as if you’re interrupting him. “Can’t have you fallin’ over when I’m not done wit’ ye.”

“My legs are gonna give out,” you say honestly, trying to catch your breath and avoid having the perfect man at your feet steal it again. “You’re a bit too good at this.” He grins up at you, “Am I?” and you want to give you a playful swat, but instead decide on carding your fingers through his now disheveled mohawk. “Guess the mess on my face speaks for itself… Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

You throw a glance around the apartment, assessing your options. “Couch is closer.” His smile is blinding. “I like how ye’ think.”

It’s now the second time he surprises you by scooping your legs from under you and picking you up like he couldn’t wait any longer and that carrying you bridal-style was the only way he could think of moving you. You yelp out a protest but he swallows it with another hungry kiss, shamelessly smearing your own wetness over your cheek as he walks you both to the couch.

You sink into the cushions where he places you gently without so much as a grunt of effort, and oh God, there they are, the standards are rising.

You reach over to pull him closer as he straightens up, but he only gives you a peck on the lips in return, like he hadn’t been kissing you sloppily the entire time.

“Come back,” you whine, hoping you can get it done before he comes back to his senses, like they all do, but he just smiles and kneels between your feet, hands pressing your thighs apart. The squelch of your lips parting should be embarrassing were he not looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes full of adoration, like a child staring up at the full moon on full display on a clear night’s skies. Maybe you are his moon, his goddess, judging by the lust-clouded look directed at you.

“I did say I was gonna make you come on my face,” he says lowly, the gravel in his voice making you squirm as he places a trail of kisses up your thigh. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

With that, he dives in again, using his forearms to pin your legs open on the couch and his fingers to tease around where his tongue can’t reach. You mewl when you feel his tongue at your entrance, circling it around it briefly before delving in as deep as he could, his right hand stroking your clit rhythmically. The fact that he’s so good at somehow playing all your buttons like a maestro directing an orchestra has you thinking that he must be some sort of womanizer, some freak who does this kind of thing every night, but then his lips wrap around your nub and he gives a firm, long suck, and any restriction that you could’ve conjured up simply vanishes. Your thighs want to close around his head, but you can’t move under the iron grip he has on you.

You fist his hair more forcefully than necessary, and he looks up, wet eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes as he hums in response.

“Please,” you moan, and he hums affirmatively again, closing his eyes to focus on licking and suckling harder. He heard you, he simply doesn’t seem to care. “Johnny.”

“What,” he asks, voice muffled and why is this so hot? 

“I need… I need,” you whine, unable to string the words together, and desperately trying to buck your hips under him, for lack of strength to actually close your thighs how you want to.

That seems to get his attention, and he chuckles, before pulling back with a gentle kiss on your mound. “Guess you’ll have to keep tryin’, pet,” he sussurs, a condescending pat on your thighs before he dives in slower than before.

Oh, the absolute asshole. Now he wants you to work for it?

You think that doing the opposite, relaxing your thighs open and letting him go to town however he wanted would help, but he seems hell-bent on riling you up every once in a while, getting you closer and closer with each lave of his tongue over your poor, overstimulated clit, but never enough to actually push you over the edge.

After what seems like an eternity, and almost, almost starting to think that this was a mistake, halfway ready to let him do this thing before your hip starts to cramp up, you feel a finger nudge at your entrance.

“Fucking finally–” you start, ready to curse him out, but he’s faster than you can think in your blissed-out state, and he slides a second finger alongside the first one, immediately zeroing in on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed and buck under his hold.

“Thassit– there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your clit, and oh, okay, maybe you were closer than you thought, because the rhythmic curl of his fingers doesn’t need to last long before you’re off like an arrow, back arching and thighs squeezing, coming harder than you ever thought was possible. If he were any less skilled at making you completely lose the ability to think, you’d maybe notice that you’d managed to close your thighs almost completely around his head, but he wasn’t, so you don’t, twitching helplessly in the aftershocks of the most wonderful orgasm a man had ever given you.

Limbs that somehow still belong to your body hang uselessly off the side of the couch, and you struggle to catch your breath. You blink lazily, noticing him smugly wipe his face with the back of his hand, his half lidded eyes not any less blissed-out than yours. 

You didn’t believe a man like this ever existed, until now. It aches that this might not be something that would last, so you make grabby hands at him, unable to find the will to speak just yet. 

He laughs softly and gently grabs your arms, kissing from your knuckles slowly up your arm, to the crook of your neck. The patience he has is almost inhuman, as he takes the time to let you regather your senses, matching the marks he made earlier on the other side of your neck. You cup your hand around his head in response, and he smiles at you.

“Ye’ with me, bun?”

“Mmhm.”

“That slow enough fer’ ye’?” He holds himself up, an inch fron your face, and you reach up to kiss him.

“I’m gonna kill you dead,” you mutter against his lips, and he chuckles.

“Let me at least fuck you properly, first,” he whispers, and you notice that he’s long since unbuttoned his pants. You barely get a view of the massive size of him over your belly as he holds himself in his hand, large palm not enough to cover the whole length of him as he strokes himself, angled in such way that his tip rubs against your clit on each downstroke. The word “Please,” is not even halfway out of your mouth when he sinks into you in one swift motion, the rest dissolving into a long, drawn-out moan.

“Fuck-” he grunts, “so tight, cannot believe it.”

He guides one of your legs to wrap around him, keeping it flush against his body with his elbow as his palm grips your ass tightly, the other holding him against the backrest, forearm near your head as he pulls you closer for a sloppy kiss as he starts rolling his hips. You moan into his mouth and he swallows them greedily, leveraging each trust of his hips with a pull with his hand, helping you move in tandem with him, readjusting when your thigh threatens to slip out of his hold. The slaps of his pelvis to yours should sound obscene, his hard muscles hitting against your soft, jiggly skin, but his groans into your mouth are like music to your ears, the fact that he’s vocal about it has you almost reaching your peak again in no time, but he seems to sense it, and slows down immediately.

You try to kiss him harder, but he makes a small noise of protest, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “no, let me, let me just–” and you want to ask what he wants to do, to help him, but he instead reaches down both hands to grab your hips and pull you off the backrest. You yelp as your ass suddenly hangs in the air, his cock speared inside you the only secure point as he pulls you halfway off the couch, but he directs you firmly, “Here, around me,” helping you wrap your legs tightly as he starts thrusting again, harder than before.

“Oh, God, oh God,” you flail around, but each thrust in pushes your back into the cushions, and he reaches behind his back to hold your feet in his hand as he presses his palm near your head for support, spewing more filth as he does.

“That’s it, hold me tight, squeeze my cock like ye’ almost squeezed mah heid off earlier, huh, bonnie? Show me what those thighs can do, fuck-”

Your whole body is jiggling with each thrust, and you don’t have it in you to even feel self-conscious with the way each time he fills you, the tip of his cock nudges against the spongey spot inside, making you mewl in tempo with his relentless rhythm.

“Johnny, Johnny,” you moan, and he bends over to kiss you again, swallowing his name like communion while you chant it like a prayer.

“Don’t give up now, bonnie, keep squeezin’, fuck, I can feel ye’, yer so close.”

You try to get some leverage with your upper body, trying to push yourself up the cushions, but his cock suddenly slips out of you as your thighs almost give out, and an apology is already halfway out your mouth when he kneels back down and burrows between your legs, tongue first with a rushed “Need ta’ taste us, fuck, both of us, together-”

One hand wraps around your hip and over your pelvis, reaching up to knead desperately at your stomach, to pull you closer or push you away, you can’t tell, the other pulling your lips apart to settle his entire lower face against your pussy firmly– before letting go as he starts humming.

Your thighs are free to squeeze around his ears, and he nods encouragingly as he keeps licking, and then you hear it: the sounds of wet stroking. You don’t see him fisting his cock, but you hear it, fast and desperate. As your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer, and another hum– no, another moan vibrates through your core, it’s the last thing you hear before you’re absolutely gone, gasping out a curse as you tense up in his hold, trembling as you come.

It’s even more intense than the first one, and as you buck out of his hold, he stands up shakily, his hand moving faster and faster around his cock, the angry red of his tip at the same level as your face. You gesture for him to sit down, trying to signal to him that you want to reciprocate despite the post-orgasmic haze and exhaustion, but he shakes his head, and, seconds later, you feel warm wetness land on your belly and slowly trickle down as he moans your name when he comes.

You feel like you still have to give something back, and, when he slumps down next to you with a content sigh, you climb over to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his cock, letting out a huff of laughter when it twitches under your touch.

“Ye’ absolute menace,” he whispers fondly as he pulls you up and tips his body to the side to lie down, using his legs to push you up halfway over him, trapping you between his body and the cushions, yet protectively shielding you from falling over. You place another kiss on his stomach, and you see his abs tense under your touch as your warm breath moves his hairs as you hover for a second, before deciding to shift up and use his pectorals as a cushion. He hums softly as his arm wraps around under yours, reaching to pull the plaid off the back of the couch and settle it around you both. Ticklish, eh? That’s a piece of information best stored for later.

You’re still breathless, absolutely done for. God, best decision of your life, going to the gym. “Now what?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the same fear that always creeps up, the fear that he got to try out a fantasy, and now that he was done with it, he had no need to want to continue anything possibly serious. Not that eating a girl out on a first date, if you could even call it a date, was a sign of a one-night stand, you can’t help but feel awkward and insecure now that it’s all done, despite the comforting cuddle.

He chuckles in response, that same chuckle from earlier in the day, a What a silly question chuckle. Like he’d read into your thoughts and insecurities and found them absolutely laughable.

“Same time at the gym, tomorrow? I want you to squeeze my head off next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

He pulls your leg over his pelvis, trapping his still half-mast cock between his belly and the crook of your knee, hand firmly wrapped to shift you up, almost completely on top of him. When both of you are comfortable and you start feeling the tendrils of sleep pull you deeper, he gives a last, playful squeeze to your ass.

“Next time.”

[monstersandmaw]

Male kelpie (dad-bod, single father, biker) x plus size f. reader - Part One (sfw)

Background info post on the Full Moon Motorcycles group here Oats Appreciation post here

Featuring a plus-size, bisexual, not very confident reader, and a divorced, Scottish, single-dad, biker kelpie with a soft-dad bod and a heart as big as his bike’s engine (possibly bigger).

