#classy rugs

[slowwshoww]

it’s hard out here being a bitch who loves grey bc every interior design Look w grey is boring as hell use grey as a BASE or an ACCENT not as the whole thing

[epeolatryx]

Contemporary Sunroom - Large

Large trendy light wood floor sunroom photo with a standard fireplace, a stone fireplace and a standard ceiling

[sukunasweetheart]

the whole court and justice system stuff going on right now in jjk is giving me ideas for modern au where criminal!sukuna put on trial for some heinous deeds he's done... but upon a fated happenstance he gets to hire the most perfect and competent defence lawyer who manages to somehow get him out of the situation as a free and innocent man. and being the charismatic and so very thoughtful man that he is, he decides he wants to do something for you in return...

warnings; female reader, smut, oral fem!receiving, mentions of murder and killing, dubcon-ish, morally corrupted reader, mildly submissive sukuna, male masturbation, cum in panties

words: 2.3k

criminal!sukuna, who's showing you gratitude in the only way he knows how... somewhere in a secluded room with the door locked behind. he sinks to his knees and hikes up your skirt, slides your panties down...

criminal!sukuna, who's kneeling down while your back is against the wall, one of your legs propped up on his shoulder as he eats you out so good that you're shuddering and twitching with every flicker of his tongue against your clit...

criminal!sukuna, who is getting drunk on the taste of you on his tongue, disregarding the fact that his face is beginning to sweat from the heat between your legs, and his cock is so hard that it hurts right now.

criminal!sukuna, who pulls out orgasm after orgasm out of you, not minding your slick that dribbles down his chin from doing so.

(how far will you let him take this?)

sukuna hadn't really cared much, whether he were to be ruled as innocent or be judged as guilty and sent to prison. he really was just planning on going with the flow, whichever direction life threw him in-- he's not one to cry and throw a tantrum over spoiled milk... if he gets locked up, so be it, he'd either find a way to cunningly get back out or he'd probably rise to the top amongst the inmates inside.

so even when he was introduced to you, a famously proficient defence lawyer and the top in your field, he wasn't expecting much from you at all.

but upon his first meeting with you, you managed to pique his interest when you confessed that you didn't give a fuck whether he's actually a criminal or not. as long as he's paying good money, you're going to get him out with 100% innocence. and to do that, you'll need a bit of his cooperation and honesty. whatever information you ask for, he needs to provide. so you can either slip it under the rug, or use it to your advantage in court.

he already thinks you're pretty fuckin' sexy. your formal and classy lawyer fit, tight ass pencil skirt... he'd like to get under it. your snobby and overly professional attitude. hah. he'd like to rip that away from you and see what's underneath all of it.

but for now, he does as you advise of him.

there were many instances where masses of journalists with their obnoxious mics and flashing cameras surrounded sukuna while he was getting moved from place to place with cuffs on his hands. he remained expressionless, all while thinking of how nice it would feel to paint the concrete floors with the blood of all these people. he'd even spare one of them, so they could publish whatever rubbish story they wanted. let the whole world know what he is.

and amongst all those who were against him, there really was only you. he's not quite used to this feeling, of having someone at his defence. he's never really needed it until he eventually slipped up and a detective caught onto his trail. he spent a considerable amount of time with you one-on-one.

while he was detained for a time before the trial began, there were times you visited him because you needed some confirmation on some of the information you had, but you also wanted to give him some advice on how he should answer questions when he was being interrogated.

"well, aren't i lucky to have a visitor with such a pretty face? nothing but unsightly insects and the stench of men in this filthy place," sukuna crooned with mischief in his tone, sitting himself down in front of you as a thin transparent wall separated the two of you.

"endure it. you won't be here for long after all."

god, he'd never seen someone with more confidence than himself in a long while. he wondered how you'd look if you did end up losing the trial. what a humiliation that would be. but something inside him said that you were going to prevail. his gut feelings are usually never wrong.

he's still quite nonchalant about it all, but oh boy, when he's sat next to you in court and watches you defend him against the prosecutor in front of a crowd for the first time... it does something to him. your voice, confident and clearly audible, how you articulate your words... all for his sake? (not really. but you get what i mean.)

"i know being cocky is your whole theme... but it'd be helpful if you could refrain from smirking or looking unapologetic during the trial. to get the jury on our side." you'd told him.

and he's trying, he really is (kind of...), but the corners of his mouth keep rising every time you debunk a piece of evidence presented by the prosecutor with ease. their expressions are really amusing. it's obvious how frustrated they are getting.

then he also thinks about what you'd said to him after that.

"ah, but perhaps... the media will favour you a bit better. they're always biased towards handsome faces. and don't underestimate the public's influence on court rulings."

you'd called him handsome, in such a matter of fact way. not that it was a rare occurrence- but something about you openly admitting it with your rigid personality had him going in a way no one else could.

in a matter of weeks, the tables had turned completely, and the court ruled him as an innocent man.

triumphant, you gathered your documents neatly put them in one pile. he's declared free to go, and while the place slowly empties of people, you meet sukuna in a now empty hall.

"so, you've set me free. knowing that i really was the one who did it," he voices dangerously, with a smirk. "i'd have to say, it's foolish thing to do. what if i made you my next victim? criminals know no courtesy, after all."

"you paid me a hefty sum. i don't do this for courtesy, you should know this by now. if i die by the hands of someone i defended, then so be it. i'll gladly bear the consequences of my own actions."

part of him wants to test your words. but it'd be such a waste to have you dead. right now, he's aching for something else.

"bold statement. you're not even a bit afraid? my cuffs have been off for a while now." you don't flinch even as he reaches out and palms your cheek. his hand is warm.

"not at all. you've been the most unreadable criminal i've defended, but after speaking to you for a while, i believe i've gotten better at interpreting your expressions."

"you've been reading me like a book, hey? well, enlighten me. i'm interested in hearing your thoughts."

"i may know what you want, but i don't plan on giving it to you. that's one line i don't cross with my clients."

"...oh yeah? well, good thing i'll be the one giving instead. how about we find an empty room first?"

"i don't need-"

"or should we do it here? do you like being an exhibitionist?"

you purse your lips together and give him a stern look, arms crossed.

"c'mon sweetheart. keep staring at me like that, and i'll get hard."

"enough. i have another client waiting."

"i'm sure you do. so i'll make it quick. you deserve a little something after all that hard work."

in the end, he successfully drags you off to a secluded room, somewhere in the building.

which finally brings you to present time...

sukuna's knees are probably going to be bruised later on. but at the moment, he doesn't feel a thing. all he can feel is arousal when he hears your whines and moans that seem so unlike you. gripping at his head, full body twitching as he sucks around your puffy and swollen clit, every huffing breath he takes in having the scent of you drenched in it.

you reach your third orgasm while standing in his manner, and he groans deeply as he feels it, your cunt pulsing against his lips.

you're clasping a hand over your mouth, but your muffled noises are still audible. deep down, you're starting to admit that perhaps you needed this, after all. sukuna was undeniably attractive, and you'd been constantly reminding yourself that he was but a murderer with blood on his hands... all for your efforts to come crashing down now.

it feels too good. he's getting you hot and bothered in a way no one else does. his hands palm and grope your asscheeks, touching whatever he can. whatever you'll let him.

once your clit begins to get too sensitive that it hurts, you have to push him away. and when he comes out from under your skirt, you take quite the liking to the state of his disheveled hair, flushed cheeks, your slick shining on his chin, and his glassy eyes. your leg comes off his shoulder, and the two of you are panting for a full minute before saying anything.

"fuck... i'll be honest, it was better than i thought it would be," you tell him, chest still rising up and down from the sexual high.

"bet it was. it's the least i could do after you were so good to me..." sukuna responds teasingly with a hoarse voice, looking up at you with his knees still against the floor, grinning.

you stare back, until your eyes wander down to the outline of his dick in his pants, clearly strained by the fabric.

"and what about you?" you ask with plenty a playfulness in your tone, smiling so gracefully. his cock visibly throbs when you mention it. you nudge it, gently dragging the tip of your toe up it's shape, still wearing your heels. sukuna doesn't hate it. in fact, he has to swallow up a moan coming from the back of his throat.

"feeling gracious enough to help relieve me?" he says with a cloudy haze in his eyes, grabbing your ankle with one of his calloused hands.

"hmm...not really. but i'm willing to watch you do it yourself."

"how perverted. to think you were so opposed to this, minutes before-"

you press down harder against his erection using the sole of your heel, and he groans, unable to stop himself this time.

"is that a no?"

"...if you'll let me finish in your panties, i will," he relents.

you give it some thought. and then you agree to it.

sukuna stands, and he stands close, towering over you with his height. he wastes no time in unbuckling himself.

revealing his thick cock, you marvel at its size and the way its drooling precum, veins running along its side and twitching against his palm. he begins to stroke himself. other hand against the wall behind you, he starts jacking off like he would if no one were around. like you're not there right in front of him.

you watch with a small smile, staring at his hand that goes up and down his erection at a fast pace. staring down at his leaking tip. listening to his small grunts and the wet sound of him fucking his fist.

then your gaze begins to wander. your eyes trail up and up, reaching his face, where you realise that he's looking directly at you. lust in his irises. your reflection shining in both those pupils of his.

sukuna hasn't touched himself in a while. he's never really needed to. but with a few words from you, he willingly obliged. now when you meet his eyes like that, he can't resist leaning down for a messy kiss with you, all while mumbling "mm..fuck-" against your lips.

he angles his hips closer to your pussy, making it so that every stroke makes his tip catch onto your clitoris. his hand speeds up. you hitch in a breath at the tension, at how close he is, as he's basically leaning into you now.

"i'm close... open up," he mutters into your ear, breaking the kiss.

your panties are hanging between your thighs, and you slip them up a little more up for him. his breathing starts to get faster.

"shit... 'm cumming-"

he aims it to the fabric of your underwear, and releases. sukuna groans deeply, twisting his hand towards the head of his bulbous tip as he spurts rope after rope of his seed on, hips jerking and dick throbbing with every hot string that comes out.

your hole clenches around nothing at the sight. there's so much. you're slightly starting to regret agreeing to this. it might seep out if he continues letting out this much.

thankfully, he comes to a stop soon. he squeezes himself for one last drop, and then his cock starts softening in his hand.

"all done?" you ask.

"every last drop." he watches you with a smirk as you pull it up. the warmth of it hits your cunt and you hide the way it feels arousing. he also tucks himself back in.

"now i'm running late," you say with a frown, taking a quick look at your wristwatch.

"so you actually had someone waiting?" he questions, raising an eyebrow.

"of course. why would i lie about that?"

the thought of you seeing another client with his sticky mess between your legs makes him a little hard again. you start heading off to the door, but he blocks your way.

"we'll be seeing each other again, won't we?"

"i don't know. will we?"

"of course we will," he offers slyly. "i'll have you choking on my dick, next time."

he's very adamant about it, and it doesn't seem like he'll let you through unless you give some sort of agreement to him.

"we'll see about that," you tell him. and then you follow it up with a small kiss to his cheek, which stuns him slightly. you make your way out the door and he stands as he listens to your footsteps that get further and further away.

...he knew that jerking off once would be far from enough for him. he regrets not asking for your panties instead.

Masterlist

[partycatty]

me and @bluedgedsword on that same wavelength fr

johnny cage > scratch

johnny's new role leaves him growing a beard... and you're kinda into it

warnings: smut :3 u get headdddd, johnny is PUSSYHUNGRY!!!, playful sex (banter king), false information (beards dont turn red when he gives oral but a girl can dream)

notes: his little leg shake is so cute actually i need to get him pregnant asap, also his NOSE IS SO HOT NGH IM OBSESSED

masterlist

• johnny reluctantly agreed to pick up a new job courtesy of his agent. one issue though - the character he's playing has a stubbly beard. and johnny's the kind of man that waxes every sexy square inch of skin.

• you're often sitting on his lap, plucking his brows or pulling ingrowns from his stubble. he shaves the moment he can grip a hair with his fingernails, he's just always preferred to be clean shaven.

• like hell he's gonna do a prosthetic beard, though. go big or go home! so, over the course of the next couple weeks, johnny leaves his face completely untouched. of course, you're his eyebrow groomer, but he'll grab your wrist if you even so much as hover by his growing stubble with a knowing look, making you pout.

• "i know doll, but the second shooting's done, i am burning this damn thing off. it's so... itchy," he whines, scratching his face.

• at first, you hated it. it looked so out of character, so unlike johnny to have a beard. he was always the classy man, clean from head to toe, but his face just felt more... rugged.

• this all changed when his stubble reached its peak length (something like this), your feelings about it started to change. that, and seeing him in nothing but his robe and a mug of coffee in the morning stirred some demons deep in your core. johnny tears his eyes from his phone and looks at you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

• "i know that look," he purrs with a sly grin. "what's on your mind, sugar?" as if he doesn't already know what's swimming through your mind every time you look at him for a second too long.

• "nothing," you reply gently, unwilling to admit your sudden attraction to his new feature as you turn away with a huff. "i'm just... looking."

• like the slippery devil he is, he places his mug down and saunters up to you, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling you close. johnny leans into your ear, his scruff brushing against your cheek.

• "i thought you didn't like the beard," he chuckled breathily, one of his hands snaking down to grab a handful of your ass.

• "people change?" you can only ask with a flustered, wobbly grin as he towers over you shamelessly. johnny leans in for a playfully messy kiss and the hairs tickling your lips makes you yelp into his mouth. you push him off and scratch the area around your mouth. "feels weird, though."

• "you're tellin' me," he chimes in, running a hand across his cheek. "too weird?"

• "just weird enough," grinning, you pull him in for another kiss, this time a little more heated. it turns sloppy quickly, and johnny leads you by your hips to the couch, gently lowering you with his hand on the small of your back. when he pulls away, you giggle at his already blown out pupils. he returns the giggle with more laughter himself as he swipes a finger across your bottom lip.