CW: there is a very brief moment where a character (not Oats!) insults the reader for her size and uses some fat-phobic language towards and about her, unaware that she can hear him. If you’re sensitive to that, it is brief, but you can skip from “…you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.” to the paragraph beginning, “After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror…”. Also, if you squint, there’s a passing moment that could possibly be interpreted as the reader having some potential issues with food, but it’s not intended to be a big deal and it’s only for about two sentences. Still putting it in here too, just in case. 

Wordcount: 7562

You pushed open the glass door of Full Moon Motorcycles and willed yourself not to feel self-conscious or out of place.

Having both an older brother and a mother who rode motorbikes had at least given you a fair bit of familiarity with bikes and the general ‘biker culture’, but it was mostly the fact that almost all the ‘biker girls’ you saw posing on social media were slim and toned, which you were decidedly not.

From the utterly foetid takes in the comments section of the one post your brother had shared on his page with you in it, you’d also got the impression that the biker community was not particularly kind to any woman with a waist over 25 inches. It probably wasn’t the case, but your one experience with it had been enough to make you very wary.

And yet, as you made your way towards the bike shop’s counter and the older man with floppy, greying hair and warm brown eyes looked up, you were greeted with an open, welcoming smile.

“Hi there,” he said, standing up with a grunt from the comfy chair where he’d been sitting in the corner near the shop’s antique cash register. “What can I do for you?”

You smiled shyly and glanced along the wooden countertop before returning your gaze to him. “I’m looking for a present for my brother, but I’m kind of on a budget…”

“Gotcha. We’ve got some silly key fobs there,” he said, indicating a rotating display rack at one end of the counter, with mottoes that ranged from funny to explicit, “But if they like working on their bike themselves, you can’t go wrong with some maintenance supplies… Not the most glamorous but I promise they’ll be grateful to you all the same.”

“Could always tie a festive ribbon round it,” you said, and he chuckled and nodded.

“That’s the spirit.”

You eyed the reasonable price of the fobs with some relief, and then followed his gesture towards the various bottles of chain degreaser and the like, and a few other useful tools and kits that were stacked on shelves on the back wall to the right of a door that presumably led into the back and store rooms.

The right hand side of the shop had the counter and some shiny, new bikes that had been parked in a row around the perimeter of the space, and the left hand side was more open with a bench or two against the brick walls, and some red, mechanics’ tool-chests tucked against the back wall. A number of leather two- and one-piece suits hung in racks at the furthest end though, with helmets on shelves and a few rows of t-shirts, jeans, gloves, and boots displayed too. There were oil stains in the centre of the polished concrete floor, and you suspected that tinkering took place there outside of the shop’s usual opening hours.

The whole vibe of Full Moon Motorcycles was friendly and cosy, with a slightly industrial, grungy note for some flavour.

In short, you loved it.

“There are also some fun helmet covers –” the older man chuckled, and added, “A number of the regulars here have them, and there are also some earplugs, or perhaps a tough phone case and mount? A chain care kit? There are some vinyl stickers too, and t-shirts, socks, neck warmers, balaclavas, mugs, helmet care kits, thermals…”

Laughing, you held up your hands for him to stop, and he started to chuckle too.

“I’ll let you browse in peace, sweetheart,” he said, his whisky brown eyes twinkling. Even his un-looked-for endearment came across as kindly instead of creepy, and not many men could pull that off. “You just holler if you have questions and I’ll be happy to –”

The door opened behind you and he broke off as his attention was snagged by the arrival of a heavy-set guy in dark jeans and a softly-worn, black leather jacket. He held a black helmet with a tinted visor in his large hands, and he looked more than a little wind-blown and rumpled.

Incongruous with his rather roguish-dishevelment, a lock of his long, thick, slightly grizzled, black hair was held back by a little hair-clip with a Barbie-pink, fabric bow. It didn’t fit with the dark scruff of stubble on his jaw or the piercing green-blue eyes at all, but he seemed completely unfazed by its presence.

“Oats!” the older man exclaimed with obvious joy, clapping his hands. “It’s been a while, my boy! How was the trip to Scotland? You make it round the NC500 this time?”

The ‘boy’ looked to be in his mid to late thirties…

“Ach, no’ a chance this time, Hank,” the man chuckled with a heavy, Scottish accent lacing his rich, rough baritone. Exactly where in Scotland he was from, you couldn’t tell, but it was lyrical and attractive all the same.

“Ah, next time, next time. And is Natalie well?

“Oh aye, my wee Loch Ness Monster is doing just fine. She’ll be terrorising her mother for the Christmas holidays. I came straight from the road though — clutch started playing up just south of Birmingham.” He grimaced, but even that looked charming somehow. “Sort of hoped you might find a minute to take a look at it for me if I left the Old Girl here. No rush though.”

“No problem, Oats. We’ll get her running properly again in no time. Bet you’re missing little Natalie already,” Hank added sympathetically.

“Ah, you have no idea,” the man, peculiarly-named ‘Oats’, sighed ruefully, shaking his head.

“See she left you with a parting gift though,” Hank snorted, pointing at the bow hair clip.

With a slight frown to his dark eyebrows, Oats reached up and patted at his head until he found it, and then he laughed. It was a loud, delighted, full-bellied sound that reverberated through the space while it lasted, and he left the hair clip where it was with no trace of self-consciousness as he lowered his hand again. “Aye, that she did. Surprised it survived the journey down with my lid on and everything. Oh –” His unusually pale green eyes landed on you, watching him and lurking near the rows of t-shirts on the back wall, and he went still.

Those sea-grey eyes raked you up and down, clearly noting the way your black leggings clung to the curves of your thighs and hips, and the black hoodie, which maybe went some way to hiding the softness of your stomach a bit, and he swallowed visibly. He looked… hungry. That was not the usual reaction you had grown accustomed to from men, and you let the flare of heat lick up your insides for just a moment, daring to hope that maybe he did find you attractive.

“Sorry,” he said in your direction, with a soft, dusky smile. “Didnae mean t’interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you managed to croak back at him before returning your attention, however reluctantly, to present options for your brother while the older man, Hank, hobbled out around the corner of the wooden counter to chat amicably with the man. You couldn’t hear what was said as the two chatted in lower voices, but it was evident that they were good friends. While they talked, however, you couldn’t help noticing that he stole occasional sidelong glances in your direction, and you felt your face warm pleasantly.

‘Oats’ was certainly an unusual nickname, but then again, almost everyone who rode with your brother also had their own nicknames for one reason or another. As you browsed, you wondered what Oats had done to earn that one. He certainly looked like a snack to you, but you vowed not to let your attraction to the stranger show. Awkward situations (or worse, silences) tended to arise when you let that happen.

He had a tanned, outdoorsy complexion, and longish, black hair that was tied back in a low ponytail that brushed below the collar of his black leather jacket. It looked like it had a tendency to flop into his face when not restrained by that out-of-place pink bow. He filled out the jacket very well, and clearly had a soft paunch, and his thighs looked frankly delectable in those thick, indigo jeans. You prayed you wouldn’t have to see him fully from the back if he turned around, to witness the way he filled out the seat of his jeans too.

Fuck. Concentrate.

Bike gifts for brother, not delicious-looking stranger you’re never going to see again.

“Well, I shouldnae hang about, I suppose.”

Oats’ voice cut through your musings in front of chain degreasers and you jumped a little. Glancing back over at him, you offered him a smile when he too turned to look at you one last time, and a slow, charming smile crept onto his handsome face.

“See you,” he said with a dip of his head. Before he strode from the shop though, he let his eyes roam once more down the length of you and he bit his lower lip, almost regretfully, then turned away abruptly.

Oh yes. He absolutely did fill out the ass of those jeans beautifully.

Quite honestly, you weren’t totally sure what you ended up getting your brother for his birthday. You took whatever it was to the counter in a daze, your mind replaying over and over the way he’d looked at you.

“Must say,” Hank said conspiratorially as he fished your change from the antique cash register and slid it across the polished, wooden counter towards you. “I’ve never seen Oats quite so taken with someone, miss.” He chuckled, his kind, whisky-brown eyes glinting. “You take care now.”

Swallowing, you nodded and left the shop, hoping perhaps to find Oats waiting for you outside on the street, leaning against his motorcycle, but life was not a movie, and wherever he was, he was not lingering in the hopes of seeing you. In fact, the street was completely deserted, so you crossed, clambered into your little hatchback, and drove home with the feeling that you’d let a pivotal moment in your life pass you by.

Your sour mood persisted like a raincloud for the whole week, but by the time you were driving over to your brother’s on Saturday for his birthday ride, you were trying to pull yourself out of it. You had your own helmet with you, secured in the back of the car, and beside it was (now wrapped) the present you’d got him. In fact, it was a chain care kit, and, although you hadn’t noticed at the time, Hank had thrown in a free keychain that said ‘In my defence, I was left unsupervised’ which was very on-brand for your brother. You had planned to go back and thank him for the freebie as soon as you could, but your brother’s birthday ride had been planned for that Saturday, and work had been hell that week, so you’d not had the chance.

Predictably, Alex wasn’t in the house when you rang the doorbell, so you followed the sound of metallic clinking and laughter, and went round the side to find him tinkering with his mad little Honda Grom in the garage, while his two best mates — Eggs and Sparky — were lounging around and either making unhelpful suggestions or lewd comments.

“Yo!” Sparky grinned when he saw you, sitting up straighter and almost falling off the mechanic’s tool chest he was leaning his weight against. At Sparky’s exclamation, your brother sat up and banged his head on the handlebars of the short little Grom with a curse.

“Hey,” you mumbled in Sparky’s general direction. “Happy birthday, Alex.”

Alex scrambled upright and came over to hug you, probably smearing grease and dirt all over your armoured jacket, but since it was black anyway, you didn’t mind too much. Alex was about as opposite to you as it was possible to get — straight up and down like a beanpole, and tall. You took after your mother, inheriting all her thick curves and soft edges. Soft heart too.

“Thought this might come in handy,” you mumbled when Alex released you and you held out the brown paper bag stamped with the logo of Full Moon Motorcycles.

His eyes lit up when he saw the logo, and he tore into it like a chipmunk after a peanut, grinning in delight when he’d dismembered it, and in particular he showed off the keychain to his mates. Eggs snatched it and tried to claim it for himself, but Alex was having none of it, and the three of them scrapped and goofed around while you sat down on an old, metal stool in the corner and waited for the other two of your small party to show up, with a cool, curdling kind of dread in the pit of your stomach when you heard one name in particular. Nooner.

Within an hour though, you were all out on the road.

You took the pillion seat behind Alex, and warded his mates off at red lights when they came for his killswitch to immobilise him. A while later though, Alex zoomed off down the open road that would take you all out of town and towards the somewhat famous biker cafe, ‘Elusive Neutral’, that sat nestled amongst the fragrant heather of the rolling hills surrounding the old market town.

The sky was a gorgeous, autumnal blue and the weather was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold, and as your brother’s Yamaha flew along the winding A-road that was every biker’s dream, you cracked a smile and gently tipped your head back. As much as it had scared you when you’d first ridden behind your mother all those years ago, you did love the feeling of being out on a bike. Not that you were actually brave enough to want to try and learn yourself though. Something always held you back, made you wary and unsure, and then you inevitably felt down about that too. God, you wished you had Alex’s wild confidence.

Nothing good ever seemed to last for you though, and when Alex’s R1 had purred into the car park behind Eggs and Sparky, and you’d hopped off to let him reverse more easily into a space, you caught the conversation drifting over from the other guys who’d arrived just ahead of you.

“…if he didn’t have his fat sister with him, we could have fucking ripped it up along those twisties.” That, of course, had come from Nooner, named for the fact that he rarely stuck to two wheels and always pulled wheelies, or ‘nones’, whenever he got the chance. Out of all of your brother’s friends, he was the one you liked the least, for… obvious reasons.

“Talk about killing the vibes, huh?” Eggs replied, trying to suck up to him, as ever. “More like ‘crushing’!”

The reason Eggs had earned his nickname was that he’d lost a bet and shaved his head when they’d all been about sixteen, and he’d looked like a boiled egg til it grew back. You wished you had the sass to remind him of that every time his spine seemed to crumble in favour of earning a half-hearted snicker out of Nooner.

When Alex joined you, he caught the crestfallen expression on your face and frowned, but you shook your head and walked away from them, heading for the cafe alone.

“Can’t wait to shove some cake in her fat gob already,” Nooner added as an aside to Eggs, and your vision blurred as tears welled along your lashes. Why did people have to be so cruel? To trample all over someone else just to feel a little taller themselves?

You vaguely heard what sounded like Sparky’s voice countering the comment, but you didn't stick around either way. If you mentioned it to your brother again, he’d just say it was banter with the guys and not to take it to heart. Easy for someone who's never been on the end of that kind of comment to shrug it off, after all.

You ducked straight for the toilets when you got inside the airy, modern cafe, not even bothering to look around or find a table first.

After some deep breaths and a check in the mirror to see that you hadn’t turned your eyeliner into a panda cosplay, you headed out again and made for the little bar that doubled as a counter for people who were there solo to sit and eat instead of taking up a whole table to themselves. None of your brother’s friends joined you, and when you glanced back over your shoulder, you saw that they’d settled themselves around a table in the far corner and already had a number for a server to bring their food order over. They hadn’t even waited for you.

“Fuck them,” you hissed through gritted teeth, taking a seat at the bar instead. The stools were made of old tractor seats, and they were surprisingly comfortable, and as you leaned your forearms on the countertop, the young woman behind the counter came over to you with a smile that made you feel a little better.

“Hey,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

You ordered a hot drink, and then took out your phone while you waited for her to make it for you.

For half an hour or so, you sat scrolling through social media and sipping your drink and telling yourself this was your brother’s day and not yours. He did come over a couple of times, but you declined to sit with his friends, and because he’d never had any real reason to doubt you before, he took you at your word when you told him you were happy enough where you were. “I don’t want to get in the way,” you said, and he believed you.

Patting you on the shoulder, he left you for the third time, and you looked down into the dregs of your drink with a heavy sigh. “This sucks.”

Outside, the sound of more bikes arriving made your ears perk up, and you wondered idly what they rode. Elusive Neutral had once been an old cattle barn, but it had been completely redone and the walls on two sides had been replaced with vast picture windows that showed the sweeping expanse of moorland beyond, and a small sliver of the car park at one end. Craning your neck, you saw a group of maybe five or six bikers draw up, some on hipster looking cafe racers and others on racy sports bikes. There was even a Ducati Panigale among them, and behind them followed an old, battered, blue pickup truck.

The door opened a little while later, and you glanced over, eyes drawn instinctively by the movement.

Above the general chatter and merry chinking of china in the room, the energy of the new group of bikers rose like a cloud of dizzy mayflies; buzzing and excited and full of joy. You watched them all with interest from your perch at the counter.

The first through the door was an absolute Amazon of a woman, with her long black hair restrained in a thick braid, and shoulders the width of a barn door. She was lean and tall, and in her biker gear she looked… incredible. Her face was strikingly handsome, but until she glanced down at the woman walking beside her, her features were hard and glowering and unspeakably stern. She held the door open for one of the others to follow her inside, but when she locked eyes again with the brunette by her side, her whole expression melted into unguarded adoration. Your gut twisted briefly with jealousy.

It wouldn’t matter to you who looked at you like that, if only someone would.

You looked away, and by the time you glanced back at the bikers, the whole group had filed in from outside. There was a guy with golden-brown skin and beautiful dark brown eyes who had his arm wrapped possessively around the waist of a pale, skinny guy in black jeans and a moth-eaten, black jumper, with his long hair tied back in a bun, and behind them came a strikingly attractive guy in a manual wheelchair, flanked by a very short biker with slightly anaemic looking skin. You wondered fleetingly if the guy in the wheelchair had ridden a motorbike there, and if so how, before you realised he was probably the most beautiful person you’d ever seen, with long, flowing red hair and dark green eyes, and the kind of mouth that was made for laughing, and for kissing.

Jesus, was it an unwritten rule of being a biker that you had to be unfairly attractive? Even Hank, who you recognised with a start of surprise coming in behind the guy with red hair, wasn’t unattractive, in a bulky, older man kind of way.

The guy walking with him though… he truly made your stomach swoop.

It was Oats.

You looked away before he could spot you, sitting alone at the bar like some pathetic creature waiting for cocktail hour to begin. It was lunchtime on a sunny, autumnal Saturday though, and there you were sitting alone because you didn’t fancy sitting with your brother’s loser mates.

God, the way Oats had looked in his tough-looking leather jacket, with his eyes crinkled mid-laugh at something the guy in the wheelchair had shot back at them over his shoulder… You bit your lip and stared into the bottom of your cold, empty mug like it would divine some kind of solution to your situation for you.

The new group didn’t seem to notice you while they filed up to the counter, jostling and joking, and when they drifted off to another corner of the cafe, you turned back to your phone, trying desperately to resist the almost overwhelming urge to keep turning over your shoulder to watch them.

Before too long however, you startled at a soft tap on your shoulder, and you looked around to find Oats himself stepping back to a polite distance and smiling down at you like he’d found a treasure in an unexpected place.

“Hey there,” he said in that rolling, Scottish accent that did unspeakably indecent things to your insides. “Sorry if I’m intruding, but you were at Full Moon last week, right?”

Mute for a moment, you nodded, and mustered up a slightly dazed smile for him.

“You… here alone?” he asked, eyeing the currently-empty seats to your left and right. In fact, someone had only just gathered up their belongings and left.

“Kind of?” you croaked, letting your eyes slide over to the table where your brother and his friends were hunched over one of their phones, snickering at something. “It’s… It’s my brother’s birthday today. I… tagged along as pillion, but… you know… I’m kind of a spare part really.”

At that, Oats’ dark eyebrows knitted into a scowl and he looked across the room at them before returning his attention to you. Then, his unearthly, almost prismatic, silver-green eyes took in your empty cup and he grinned. “Can I get y’a top up?”

Your instinct was to refuse, but you bit your lip. This didn’t feel real. A cute, handsome, courteous guy was actually taking an interest in you.

“Sure. Thank you.” And the smile that spread itself across your face telegraphed your delight in a way that was impossible to disguise with any kind of suave grace.

Oats, however, seemed equally delighted, and nodded. The barista came back over and he leaned his weight on the counter to talk to her. He seemed to have that enviably easy manner with everybody, and he even charmed a free slice of cake out of her too with what felt like no effort at all.

“Chocolate? Or something else?” he asked you.

“Pardon?”

“Cake.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine,” you said, but he frowned.

“You sure? I’m gonna have a bit of their chocolate cake. It’s so good, it’s practically a sin.”

“I…” you faltered.

He didn’t pressure you though and shrugged easily, turning back to the barista. “Gimme two forks with that, love. Just in case.”

“No problem,” she beamed back while she bustled about, and Oats eyed the empty bar stool next to yours.

“May I?”

You swallowed your nerves and nodded. “Please.” And then, because apparently a demon of confidence had temporarily possessed you, you eyed his slightly helmet-flattened forelock and said, “No pink hair clips today?”

He guffawed loudly enough that your brother actually glanced over and frowned when he saw you talking with a stranger.

Oats snorted and shook his head. “No, not today. My daughter is still up in Scotland with her mother.” He fixed you with a more serious look and said, “She and I divorced, before you get the wrong idea about me flirting like this with a beautiful woman.”

The compliment caught you so off-guard that you just froze for a moment, but when the heat of a blush filled your face, you looked away and he chuckled.

“I’m not normally so forward, but I’ve been kicking myself for not talking to you when I first saw you in Full Moon. Hank was telling me just this morning what a muppet I’d made of myself for walking away like that.”

You looked behind you at the group of his friends and then turned back to him. “Won’t they think you’re being rude, ignoring them like this?”

He shook his head and smiled. “They’re probably all taking bets on how quickly you’ll shoot me down.”

“What? I’d have to be an idiot to do that.”

At that, his face split into a huge, handsome grin and he shook his head just a little. “Lucky me,” he said. “You ride?” he added, eyeing your jacket that was obviously a motorcycle jacket.

You shrugged. “Pillion. I’ve never ridden myself, but my brother lets me come out with him sometimes.”

Oats nodded, and then, as the barista set down his coffee, your top-up, and the plate of decadent chocolate cake with two forks, he said, “I’m Euan, by the way, but everyone calls me Oats.”

You introduced yourself, and then said, “Oats?”

He snorted and nodded. “Not the worst nickname, for sure.”

“Can I ask where it came from?”