• "what's so funny?" you ask, wiping your own lip wondering if there was a speck of breakfast left behind. he just shakes his head.

• "your mouth is all red, sugar," he laughs again. "look."

• he pulls his phone from his robe pocket, angling your head up by your chin and snapping the photo. he flips the screen to show you and sure enough, the area around your mouth is an irritated reddish tone. you both exchange light giggles between chaste kisses, that is, until they become full of desire again.

• luckily for you, johnny's sex drive knows no bounds. he could be grinding against you at the asscrack of dawn, bending you over your lunch, or having his way with you in the evening. now seems to be one of those times he's eager to get his hands on you, judging by the way his robe is tented up.

• you cup his face as he shamelessly presses his bulge into you, shoving his body between your thighs while his hands explore. there's no inch of your body he isn't familiar with, but he still ravishes you like it's the first time every time. your nails scratch at his facial hair absentmindedly, earning a sweet groan from his throat that transfers into your own mouth through vibrations.

• the conversation of "are we doing this now?" is a long abandoned subject in your relationship. if you want each other, you're at each other like animals. with this in mind, johnny traces down your front, sucking deep marks into your jaw and throat.

• with one hand toying with the waistband of your pajama pants, the other is harshly tugging your flowy top upward where it catches on your breasts. johnny kisses between them, sloppily making out with your plush skin as he works his way down, eyelashes fluttering as he savors the taste of your skin. your stomach twitches as you muffle giggles as his beard drags down to between your thighs - where things are suddenly far less funny.

• johnny presses his nose against your clothed clit unexpectedly, making you jolt in surprise. he looks up at you through his lashes, a lopsided smile on his lips.

• "you don't have to," you gently insist, running a hand through his hair lovingly. he leans into your touch, glancing up at you with soft eyes before he speaks.

• "i know i don't," he replies, sure of himself. "but you know i'd die down here if you let me." his hot breath onto your sex sends chills down your spine. suddenly, he props himself up slightly. "are you saying that so i don't go down on you with the beard, honey?"

• "no!" you prop yourself up on your elbows as you look down between your legs. "i just mean, like, i know you don't get much out of it, so i wasn't going to ask."

• he stares up at you like you just said the most ridiculous thing in your entire life. like you're genuinely insane. are you insane?

• "you're... are you serious?" he asks, scoffing with amusement. "baby. you are a goddamn delicacy. i'm talking grade A, michelin star, 5 star yelp-" you yank his hair gently, knowing he's about to go on a cheesy tangent. his head tilts with the movement, and he lets out a small whimper of surprise. "-hey! i'm serious. i want to, i always do. as long as you'll let me with this damn thing." he scratches his jaw. you nod, and he resumes with pleasure.

• both of johnny's hands grab at your waistband, tugging down eagerly. just before you're fully revealed, he open mouth kisses just above your slit, savoring the way you writhe with anticipation. you help him to remove your bottoms, now fully bare and presented for him, a sight he'll never get over. his eyes are transfixed on your pussy, as if he were hypnotized.

• "pretty as always," he mutters to himself, leaning forward and throwing your legs over his shoulders. he wastes no time devouring, sucking up your juices with an open and ready mouth. his tongue darts out hungrily, teasing your hole. he brings one hand up to rub into your clit, feeling it throb under his touch. you whine at the onslaught of pleasure, putting your hand over your mouth to muffle your cries.

• johnny notices this quickly, tugging on your arm until your hand is removed. with one hand holding down a thigh, the other is interlacing with yours lovingly, a sign that he's doing this because he adores you.

• still tongue fucking you, your hips rock needily. his nose catches on your clit, giving you a delicious combination of pleasure that leaves your eyes watering. he laughs to himself at your movements, sending vibrations that make you tremble.

• his lips move back up to your clit, sucking deeply. his tongue flicks against it, his jaw dancing with each movement. his beard scratches against your folds, earning a sweet burning sensation as the slippery friction combines with the scratchy one.

• "my compliments to the chef," he lazily compliments you, pulling away to breathe. you stroke the side of his scruffy face as you catch your own breath. the tip of his nose, lips, and beard are glistened by your arousal. even with his pretty grin shining up at you, his comment makes you lean back as you groan dramatically.

• "just shut up and make me cum," you huff out frustratingly, grabbing a handful of his hair again. the sudden yank makes him gasp as he sinks back down against you. he grins to himself, the only reason you know is because you can feel his teeth against your pussy.

• "m'sorry," he sheepishly mutters against your folds before diving back in, this time with a clear goal in mind. with your hole thoroughly soaked, he slides a finger in, and then two, pumping at an even pace that makes you writhe and whine. he latches back onto your clit, sucking with fervor. johnny prods and pokes deep inside of your walls, searching for what'll make you cry out his name in desperation.

• you would've felt guilty with how much you were receiving and how little you were giving in return, but you were horribly amused when you noticed that johnny was whimpering into your pussy, his hips hopelessly rutting against the couch through his fluffy robe. johnny's pleasure was very much riding on yours, and it was yet another reason you fell in love with him.

• your orgasm rides up on you again as you clench your thighs around his head. as if you were a twig, he forces you back open. he alternates between sucking and flitting his tongue against you, but what really makes you finish is when his teeth catches on your sensitive bud as he's knuckle deep. he bites down ever so slightly, enough to send a rocking wave of pleasure through your body.

• your back arches so far up you might need to get it readjusted by a chiro. he eats you out through your orgasm, prideful as he keeps you open like it's his last meal. your juices overflow against his face, but he couldn't care less. if there's anything he'd want to be painted with, it'd be your cum.

• when you're nothing but a twitching, whimpering mess, johnny finally pulls away, sucking his lips inward to taste what he wasn't able to take in. you look down, giggling at his pussydrunk expression. he cleans his fingers off with a sweet smile.

• "you're my favorite," he says in a loving daze, hands squeezing your sides as if you're an angel that'll fly away if he loosens his grip too much. "i hope you know that."

• "i know, johnny," you reply in a breathy rasp, wiping the sweat from your forehead. "you do too much for me."

• "not enough," he corrects you, putting your legs back down and sitting up on his knees. johnny glances around, locating your panties and bottoms and helps you into them gently. he stands and finds himself a paper towel to wipe his face clean. "wasn't too scratchy down there?"

• you beam up at him, holding yourself up on the couch by your arms. you shake your head with a sleepy expression. he leans over you and places a loving kiss to your lips, the hair on his face no longer much of a bother to you.

• "you should wash your face," you mutter against his lips. "i saw on tiktok that doing it too much with a beard bleaches it red."

• "no shit?" he entertains the thought. "i'd've been a ginger ages ago if i grew it out sooner. should i keep it after filming?"

• "i dunno. i'm used to the clean-shaven johnny, i think. i'll have you any which way."

• "that's what i love most about you, doll."

[thecapricunt1616]

Allspice (c.b oneshot)

𝐵𝓁𝓊𝓇𝒷 (𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝐵𝒯𝒞): You were so engrossed in the work, that you hadn’t even realized someone had approached your table until they cleared their throat awkwardly.  Your gaze slowly travels up, seeing a blue apron covering a white shirt, tattooed hands holding- your meal? Your eyes flicker up to his piercing blue ones. “Chilean Sea Bass” he sets it in front of you. You snort a laugh.  “Hm.” You look around before back at him “These people” you motion to the restaurant. “Other patrons. Which meals of theirs did you bring out- Chef?” You accentuate the last word, it was all too uncommon for a chef to personally bring a meal out to a table. 

♡ O.S Inspo: Forever & Always - Fearless (TV) ; "Was I out of line, did I say something way too honest, made you run and hide like a scared little boy?" ♡ Pairing : CarmyxAFAB Reader as little physical description possible | She/Her pronouns used, NO use of Y/N :) ♡ Summary: You have a very successful Culinary Review blog, the social media manager of one of your new hometown restaurants 'The Bear' has been dying to get you out to try their food. But since the EC is a bit of an overzealous competitor, you end up having to go back for round 2- you end up having a delicious dinner, and a free show.

♡ W/C: 4,381

♡ Posted Date: 03/18/24

♡ A/N: FIRST THING: I am HORRIDDDD at writing Claire- I'm much better at writing Carmy cause were alot more similar- so this Claire isn't gonna be CRAZY canon, but I think she got the job done. Anyway- EEEEEP!!! Here is my VERY FIRST ONE SHOT EVER!! Inspired by my amazing, wonderful, PRECIOUS FLOWER @daysofyellowroses that can be found here :) AAAAA!!! My precious Rose I hope you enjoy this, It could ABSOLUTELY have a part 2 if y'all like it. I ended it here cause I'm sooo wordy and I didn't want it to turn in to a multi-chap. fic by mistake...but ofc if y'all want more just tell me and ill get RIGHT TO WORK!!! I really hope this comes off how I saw it in my head. There's no smut/sexy stuff, just mutual pining and flirty teasing, I hope thats ok!! aaa here we goooo!!! Enjoy <3

♡ Warnings for BTC: Swearing, Drinking alcohol (Literally it LOL)

➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡

Being a Food Critic wasn’t an easy gig, as much as people wanted to believe it’s simply going to famous restaurants, trying their most popular dishes- and giving your opinion, it was much more then that. 

Each and every aspect of the restaurant was under your review, from the second you walked in the door, you were judging everything. From the atmosphere, to the music, to the decor, to the comfortability of the furniture all of it, was to meet your expectations if the owner of the establishment wanted a good review.

Today was finally the day you'd review one of the restaurants that had sent 3 requests for you to feature a review of them on your blog. 

The Bear. Interesting name, you thought.

With the rugged name- you’d assumed a more millennial hipster-New American vibe. But when you’d arrived- you were quite…impressed? That instead of leaning into that all too common aesthetic, it was more of a classy, comfortable vibe. 

They’d not even had bear art, anything of the sort. It was pure comfort, mixed with subtle class. The kind that spoke to the cost of the dishes- but wasn’t in your face obnoxious. The only ‘Bear’ was the little golden bear embossed into the leather menu you’d been handed when seated at the table. 

The way you did your reviews was…a tad unusual - some chefs in the industry called it ‘unfair’ but you called it…the fairest things could be. Instead of telling them when you’d be swinging by for a review since where’s the fun in that you’d call, make a reservation under some random name, and they’d know you’d accepted their offer when the review had been posted on your blog. 

It felt most honest and fair because you were one of the most renowned food critics in the country right now. If they knew you were coming- any EC with a brain would spend the night before your arrival, prepping the entire restaurant and staff - assuring they’d be on their best behavior to try and squeeze a higher grade out of you.

 But you were just a reader once upon a time, years ago- when you realized in culinary school that the making of the art didn’t interest you, it was the observing. Food wasn’t just about taste, but rather the whole experience. And if every famous food critic you’d taken interest in back in the day- never got a true experience due to their notability? You’d never have gotten into this field. So, you were most keen on keeping things fair. 

A woman with mousey brown hair comes up to your table, dressed in the typical waitress slacks and black button up shirt. “Hello! Welcome to The Bear. My name is Sam, have you dined with us before?” she asks. 

You sit up in your chair, peeling your eyes from the menu. You give her a small kind smile “I haven’t” you replied, urging her to continue her script. 

“Well welcome in, we're so happy you chose to spend your evening with us. So for our menu” she opens it in front of you. “Here” she points “are our wine options, fabulous selection this month. Then we have draft beers right next to it. On the following page” she points “all of our craft cocktails, then this,” she points in the bottom corner. 

“Our house cocktail - Just called The Bear. It’s wonderful, if you like old fashions you’ll love this - made with Bearface Triple Oak Whiskey.” She said and you nod. 

 “That please. That’s what I’ll start with” you said and she nodded. 

“I’ll get that right in. But quickly, just so you’re aware” she flipped the page and pointed. 

“These - are the dishes of the month. Each crafted by one of our two head chefs, they change monthly so if something calls to you I recommend you try- because it won’t be back” she said. You raised your eyebrows a bit in surprise and nod. 

“Thank you” you said and she gives a nod before heading off to the bar to put in your drink order before heading off to tend to other tables in your section. 

Having an alternating menu intrigued you, for such a high end establishment- one with a Michelin star at that- implementing such a menu would consistently have their star at risk. One dish, one app, one drink- that was not up to par and it would be revoked. You guessed the owners of this place liked living on the edge, as if being in this industry wasn’t already being constantly on edge. 

You gaze over the menu, the Chilean Seabass sounded like a fair assessment. Seafood was quite difficult to get right, especially in the springtime before peak season, and you’d be able to judge the consistency of the chopping and such because there was a fresh tomato corn salad that came with it. That was your rule when you came to judge restaurants, one main course, and one dessert.  

You’d felt like the main courses were the true stars of the show anyhow, and it would be unfair to muck up your palate with an app that was usually something easy to get right (since they were usually fried, covered in cheese, or some kind of carb). And the dessert usually showed the restaurant's creativity, which you loved to see, so 2 dishes was your max. 

The waitress returns with the cocktail, setting it down with a napkin under it. “Here you are, now- have you decided on a starter?” She questioned and you shook your head. 

“Straight to the good stuff, I’d like the Chilean Sea Bass please. And for dessert,” you flick the page and your eyes settle on the words savory cannoli - hmm, imaginative indeed. “And uh- The Michael Cannoli?” You said, shutting the menu and handing it to her. 

She nods with a smile, jotting down the order into her notepad before taking the menu and holding it to her chest. “That will be out soon as possible. Enjoy your drink” she said and headed back to the kitchen. 

You sit back sipping the cocktail and humming. She was right, much like an old fashioned, but floral notes. Almost…chamomile? Yes! That was it. Very interesting.