Oats nodded and shunted the plate towards you first before leaning his elbow on the bar and watching you while he spoke. “I think it’s because I’m a dad, but I’m always prepared for most situations, and when it comes to my Natalie, she’s always hungry. I’ve usually got about a thousand granola bars stashed away about my person —” he said, cutting himself off to pat conspicuously at his jacket pockets. Pulling a slightly dog-eared crunchy bar from his breast pocket, he wielded it like a magic wand at you and said, “Case in point.”

“Hence, Oats,” you said, eyeing the healthy brand name on the packet.

“Exactly. Like I said, it could be worse. See the tall lass over there with the dangerous scowl?”

You didn't need to turn around to know which of his friends he was talking about, but you did anyway. “Yeah.”

“We call her Pixie.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” he chuckled, stowing the granola bar back into his pocket and taking a huge scoop of the chocolate cake with his own fork.

“What do you ride then?” you asked.

“Triumph Bonneville T120,” he said with almost exactly the same intonation and fondness as he’d just said ‘because I’m a dad’, and you couldn’t help smiling. “Can’t be doing with all these glitzy sports bikes and the like,” he added with a laugh, setting his fork down and blinking slowly. His lashes, you noticed, were thick and dark and enticingly long.

Laughing, you smiled. “Don’t say that too loudly — my brother rides an R1.”

“Nice,” Oats grinned back. “But nothing could entice me away from my girl.”

“I’m surprised you’re here, flirting with me then,” you said. Evidently that confidence demon was still lurking.

Again, Oats laughed, though it was more of a low whicker this time, and it rolled right through you and lit you up all over. God, how long had it been since someone had laughed like that for you?

“There are… exceptions,” he said in a rumbling murmur. “Tell me about yourself?” he asked, and you did.

You spent the next hour at least talking in an easy back and forth with him while he charmed a few more refills from the barista and a lot of answers out of you, before one of his friends sidled up shyly and waited for a lull in your conversation.

“Sorry to butt in,” the small, unbelievably beautiful woman said. She was the one who’d been on the receiving end of the adoring look from the Amazon, ‘Pixie’. She had chocolate-brown hair falling in thick ringlets around a gorgeous face, and, you were pleased to note, she had wide hips and a softness to her that a lot of the biker chicks you’d seen online didn’t have.

“Coco,” Oats beamed. “Meet my new friend.” He introduced you by name, and Coco smiled at you, holding out her hand.

When your palms connected, you felt a warmth rush through you and you felt like your heart skipped a beat. The feeling like you could tip forwards and drown in her endless, dark brown eyes almost unseated you, but she let go of you and stepped back with a pretty smile on her Cupid’s-bow lips. “Pleasure to meet you. Just wanted to tell Oats that we’re thinking of heading off soon. Ariel has a photoshoot he wants to get to in an hour or so, and Demon’s keen to get going as well.”

Oats nodded, and you tried not to let your stomach drop down to your boots at the thought of all this coming to such an abrupt end.

Coco turned her head sharply to look at you just as the feeling hit, and she smiled faintly. “You could always stay here though, Oats,” she added with a pretty smile. “We’re only going back to Full Moon, and Demon clearly has no intention of lingering there…” She shot a meaningful glance back at their table. Demon, the guy with dark hair and tanned skin, was seated with the guy he’d entered with now draped in his lap, his skinny legs dangling as he sprawled languidly back against the guy’s muscular chest. Demon whispered something into his ear before he clearly bit the shell of his boyfriend’s ear, which made him sit abruptly upright and flush a vibrant pink.

Oats laughed again and shook his head. “Fuck me,” he chuckled privately. “Never thought I’d see the day. You guys go on. I’m… I’m very much content here.”

“I can see that,” Coco smirked, and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, you turned to Oats with a hot flush of your own in your face and said, “Don’t stay if you don’t want to… I’m sure my brother will be leaving soon anyway…”

Just as you said that, and before Oats could reply, Alex reappeared at your side and jutted his chin in Oats’ direction. “You good?” he chirped at you.

“Fine,” you replied. “This is Oats. I met him at Full Moon Motorcycles when I was buying your birthday present.”

“Oh,” Alex replied, holding out his hand for Oats to shake. “Good to meet you, man. You tell her what to get for me? If you did, it was a good choice.”

“No,” Oats said carefully, his grey-green eyes sliding back to your face even while he shook your brother’s hand amicably. “No, whatever she got you, it was all her.”

“Oh, cool,” Alex said. “Listen, sis, we’re gonna hit the road in a while. Nooner and Eggs want to hit the twisties for a bit, but I can’t really do that with a backpack, so Sparky said he’d give you a ride home, if that’s ok.”

You swallowed. “Um…”

“I can give her a lift,” Oats replied after a swift glance in your direction. “She’s already got her own lid, and there’s room on the Bobber’s double seat for both of us.”

“I don’t know, man,” Alex said with a wary frown.

“Your choice,” Oats shrugged easily, looking at you and holding his hands up just a little.

For a fleeting moment, you weren’t sure, but the idea of wrapping your arms around Oats’ thick middle and sitting astride his gorgeous bike kind of decided it for you. Besides, it was a long time since you’d done anything truly just for yourself; simply because you wanted to. You nodded at your brother. “It’s fine. You go ahead.”

“You sure?”

Nodding to reassure him, you smiled again and Alex backed up a pace. “Cool. Text me later, ok?” he said as he retreated towards his friends, clearly trying to hide his excitement at not having a passenger for the great, twisting section of A-road they were heading for.

“Will do. Have fun, and don’t crash!” you called after him. “Or get a speeding ticket!”

He waved a hand over one shoulder without looking back, and you laughed and returned your attention to Oats. “Brothers.”

“Bikers,” he replied. “You try telling that to any of that lot though —” he gestured towards his own group of friends who were now filtering out of the door. “You ready to head out too or do you want to stay?”

You did want to stay, but the seat wasn’t that comfortable anymore, and you wanted to move around a bit. “No, I’m good to go,” you said and prepared to slide off the stool, but Oats stepped down first and held out his hand to you. You didn't need helping down, and his playful little smirk told you he knew as much, so you rode out the last of that demonic possession and let your fingers slide across his palm and he steadied you off the stool.

“Thank you,” you smiled.

“Pleasure.”

You picked up your helmet from where you’d stowed it on the floor at your feet and straightened to find him waving casually across the room to the good-looking guy with the ethereally pretty boyfriend. Before he stepped away from you and made towards the door though, you cleared your throat and said, “Oats?”

“Mn?” Looking down at you, his entire attention honed in on you, like you were the centre of the universe, and you swallowed back a sudden welling of emotion.

“Listen… Thank you… for… coming over to me today. Like I said, it’s my brother’s birthday, and he was here with his friends, and he only included me so I didn’t feel completely left out, but…” Accursed tears washed over your eyes for a moment but you blinked them away furiously and ploughed on regardless. “I’m really glad I came along today anyway,” you finished rather pathetically.

His full, beautiful lips curled into a gentle smile and he blinked softly and exhaled. When he spoke, his voice was low and his words private, as though you weren’t standing in a busy cafe surrounded by people and the cheerful clatter of coffee cups and laughter. “I’m really glad I did too. I wasn’t going to, you know? I was going to stay at home and edit a boatload of raw photographs for a client, but Demon convinced me to come out. I guess I owe him.”

“‘Demon’? For… For the speed?” you asked, wondering how he came by his nickname.

“For the horns,” Oats replied in deadpan humour. “Have a look if he’s still there when we go outside. You ready?”

You followed him out of the cafe with a nod, and just as you took a deep, indulgent breath of fresh, heathland air, Oats’ group of friends filed out past you on their bikes. The one named Demon was in the lead, and the nickname made immediate sense. Sitting astride a blood-red Panigale, with his boyfriend clinging on behind him like a limpet, the guy had pale, curving horns fixed to the crown of his helmet.

“Yeah, that tracks,” you said, and Oats waggled his dark eyebrows.

The Amazon had a Yamaha R1 like your brother’s, but hers had a pearl-white wrap that made it look almost spectral, and riding out in front of her was Coco on a yellow and black Honda Hornet.

The telltale red plait told you that the guy in the wheelchair was on a modified Kawasaki, with unusual struts at the back that looked like they would come down when he stopped to stabilise him instead of having to take his legs off the foot pegs, where they were currently Velcro-ed in place. Watching the whole group file out was Hank, standing beside a battered old pickup. In the bed of the truck, you could just see that the red-headed biker’s wheelchair secured in place.

Hank waved the last of them off, then glanced over at Oats. The older man lifted his nose just a little, as if he too was enjoying the fresh, moorland wind that whipped across the car park, and he nodded once at Oats, and then at you to your surprise, before clambering stiffly up into his pickup and closing the door. It shut with a raucous yelp of rusty hinges.

You stood there and watched Oats’ friends all file out, all waving at Oats as they passed, before they set off down the road in a roar of revving engines to leave a lonely looking Bonneville waiting patiently near the stone wall of the car park nearby.

“Yours, I presume?” you said, nodding at it.

“Yup.”

“She’s a beauty,” you mumbled, self-consciousness prickling at the sides of your neck for the silly comment.

Oats beamed though, his sea-foam eyes lighting up as the crinkles around his eyes and the slight dimples in his cheeks creased under the force of his obvious pleasure. “Thank you. She’s my pride and joy. You ready? Oh, wait, you should put your address into my phone before we get going,” he laughed.

You nodded, taking the offered phone from him. Your fingers brushed against his warm skin as you took it, and a tiny thrill passed through you that you did your best to quash. With your address plugged in and a route home waiting to be followed, you handed it back to him and looked up into his handsome, rugged face as he smiled.

“Cheers. Let’s go,” he said, and you trailed along beside him over to his bike, heartbeat thudding in your ears with your nerves.

He swung a leg over and turned the key, then pushed the bike upright and nudged the side-stand in with his left foot before flicking the switch and bringing the bike to life. She growled beautifully, the low, thundering rumble of her engine sounding far more visceral and primal than your brother’s sports bike did. Perhaps it was the design of the lower-slung Bonneville, with its visible parts that made you think of a Steampunk aesthetic, but you instantly preferred it. Plus, the double seat looked way more cushioned — and less precarious — than the one you’d perched on to get to the cafe that morning.

Oats got himself comfy while you slid your helmet on, then he looked over his shoulder at you and nodded, so you took that as your cue and got settled on the pillion seat behind him. The footpegs were already down. The pulsing purr of the machine beneath you was almost enough to distract you from the fact that you were entrusting your life to a relative stranger, whom you’d never seen ride before, and as you climbed on and rested your hands politely on his shoulders, you felt a shiver travel through your whole nervous system.