You slipped your iPad out of your bag, opening up your journaling app and grabbing the pencil out of the little sleeve. You quickly snapped a picture with your phone of the drink, airdropping it to yourself and adding it into the entry and writing;

‘To start; ‘The Bear’ house cocktail- initial thoughts ; not too sweet, strong (but not overpowering), chamomile? Some kind of herbal tea flower’ 

You take another sip, letting the flavors sit on your tongue a moment before swallowing. “Mmm!” You hum to yourself, finally realizing where the herby taste beneath the chamomile was coming from that gave it that oaky piney taste. 

‘Angostura bitters- will confirm!!’ You wrote just as someone approaches your table. You look up to see a man, short brown hair, stubble. He was smiling, holding a plate. 

“Hello! Here we have Arancini with our house-made pesto, courtesy of Executive Chef Carmen” he placed the dish in front of you next to your iPad. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, looking up at him, scarcel confused. 

“Wrong table” you murmured, thumbing the dish back in his direction lightly. He cleared his throat awkwardly. 

“Nope- ah, he- he said this table.” He replied. It did smell fantastic, and any other day you’d never deny delicious, deep fried balls of risotto dipped in smooth, decedent pesto- but you’re working right now and it’s not fair. 

“Well, you can tell him” you lifted the dish, offering it back. “I have a system. And I’m unsure how he realized that I’m coming here, tonight, but I dislike cheaters. And he should know if he’s read my blog- I don’t muck up my palate with grease before I try the main course.” The plate was so close to him now it was nearly digging into his chest.

He nodded quickly, taking the plate without another word and briskly walking back to the kitchen. You sat back in your seat with a slight scoff. 

He thinks he can win you over just like that? How did he even know you would be here?

You picked up your pencil once again, adding a note. 

For the chef; Arancini smelt delicious. Didn’t order it, so I didn’t taste it . Presentation wise; 7/10. Pesto looked like it was spooned in the dish a tad bit messy to me. 

You smiled to yourself, you knew he’d read the final review once it was posted. And since he wanted to be a little cheater and get a overall higher score since he was trying to weasel you into trying extra dishes- you’d kick his ego down a few extra pegs for fun. 

You sat, nursing your drink, adding extra little notes here and there, as well as editing a blog post about Ghost Kitchens you’d been working on and how they were ruining the mobile order industry on the side. You were so engrossed in the work, that you hadn’t even realized someone had approached your table until they cleared their throat awkwardly. 

Your gaze slowly travels up, seeing a blue apron covering a white shirt, tattooed hands holding- your meal? Your eyes flicker up to his piercing blue ones. “Chilean Sea Bass” he sets it in front of you. You snort a laugh. 

“Hm.” You look around before back at him “These people” you motion to the restaurant. “Other patrons. Which meals of theirs did you bring out- Chef?” You accentuate the last word, it was all too uncommon for a chef to personally bring a meal out to a table. 

You swore even in the ambient lighting, his cheeks flushed slightly. “You- uh- you declined, my Arancini. Why?” He asked, holding his hands behind his back, the position making his already toned and tattooed arms appear more muscular. It makes him all the more impressive he has all these tattoos and still made it in this industry. I can only imagine the shit he got for them. 

You raise your eyebrows in surprise at his boldness. “Because that’s Cheating. Mr.Berzatto. I’d assume you know my work well. Considering you know what I look like, so- why try to cheat? You know how I feel about appetizers. It’s a scapegoat.” You shrugged, locking your iPad when you realized he’d been peeking at the notes. 

“Messy” his eyes narrow. He scoffs a bit, alluding to the note you’d written a short while prior “Messy?” He asks again, you laugh a bit.  

“Mmhmm! Oh, was it you chef? Wow…I mean- now that I think about it” you shook your head, now just messing with him since you see how much he was dying to impress you. “I could’ve sworn- the pesto it just..was too loose. Overblended maybe? That’s why it was impossible to plate without making a mess.” You shrugged, cutting up your fish carefully and spreading the vegetables with your knife to observe the cohesivity of the cuts. 

He scoffs, “too- too loose?! W-y’know what. No. No. It- you’re gonna try it.” He demands and you look up at him, nearly laughing at the seriousness of his tone. 

“That depends. Bring me a pesto worth trying and I’ll think about it. Now” you wave him off casually “I can’t work with the chef over my shoulder. So- Shoo chef don’t bother me” you teased and he shook his head. 

“Game on.” He muttered, heading back to the kitchen.  

You smiled to yourself, the Arancini absolutely isn’t going into the review. But you’ll humor his ego by trying it.

You cut the fish thoroughly, checking the texture and the evenness of the seasonings slathered on the skin, writing little notes as you go along. The cuts of the vegetables were pristine. Nearly perfect. The only misshapen pieces were clearly cosmetic defects of the vegetable. The chef that cut these was immaculate with a knife. 

When you took your first bite, you nearly moaned. The fish was buttery, the skin was crispy, slightly spicy, tangy, the flesh melted in your mouth. The risotto was so cheesy and buttery and wonderful. You could eat this meal every night for the rest of your life and never get sick of it. It was the best Sea bass you’d ever tasted. 

You opened your iPad again, jotting down notes about the flavors, the mouth feel, all the usual points you hit in your review. 

This meal is a 9.2 out of 10. 

You write at the bottom. Very fair score, you never had rated something as a 10. Something being a 10 would be- you don’t even know what it would be. But it would be what the score says, perfection. And while this dish was wonderful, and very very good- it was not perfect. At least to your heavily trained palate. 

You finished what you wanted out of the meal, pushing the plate to the side and not soon after, Carmen was back at your table. He placed the plate in front of you, 3 perfectly circular Arancini discs were placed equal distance on the plate, and truly beautiful pesto, sat in the dish alongside it. It frankly was immaculately plated. 

“Unbroken pesto. Sorry again, about the last one.” He said, watching you carefully. You hum as you grab your fork, splitting one of the discs and digging out some of the risotto. 

“Could be firmer.” You said, eyes flicking to his. He nods, clearing his throat a bit. 

“It’s not- uh- it’s” 

“Fresh” you finished for him, raising your brows and he nods. “So- since you’re frying it. You cook it for about..a minute- maybe forty seconds less than you usually would.” You said, daintily taking the bite off your fork. 

“Heard..” he nodded, waiting for your reaction. You hummed a bit. 

“Great balance of parm and butter though. I’ll give you that. Neither overpowers the other, that’s hard to do considering the notes” you added, cutting up the crust and tasting it. 

“Mm-“ you scrunch your nose and his face visibly drops. “Mm-mm…no- not peanut oil…why would you do that? It totally overpowers the breadcrumb with this like…cheapy taste. I’d say it would be way better if you fried it in sunflower oil” you added, digging out more of the risotto and dipping it in the pesto before having a bite and humming. 

“This though” you point at the little dish of green sauce with your fork. “This is great.” You add and he nods. 

“Ok-yeah…ok…” he nods, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Thank y’for trying it.” He said and you nod. 

“I’ll be back for a fair assessment. I think I’ll pass on the cannoli tonight, and just get the bill. Thank you” you slipped your pencil in the case before putting your iPad in your bag and holding your hands on the table in front of you. 

“Y-y’re coming back” he said, sounding slightly surprised. 

You shrugged “well- you clearly want a full review based on your behavior tonight, Chef. So I’ll humor you. I won’t tell you when of course, so just pray that it’s a day like today-“ you paused, looking around. “Where things seem to be running…alright.” You sat back in your chair casually with a small smile. 

“I look forward to your review.” He gave a nod and headed back to the kitchen. 

It was 3 weeks before you’d decided to return back to The Bear spring had quickly turned to early summer, and you thought you’d given enough time for your little conversation with the head chef to slip his mind. 

It was 9:20, 40 minutes before closing. You did promise to come back at a random time, and no time is more random then a Friday night less than an hour before the kitchen closed. 

You pulled open the door, stepped in and headed up to the host stand where the same man that originally offered you the Arancini stood. “The picky critic returns.” He said, tapping his pen against the reservation book absentmindedly. 

“She does” you smiled a bit. 

“Well lucky f’you cousin said you get a table any time, right this way” he leads you to a booth near the back, where you had a perfect view of the restaurant. Much cozier then before, right next to the doors of the kitchen where you could hear the back of house crew buzzing about. 

“Same cocktail as last time?” He asked and you raised your brows in slight surprise as you sit. 

“No waitress?” You asked, getting comfortable and setting your iPad down next to the empty plate. 

“She’ll be over, just figured a friendly offer couldn’t hurt” he said with a small smirk. 

You roll your eyes playfully. “House cocktail please, and thank you. But don’t count on kindness boosting your hospitality score-“ you stop, realizing he never gave you his name. 

“Richie” he said, sticking his hand out to shake. 

“Richie.” You repeat, giving him your firm professional shake. 

“House cocktail comin’ up” he said and headed back to the bar. You mulled over the menu, lemon chicken picatta, that sounded like a perfect dish to judge this time around. 

A few minutes later, Richie returns, setting the glass down in front of you. “Waitress should be by momentarily, enjoy your meal” he said, heading back to the host stand. 

A bit after the waitress came to take your order, the restaurant had begun to die down. You were going to be the last person served tonight it looked like, since in 5 minutes they would stop seating people. 

You added additional notes to your section about the cocktail, getting a better photo of it for your blog when you hear a bit of commotion up front.

You look up, to see a woman with curled brown hair in navy blue scrubs, her hands on her hips, talking with Richie with a frustrated look. There were tears in her eyes, you couldn’t help but tune in to their conversation. 

“Richie, please let me see him- he- he hasn’t said anything and I…I just need to hear him say it to my face. Please!” She begs, tears were streaming down her face now. 

Richie looks around nervously, tugging her to the side so they weren’t standing right in front of the host stand. You lean over just a bit- not so much it would be noticeable, but enough your nosy ears could continue to pick up what was being said.

“Claire. You shouldn’t be here…I’m sorry- he told me-he said that..that you can’t come here anymore. It’s too much and he will apologize when he can find the words. But he can’t. So please before he sees you. Leave” he said softly, attempting to soothingly rub her arm and she jerks away like his touch burned her skin. 

“Fuck you, Richie. Get him. Now. I’m not working on his time anymore. This is my time now. I’ve waited around enough for him. I’m done waiting. Either get him yourself? Or I swear to god I’ll go in that kitchen and embarrass the fucking shit out of him” she hissed. 

Your eyebrows raised, shit. Whoever fucked her over should at least be warned. 

He snorts, clearly amused before stepping back and raising his arms in defeat. “Have at it ClaireBear.” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think he’s gonna take kindly to you startin’ w’him in his house? Be my guest.” He shrugged, going back over to the host stand. 

And then it clicked. She’s here for Carmen.  

She laughed dryly, sarcastically, like a woman who’d had it. “You think I’m scared? Richie? You think I’m scared of little Carmy who couldn’t even check out a library book by himself? mm?” She goads him, arms crossed, chest heaving with rage. 

His head snaps back to look at her, brows raised in shock. “Kid- I really think you should go calm the fuck down, because Y’re not gonna like the way that this conversation ends w’him- at all.” 

And with that, she shoves open the kitchen door. You couldn’t just sit there and not watch- this was the juiciest drama you’d ever been privy to in person, and this means he’s single. You slightly curse yourself for being so giddy that this means the sexy chef would likely be on the market. 

Your foot catches the door before it closes, leaning against the frame. She storms in, eyes frantically darting over the kitchen. 

“Carmen.” She barks, the entire kitchen stops moving and looks at her, as if they were in shock and awe someone would ever raise their voice to him in such a way. 

He rounds the corner, holding a pan of focaccia dough that he nearly drops at the sight of her. He blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut as if she’d disappear when he opened them again. 

“The fuck are you-“ his eyes meet yours, his face going pale quickly, he looked white as a sheet. “Leave.” He orders her, slamming the dough down on the counter. 

“Leave?!” She laughs coldly, “you’re gonna tell me to leave?! You’re a fucking pussy Carmen. A pussy. Y’know- it was charity giving you a chance. Pity work.” She spits and you blink a few times, taken aback by such harsh words. 

Is she serious? She thinks anyone could believe dating a super hot, ripped, talented, chef prodigy - that was charity work in any sense of the word?

He scoffs, “Charity?” He chuckled dryly. “Claire- you begged me to fuckin’ be with you! You-you-y’re a fuckin gnat! Claire! You- all you do is-is fuckin’-” he runs his hand through his hair, his chest heaving in anger, “You dont know me, Claire! Alright? There- And I-I-I don’t want you i’m-i’m sorry-” 

She laughed, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. “You-” she whispered, her chest shaking with a sob. “You- fucker- I- I gave you a chance…” she whispered and gripped her wrist sadly. “I- I was there for you, Carmen- when no one else could fucking stand you.” she croaked.

“And I never asked for you too- please- just…leave me alone-” he shook his head. “Leave. Please…just-pretend we never happened, it was a mistake, Claire.” he breathed, clearly utterly defeated, and It sounded like he’d told this girl these same words multiple times. 

“M-Mikey would be sick- Carmy, he’d- he’d hate who you’ve become…” she said meekly, and with that- something behind his eyes snapped.

“Claire I’m not DOING THIS I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKIN’ RESTAURANT. WERE OVER. YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME! YOU MEAN NOTHING CLAIRE!” He roars, the veins in his neck popping out, angrily and aggressively pointing to the door. “OUT. get the fuck out. G-get out, b-before I-I-I fuckin- holy fuck” he finds his composure once more, even though his breath was still ragged from his outburst, flicking his hand next to him his entire body trembling with panic. 

She looks to her left and right, she’s not that- 

Your thoughts were quickly proven wrong, when you see she was stupid enough to grab a pan off the stove to whip at him. 

“Aht!” the spanish woman standing a few paces to the right said, quickly grabbing the arm with the pan and twisting it behind her back. “Drop it.” she hissed. 