“Do whatever’s comfortable for you, obviously,” Oats said over the noise of his bike, “But if you want to hold my waist — if you can actually get your arms around my middle, that is,” he chuckled self-effacingly, “— feel free. Totally up to you.”

“Thanks,” you yelled back, and, because apparently that pesky demon of confidence was still kicking around, you hugged his torso.

It was wonderful.

Slowly snaking your arms around his middle, you felt your chest press against his back and you caught the way he inhaled slowly and tried not to wonder what it meant. It felt so good to hold him that you had to remind yourself it wasn’t a hug. It was to keep you in place while a gorgeous stranger drove you home on his equally gorgeous bike. With a final thumbs-up to check you were happy, to which you replied with a nod of your head and tried not to clack your helmet against his, he pulled away and your heart leapt for the sheer joy of it.

Where the R1 was built for sleek speed and bursts of power, the Bonneville was build to be enjoyed, and oh gosh, did you enjoy every curve.

And not just the curves in the road, either.

Oats was soft, but he was solid, and the urge to rest one hand on his thick thigh was almost overwhelming, until he took the corners at just the right pace to be exhilarating without you having to worry about your safety, and you clung on instead and laughed behind the safety of your visor.

It was all over way too soon, and as the Bonneville chugged into your road like a steam train and halted outside your poky, terraced house with its quaint little kitchen garden out the front in the postage-stamp of space between the pavement and the house, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. Please don’t let this be it, you thought desperately.

You went through the motions of getting carefully off the bike without staggering or falling, and again, Oats held out his hand to help steady you. You gripped his fingers gratefully and when you gave an extra little squeeze to his hand at the end, you could have sworn he answered with one of his own and a throaty chuckle.

He dismounted too, which surprised you, and you wondered if you were going to have to ask him inside. As much as you wanted that in principle, you desperately didn’t want it to happen today because the house was a mess: laundry was still hanging up all over the place, and you’d cooked a curry the previous night and it was definitely still lingering in the air.

Oats took off his helmet but left his bike idling, which went a little way to reassuring you, and when you looked more closely at his expression, you thought you saw a hint of something familiar lingering in the corners of his eyes. Was he nervous?

Swallowing thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing behind the thick, 5 o’clock shadow that looked like it lingered pretty constantly no matter the time of day, Oats took a deep breath, held it, and then smiled at you. “Fuck,” he exhaled, and laughed. “I’m… very rusty at all this.” He held his helmet in both hands before him, toying with the strap.

“If I gave you my number, would you maybe like to meet up again?” you asked, taking pity on the man.

“Very much,” he said softly. “Like I said, Natalie is with her mum for the holidays, and apart from a wedding I’m covering next week, this is a pretty slow time of year for me. I’m free… mostly whenever.”

The reminder that he had a daughter with someone else did make you wonder what you were letting yourself in for. Children weren’t really something you had any expense of, since neither you nor your brother had shown any parental inclinations yet, and you weren’t particularly close to your cousins who had small kids.

“Ok, let me give you my number and we can figure something out.”

That done, he slid his phone back into his pocket and zipped it up, biting gently at his lower lip for a moment. “I know it’s bold,” he said, “But may I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped and soared. Breathless, you looked up at him and whispered, “Yes.”

His tiny, gentle, lopsided smile heralded the kiss’ approach, and he took your jaw delicately in one, leather-gloved hand as he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours. They were soft but insistent against yours, and you answered with a little moan as your eyes fluttered shut.

He groaned, pulling you closer with a low growl so that you were pressed flush against him for a moment before he stepped back and exhaled roughly. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Thank you. I’ll… I’ll see you soon?”

You nodded, feeling like you were floating inches above the ground.

You watched him re-mount his bike and adjust himself a little once he was settled, then he revved it playfully for you, and rode away after a final look back at you. He flipped his visor down as he pulled away, and you watched the bike and its rider disappear down the road.

‘Soon’ couldn’t come soon enough… 

__

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[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU

Kara goes to the concert expecting nothing more than a tepid evening out. Well, as tepid as a night alone with her goddaughter could be. Esme has a knack for pulling Kara out of any funk she's in, no matter how deep her doldrums. And Esme's excitement to see this specific artist Kara's never heard of is nearly infectious.

Kara finds herself grinning in the car as Esme strictly tells her not to turn the radio on.

"They're gonna play one of her songs, and we need to go in fresh!"

So they simply chat on the ride to the arena, and upon arrival Kara is floored by the flood of people flowing from the parking lot to the venue itself.

"She's only the biggest name in pop music, Aunt Kara," Esme teases with a grin. "What did you expect?"

Kara's eyes go big with an exaggerated shrug of her eyebrows. "Not this!"

"Come on, old lady. This is why we got here early."

Esme finds fast friends among the other fans in line, but Kara steers clear of the parents clearly commisserating over the ordeal. She's not a parent, just a chaperone, and she has no intention of allowing herself to be infected by the endless negativity of long suffering caregivers bemoaning the whims of their tweens and teens.

Once inside, Esme heads straight for the merch table, clearly intent on spending her long-saved allowance money on anything she can get her hands on. The kid's wrists are already stacked with friendship bracelets, her own tote of swaps nearly empty and waiting to be stuffed with shirts and mugs and posters. Kara eyes the mounting total, then catches the moment Esme starts weighing the balance of what she has against the hoodie advertised at $60.

Kara rolls her eyes at the price, then reaches over with her card outstretched. "Add a medium hoodie to that, please."

Esme squeals with delight, and as soon as they're clear of the stall she throws her arms around Kara.

"Thank you!!!!"

"You're welcome," Kara says with a chuckle. "Just don't wear it til you get home. It's going to be hot in there."

"Okay!" Esme is already swapping her existing t-shirt for the tank top she'd gotten, emblazoned with the face of a young woman and the performer's name: LENA

"How do I look?" Esme asks with a spin, bracelets clicking.

Kara grins. "Like the world's cutest groupie." She tilts her head towards the crush of people heading into the stands. "Come on, let's go grab our seats."

"What's a groupie?"

Kara rolls her eyes, only to pause mid-turn when her phone starts vibrating in her hand. She hesitates, meeting Esme's eye.

"Just a sec, sweetie."

"What? No! Aunt Kara you promised no work."

Kara grimaces. "I know, but it might be an emergency." She scans the corridor, gaze catching on a short row of food vendors. "Here, why don't you take this and get us some nachos?"

She shoves forty dollars into Esme's hand and fishes out her bluetooth, nestling it in her ear.

"Aunt Kara..."

"I gotta find a corner somewhere," Kara continues. She points to a section of cinderblock wall a little ways down. "I'll meet you in across from the restrooms, okay? Five minutes, then I'm all yours."

Esme huffs. "Fine."

Kara answers the call, but waits until she sees Esme add herself to the food line before she starts speaking.

"This better be good!" she shouts into her phone. She can't hear anything but a jumble of sound on the other end, the din around her crowding out any words that might have been spoken. "Hold on!"

Reassured to see Esme already in conversation with a number of girl's around her, Kara goes looking for a quieter spot. She finds one in the nearest stairwell.

"What?" Kara snaps.

"Um," her assistant says over the line. "Mrs. Jasper called again? She wants--"

"Eve," Kara growls. "Do not tell me you called me, tonight of all nights, because Mrs. fucking Jasper called making some other inane request."

"I'm sorry!" Eve squeaks. "It's just--"

"Tell her it is after hours, and that she will be hearing from me personally first thing tomorrow morning."

"Oh, um. Okay. I guess--"

"Go home when it's done. And turn off your phone. You shouldn't be working this late either."

"Um. Okay. Thank you, Miss Danvers."

Kara ends the call with a roll of her eyes. But her frustration hardens into panic when she tugs on the door to return and-- it doesn't budge. She yanks again, harder, and still nothing.

"Fuck!" she shouts. She begins pounding on the door. "Hey! Can someone open this door?!"

No one comes to her rescue, her calls likely drowned out by the same noise that had driven her here in the first place. With another curse, Kara steps into action. She chooses to go down, hoping that the next door will open. It does, but the corridor she steps into is nearly empty. She hears a bit of bustle further down the hall, but out of sight.

She heads towards the sounds, trying the handle of every door she passes. None of them turn-- save one. She leans into it a little too hard as she tries the knob, and nearly tumbles into the room at the unexpected open.

Managing to right herself with a small yelp, Kara straightens-- only to freeze upon locking gazes with the young woman staring at her. A young woman Kara recognizes from the shirt her goddaughter had just put on.

Lena tilts her head with a droll grin.

"Well, you aren't my tea with honey."

[withacapitalp]

Bathtubs, Closets, and Coming Home

For the servers daily prompt today "closet"

Eddie was giggling. 

Steve’s metalhead rockstar badass boyfriend was straight up fucking giggling. 

“Look at this, Sunshine,” He crowed, practically skipping into the ensuite bathroom, “There’s a clawfoot tub. Clawfoot!” 

Steve slowly made his way over to the bathroom, and by the time he was at the doorway, Eddie was lying fully clothed in said clawfoot bathtub. His legs were crossed and his arms were spread wide in front of him, a dragon with a weird porcelain horde. 

“Can you imagine the wicked wild sex we can have in this thing?” Eddie asked in a hushed whisper, his eyebrows waggling up and down. 

“Eddie!” Steve hissed, quickly glancing around to make sure that their realtor wasn’t standing nearby. 

Luckily Sophie seemed to be occupied elsewhere, so Steve felt brave enough to creep closer, linking his fingers with Eddie’s and giving their joined hands a single soft squeeze. From the moment they had set foot in the house, Eddie had been acting like a kid at Christmas, and the last thing Steve wanted to do was ruin his mood by being a sourpuss. 

“You’re not funny,” Steve teased, throwing on a mock pout just because he knew Eddie loved to kiss that look off his face. Sure enough, Eddie immediately sat up, turning to Steve so they were nose to nose, so close that Steve could smell his shampoo. 

“That’s because I’m hilarious,” Eddie declared, quickly smacking a kiss onto Steve’s lips before hauling himself out of the tub and striding back into the master bedroom, “And this place is perfect!”

Perfect. 

Steve’s heart seized up, and he leaned against the tub, trying to force himself to breathe steadily. 

On paper, Eddie was right, the house was perfect. With eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms, an absolutely ginormous kitchen, a gorgeous backyard, and a guest house on property for when any parents come to visit, it was a dream come true. The house had everything that had been on their list, and with Corroded Coffin’s newest single staying at the number one spot for the sixth week in a row, it was well within their price range. 

On paper, this was everything they were looking for. It was perfect. 

And yet here Steve was, standing in a bathroom trying not to have a complete meltdown. 

“I mean, come on!” Eddie shouted, his voice carrying through to the bathroom. Steve forced his body to walk, barely feeling every step he took as he basically frog marched back into the bedroom. 

Eddie was standing with his arms directly out to his sides, trying and failing to touch each side of the doorway to the walk in closet. There was a big fat grin on his face, and in any other moment, Steve would be dying of happiness instead of despair. 

“This closet is bigger than the entire trailer,” Eddie stated, giddy with the exhilaration of someone who had finally found everything they were looking for. Somehow that one single statement was the thing that pushed him over the edge. 

If Steve was a good partner, he would be happy too. He would rush over to Eddie’s side and pull him in close, show him how much he loved the house, and they would be living happily ever after. 

But Steve wasn’t a good partner. Steve was a selfish goddamn brat, and he couldn’t hide how utterly miserable the house was making him. He couldn’t fake a smile and he couldn't make the tears in his eyes go away, no matter how hard he blinked. 

And the worst part was, Eddie- who was the world’s best partner- instantly caught Steve’s shining eyes and wobbling lip. 

“Steve?”

Fuck. 

It was just his name, but it was the way Eddie said it. That soft tone, the gentle voice that was reserved just for Steve and maybe the kids on a particularly bad day. Compassion and love and understanding all wrapped in a sweet Eddie ribbon, an arrow that sailed right over all of his walls and pierced directly into Steve’s heart. 

“Come here,” Eddie commanded, trusting his hand out. Steve was like a puppet on a string, everything he did tied to whatever Eddie wanted. He swayed into the closet, letting his boyfriend pull him into his arms, setting them both down on the floor with care. They ended up sitting side by side on the ground, their backs against the wall, Steve’s head on Eddie’s shoulder with a comforting hand curled in his hair. 

“It’s great,” Steve tried, hating how thin the lie was. He wanted to be able to put on an act, play along for Eddie’s sake, but there was no way it was going to work. 

“You hate it,” Eddie whispered, and there it was. Steve wasn’t able to lie, but neither was Eddie, and the disappointment in his voice was crushing Steve’s lungs. 

“No,” Steve replied immediately. Eddie scoffed, and Steve pulled away, just enough so they could look at each other. He wanted Eddie to know he was honest when he said he didn’t hate the place, because he was being honest. Steve didn’t hate the house, he loved it, but he hated the way it made him feel. 

“It’s not the house, Eddie. The house is great,” Steve trailed off trying to find the words to explain but coming up empty. He sighed shortly, frustrated with himself as the explanation for the strange rolling feeling in his stomach didn’t come. ”I mean it’s exactly what you want. This is the kind of place you’ve been dreaming about since you were a kid.”

“What I want,” Eddie emphasized, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he looked at Steve, “But not what you want?” 

“I’m being stupid,” Steve shot back. When Eddie made a sound and tried to reach out, Steve stopped him, knowing this was important. “No, seriously, Eds. I know I’m being super fucking irrational,”

“What do you think you’re being irrational about, baby?” Eddie asked softly, linking their pinkies and looking at Steve with those big brown eyes. 

“You grew up wanting a house like this. I grew up in a house just like this,” Steve explained, closing his eyes as he did. He wouldn’t be able to look at Eddie as he said it, wouldn’t be able to get through without losing it as he finally got to the heart of why this house scared him so badly, “It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be,”

It was irrational. Eddie wasn’t going to stop loving him the second they bought the house. He wasn’t going to leave Steve alone in a tomb of their own making. They weren’t his parents. 

Steve’s brain understood that, now he just needed to get his heart on board. 

“Oh honey,” Eddie murmured. If it was anyone else, there would be pity there, and Steve wouldn’t be able to help being angry. But it was Eddie, who understood him more than almost anyone, and there was nothing to be upset about. 

“Listen to me Steve Buckley, and listen well” Eddie began, his voice firm and filled to bursting with love. A shiver rolled down Steve’s spine, and a small spark of joy burst in his chest as he heard his full name. Even just that reminder was enough to tell him he was never going to be alone again. No matter what happened, he had Robin. 

“I would be happy if we were living in a shoebox under an underpass. We can stop all this right now and live in the trailer for the rest of our lives. I don’t care where we are, or what we’re doing. I just want to come home to you."

And that was all he needed to hear. Steve already knew that, but now he understood it. Eddie might have to go on tour, or to record, or just need his own space, but this would be their home, and he would always come back to it.

To Steve.

“I love you so much,” Steve whispered, leaning forward for a kiss. It was a chaste thing, small and sweet but carrying the promise of everything that was to come. 

“Well boys?” Their realtor said from the doorway. They instantly broke away, both turning to face her with fear. Sophie was watching them with a knowing smirk, holding her pad and pencil like she already was aware of what they were going to say. 

“We'll take it,” Steve declared. 

[mariposa-writes]

Tears of Joy

Pairing: Captain John Price x wife!reader

Word count: 1.4k

Overview: John thinks you're pregnant, you don't agree.

CW: infertility, self blame, angst to fluff, john being an amazing husband

Author's Note: Please repost, comment, and like. It means the world to me! Let me know what you think and if there are any corrections i need to make. It's like 3am so I'm sure I messed up somewhere lol

Part 2

Price held your hair back, hand rubbing your back as you threw up in the toilet.  This was the third morning in a row that you’d woken up and ran straight to the bathroom. After you’d brushed your teeth and took a shower you meet your husband John in the kitchen.

You scrunched your nose, “What’s that smell?” You asked, trying to figure out what John was cooking.

“Eggs and bacon.” He said as he placed a plate in front of you. You looked at it with uncertainty, before pushing it away from you. “Not hungry, sorry.” You mumbled, not wanting to hurt John’s feelings after he made you breakfast.

Truthfully the thought of eating right now made you nauseous. Which was weird considering you loved eggs and bacon. Actually you loved all things breakfast, you could eat breakfast for every meal.

It was one of the things John loved about you. “Do you want me to make you something else?” John asked, worry apparent in his eyes.

You could always figure out how John was feeling just by looking at his eyes. He showed more than he realized, and after being married for three years it was easy to read him.

You sighed, shacking your head no. “I think I’m just gonna go lay down, I’m still not feeling well.” You got up from the table, placing a kiss on John’s cheek before heading for your shared bedroom.

John watched you retreat to your room. He was starting to get more worried by the day. He found it odd that you were sick, considering that you never got sick. He’d known you for 5 years and only once had you come down with the flu and even then you pushed through, not letting it stop you. Until he basically forced you to rest and give your body time to recover.

He ran a hand down his face, not wanting to think about what could be wrong. After he cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher he went to lay down with you. 

You were curled up in bed, as he climbed in next to you. Molding his body to yours, and pulling you close. His arm around your stomach. You nestled into him even more, just wanting to be close to your husband.

He traced patterns into your arm as you worked on falling asleep. “Babe?” He questioned unsure if you were asleep.

You hummed, letting him know that you were listening. “Do you think you could be pregnant?” He was hesitant to bring up the question, but it was eating away at him as he laid there with you.

“No.” You answered, already wanting the conversation to be over. You should’ve pretended to be asleep.

“When was the last time you had your period.”

You shrugged your shoulders, ever since you were a teen your period had been irregular. Your gyno had warned you that it might mess with your fertility, making it harder to have kids in the future. You’d warned John when you’d gotten together and again when things got more serious.

He told you that it didn’t matter as long as he had you. 

Despite all that it didn’t make it any easier, every time you had to look at a negative pregnancy test. You knew John wanted and family and so did you and no matter how much John reassured you that it wasn’t your fault and he was fine with it just being the two of you it didn’t help lessen the sting. 

After a while John started to notice the toll it was taking on you. After every negative you seemed to lose more and more of the light that shined in your eyes. He hated seeing how you seemed to be deteriorating no matter how hard he tried to stop it.

Eventually the two of you stopped buying pregnancy tests and dropped the subject all together. It’d been almost a year since you last took a test and John noticed how you seemed lighter without the subject hanging over you head.

“What if you just take one test?” John suggested. You heaved out a breath throwing the covers off of you.

“No, nothings going to change. It’s going to be negative.” He could tell you were growing irritated. He could tell you just wanted to drop the subject, but something about this time felt different. He had hope which was something he hadn’t had in a quite some time.

“Where are you going?” He asked, getting up to follow.

“A walk.” You said as you slipped on your shoes and a hoodie. “Don’t follow me.” You said before slamming the front door shut. 

You knew it wasn’t fair to John, but you hadn’t thought about having a child in a long time. You’d given up on the idea. You knew it was just as hard for John, but he wasn’t the one that had to feel like a failure every time a test came back negative. 

He never blamed you, but it didn’t matter. You blamed yourself and that was enough. Even the doctors said everything was fine, when John insisted on getting his sperm count checked. 

You were the problem, you were the reason you would never have a family.

John should’ve married someone that could’ve given him children, not you. You were standing in the way of his dreams.

These were the thoughts that made it difficult to get through the day. You felt bad for being rude to John, but sometimes it was easier to avoid the problem than confront it head on. 

You finally returned to the house once it started to drizzle. John was waiting on the porch swing, making sure you got back okay. 

He didn’t say anything as you entered the house, deciding to stay put and give you your space. He wanted to comfort you, but he knew that sometimes you liked to deal with stuff on your own and when you were ready you would come to him.

A few minutes later the door was opening. You handed him a container with yellow liquid in it. “Here.” You handed him the container.

“Are you sure?”

“No, but if it’s negative don’t tell me and don’t bring the test in the house and after this I don’t want you to bring it up again. I’m sorry for being rude earlier, but it just hurts to much.” He wrapped his arms around you, bringing you into his chest.

“Thank you baby, I love you no matter what.” He kissed you, “You know that right?”

“I know, I love you too. Now go.” You said ushering him off the porch. As much as you tried not to get your hopes up, you secretly hoped he’d tell you the results. You hoped he’d bring the test into the house and you hoped he’d get to bring up the subject again.