Carmen looks between the two of them, utterly in shock. “Y-y’were gonna hit me?” He asked her, face twisting in rage. “Fuck you. Fuck you Claire.” He seethed, taking the pan from his employees grasp and tossing it in the sink with a loud clatter. 

“Get the fuck out” you told her, grabbing her from the handle of the woman who’d stopped the assault, shoving her towards the kitchen door and into the front of the restaurant. “Y’re a fuckin crazy bitch.” You laughed dryly, giving her a hard shove for good measure. 

“Oh and who are you” she straightened herself out, pushing her bag up on her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Glad to see that Carmy still needs someone to protect him. I’ll gladly give up that spot.” she said, causing you to laugh. 

“Oh my god- you are pathetic. He just spelt it clear as day sweetheart- you are over. O-v-e-r. He doesn’t want you babe! And no, he doesn’t need my protection- I was enjoying dinner and apparently a show until you went batshit bitch.” You snip, plopping back down at your booth. 

She scoffed “he doesn’t want anyone. The only thing he wants - is to remain miserable. Good fucking luck, whoever you are.” She said before stomping out. 

“Yo she was really gonna throw somethin?” Richie asked as he walked over. Thankfully, it was just you, him, and the bartender in the front of the restaurant.

You nod “thankfully she didn’t realize I was there- Carmen would have had a nasty burn, and a concussion.” You said, taking a large sip of your drink. 

Carmen comes out, eyes meeting yours immediately. “Fuck- I- don’t worry y’re meal is comped and don’t…don’t worry about a review, i’m sorry- I-I guess it wasn't in the cards f’r us to be featured on y’r blog... I’m really so sorry… Shes- ah..” he rubs his arm nervously, trying to find the words. 

“A woman scorned” You teased, and he snorts a laugh, nodding a bit.

“Hell hath no fury, right?” He joked, sighing a bit. “It’s uh…it’s my fault I guess…I uh- I should’ve dealt with that…I've been putting it off” he said and you nod a bit.

“You off the clock?” you looked at your phone for the time, 10:07. 

“Shit- fuck- sorry- I’m so sorry- give me like- I was making y’r food…and then-” you shook your head, stopping him.

“No- No…I was uh-Asking to see if you maybe wanted to..have a drink with me? Not-not like…professionally…” you shrugged, stirring your half full cocktail with the bar straw that floated in it. 

“Sure- uh…sure- I’d like that lemme..lemme go change, i’ll be right out” he nodded, heading back into the kitchen.

[chaseadrian]

fragile concessions

you don't mind leaving Eddie to his devices in your bedroom as you shower, you don't mind even more when you catch him taking advantage of the opportunity. [masterlist]

pairing: eddie munson x f!reader tags: 18+ ONLY, explicit, voyeurism, pillow humping, invasion of privacy, friends to lovers, handjobs, blowjobs, facesitting, mutual masturbation, light backstory aka porn w some plot, fluffy ending word count: 4.2k+ a/n: yeah yeah i know i've been gone a long time. hope y'all like this <3

Rifling through your dresser, you’re startled by a knock at the window. You bring the sweater in your hands to your chest instinctively, and step backward as you look through the glass. 

Black leather and ring clad hands wiggling a ‘hello’ from outside are more than enough to calm your nerves. 

“Morning, Eddie. You’re way early.” You push the curtain out of the way, muscling the old pane open, “Why didn’t you use the front door?” 

“I knocked!” He grunts as he climbs over the ledge, clamoring for your forearm when he loses balance. 

Your nails sink into the leather sleeve of his jacket, and you cock your head, “You did?” 

He looks up at you with a smile, brushing his wrinkled shirt, “No. Just wanted to see your bedroom. You never let me in here I—wow.” He reaches out for the chiffon fabric of your canopy bed, pointing at the cushion of pillows at the head, “Feel like I’m in a palace. Silk pillowcases? Classy.” 

The sweater knots into your arms as you cross them, “Weirdo.” 

Leaving him to wander, you pull a fresh towel from the hall closet, yelling back, “Well, get comfortable. I still have to shower.”  

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me.” 

You linger by the adjacent bathroom door, looking halfway over your shoulder to watch him explore. 

Eddie runs his knuckles over your belongings like they’re the most delicate objects in the world. Grazing over the rim of dust on your dresser’s edge, he scrapes it off on his jacket with a touch closer to his typical gentility. 

He threads the loose corner of your pillow through his fingers, and hops backward onto the comforter, settling into the mattress with a familiarity you aren’t sure he’d earned. 

You yell again from the bathroom, door half cracked, “I just washed those.” 

He adjusts his legs to hang off the bed, kicking his old sneakers onto the shag rug, “My apologies.” Grabbing a spare pillow to hold over his stomach, he’s half sat up against your headboard, tapping his fingers on the silk. 

You can hear him humming from your room as you shower. The softness in his voice when he thinks you can’t hear him always makes you smile. His kindness had a bite to it; if you asked for the shirt off his back, he’d throw it at you. 

Sometimes you like to watch him when he thinks he’s safe to shuck off his harsh, protective cloak and just be Eddie. The Eddie that leaves out a can of tuna by the trash for the trailer park cats, or carries the neighbor’s wandering toddler home on his shoulders. These little concessions towards fragility—like the soft hums with your silk pillow in his lap—remind you why he’s in your life. 

The bathroom clouds with steam while you settle into the hot water, humming along to his voice, reaching blindly for the shampoo. You shake the bottle over your head and squeeze, only to be hit with a puff of air and a few pathetic pearls of lather. It isn’t even worth it to scrub the remnants in, and you pop out of the shower with a groan, tossing the empty bottle into the sink.

If Eddie were to try and sneak a peek right now, the thick, fluorescent steam would ruin his show. Still, you pull on the robe hanging behind the door. You’re sure you bought new shampoo, sure it must be under the sink, but you freeze before you can even take a look in the cabinet, half kneeling with your fingertips wedged against the wood.

It’s silent in your bedroom. 

Eddie’s no longer humming, and when you turn on your toes to peek beyond the door you can just see his silhouette behind the thin canopy.

He’s on your bed as before, pillow over his lap, but now his hips rock up, knuckles white in the silk case. 

The cabinet door slips from your fingers, clapping shut, stopping Eddie in his tracks. 

He looks to the bathroom, and you dart behind the door.

“You okay?” He yells, obvious strain cut with even more obvious panic. 

“Fine! Almost dropped the shampoo!” You shout back, sitting down on the edge of the tub, wringing the string of your robe between your fingers. 

You don’t know if you want to look again. 

Eddie was always over familiar. Always controlling the situation, the ringleader who branded his group with every rough touch. Fingers hard on your neck, a peanut flicked your way at the bar, judgment in his smile.

All this to keep you—and everyone else—at arm’s length. The clothes, the hair, the rings, they did enough to keep most people away. But the ones who looked past that, they got the neurosis and informality. You know him more than he thinks, more than he allows, and you aren’t against taking that initiative.   

Of course you want to look. 

This is far deeper than you ever thought you’d get. 

Slipping off the edge of the tub, you crawl over to the door, inhaling a big breath of steam, robe damp and sticking to your body. 

You feel safe enough sitting on your knees to watch him, enough layers of steam and fabric and poor vision between you and him to keep this mutual intrusion a secret. If you were to argue it, Eddie using your pillow to get off is probably a bigger invasion than you watching him do it, but the shame was the same. 

One hand presses the pillow into his pelvis, the other pets along the grain of the smooth fabric, fingers touching down one after the other.

Sometimes Eddie taps you on the head with a ringed knuckle when you’re being smart. This feels like the gentle variant of that. 

Though his lips are parted, you can’t hear anything outside the hammer of the shower. A playback of all his dramatic grunts and scoffs loops in your head instead, and you see the way his Adam's apple thrums in his throat with every note of pleasure. 

It’s easy to piece together the way he could look behind that hazy chiffon, his chest rising and falling, slow to combat the noise he wants to make. The knee hanging off the bed just peeks out of the canopy, and he pushes up against your pillow using a firmly planted foot. You know the way his tendons move in his hand as he grabs tighter, presses harder. 

You make up the sound of his zipper sleeves against the pillow, a soft kind of scratching that could catch at any moment. If you hadn’t seen him now, you would’ve blamed him for being so careless with your stuff later. His name would’ve been the first in your head when you noticed the imperfection. 

But everything about right now is perfect. 

You can’t say there’s an established attraction, exactly. A curiosity, sure, little question marks in your head every time he calls you pretty with that surface grin. Maybe a dream or two in the years you’ve known him, dreams where he pulled you in from arm’s length. Not romantic, never that, but close and real and earnest.

If this is the closest you get—a voyeur to your own invasion—then you’ll take it for all it’s worth. At least you know he really thinks you’re pretty. 

You sit in stunned silence for a minute more before new movement startles you back behind the door, and when you peek again, Eddie has both feet on the bed, his knees pulled toward him, thrusting up harder against the pillow. It’s still slow, but he’s sunken into the deep plush of your comforter, hair blanketing his head. His features are distinct enough, the curve of his open mouth, the valley of his throat, you can carve expressions from familiar topography. 

It’s from this position that a weak moan cuts through the pattering water, and—for what you think is the first time—you feel something more than curiosity. 

Eddie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and he presses two harsh fingers between his eyebrows, smudging his fingertips across his forehead in what you’re sure is frustration. 

You’ve gone past filling the gaps of what you know, the pulpit of your stomach swirling with thoughts of more moans, how it must feel under the rough hew of his jeans, what he’d do if it were you on his lap, and whether he’d accept you there at all. 

For all his drama and fire, Eddie couldn’t sit in discomfort. He loved being the discomfort, but if it turned on him he was like a cornered dog. 

As you continue to watch him, the swirling in your stomach slips down, and for now a hand between your legs is enough to calm this bud of interest. 

The floor is slick under you, steam quick to fill the space of your parted thighs, heat on heat crushed under the just pruning skin of your fingerprint. You sigh, chest stuttering against relief. Slow, concentrated breaths quell any noise you’d want to make as you swirl your middle finger over your clit, Eddie’s moan looping in your brain. 

You focus on the line of his figure, the indent he’ll leave in your bed when he gets up and tries to pretend he’d been peacefully laying there the whole time. 

Without trying, your brain fills in gaps of space in your time with Eddie. Every time he left a party before you, a quick ‘I’ll wait for you in the van. No rush.’ and a tap on the shoulder. Trips to the 7/11, insistent that he must surprise you with snacks for the session, or each time you lost him in the bar, distracted by drifters who thought a beer or two would get you back home with them. 

The memories are tinged now with the sight of his arching back, his parted lips, and that singular moan. 

The thoughts carry you as far as they can, and the sight of him behind the curtain even more, but the rhythm of your fingers isn't what you want. It grows as stale as you hope that pillow must be for him, and with a sharp swallow you stand up to turn the shower off. 

It takes a minute to gather yourself, roughing your hair with the towel to shake off what nerves you can. You face yourself in the mirror, dewy glass blurring your body into something amorphous. You can contend with this fuzzy figure, gazing over your shoulder to watch it slip past the bathroom door. In your mind’s eye, it’s not you taking this risk, but the reflection. It’s enough to get you into the bedroom. 

Eddie has his ankles crossed and an arm behind his head, and he taps his fingers over his stomach as you approach, still roughing your hair as you enter. 

“All cleaned up?” He asks, his eyes following you until he’s looking up through his lashes, a quick flick to the space next to him before he meets your eyes again. 

You sit where he’d looked, tossing the towel into a laundry basket opposite the bed, “Mhm.” 

There’s a long moment of your eyes on his, and he snaps out with a shake of his head, and that stupid grin, “Shit, sorry, you probably want to get dressed, huh?” 

As he pushes to sit up, you close the space between you, your mouth just pressing against his. He pulls back with wide eyes that dart around your face, and he keeps a hand on your shoulder to hold you away. 

His lips form and abandon several words, but before he can get a noise out, you cut the space, “I saw you.” 

He jerks his head back, swallowing hard and looking past you now. More sentences starting and stopping without a thought fully formed. 

You feel the hand on you loosen, see him shift in front of you, but there’s no easy way for Eddie to escape the situation. 

“It’s okay.” You start reaching over for the hand on your shoulder, and he flinches. 

“It’s okay.” You repeat, voice quieter and firmer, and he lets you take his hand, lets you guide it from your shoulder to the pit of your throat, over the drying beads of water between your breasts, and under the plush cotton collar of your robe. 

His hand cups around you, rings warm and sticking to your skin, your fingers loosely wrap around his wrist for a moment before he accepts where you’ve left him. 

You both let out a slow breath. Eddie’s starts with a hitch, but settles into something calm and certain. He doesn’t meet your eyes yet, they’re trained on the concealed hand, resting dead over your breast. 

Placing two fingers under his chin, you coax him to look at you, your thumb brushing under his bottom lip, a few out of place dots of stubble pricking at your skin. You don’t think he could grow a beard if he tried, but random hair sprouts around his jaw from week to week, pimples following if he plucks them too late. 

You bring your nose close to his, and he tilts up almost imperceptibly, tongue darting between his lips. 

That first kiss was so brief you already can’t remember what he felt like, but the calm heat of his breath on you is steady, warm and inviting, and his eyes glisten as he looks at you. 

His palm is heavy under your robe, thumb running back and forth ever so slightly, catching on the natural pull of your skin. 

You let your eyelids slip closed, and finally he kisses you. 

It isn’t harsh or fast and it doesn’t light your insides up the way your imagination did, but you’re sure you’ll remember it for the rest of your life. His bottom lip trembles for the first second, slick and soft, and you feel the scratch of those loose facial hairs against your chin. The hand beneath your robe squeezes shut, the warm metal of his rings sticking and unsticking with a little sting as he builds confidence in the moment. 

The hand he’d kept on the bed comes up to curl over the slope of your neck, and as you lean into him he slides the collar of the robe down past your shoulder. It sits against your bicep, not revealing anything he’s not sure you’d want, but enough to let him kiss down your jaw, spattering over the bare landscape you’ve allowed him. 

You slip a hand under the hem of his old t-shirt, pinching at the rolled skin of his abdomen, body curved uncomfortably as he’s half sat up on the bed. 

He backs away from kissing when you push him down onto the comforter, both hands grabbing your arms to bring you with. You stay sat on the edge of the bed, torso twisted to follow him as he wants. 

“Take off the jacket.” You whisper against his mouth, dragging your lips under his jaw and down his throat. You pull his shirt up and fix your hands on his hips, marking the skin down his chest with nips and long kisses. He struggles to tug the jacket off and can only manage the sleeves, leather crinkling under him as he wriggles under you. 

You drag the tip of your tongue over his happy trail, and he watches with quiet interest, fingers gliding over your bare shoulder. 

Eddie isn’t wearing anything under his jeans, you can feel the length of his erection stuffed uncomfortably beneath the denim. 

“Ohh, please.” He whispers, more breath than anything else. 

You hum with a smile, watching him as you unbutton and unzip and tug the bottoms down his thighs. 

His hand hovers over the back of your head, nails just touching down along your hair, and he settles for resting it on your back. 

He isn’t over or under-endowed, you can comfortably wrap a hand around his base and hold the rest of him in your mouth without strain, but you start with the hand. Dribbling a mouthful of spit over his tip, you slip your fisted hand down the shaft, thumb pressing into the rim of his head. He holds back expletives, syllables drawn out and dying behind his teeth. You’re slow, gliding your hand over his length and watching the wrinkles as he screws his eyes shut and pushes his hand over his forehead, bangs fraying out of place. 

His cock thrums under your hand, and you squeeze his thigh as it jerks, quick spasms of enjoyment relieving tension. 

You wait until there’s obvious pressure in his chest, until his Adam’s apple is taut against his throat, and he can barely eke out breaths. 

Without knowing, he gives you what you want as you swirl your tongue around his tip for the first time. He can’t hold back the languid, whimpering moan that escapes his open mouth, all the air in his lungs expelled with it. 

Watery, salty precum slides over your tongue, and you close your lips around him, hollowing your cheeks as you work down his shaft. Spit pools into your mouth and over your bottom lip, and as your chin brushes the hair at Eddie’s base, you feel sweat and spit drying on the skin. 

Eddie’s hesitance falls away as he starts to lose himself, the hand on your back coming up to gently push down your head, not forceful, exactly, but wanting. He whimpers with increased impatience the harder you work him, the hum of your mouth around him an added jolt of pleasure. 

You break for a moment to suck marks into the sharp angle of his hip bone, your hand a warm substitute that still pulls beautiful noises from him. He hisses against the kiss, the curve of his belly heaving with full breaths. He has faint marks of muscle definition when he flexes against your touch, but his abdomen rounds with every intake of air, and you press your lips along his pelvic line to feel the way he’s working through your touch. 

Kissing the bush of hair around his shaft, you run your thumb over his head, your tongue flat against his base, dragging up to lick away the new dribbles of precum. 

He lets your name fall from his lips, and a mewling, strained, “Please…keep going…” with his nails combing over the back of your head. 

You take him entirely in your mouth once again, and he ruts up, hitting the back of your throat. You swallow the near-gag, and Eddie’s laughter—tied into an apology— hits your ear, the first instance of that rough-hewn boy you’re used to. 

In response you curl your free hand around his balls and give them a light squeeze, clutching them against the base of his shaft to compress the tension he must be feeling. You imagine it’s a tight, coiled pain in his stomach, and it’s your greed more than anything that keeps him from relief. 

Eddie wriggles underneath you, his body twitching outside his control, incomplete requests for release dying on his tongue. 

What he finally chokes out is an ill timed warning, his orgasm already spilling into your mouth by the time he tells you he’s going to come. It’s warm and salty down your throat, and if it came from anyone else it would be an off-putting sensation that you’d be quick to spit out, but with Eddie paralyzed under you as he finishes, no taste could be sweeter or more satisfying. 

You don’t even have time to swipe the sleeve of your robe over your lips before he’s tugging you up to his mouth. 

This kiss is harsh and deep and the hand on your head presses you hard into him. His tongue twists over yours, warm and slimy, loud smacks between you with every kiss. 

You’ve no choice now but to climb on him, straddling his stomach, his hand coming down to slide the robe entirely off. Your knees nick on the sharp parts of his jacket, but it’s a pale feeling compared to the heat of your bodies and his hands burning into your skin, branding your hip as you grind on him. 

“Hey, hey.” He pulls you back with a hand on your cheek, thumb tugging at the bulb of your cheekbone. You’re both flustered and disheveled when your eyes meet, and you feel you could fall forever into the pit of that dark brown. “Sit on my face.” He breathes, kneading at the skin of your ass, gaze trained on your reaction. 

“Yeah?” You ask, the throbbing between your thighs ever present as you’ve stilled on him. 

He nods, his hand slipping from your cheek to coast down your body and rest on your other hip. They coil underneath your thighs to hold you as you re-situate yourself over him, hovering just above his mouth, a little hesitant to drop your weight on him. This felt somehow more intimate than a blowjob, smothering him with your body, the full potential of your spasms direct and right there on his tongue. 

Eddie didn’t care, he forced you down with his arms, and you lurched forward against the headboard, one hand wrapping over the edge, the other a buffer between your forehead and the hardwood. 

The pleasure was instant and overwhelming, Eddie’s tongue indistinct in its movement, lips and spit and the tickle of his nose worming their way through your body. 

His grip was tight on you, arms wrapped around your thighs, and the soft curl of his hair rustled under your skin. He doesn’t move you over his tongue, but rather keeps you still, tries to stop you wriggling and doing the work yourself. You oblige best you can, holding the headboard tighter, biting down into the skin of your forearm, wanting even now to give him what he wants, to let him help you in whatever way he sees fit. He’s giving you more of himself than you ever imagined he could, and more than anything you just want to languish in this moment for as long as you can. 

He hums underneath you, satisfied little hums that rise and fall with his focus. 

It’s when you go silent—your breath caught in your chest, moans stuck in your throat—that Eddie starts rocking you over his mouth. The heat in your stomach is unbearable, and you gasp as he guides you back and forth over his tongue, everything below his nose a wet, slobbering mess, just as much from you as it is him. You slip against him with ease, grinding harder and faster, any worry you had about smothering him long gone with the ever-winding spiral of ecstasy that sits in your belly. 

Tighter and tighter it curls, the rocking of your hips uneven and desperate now. 

Eddie slides his hands as far as he can up your back, combing lines down your skin with his nails, and you wriggle closer to the headboard, so close to the end that every touch is torturous. 

You haven’t spent half as long with his head between your thighs as he did with your lips around his cock, but any shame you could possibly feel will come later. You just want the relief, to unfurl and collapse and let him feel you shaking over the knack of his tongue. 

You drop entirely onto him, his tongue swirling over the pulsing nub of your clit, and he grabs you as hard as he can, just as needy and wanting. 

He groans underneath you, and your vision explodes behind your eyes. 

Spasming and shaking, he holds you as you come undone, tilting his head up as the orgasm sends you backward to lay on his chest. He doesn’t stop running his tongue over your clit even as it becomes overwhelming, wanting to capture every last dredge of your climax. He laps up the arousal that wells from you, sucking kisses between your lips. 

The euphoria layers in your body like waves of radar, one after the other until you’re begging him to let you go. You can’t quite catch your breath, wheezing as you try to pull air into your lungs, evening out as the radiation of pleasure cools to satisfaction. 

You roll off him onto your stomach, resting your head in your arms to look back at with a smile. 

He pushes his bangs up and shakes his head with a laugh, “Nuts.” He squeezes your calf. 

You both sit in the moment, a comfortable silence between you with his hand resting on your leg.

Silence wasn’t golden in your experience with Eddie thus far. If there wasn’t conversation, there was music; if there wasn’t music, there was his humming. Any quiet with Eddie around was borne out of tension, but now you feel a deep tranquility even as the cool air of the still-open window hits your bare skin.

He runs his fingers gently back and forth, and the both of you let out a content sigh at the same time. 

“J—”

“—inx! Ha!” Eddie is a hair faster, and he jiggles your calf in accomplishment before shifting to mirror you on your stomach. He hovers in front of your lips, muscling you over a bit with his shoulder, “Owe me a…kiss?” 

You let your head fall into your arms, a kick of giddiness in your stomach, but you come back to meet his lips. 

There’s a smile in this kiss, you think maybe there could be more. Kisses, smiles, whatever you can get. 

Whatever Eddie can give. 

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Wow, this is 1931 home in Winnetka, Wisconsin is impressive. 9bds, 9ba, $8.9M.

Wow, look at the carved wood walls. There's an original tile floor in the foyer, too, and a leaded glass inner door.

You know, I like the white carpet on the stairs. I wouldn't want to clean it, but it looks beautiful. This home has those bas relief ceilings, too.

Is it the way they're photographing the room to get the ceiling in, or are the ceilings low? The large sitting room has wood paneled walls to match the entrance hall, plus the same ceiling and a beautiful fireplace.

Very classy guest powder room. Black marble floor with white veining, and the marble counter on top of an antique dresser has a sink ringed in gold. The gold wallpaper ties it all in.

Comfy home office. The rounded desk looks art deco and is nestled perfectly in a triad of framed windows.

The library shelving is gorgeous. Oblong octagonal cutouts in carved shelves, and that gorgeous fireplace in the middle has a pediment with a pineapple and a black & white marble surround.

I like this light dining room. Cream and pale blue bas relief ceiling is so soft and stunning.

These cheery bright dining spaces are so pleasing. This is a breakfast room in creamy white and it gets a lot of sun from the windows to the garden.

The kitchen is a professional chef's kitchen. It begins with a large pantry done in the same cream color with large glass paned doors on the cabinets so you can see the dishware. The kitchen cabinetry looks maple and has a cute corner fireplace, black countertops and copper pots hanging over the double island.

At the top of the stairs on the 2nd level is a magnificent oval leaded glass skylight. The glass panes are opalescent. And, there's a large sitting room up here, too.

They've made a walkway between 2 area rugs in the huge primary bedroom. On one side is a lovely mahogany canopy bed that contrasts well against the white room and the other side is a sitting room.

There is a huge home office up hear with a pretty French Provincial desk and a chaise lounge.

The bath is nice, there's a separate room for the toilet, and a lovely vintage marble counter on the sink. Love the rust-colored marble on the floor.

What a lovely guest room. It's so large, there's a huge picture window between 2 full-sized canopy beds.

Down in the large basement is a rec room that looks like the ultimate man cave. Rich dark wood furniture, a red pool table with an unusual pool lamp- it's not the usual stained glass, this fixture has foxes in red waistcoats holding up electric candles - love that.

Wow, man cave indeed. That fireplace is the size of a room. You can definitely walk in there. And, look at the life-sized butler statue in the corner. Is he creepy?

The home gym looks commercial. Mirrored walls and a black ceiling make it look industrial.

Outside, the iron gate makes it look like a secret garden.

The hedges are cut in patterns.

It must cost a fortune to maintain these gardens. The property is 3.25 acres.

Is it me, or does the pool look like a fidget spinner.

I love conservatories and this one is lovely. The plants and wicker furniture really bring the outdoors in.

This is the prettiest tennis court with the trees and latticed fencing.

An elaborate play set for the children looks like it conveys.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/44-Locust-Rd-Winnetka-IL-60093/70453195_zpid/

[maryjanes-brain]

Very Classy, Very Elegant, Very DEMURE.

Black Ballerina Hello Kitty 3FT

[love-bugsy]

meet cut(e) | jason todd

the worst thing about love (two) / (one)

you’re just trying to get through your surgical residency, but this masked vigilante keeps showing up half-dead on your fire escape and reminding you of your dead best friend. oh well, at least he's cute.

tw: allusions to character death, depictions of grief, mentions of blood and injuries, swearing, completely ooc Jason but he’s like my own lil character now and I’m protective, i learned my medical terminology from grey's anatomy don't hate me

only jerks steal other people's writing (just don't repost, mate)

You’re awake when he stumbles into your apartment two weeks later. You stare at him owlishly; knees tucked up against your plush, non-indented couch, glass of Merlot in your hand kept carefully away from the carpet you just scrubbed the bloodstains out of. You set it gingerly on your coffee table, half convinced he’s not real.

“I got… a cut.” It seems strange for this masked vigilante - you may or may not have been doing some tipsy research on the hooded hero - to look so sheepish. All six feet of him stooped in your cramped apartment, one hand clutched to his side, that emotionless mask staring straight through you. You get up from your couch wordlessly, walking down the hallway to rummage through your bathroom. 

First aid kit and isopropyl in hand, you return to his awkward stance in the middle of your living room; his gaze intently focused on your overstuffed bookshelf. His attention snaps to you when your sock-clad footsteps meet the edge of the plush rug separating you. From this angle, you can see the stubborn, brown bloodstain that you tried to hide under the leg of your armchair - little marks… stains or rusting memories… You gesture to your couch, and he sits, taking off his jacket.

Yanking a stool over to sit in front of him, you pull up his shirt, brows furrowing at the slice in his side. He’s undressed the cut you stitched up for him before he should have, and you examine it while you clean his most recent knife wound. Your stitches are far from perfect - the scar bulging in some areas - but for such a high tension wound, it’s healed well.

Your eyes flicker up to his blood red mask for a moment, and it occurs to you - distantly - that you should probably be terrified. I mean, seriously. A part of you screams that this is how people get murdered. Another part of you thinks that this is the most vulnerable he ever gets; his shirt off, gritting his teeth through the pain of 91% isopropyl alcohol. 

Another - buried - part of you thinks this seems familiar.