You were in the living room, tidying up while trying to keep your mind busy when John returned. You didn’t even have time to process that he was home before he was picking you up and spinning you in a circle.

He had the biggest smile on his face as he kissed you. Butterflies appeared in your stomach, you didn’t even have to ask if the test was positive. You could tell by his reaction, the whole world would be able to tell if they were watching the two of you. After what felt like hours he set you down, his arms still holding you close to him.

“It was positive.” He beamed, as he stared down at you. The smile he had on his face might’ve beat the one he had on your wedding day. You didn’t even have time to respond, before his lips were on yours again.

You hadn’t felt this happy in such a long time and it was like this weight was instantly lifted off your chest. He kissed you over and over again, before breaking away. “Oh my god, I have to tell the team!” He was so giddy that it made you want to cry.

The pure joy radiating off of him, brought tears to your eyes. “Wait, why are you crying?” He asked, instantly becoming worried. He wiped a tear away with the pad of his thumb.

“I don’t know, I’m not sad. I’m happy, so happy.” This time you kissed him, bring him down to your level. You pulled back, “They’re tears of joy.” You laughed.

This right here was everything you ever wanted.

[nrdmssgs]

Little things, they do 2 (Price, Ghost, Gaz) (headcannons)

Masterlist

Part 1 (Alex, Soap, König) here

Little things, they do, that get you every time. Silly, warm, heart-melting, wholesome things.

Captain John Price

Knuckle kisses. That's it.

Praises you not only when you succeed, but also when you fail. “I know, you tried so hard, love. This doesn't make you lesser. You don't have to prove anything to me. I'm proud of you. You're enough.”

Compliments you at the most random times. You've just woken up with an absolute mess on your head, or you walk around the house in old faded sweatpants and a dirty T-shirt because the rest of the clothes are being washed? John takes your hand, brings it to his lips and whispers "You are incredibly beautiful." or “How did an old git like me ended up with the most gorgeous, hottest  human being out there?”

He has this habit of going behind your back and leaning close to your very ear while telling you something. Maybe he just likes to feel you close and uses it as an excuse, maybe he wants to “envelop” you in a way, hide you from the whole world, sharing his knowledge, feeling, how interested you are in a topic.

One of those people to actually use paper and envelopes, that some hotel still provide their rooms with. You get these long 3-5 page letters from different corners of earth every now and then. They can be absolutely platonic - he can literally describe, what he's seen or overheard on the streets lately or rant about how he wants to hear seabirds voices, but they are interrupted by the unceasing roar of engines and roadworks here… But you see it: every line screams “I love you. I freaking love you so much, it's almost 4 am here, and I'm still wide awake, because I need to write to you, to communicate in any way that will be safe for you.” 

Simon Ghost Riley

He is no stranger to triggered stress or panic. So if you have any phobia, and he finds out about it - he starts protecting you from its triggers. Let's say, you're scared of spiders and scorpions. Even a picture of one can absolutely freak you out. Simon goes above and beyond to shield you from any type of appearance of these creatures in your life. In summer, he'll escort and even tiniest spider out of your apartment, before you see it.

He even shares a googledoc with trigger warning time codes for every piece of media, you wanted to see. Even if it's a long series - he just checks every episode of it on a fast rewind and writes you, if it's fully safe to watch or not. 

Ghost has a wealth of experience in dealing with insomnia and is willing to help you, if you come across this issue. Just don't hesitate to ask - he is ready to spend all the night helping you out. Will definitely start with pressing your back to his chest and guiding you through a breathing exercise.

If you had a bad day and dropped him a message - he`d surely call you as soon as he can to talk you through everything that happened and soothe you. 

“I`m always there for you, you know?” “I know, Simon…” “No, thats not the way, we do that.” “...” “Come on. Say it.” “I remember, ok?” “Say. it. I need you say it out loud.” “You are always there for me, no matter what.” “And?” “... and I can call or text you any time and you'll reach back asap.” “Good job. I'll call you again before you go to sleep.”

Despite his ascetic way of life, he likes nice things and gradually accustoms you to the same preferences. 

It all starts with tea. One day, you go grocery shopping together. You walk between the rows of shelves while Simon stays by your cart. Returning to the cart, you find him skeptically examining the box of tea you dropped into the cart earlier. "What is this?" "It's tea, Simon, stop pretending you can't read." Ghosts gaze eloquently demonstrates his attitude towards this product. "It's trash." He pulls out a simple but elegant box from the top shelf. "This is tea." You try to convince him that with the money spent on that "good" box, you could drink tea all year, but he is relentless. Simon ends up buying the tea himself and brewing it at your place. When you first try it and roll your eyes in pleasure - he smiles contentedly. “Told you.”

Kyle Gaz Garrick

“Babe this is delicious, wanna try it?” - say yes and firstly he will kiss you. You absolutely need to try that ice cream, his tongue is just a nice bonus. Ofc shares his food with you afterward.

One of the most supportive human beings out there. Encourages every your hobby, hella proud of you and not shy to demonstrate it. “Have you heard her singing? RNs got a voice of a songbird!” “Kyle, please, I just went to a few vocal lessons and learned like… 2 songs.” “Those are my favorite ones from now on, love.”

If you work from home, he'll walk into your room randomly (but only when he is 100% sure, you're not on the call), sit beside you and just stare silently at you. Ask him, what's up, and he'll give you a quick kiss on the forehead and walk away grinning. 

Slow dances with you on streets, when you two pass by street musicians. Doesn't care if everybody looking, even if someone pulls out a phone and starts filming this wholesome scene. It's only you in Kyles hands, that matter right now to him. 

If you have a pet - he definitely becomes its new dad. When Kyle is around - your four-legged friend absolutely forgets about your existence, because Gaz is an expert in best scratches!

By the way, your pets birthday is now Kyles official holiday!

[angelicnymph]

🌶Manwh0re Toji Fushiguro Private Show 🌶

💌Support Me💌 ♡ 🧁Masterlist🧁 ♡ 💞Exclusive Content 💞

Cw: Sexual content, pornography, onlyfans,male stripper, exhibitionism, gropping, public sex, orgy.

🌸This will be a spicy series with multiple part- some will be posted here for FREE and some will be posted on Kofi available on for my donators. 🌸

🌸Disclaimer: In this Series, Toji is in his early twenties and a bachelor. Its just that Toji Fushiguro is more pleasing than Toji Zenin.

Kindly please support me by likes and reblogs please. It helps so much. Thank you. 💌

Toji was a well-known male adult entertainer. He was known for his videos on the orange and black site as well as his 0nlyf@ns. After all, he was the website's highest paid model. He was recently in Las Vegas where he was invited for a private show which he would be highly paid for.

Within only 2 minutes, all the tickets to his show was sold. His fangirls were surely an another breed. They could pour their entire pocket money/salary on him just to get a glimpse of his body and Toji knew how to take advantage of them.

Within minutes, the hall in which he was supposed to perform gets filled. VIP seats in the front row close to the stage, followed by Gold seats on the 2nd row, Silver seat on the 3rd row and bronze seat at the very back. The price of the tickets were ridiculously expensive but the thirst got the best out of his fans. $1000 for a single bronze seat in which you can only watch him from the very back of the hall? The fans kept on cheering for him tho no matter what. Excited for his appearance and performance.

The man finally comes on stage in his bathrobe, loosely clad to his body, chest out and barely covering his thighs, a cocky grin plastered to his face. He tease his fans by removing only the top half and covering only his lower half earning howls and begs from the crowd. He then turns around and discard the bathrobe and presenting his body with only in a skimpy underwear which covers his c0ck fully but leaves his muscular @ss exposed, 0iled up and holding his cr0tch giving his c0ck a few rübs and squeezes.

He proceeds to hump the stage and then gets up, his c0ck now fully härd peeking out of the underwear. He goes in front of a lucky girl and allows her to take it off him. The crowd cheer as he has a cocky grin on his face loving the attention. He starts w@nking off and hipthrusting the air, flopping his härd 0n loving the reaction of his audience. He then grabs a fle$hlight and starts pleasing himself letting out occasional grünts giving his thirsty fangirls an e@rgasm.

The show continues as the VIP ticket owners get to touch him, grab his t!tties, his c0ck, giving him h@ndj0bs, bl0wj0bs, p!nching his p!erced n!pples, running hands over his hard abs and quads. Needless to say, the man was in heaven even if it was for a brief hour. He wished he could stay like this forever, getting girls to worship his body, pleasuring him. He kept cûmm!ng and having his eyes roll to the back of his loving the touches, occasionally grunting.

The show ends with 2 lucky girls from the VIP 0n t0p of him: one r!dding h!s f@ce and the other riding his c0ck. Once the three are done, the girls are returned back to their seats. Toji once again hümp his 0verst!mulated c0ck on the stage, till he gets one final bl0w and then gets up , asking his fans to take last pictures before he heads to the backstage where another group of girls is waiting him.

[sopiao]

can i request headcannons with the 141 and konig during a road trip? like a looong ass road-trip. nothing for a mission, just a little trip or vacation.

ooh i just got back from a 10 hour long road trip too!

(Callsign will be ‘Shark’)

Price would be the one driving, Soap in the front, Shark, Ghost, and Gaz in the middle row, while König gets the back all to himself. Sometimes it would cycle who would be in the front with Price since they all wanted to take turns sleep.

Since König is the big bitch he is, he gets the whole back row to himself. He can ‘shooonk’ and ‘mi mi mi mi mi’ all he wants. With his pillow and pink jaguar blanket someone lent him cause he forgot his (most likely Soap’s). While Shark is stuck in the middle, stuck between Ghost and Gaz.

—

Price would have first dibs on the aux since he’s the driver. He’d only play songs that no one knows. Y’know the classics and his personal faves. No one gave him the aux since.

Soap would play songs that he likes, regardless of what anyone else thinks. ‘Shut up and drive’ by Rihanna, ‘Talk dirty’ by Jason Derulo, ‘Treasure’ by Bruno Mars. Will literally blast the volume at his favorite parts.

Occasionally Ghost or Gaz would yell at him to shut up, his only response being to turn the music up even louder.

—

“I’ve got to go to the loo..” Soap asked. Price gripping the wheel and taking an audible and long breath in and out through the nose.