Your gaze darts back down to his chest, lingering unconsciously on the end of the scar that cuts out from underneath his shirt. Your eyes catch on the ugly bruises decorating the tan expanse of his torso, some angry and purple, others a sickly yellow. He clears his throat awkwardly and your cheeks heat, returning your attention to sterilising his wound. Real classy, birdie, ogling a guy whose face you’ve never seen. He breaks the thick silence first, low voice crackling through his modulator.

“How’s it look, doc? ‘m I gonna survive?” You hide a smile beneath your exasperated look, brows knitted. Still, you can’t fully conceal the amused edge in your dry tone.

“You’re not nearly as charming when you’ve been stabbed.” He cocks his mask; unreadable. For a long moment, you think you might have actually offended him, until he huffs out a staticky laugh.

“Slashed, actually.” You scrunch your nose. Pedantic asshole. 

“Look, I’ve had a long day, which wasn’t exactly made better by having to patch up a freak in a super-suit, so just… save the witty ironicism for someone who didn’t have to clean up baby vomit all day.” You can hear the smile in his voice when he responds, mask’s gaze still fixed on your face.

“Ouch, doc, and here I thought you were happy to see me.” A little pause as you meet his gaze briefly, unable to shake the familiarity… the instinctive fondness that warms your chest. His next words seem more guarded. “So, why’re you helping me then?”  Good question. Your focus never falters from the slow concentric circles you’re rubbing around his wound with an alcohol soaked hand towel. 

“I took an oath.” He laughs again and you quash the little spark of pride that hearing it gives you. You swap the towel in your hand for a roll of bandages and a plaster, applying the latter first before starting to wrap his waist.

“My bad, doc, I thought you were helping me out of the goodness of your heart.”

You scrunch your nose, trying to suppress the smile that tugs insistently at your mouth. Reaching for a clip, you secure his bandages and help him pull his shirt down so it doesn’t catch. You get up from the stool, shuffling it out of the way for your future self to move back in front of your kitchen island. Yawning, you stretch your hands above your head, a little noise of relief leaving your mouth when the tension in your shoulders loosens. You pretend not to notice how his mask tilts, lingering on the sliver of skin exposed as your shirt lifts.

He settles backwards, leaning his shoulders over the arm of your couch so that his legs don’t dangle over the edge. You watch as he yanks your throw blanket haphazardly over his torso and crosses his arms over his chest. You’re sure he must be keeping you in his peripheral as you startle out of eyeing him warily, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of it. Maybe to save you some dignity. Padding back to the hallway, you make it halfway before pausing, words spilling from your mouth unbidden.

“You can have some coffee, you know.”

“What?” The question comes out slurred, a full night’s worth of adrenaline finally dwindling. It brings back a flash of a near empty coffee pot - last dregs dripping slowly into a blue mug held in lethargic hands. You blink.

“In the morning.” He tilts his mask, and you stumble to elaborate, “When you sneak out. You can have some coffee.” Cautious, you study his reaction, but your vigilante doesn’t move an inch - his mask’s white slits boring holes into you like he’s trying to figure you out. Or waiting for a catch. You think he might trust you more if you give him one.

“You have to wash the mug, though. And the coffee’s old.” If you focus hard enough, you can hear something percolating - the coffee in your makeshift warmer or… the tenuous thread of something like dependency. He shifts on the couch and you suppress a wince at the stress it will put on his injuries.

“I like old coffee,” he hums out blurrily, hushed static of his modulator nearly rendering the words unintelligible. You flinch, turning off the living room light instead of responding.

You’re seventeen, he’s sixteen. You give him shit for being two months younger than you. It’s so late at night you’ll start to call it morning soon, and the two of you sit on opposite sides of a diner counter.

You lean over the counter, arms outstretched, dropping your head into your clasped hands. He reaches over you, pouring out another cup of old, lukewarm coffee. He follows it up with an unholy amount of cream and sugar - just how you like it - nudging it over to you with that wry grin of his.

“Tired, birdie?” You are tired, but not as tired as he is. You think maybe Wayne Enterprises should be funding his college tuition, not this superhero shit. Superhero shit that he never talks about, except. He used to tell you everything. You used to tell him everything.

Because he’s smart. He’s really smart. Smart enough to not risk his life every night. You want to tell him that but you know he doesn’t see it that way. In that mask, he’s infallible. Instead, you hum in agreement, dragging the mug closer and taking a sip. You scowl at the bitterness.

He frowns petulantly, looking at you with tired, amused eyes. “You don’t like my coffee?” You set down your cup, wrinkling your nose at the unexpectedly loud ‘clink’ it makes against the counter.

“You’re so dramatic, blue, only you like day-old coffee.” He gives you a dry look, one that says he’s too tired to mock-argue with you. So instead, you turn on the sink behind the counter, rinsing cutlery to load the dishwasher. You both sit in near silence, broken only by his fingers tapping carefully on the counter and your absent-minded hums. 

~

You spend days agonising over a present as his birthday rapidly approaches, though you know he hates the fuss. You settle on a gunmetal grey lighter, shakily hand engraved with a bluejay. Something to replace his shitty BIC one, with its smudged sharpie lettering that barely spells out ‘JT’. 

Secretly, you look forward to the sardonic comment he'll make about how he thought you disapproved of his cancer sticks. The truth is, you don't think you could stop enabling him.

~

A month out from his birthday, he drops by after patrol with your copy of Wuthering Heights. You ask if he liked it and he says he didn’t. Something, something, overly maudlin. He’s lying. He always gets that little specific crease between his eyebrows when he lies to you.

It feels like all you see lately.

Are the nightmares getting worse?

Lie.

Stayin’ out of trouble?

Lie.

Are we always going to be like this? Am I always going to lose you when you put on that suit?

Lie.

Over and over until you snap, poking a finger straight into the crease and smoothing it out. You tell him you want the truth and he tells you he can’t give it to you. You yell at him for ten hour-long minutes, sweeping angry gestures with your arms. One of them knocks over his half-full mug - blue shards shattering in the slow spill of murky coffee. You wish you remembered what he said to you, but all you remember is watching him leave. The last time he ever did.

You wait two weeks for him to come back, recording apologetic voicemails that he dodges with clipped, sullen phone calls. Then, he stops picking up at all.

His death isn’t reported on the news.

Alfred visits you once after he dies, carrying Jason’s old leather jacket like a sleeping animal that might come alive at any second. You don’t talk - not even when he hands it to you - you don’t know what you would say. You don’t know each other, you have nothing in common, except that you loved the same person once.

Your life shrinks - going through the same mechanical motions for months on end, school, work, home. It feels blasphemous to do anything but stare at the jacket - to lift it from where it hangs on the back of your door, to make it yours instead of his - until, one day, you can’t bear to be distant from him anymore. You put it on, shove your hands in the pockets like he always did, digging around. You find an old hairtie of yours in the inside pocket and a stick of apple pie flavoured lip balm you lent him last winter. 

His lighter is in the front pocket, blue as his pale, dark eyes. Carefully, you place it on your desk, next to the one you meant to gift him. 

Two lighters and you don’t even fucking smoke.

oof okay, this one was a bit of a monster (don't know if it bodes well for this series for me to have struggled with this chapter so much lol) but i hope you guys like it. :) i might have to take a little break over the next month because of my final exams, but rest assured, doc and jay will be back again come november. tysm for reading!

with love, bugsy

[hearts4youz]

The Captains Daughter- Chapter 20

A/N: Chat, I am back. I really hope you enjoy this, It's severely overdue, but thank you all for staying with me on this!!!

Taglist:

@abbiesxox @n30n-j3lly @weird-katthing @kayoyamamegame @kroowonderemporium @astro-ghoul99 @darkravenqueen98 @gaylilangelbabyy @yuunnnaaaa @unicorngirly1 @noodlezz-bedo

Word count: 2k

Reader pov:

The following weeks are quite uneventful. We are sent on a few minor missions, all of which are successful, and are in a state of immense boredom. You almost want a war to break out at this point. But one late January day, your father calls everyone to the debriefing room. Anticipating a new mission, possibly one with more excitement, you and the 141 are practically bouncing on the balls of your feet with anticipation. One by one, you file in and sit down at the familiar long wooden table. knees bounce with expectation under the table.

Price walks in, everyone draws a breath.

Oddly, price has no folders in his hand, no loose papers, nothing. He walks in silently, clears his throat, sits at the head of the table and clasps his hands. He pauses before speaking.

"We're going to a wedding," he puts bluntly.

everyone exchanges confused glances.

"Well that was anticlimactic," Soap blurts.

Everyone breaks into chatter about the event before Price raises his hands to quiet the room.

"It's a good friend of mine, we served together. Names Bill,"

ohhhhh uncle Bill, you thought to yourself, happy for him and his soon-to-be wife.

Everyone nods and discusses the dress code, "Wait, wait, wait... am I going to have to wear a suit?" a voice from the corner of the room speaks up.

You turned toward the sound and saw Ghost, obviously peeved about having to dress up.

"Yes Ghost, your going to have to put on a suit," Your dad rolls his eyes.

The chatter continues as everyone files out of the room, the wedding was on for tomorrow evening, and you needed a dress. You contemplated returning home to get something out of your closet, but your overused sundresses just wouldn't cut it. You needed something flattering and mature.

That afternoon, you got permission to drive into the city to shop. The nearest mall was an hours drive from the base. Plugging your phone into the aux, you drowned out the hum of the road with an upbeat playlist for the drive.

You soon found yourself in a gorgeous, modern yet classy store. Elegant dresses lined the wall, from ballroom length to cocktail, there was no shortage of styles. Time, however, was of the essence. As you wandered aimlessly through the endless racks of dresses, an employee noticed your distress and walked over to introduce herself.

"Hey there! my names Georgia, how are you today?"

You give her a relieved smile. "Lost," you admit.

"Oh, happens to everyone, no worries. come with me, i'll get you measured and we'll find your perfect match!" Georgia says cheerfully.

She walks you over to an area near the fitting rooms, a plush ottoman and a soft rug are on the floor in front of a tall mirror. Georgia grabs her measuring tape and notes a few things.

"So, what occasion is this dress for?"

"A wedding, distant family friend."

She hums, "Okay so, like stunning... but like not steal the show stunning."

"Oh well I hardly think I could steal any of the spotlight from-"

Georgia cuts you off, "Nonsense! your absolutely enchanting!"

You give a weak smile at the complement as she goes and finds multiple dresses in various styles and colors. She goes through a quick but in depth fitting and analysis of each. Within the hour, you find one that you fall in love with. You can't help but grin as you look at the way the fabric showcases your body perfectly. You take it to the register and pay, bidding Georgia goodbye with a wave and a thank you.

That night, you do your best at an attempt to sleep. Your efforts remain futile as you toss and turn thinking of tomorrow. Catching up with old friends and family, dancing and drinking, but best of all...

Ghost gets to see you in a dress, The most flattering and gorgeous dress you've ever picked out. Finally, you find yourself drifting off slowly with those exciting thoughts.

-timeskip-

You arrive at the reception with your father, the rest of the group has their own rides. You try to let loose a little by grabbing a drink and catching up with friends and family, but you find yourself eyeing the door constantly, waiting for your masked comrade to walk in.

"Watching for danger eh? can't escape them habits the military drills into ya," The groom comes up behind you and ruffles your hair. You half smile and turn towards him.

"How ya been kid?" he asks.

The two of you chat for a few minutes before he goes off to find your father, you return to watching the door, thankful that he thought it was military instinct.

About an hour goes by and you down a few drinks, you were slightly buzzed but your mind was still clear. You still keep an eye on the door, waiting for Simon. You hardly notice when an old childhood friend of yours snakes an arm around your shoulder.

Startled, you flinch and raise your fist, but then you realize who it is and drop your arm awkwardly.

"Oh... uh... sorry Jake," you mumble.

"Ha! You musta had half a mind to think I was some kinda creep," Jake smirks and pulls you in for a hug. You try to pull away, but he has a vice-like grip around your shoulders.

You and Jake had been neighbors as kids, he was always over keeping you company after your mom left. The two of you had grown up like siblings, that's how you saw it at least...

Around your teenage years, you had started to experiment with boys a bit. Jake HATED all of your boyfriends. At first, it seemed like a protective older brother type thing, but after a while Jake got possessive. He followed you on dates, stalked the social media of all the boys you talked to, he scared people off and you hated it. This marked the beginning of the end of your friendship. Once you graduated and went to basic training, you talked to Jake less and less. Seeing him here was startling to say the least.

"Oh uh... yeah... didn't recognize you I guess," you said awkwardly, avoiding eye contact.

You scanned the venue for a familiar face to start a conversation with so you could get away from Jake. He seemed to notice this and tilted your chin up so you were looking at him.

"You here with anyone," Jake asked.

"Just uh... my dad," you decided to leave the 141 out of it so Jake wouldn't get angry and try anything.

"Mhm, how about I buy you a drink then?" he suggested.

"Uhm no... I've got one already," you gestured with your half empty glass. plus, you wanted to keep a clear mind in case Jake tried anything.

The night went on and you finally broke off from Jake. You floated in-between conversations, still no sign of Ghost, but you had seen Gaz and Soap briefly. In the midst of your search for the Lieutenant, you found yourself on the dance floor. Unfortunately, Jake found you too.

"Ah, Y/N, thought I lost you there,"

You chuckled uncomfortably, trying to keep it polite. The song switched to a slow dance and Jake reached for your hand.

"Seeing you here has brought me back," he whispered in your ear. "You've matured since high school" He places his other hand on your waist and you try to wiggle away.

"Jake stop"

"Oh, I'm sorry, where are my manners. May I have this dance?" He smirked.

"No. No you may not," You didn't know if it was the alcohol or not but you suddenly gained the courage to push him away, leaving all formalities behind.

"Y/N come on... we're made for each other, I know you better than anyone," Jake's voice grew more stern and threatening as he pulled you closer again.