“We just left THE FUCKING STOP”

—

During stops to restock on gas stations snacks or fill up on gas Gaz would get drinks he never finishes, it just piles up in the back. Shark got a bag of chocolate marshmallows, they later played basketball with it, Ghost’s mouth being the hoop.

Price would 100% do the dad-snack-hand from the drivers seat. While König got a whole tub of ice cream to eat in the back, just because he felt like it.

Soap actually got left at a gas station once. The car ride back to get him was quite.

—

Shark’s gasp made everyone turn to attention since it was so quite and their gasp sounded so alarmed. Shark leapt across Gaz’s laps and looked out the window.

“Cow!” They pointed out towards the field of cows minding their business.

“Cow?

“Woooaaah”

“COW”

—

König gets motion sickness very easily. Which is why he spends 60% of the car ride sleeping. But the times where he is awake, half the time he’s throwing up in a paper bag. Ghost having to throw it out while Gaz and Soap try not to gag. Shark is rubbing him on the back and giving him water to feel better :).

—

Gaz would sleep against the car door, a pillow between him and the door, one leg would be across Ghost and Shark’s lap and the other would be on the middle console of the front. Sometimes Soap would have to nudge his dinosaur socks out of the way.

Ghost would claim he’s not tired at all, but is always the first one to fall asleep. Arms crossed and head back while he snores like a motor boat. First time this happened Price freaked out that he was dying, choking or something, and had Shark punch him in the chest.

He didn’t feel like sleeping after that.

Eventually when he does he’d be in the same position as Gaz, but both of his legs would be across Sharks and Gaz’s lap. Hitting the opposite door.

—

“Would you rather fight 100 toddlers or—” Shark asked of the first thing that came to mind.

“A hundred toddlers” Soap interrupted them, no hesitation.

“I didn’t even finish the question—”

“Those kids are getting CURB STOMPED”

“No—”

—

Going down a long path in the middle of the night. Practically in the middle of nowhere as the only thing keeping them company was yards of grass and mice that hid in little holes for the night. Everyone was fast asleep until they felt the car shift to a stop. They all immediately looked at each other after seeing where they were stopped.

“Let’s stretch our legs, been a while” Price explained, being the first to get out, turning the car off and the key out of the ignition. They were all still confused why they stopped suddenly, but they understood that hours of driving does no good for the legs.

Price made sure to turn the head lights off too. The rest of them thought that they’d just but in the middle of nowhere in the dark but they were frozen in amazement when they saw how bright the sky is, despite it being 12 midnight.

Without all the city lights and street lights to pollute the sky the night looked so bright. Stars that were barely visible, only a dot in the sky, were now shining and bright. In the city you could only see 6-7 stars 10 if your lucky, but right now it was like you could see till the end of the galaxy.

Not a word was spoken the entire time they were out. It was beautiful but also so surreal and bone chilling seeing how much space there is beyond this world. Every star a sun and every sun had at least 5 planets. There had to be at least one other life form.

Those 20 minutes were the most quiet but calming 20 minutes of the trip. Something they shared and saw together.

[tomorrowusa]

Those cheap clothes at Shein have a big price tag which few consumers are able to see.

This is the sound of Panyu, the neighbourhood known as the "Shein village", a warren of factories that power the world's largest fast fashion retailer. "If there are 31 days in a month, I will work 31 days," one worker told the BBC. Most said they only have one day off a month. The BBC spent several days here: we visited 10 factories, spoke to four owners and more than 20 workers. We also spent time at labour markets and textile suppliers. We found that the beating heart of this empire is a workforce sitting behind sewing machines for around 75 hours a week in contravention of Chinese labour laws. [ ... ] But even past 22:00, the sewing machines - and the people hunched over them - don't stop as more fabric arrives, in trucks so full that bolts of colour sometimes tumble onto the factory floor. "We usually work, 10, 11 or 12 hours a day," says a 49-year-old woman from Jiangxi unwilling to give her name. "On Sundays we work around three hours less." She is in an alleyway, where a dozen people are huddled around a row of bulletin boards. They are reading the job ads on the board, while examining the stitching on a pair of chinos draped over it. [ ... ] The migrant worker from Jiangxi is looking for a short-term contract - and the chinos are an option. "We earn so little. The cost of living is now so high," she says, adding that she hopes to make enough to send back to her two children who are living with their grandparents. "We get paid per piece," she explains. "It depends how difficult the item is. Something simple like a t-shirt is one-two yuan [less than a dollar] per piece and I can make around a dozen in an hour."

Let's do a little math. One Chinese Yuan = 13.81 US cents (or $0.1381) as of Monday. So if the migrant worker from Jiangxi earns CN¥ 2.00 per t-shirt (US$0.2762) and does a dozen in one hour, she is effectively earning US$3.31 per hour. For comparison, the US minimum wage was US$3.35 per hour in between 01 January 1981 and 01 April 1990.

The working hours at Shein factories are as miserable as the pay. A "standard" working day is 14 hours.

Standard working hours appear to be from 08:00 to well past 22:00, the BBC found. This is consistent with a report from the Swiss advocacy group Public Eye, which was based on interviews with 13 textile workers at factories producing clothes for Shein. They found that a number of staff were working excessive overtime. It noted the basic wage without overtime was 2,400 yuan (£265; $327) - below the 6,512 yuan the Asia Floor Wage Alliance says is needed for a "living wage". But the workers we spoke to managed to earn anywhere between 4,000 and 10,000 yuan a month. "These hours are not unusual, but it's clear that it's illegal and it violates basic human rights," said David Hachfield from the group. "It's an extreme form of exploitation and this needs to be visible." The average working week should not exceed 44 hours, according to Chinese labour laws, which also state that employers should ensure workers have at least one rest day a week.

There are other issues mentioned in the article such as the sourcing of cotton from Xinjiang where the Chinese Communist Party is committing genocide against the Uighur people.

Don't buy clothing made in sweatshops from ANY country. In the US it was sweatshop conditions at clothing manufacturers which were one of the spurs for the growth of labor unions in the early 20th century.

I would add that "fast fashion" is generally wasteful and bad for the environment. Buy clothes which are not likely to quickly become unfashionable and those which are sturdy enough to last for a while.

[oristian]

In the United States, there is a very big, “Well, what about me?” complex that dictates much of how people go about their day, make their decisions, and vote for the next president. The thought process has always been formatted around placing the needs of yourself above those of everyone else. Which, inherently, is not a bad thing; everyone is allowed to be selfish.

It becomes a “bad thing” when the needs of others are being actively suppressed and threatened by the current administration. It becomes a “bad thing” when the candidate in which you endorsed, voted for, and actively support has an agenda written on the basis of hate. It becomes a “bad thing” when the rights of all citizens—including those that had been selfish—are placed in a state of jeopardy.

In the last forty-eight hours, Donald Trump has signed executive orders that pardoned t*rrorists (anyone who engaged and/or actively supported the insurrection on January 6th, you are a t*rrorist), removed the United States from climate treaties and health organizations, removed access to a government-ran website structured around female healthcare and reproductive resources, removed access to an app that helps prospective migrants come into this country legally, removed a bill that lowered the cost of life-saving medication, actively discriminated against the LGBTQ+ community on the inaugural podium, removed a law that prohibited employment discrimination based on race/sex/age/etc., is attempting to remove birthright citizenship, et cetera. The list is as endless as it is terrifying.

All of this for lower gas and grocery prices? Oh, well, actually, that will not be possible given the implementation of the External Revenue Service that seeks to use tariffs for exports/imports. Where do people believe that money will come from to pay those tariffs? Hint: It is not the country being charged the tariff.

When the whole first row at the inauguration seats the billionaires of this country—and the ones running our social media platforms—that is a red flag. When the president of the United States is chummy with some of the most deplorable world leaders known to man, that is a red flag. When the current president has multiple charges against him (and lost in court) which legally classifies him as a r*pist, that is a red flag. When the president willing admits to election fraud at the hands of the man who willingly performed, two times, a N*zi salute on live television during the inauguration, that is a red flag.

A flag red enough to match the hats of those who have the blood of America on their hands.

Is it great again yet?

[faint-taste-of-almonds]

Honestly, knowing things about sewing and clothing construction is sometimes a curse I wish I wasn't suffering from.

So my textile hobby is embroidery. Right now, I am embroidering a shirt as a gift for a friend. For the shirt, I just needed something simple, plain, and pink - so I went to Target, because that was what was available to me, and somewhere I was pretty sure would have what I was looking for. It did, and I got a plain pink t-shirt for a not-bad price.

Here I am, a week later and almost done with my project, when I randomly glance down at the hem and feel my heart sink into my feet.

because what. the Fuck. is This???

This is one of the worst hems I have ever seen on a commercial garment in my entire life. If a single one of those threads gets cut, the whole bottom of the shirt is unraveling faster than the life of a college student who only just now realized their final was supposed to be a semester-long project. This is the kind of thing I would expect to see for someone who had to hand sew the hem, because I've rarely ever seen vertical hemming outside of handmade clothes. And looking at the inside, I was even more confused.

Because the inside looks normal? So what the hell happened to the outside?? This appears to be a vertical hemming stitch with a ladder back, which I have never seen before in my entire life.

Let's look at two other examples for comparison.

First, we have a normal cotton t-shirt from a few years ago:

This is a 2 needle flat lock stitch (6mm), the type of stitch I would expect to see. You might be able to snag the inside thread on something, but it wouldn't unravel the whole thing, and you'd have to take some seam rippers to get at the outside in any meaningful way.

Now let's look at something older:

This is the inside and outside of a vintage 50s top I bought about a year ago. Notice that there's no visible hem on the outside at all. The bottom is folded up into the inside, where one or two other layers of fabric are located in order to stitch it together. There's a row of single-needle lock stitching close to the bottom of the garment, with another single-needle row and a line of overlocked stitching just to top it all off. The only way this could be more secure is if it attended therapy and achieved self-actualization. This hem isn't going anywhere.

So where does this leave us? Well, it personally leaves me very upset about the state of the clothing industry. Yes, these tops all came at various price points, and have different levels of quality accordingly, but consumers should be able to buy clothes that won't immediately fall apart on them should a stiff breeze happed to blow past. If I had the time or the machinery, I would fix the hem myself, but I don't, and I am genuinely upset to have put hours upon hours of work onto a project with such a shitty canvas. And frankly, a little insulted.

Moral of the story: Check your seams people. You'll thank me when tugging on a single thread doesn't get you arrested for public indecency.