"I...no...n-" your voice squeaked.

Suddenly, Jake's face turned pale, his eyes widened and you felt a hand on your shoulder.

"She's taken," Ghost says bluntly.

You are shocked at the turn of events and spin around to see Ghost, which causes you to fall a little off balance, but ghost places a strong hand on the small of your back to support you.

"I've gotcha, this prick won't bother you anymore," he says softly to you. His voice becomes more menacing when he faces Jake, "are we clear?"

The three words from Ghost are all it takes for Jake to give a quick nod and make his exit. Ghost gives a quick grunt "An old friend?"

"Yeah, something of the sort..." you breathe, watching him go.

Ghost clears his throat, "Sorry i'm late."

"It's no big deal, you came just in time."

"Yeah, just in time to dance with you."

Your heart rate quickens as you process his words. Is he joking? there's no way...

Soon enough, the two of you are whisked into the whirlwind of couples, Ghost dips and spins you with great care, as if you are a fragile porcelain doll. You've danced with men before, but this man makes you feel like a princess.

"You look gorgeous by the way," he says softly.

Okay, no way he's actually saying this, i'm dreaming.

"You look uh... good... er handsome yourself," you say breathlessly.

Come on liquid courage! do something other than make me tipsy!

You continue to move fluidly all over the floor, "You've got some experience I see," you joke.

"Mmh... maybe I just did my research beforehand," he smirked.

The song ends and the two of you take a seat. You take him in, his suit, which shows off his biceps and seems perfectly tailored to him. His balaclava, which he exchanged for a plain black one instead of skull print.

"You clean up nicely, trying to impress someone?" You say teasingly.

"I guess you could say that," he shrugs nonchalantly.

Now that's an answer you weren't expecting.

You sit in silence for a moment before Ghost speaks up. "That guy back there, was he trying anything on you?"

"To dance with me, yeah."

Ghost furrows his eyebrows, "and you know him?"

"Yeah... long story."

"Hm."

More silence follows until Ghost speaks again. "Seeing you with him, I didn't like that one bit," he looks straight ahead, not at you.

"Jealous?" you smirk.

"Yeah I uh... I guess you could say that," he sighs, still looking ahead.

Silence again

"You know what, fuck it," Ghost says slightly louder. "I didn't like seeing you with whatever his name was because I like you." he says matter-of-factly.

Your breath catches "I...I-you...me..."

he did not just say that

"I like you a lot and I couldn't give a fuck what our ranks are or who your father is, I just want... no, I NEED you to be mine," He continues.

"I...I uh... yes," You are embarrassed at how much of a nervous wreck you are right now.

"I'm taking that as a you like me back," Ghost says.

"Y-yes," you breathe.

You slowly get more comfortable as the night drags on, you never leave the side of your new boyfriend as the two of you bask in each other.

"All I want to do right now is dote on you and love you, show you my caring side," Ghost says at one point.

You giggle, "is the alcohol getting to you? Are you going to regret this in the morning?"

"Nope, completely sober, wouldn't want to forget this night with you."

The rest of the night is like a dream, you can't help but picture how the following days will be with this new relationship. hopefully this hangover won't be a smack in the face in the morning.

[thesimofmanu]

Underbridge 70, 80, 90 - NoCC Mini lots

Cost: 24.774 - 31.781$

A set of cheap 3 mini lots rowhouses from classy to modern style, two of them have been conceived with an empty 1st floor for home business.

Type: Residential 10 x 10

Requires: All EPs and SPs

Recommended mods:

Rug Fix,

Ceiling light fix

CEP

Centerpiece Enabler

In case of editing or removing things! ↙↙↙↙

Shift mod

Shit mod Windows and Doors

Here the DOWNLOAD links

SFS - MEDIAFIRE

More info below ⬇⬇⬇⬇⬇⬇⬇⬇⬇

Underbridge 70

24.774$

Perfect for a couple or a single, with an empty 1st floor for a home business.

1 full Bathroom

1 double bed

Underbridge 80

26.860$

Perfect for a family of 3 members. no business space

2 full Bathroom

1 double bed

1 single bed

Underbridge 90

31.781$

Perfect for a family of 3 or 4, with an empty 1st floor for a home business.

2 full Bathroom

1 Guest WCs

1 double bed

1 single bed

all of these have:

Tv and sofas

Kitchen

Dinning table

a bookshelf

alarms and phones

a Streetlight

The rar file contains the pics to guide you. Hope you enjoy the mini lots!

[matthew-gray-gublers-babygirl]

Matthew Gray Gubler Headcanons

Warnings: Nsfw, of course. If I've missed something that should've been mentioned, please let me know.

Early 2000's

• So scrawny... like skin and bones. Partly because he doesn't work out, but also because of his Achalasia around '05 and '06.

• Shy of course, but once he becomes comfortable in a relationship he becomes a little perv and possessive... obsessing over your body like its oxygen and always holding you close at events.

• Definitely a sloppy kisser, and even sloppier when he makes love to you. He gets so drunk from the pleasure he can hardly stay composed.

• Hungriest munch ever. He'll bury his face between your thighs, wrapping his arms around them to keep your legs secure as he goes crazy, forgetting that his main goal was pleasuring you and getting lost in the taste. If he's feeling more submissive he'll ask for you to straddle his face, letting you choose the pace and use his tongue to your own will.

• He loves to hold your hips, while your fucking, dancing to a cd in his apartment, or just walking with you, he always has at least one hand on your hip. His skinny and large hands make you feel so secure.

Crutches/Cane

• Obviously, due to his incredibly injured knee, sex was out of the question for a long time. You would both be so afraid of accidentally hurting him or un-aligning his knee again. You took this as an advantage, though, using his temporary handicap to give him extra blowjobs than usual, and once he was out of the wheelchair and using crutches, you leveled up to cowgirl.

• He'd be so sensitive after going weeks or months with minimal pleasure, wanting to rut his hips up against you but the aching feeling in his leg made that difficult.

• Now that cowgirl was your only option for penetration, Matthew began to really love it. Of course, he loved when you were on top of him, riding and grinding. But when it was now the only option, he realized how meaningful it was. You chose to go on top and help pleasure him, try to mask the pain from his knee, even if just temporary.

• Often, he would just have you sit on his cock while he slowly rolled his hips up into you, using his hands to gently guide your hips. Sometimes all he needed was slow, gentle sex with minimal pleasure, soft whimpers and moans rather than receiving noise complaints.

• Matthew also used this time to perfect his head. As a thank you for all the times you've rode him, even if its exhausting and straining to your hips, he returned the favour by pulling your hips to straddle his face, making you sit on his face. He loved being able to pleasure you and only you while still laying down and resting his knee. Rather than just sloppily slurping up your juices, he tried his best to learn the ins-and-outs of your pussy, figuring out the tiny things that made you go crazy.

Beard

• He sometimes gets insecure of his facial hair due to some patchy-ness in the way the hair grows in, but when he nuzzles his face into your neck he cant help but melt at the sound of your giggles as his hair tickles your skin.

• Similarly to the previous HC, he loves to burry his face between your legs. The scratchy texture of his hair on your inner thighs is oddly erotic. Sometimes when he gets too crazy he causes some small carpet burns on your skin, often shaving afterwards because he's worried he will hurt you again.

• Matthew always gets so flustered when you call him handsome. Of course, he is always handsome in your eyes, but the beard accentuated it. The slightly rugged look was so enticing, while also coming across as classy.

Long Hair

• LOVES when you tug on his hair. Play with it, massage his scalp, anything, he's so in love. He gets so weak in the knees when you're making out and you begin tugging on the hair at the base of his neck, the length allowing you to get a good grip. When you do this he's immediately picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom.

• Whenever he goes down on you he tries to tuck it behind is ears but it always comes undone, causing you to hold it in your fist as he devours you, making him submit to you.

• After he's let his hair grow out very long to his shoulders, he'll put it up in a man bun to keep it away. That reveals his face in its whole glory, his (beautiful) hair not in the way anymore, making you pepper kisses all over his face which causes him to blush all down his neck and chest.

Cowboy (personal headcanon)

• Matthew just adores making love to you in the morning. The ranch is quiet, the world slowly waking up around you as the sun creeps up and the animals ruffle themselves awake. As youre tangled in eachothers sleeping bodies, Matthew usually starts with a couple gentle 'good morning' kisses on your cheek and neck, which inevitably leads to him climbing on top of you, soft moans, whimpers, and groans emiting from both of you as you make love.

• The rugged 'cowboy' look he has around the ranch is so intoxicating. You love watching him walk around in a pair of denim pants and a button down plaid shirt, his tousled hair in a cowboy hat to keep the hot Nevada sun off his skin. He'd be doing something mundane around the ranch, like tending to a horse or prepping a meal for the chickens, and you cant help but admire him. He always knows you're watching, but he doesn't interrupt your day dreaming because he knew he'd make your dreams come true later that night.

[sundays-sims]

C I R R U S .  (free, patreon)

Cirrus set is a set I have been wanting to create for a while; this beautiful, luxurious yet amazingly comfy cloud sofa. I really hope I did it justice! I actually re-made the whole set multiple times trying to get a good balance between clean lines and fluffiness! Cirrus contains 14 new meshes, including multiple variations of the modular seat, lots of surface options, a rug, super classy floor lights, wall art etc! The options for this set, in terms of setup, are endless! You could totally create one of those giant conversation pit, a really bed sofa bed area to watch movies all day or just a simple 2-3 seater for a small place. Up to you & your imagination!

↓ details & download link under the cut ↓

D O W N L O A D  L I N K : [X] (patreon, FREE!)

→ terms of use / TOU ← / / → instagram ←

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

Today I'd like to show all the Thoughts that we encountered in the game, but didn't end up Internalizing. I think that the more you see of these, the more of a complete picture you get of Harry.

GUILLAUME LE MILLION

Temporary research bonus: -1 Logic: Head in the clouds

PROBLEM:

Whatever happened to Guillaume Le Million, who -- with his amber mane and sparkling teeth -- beguiled the tattered remains of the nation? While you suffered and suffered, did he dematerialize in a cloud of cocaine dust? Or did he simply stand in the corner and melt into the slendering *New* lines of some starlit boîte de nuit twenty years ago? Spare a thought for his great ass too! Or wait... maybe he became a police officer in Revachol West! Hmm...

Completion bonuses: +1 Pain Threshold: Blood oxygen is boring All PSY learning caps raised by one

SOLUTION:

Bad news: Guillaume le Million did not become a cop. In '38 he went on a tour to the Hsin-Yao province in Safre, where he died of auto-erotic asphyxiation. His body was found hanging from a decorative dragon tree in his junior suite, amid drug paraphernalia, unwholesome objects, and the Sylvia Trainor single "Wonderland" skipping in the background. And yes, you can take this as a metaphor for Revachol in the Thirties. And also as a warning.

DETECTIVE COSTEAU

Temporary research bonus: -2 Conceptualization: An idiotic idea

PROBLEM:

Detective Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau -- when you say it, it feels like you're taking a bite of lemon meringue while sitting on the terrace of a seaside cafe. On a cool summer day. In Sur-La-Clef. It's everything you're *not*. You haven't created many things during your stay in Martinaise, but you've created this. A fancy, sophisticated name that makes you sound intelligent. And that no one seems to *acknowledge*. Don't you feel like you deserve a reward for coming up with something so special? And what would that reward *be*?

Completion bonuses: +1 Savoir Faire: This one sounds fancy, let's have this +1 Esprit de Corps: Yup, fancy, let's have this one too

SOLUTION:

Monsieur Costeau, the reward for coming up with your classy new name has arrived. What are the attributes Detective Costeau should gain in? *Obviously* Savoir Faire and Esprit de Corps. You know *exactly* what they do and what those words mean. They're *refined*. Like *you*. You have a ton of that fancy stuff. And if the world can't accept Raphaël Ambrosius is your name -- you will always be Detective Costeau to yourself. R.A. Costeau -- sophisticated culture-detective. Specializes in ancient things and art.

BOIADEIRO

Temporary research bonus: -1 Physical Instrument: Astra Country

PROBLEM:

It has been brought to your attention that there are men who live by the law of the land and the strength of their arms. Sunburnt, rugged, smoking men who explored the great rivery veins of upper-Magritte and tamed the Mundi wilds. Frontiersmen, cow-herders, philosophers -- the *boiadeiros*... with a gun in one hand and an unfiltered cigarette between their lips, these men made their own rules. What would it take for you to become one too?

Completion bonuses: -1 Esprit de Corps: Lone wolf Cigarettes give +2 INT

SOLUTION:

Smoking, Harry. It will take a lot of tobacco-smoking for you to become a *boiadeiro*. Twin cigarettes fused to your lips and one hanging out of your nostril. In these tame, cultured times, without the sky’s dome above your head, the only way to be a true Franconigerian individualist is to smoke a lot of cigarettes. Light one up immediately. The smell of coffee brewing over a fire pit, a chestnut-flavoured morning. Welcome to Astra Country.

I'm not sure we ever actually encountered cigarettes in the course of our playthrough. Normally, they give +1 INT at the cost of 1 Health -- this improves the effect.

MAGNESIUM-BASED LIFEFORM

Temporary research bonus: -1 Shivers: No shakes

PROBLEM:

It is generally understood that human beings are carbon-based organisms, fusing little carbon tubes together to form complex, mushy structures capable of thought, love, and locomotion. It is also known that these structures sometimes like to “take the edge off” by consuming ethanol, amphetamine, etc. In such cases, it is important to supplement your body with magnesium. Tired? Mag it! Down? Mag time! Liver damage? MAXIMUM MAG! Some people say magnesium doesn’t really do anything and you just need to quit. What do we tell them?

Completion bonuses: +2 Volition: Magnesium receptacle glands -1 Logic: No such thing, man

SOLUTION:

We tell them: HELL NO. You’re about to become a magnesium-based lifeform. The age of the primitive carbon-man is done. No longer must mankind rely on slow-working background radiation to take us further into our genetic destiny. This is the era of guided evolution, and magnesium is the key. You are the first of your species. The next step in human evolution. An advanced magnesium proto-man who mags it up, drinks it down, and sniffs it sideways!

A pretty useful Thought if you have low PSY.

BRINGING OF THE LAW (LAW-JAW)

Temporary research bonus: -1 Rhetoric: Weird jaw

PROBLEM:

Hey, so a little observation. It's all cool, man. Don't freak out, but every time you say “I am the law“ -- and you say it *a lot*, it's basically *hello* for you -- your jaw does this *weird thing*. It sort of shifts sideways, hanging off your face at a jaunty angle, while the word *law* sounds oddly guttural and low. It's... strange. You wouldn't notice it, but after saying you're the law eighty thousand times, the question *does* come up: why *do* you have Law Jaw?

Completion bonuses: Learning cap for Hand/Eye Coordination raised to 6 Succeed all Hand/Eye Coordination passives -1 Rhetoric: Jaw still weird

SOLUTION:

Okay, so. We now know why you have *Law Jaw*. Why you say *the law* in a weird manner, and why your jaw does that thing. You had polio as a child. You hadn’t gotten vaccinated. It must've been right after the Revolution -- not a lot of vaccine going around then. So you got infantile paralysis due to polio and this jaw thing is a complication from that. Admittedly, it’s not very funny. But you *overcame* it! This little infant survived and became a sharpshooting supercop. So: fuck you, polio!

This is a pretty useful Thought *and* it tells us something, in my opinion, pretty important about Harry.

ANTI-OBJECT TASK FORCE

Temporary research bonus: -2 Pain Threshold: Hurts!

PROBLEM:

Take a look at your hands. See how bruised they are? See those little scars? This is Exhibit A. The material world is holding you back. Containers, mailboxes, doors, chairs -- they are all your enemies. Always have been. Atoms themselves are in on the conspiracy, forming shapes and structures that you hate. You are energy stuck in a body. You are spirit trapped in matter. Break free! Beat up that lamp post! Let it know just how much objects *suck*.

Completion bonuses: Attacking physical objects heals damage +1 Pain Threshold: Thick skin All FYS learning caps raised by one

SOLUTION:

Behold: the Anti-Object Task Force has assembled. God's avenging angel, arrayed against the lower emanations of the Darkened One: shoe racks, tape recorders, motor carriages. And doors. So many doors. You're not just pounding it all to pieces. You’re *reforging* the universe. From the anvil of the heavens to the worms below. Indulge in it. Be bold. Have an *impact* on the shape of Creation. Out of the furnace of your rage -- a new reality! Also, you should trash your room *again*.

The first bonus here is not as useful as it sounds, because by the time you unlock this Thought, you'll have already been through most of the attackable things in the game. The rest is still pretty good, though.

DATE OF BIRTH GENERATOR

Temporary research bonus: None

PROBLEM:

Your face looks like it’s 58 and your body feels like it’s 60. Your mind feels like it’s lived for one day or a hundred. Both longer than they ought to be, the day and the century.... But for how long, then, has this thing attached to your sentience walked the planet’s crust? Time to start racking those brains of yours, Elder One. When and where were you born?

Completion bonuses: Learning cap for Logic raised to 4 -1 difficulty to all Physique passives

SOLUTION:

You were born in the year ‘07, in the last year of the Commune of Revachol, right before it fell. In the Old Military Hospital, on the ground floor where people usually came to die, during a snowstorm. The Revolution had about one year left to go and the fires were still burning bright. There were explosions in the blizzard. This was 44 years ago. You are 44 years old. The bloating might never leave your face, but beneath it -- you still have some years. You still have some hope.

I believe you can talk about this with Kim once you have the answer.

ARNO VAN EYCK

Temporary research bonus: +1 Interfacing

PROBLEM:

The question won’t leave you – why did the melody line from a broken and discarded tape fit perfectly into a song played by some speedfreaks in a frozen tent? Can it be a coincidence? Maybe it’s the hand of the Man-Machine himself, in his attempt to craft a perfect song. Maybe Egg Head is actually Arno van Eyck in disguise!? Eyck? Egg? Hmm...

Completion bonuses: All white Motorics checks unlocked Reveals Arno Van Eyck gig posters in the world

SOLUTION:

Okay, so Egg Head is clearly not Van Eyck in disguise. Van Eyck is an Oranjese disc jockey -- but those people get around. Especially in Revachol, in the clubs on Boogie Street. Perhaps he stayed here for a short stint and discarded part of the song he was working on. Just threw it away. And then it ended up in the hawthorn tree. But why? Did he think it was *retrograde*? It wasn’t. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of the future and did not want for it to arrive just yet. Perhaps the city whispered the topline to him and he was frightened by it?

We've seen variations on this one before for other skill categories. The Arno Van Eyck posters give you additional orbs to click, which synergises nicely with Jamais Vu.

Egg Head also directly told us that his name was in reference to Van Eyck at one point, so that was not really much of a mystery.

SEARCHLIGHT DIVISION

Temporary research bonus: None

PROBLEM:

Missing persons cases just really get to you. It's hard watching people worry about their loved ones – the little nervous movements, the dark rings around their eyes from sleepless nights. And even if there are no loved ones waiting – you like to have all your ducks in a row, and it really bothers you when whole entire people aren't accounted for.

Completion bonus: +2 Perception: Clear-eyed pursuit of truth

SOLUTION:

You've sharpened your senses by being on the lookout for missing persons. Now you notice more of what's happening around you. Perhaps when you're done with this case, you can join the Searchlight Division of the RCM, and find every Revacholian that's ever gone missing without a trace (there is undoubtedly a backlog of such cases). Because you never know, a missing person could be just around the edge, barely out of sight.

ONE MORE DOOR

Temporary research bonus: +1 Half Light: What is behind it?

PROBLEM:

God dammit, it cannot be. A disgrace! That door on the coast... you remember the one, right? The one that leads to the abandoned supply depot? Why, in the name of all that's holy, does it not open? *Why*?! There *has* to be a way to get through that unopenable door. By gods, you're the police -- all doors are supposed to open before you. What will the others at the precinct think if you can't open a goddamn door? There must be a way.

Completion bonuses: -1 Half Light: No fear All PSY white checks unlocked

SOLUTION:

There is no way to open the supply depot door. Accept it. You cannot open *all the doors*. You have to integrate this into your character. Some doors will forever remain closed. Even if every single other door will open at one time or another, maybe to a key, or maybe to some sort of tool meant for opening doors... But this one will never accede to such commands. A realization crucial to personal growth. Crucial.

There will always be one more door.

HARDCORE AESTHETIC

Temporary research bonus: -2 Interfacing: Fuck grammar!

PROBLEM:

Not only have you internalized the Hard Core Aesthetic, you’ve also *contributed* to it. How harder-core could you possibly become? Low-core people come around you to correct your “typos”: it’s “Hardcore” here, “hard-core” there, “Hardorcore” in a third instant -- what’s going on? Those aren’t typos, man, that’s how core hardness works. If you don’t know “hard-core” from “Our Happy Hardcore,” what the fuck are we even talking about?

Completion bonuses: +1 Endurance: Really useful for doing drugs +1 Volition: Same thing, Hardman

SOLUTION:

Oh yes. Drugs. We’re talking about drugs. Let’s face it, these flirtations with the Hard Core Aesthetic have all been leading up to one question: Can I do drugs *harder* now that I’m a Hard Cop? And the answer is: yes. You can. You can do one more blast of pyrholidon and yellow shit-powder, you can even pull a ciggie and a lager on top of that. There. You’ve *truly* made the Hardcore your own thing now.

Despite what it says on the tin, this actually just gives you more health.

THE INSULINDIAN MIRACLE

Temporary research bonus: None

PROBLEM:

You were reminded of a poem, somewhere deep inside you, the translation of which you don't remember… "Nulla sarà cambiato della luce!” it begins. “Colori come grigio e marrone / Tutti stampati uno sull’altro / Trovai un vuoto / Una macchia Bianca / Gli altri guardarono / “Che bella giornata! Che bel tempo!” / Ma sentii la rotativa." You were reminded of it when you heard about the discovery of Insulinde. But what does it mean? And how do you know it by heart?

Completion bonuses: All white checks unlocked

SOLUTION:

It’s easy. You know the poem by heart because you were taught it at school. It is one of the Volta do Mar mantras repeated on the voyage that lead to the discovery of the Insulindian isola. And the words mean: “Nothing will be changed about the light! / Colours like grey and brown / All printed on top of each other / I found a blank white spot / All the others looked up: / ‘What a beautiful day! What beautiful weather!’ / But all I heard was the printing machine." What strange words to celebrate a new world.

You can only unlock this Thought when talking with Joyce after the confrontation with Ruby, making it a really useful tool if you have anything left to do in the game at that point.

And that's all the Thoughts that we encountered in our playthrough, aside from the ones we already saw in the game proper. We did also *technically* get to the point where we could have seen the Thoughts for the moralist and ultraliberal political alignments, even if we chose not to opt into them. So, I'll show those too:

KINGDOM OF CONSCIENCE

Temporary research bonus: -2 Half Light: Calm water

PROBLEM:

Heartache is powerful, but democracy is *subtle*. Incrementally, you begin to notice a change in the weather. When it snows, the flakes are softer when they stick to your worry-worn forehead. When it rains, the rain is warmer. Democracy is coming to the Administrative Region. The ideals of Dolorian humanism are reinstating themselves. How can they not? These are the ideals of the Coalition and the Moralist International. Those guys are signal blue. And they're not only good -- they're also powerful. What will it be like, once their nuanced plans have been realized?

Completion bonuses: Moralist dialogue heals 1 Morale Learning cap for Volition raised to 5 Learning cap for Logic raised to 5

SOLUTION:

The Kingdom of Conscience will be exactly as it is now. Moralists don't really *have* beliefs. Sometimes they stumble on one, like on a child's toy left on the carpet. The toy must be put away immediately. And the child reprimanded. Centrism isn't change -- not even incremental change. It is *control*. Over yourself and the world. Exercise it. Look up at the sky, at the dark shapes of Coalition airships hanging there. Ask yourself: is there something sinister in moralism? And then answer: no. God is in his heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

INDIRECT MODES OF TAXATION

Temporary research bonus: -2 Empathy: Cold blooded

PROBLEM:

First, if you have a side-bitch ideology cooking somewhere, don't sweat it. Fightin' indirect taxation for the Gossamer State is compatible with *all* creeds. It's cool like that. You're a cool anarchist now. Unless you don't want to be an anarchist. Whatever! Stuff this meal ticket in your eye-socket and let's see if we can steal some *love* back from the robber barons at the customs agency and the *banditos* at The Insulindian Financial Oversight and Competition Committee.

Completion bonuses: -1 Empathy: Thinks he's a hustler or something Ultraliberal dialogue options give +1 real

SOLUTION:

Turns out those Financial Oversight Committee gangsters stuffed millions of hard-earned dividends away in the last place anyone thought to look: the hearts and minds of everyday Revacholians! You need to spread that deregulation gospel to the *people*. Tell them about that foreign fare tax. Preach that 98% gross burden. Preach it, preacher man! Set the brothas free. Taxes are racist.

Even with those, there are still *eighteen* Thoughts remaining in the game that we didn't encounter - either because we didn't have high enough stats, didn't pick the right dialogue options, or chose not to put any points into fascism. Some of them are mutually exclusive with Thoughts we did pick, some require *really complicated* methods to find. A few of them give us some more interesting backstory on Harry and Kim that's worth hearing -- but I'll let you uncover that on your own time.

[samkat10423]

More Community Lots

So, here are a couple more community lots in town.

This one is across the street from the school. It's where the business lot is in the modern version of this town.

It's an old lot from Parsimonious Sims called the Ruby Rooms, and is zoned as an exclusive lounge. I did do some relandscaping on the outside, but nothing much. Mostly got rid of a lot of redundant hedges that came with the original and added the trees out front. I wanted to keep it pretty simple.

This is the ground floor. In the one room on the left, sims can get married. I think the original creator had a major Twilight thing going on in her life at the time, because she went nuts with the candles. I did change out the chandeliers in the lobby and added a pool table in the lounge area on the right.

The second floor is the banquet area. I upgraded all the tables - giving them actual tablecloths because you'd expect that in a classy place. I also gave them a dance floor instead of leaving that open area between the 2 buffet tables blank. Plus I got rid of all the ceiling lights she had. Mostly because this is a 2-story room and ceiling lights hanging from a non-existent ceiling makes no sense to me. I used those invisible lights from buydebug instead.

And on the top floor, I used those store gambling sets, along with @mspoodle1's poker tables, to create a small casino area for my sims to lose all their simoleons. The left side she had made into a huge bathroom - that I left. I got rid of some stuff, but basically left it alone.

Then across the street is the Baker Street Bakery. I got this lot from the Magic Kingdom world. The original lot ended with that light blue build, so I added that extra build on the end for the town spa - because I needed to stick it somewhere and I had the space here.

This is the ground floor. I think all I did here was change the floor tile.

And this is the 2nd floor. I changed all of this floor, adding those tea-set tables and adding that small lounge area for the dudes. Plus the bathrooms. I think in the original, they had made this into a kitchen, but there was lots of room on the first floor for the bakery kitchen stuff, so that's where I put it. As for the spa, it just has the rabbithole rug in it, because I got lazy.

[devdirt]

Can't wait for my show to come out so I can never cast this guy. Just gonna...sweep that under the rug and makes jokes about it.

Best part is people in the comments saying "Valentino is my favorite character!" when all we know about him is that... *checks notes* he's a rapist. Classy.

Bonus: This gross fucker in the comments!