#1950s clutch

[susoriginals]

Vintage Ladies Brown Vinyl Clutch & Black Top Handle Bag with Matching Coin Purse top clasp for black bag sticks, Wounded Bird get Both for $8

#vintage purse #vintage bag #vintage bags #vintage clutch #black purse #1950s clutch #1930s purse #1930s black purse #1930s black bag #1930s accessories #1950s purse #1950s clutch bag #susoriginals #vintage #etsy #vintage accessories

[shewhoworshipscarlin]

Beaded bag and change purse, 1950s-60s, France.

#bag #purse #clutch #1950s #antique

[thinkbolt]

Clutch Cargo in Space (Cambria, 1959)

#classic cartoon #1950s #Clutch Cargo #space station #Cambria Productions #Synchro-Vox #TV animation #Youtube

[yuujispinkhair]

Boyfie Sukuna picking you up from your late shift

A while ago, a sweet anon sent me an ask about protective boyfie Sukuna picking up reader from a late shift, and I loved it so much because I would have really needed him too when I was still doing late shifts. So here is a little drabble about Kuna picking us up from work. I hope you enjoy it 💗

Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female). Fluff. Word Count 900. Mentions of smoking. Minors don't interact. Dividers @/benkeibear

"Ok, let's do this," you mutter to yourself as you push open the heavy back door, trying to hype yourself up and steeling yourself for the darkness that will await you outside of your workplace at this time.

You hate your late shifts when you're the only one left in the building and have to use the exit in the back. Your pulse already speeds up at the thought of having to walk down the dimly lit back alley to reach the main street and the subway station.

But you have no other choice, and so you step out the door and into the dark alley. And immediately jump when a low voice drawls,

"Hey, princess."

You dart around with a hand clutched to your chest and your eyes wide, even as your brain begins to register that you know this voice. And, of course, your gaze lands on a very familiar tall, muscular figure with a beautiful, tattooed face and slicked-back pink hair.

Sukuna.

He is leaning casually against the brick wall, one hand shoved into the pocket of his black jeans, the other bringing a half-smoked cigarette to his lips. He smirks around the cigarette, maroon eyes looking amusedly at you.

"Did I scare you?"

You glare at him, even as you feel a huge relief wash over you. Relief and that all-too-familiar fluttery feeling in your stomach that you always get when you see your boyfriend.

"Kuna! What the... yes, you scared me! What are you doing here?"

Sukuna exhales slowly, watching you through the cigarette smoke with those beautiful cat-like eyes as he shrugs and smirks that devilishly attractive smirk,

"Making sure my girl gets home safely, of course."

You can't stop the big, happy smile from spreading over your face. This side of your boyfriend always makes you so weak for him. This sweet side of Sukuna that contradicts everything the people who told you he wouldn't be good for you said.

Yes, your boyfriend has a bad boy reputation. But yet, here he is, picking you up after your late shift without you having to ask for it. So protective and caring when it comes to you.

"I'm glad you are here, baby."

You smile and get on your tiptoes to kiss Sukuna's tattooed cheek, feeling the anxiety you felt earlier leave you completely. When Sukuna is with you, you know you are safe.

Sukuna grins as he flicks his cigarette away and wraps one strong arm around you to pull you against his tall body. His lips brush against your forehead in a quick but tender kiss.

"Let's go home, princess. Dinner is waiting for you."

"You already cooked too? Are you practicing to become a househusband, Kuna?"

You grin up at Sukuna playfully, and he laughs, but he sounds very pleased when he replies in that sexy, velvety voice,

"For you? Always."

He winks at you and offers you one of his muscular, tattooed arms as if he is a knight or an actor in a 1950s rom-com. And you take Sukuna's arm and hold on to him as you walk down the dimly lit alley together.

Usually, you are scared to walk down this narrow, dark street. But not tonight. Not when you are holding onto Sukuna's arm, your hand wrapped tightly around his bulging tattooed biceps, his tall, strong body so reassuringly brushing against your side.

The dark alley and the nightly city have lost their scariness now that Sukuna is with you and tells you about the dinner he cooked for you and how he beat his brother at a video game they were playing earlier.

You know you are safe when Sukuna is with you. Even the two sinister-looking guys loitering around at the end of the alley quickly leave after casting one look at Sukuna's tattooed face and his tall, muscular body.

You smile and snuggle against Sukuna's warm body, thinking that there are definitely certain benefits to dating a bad boy.

You reach Sukuna's car shortly after, and he holds open the passenger door for you while smirking that sexy, boyish smirk, always acting like an old-fashioned gentleman when it comes to you.

You watch him while he drives, one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on your thigh, interlacing his long tattooed fingers with your smaller ones.

And you can't stop smiling from ear to ear. Sukuna cooked dinner for you. He came here to pick you up. And you know that he's turning up the heating in his car just for you. He runs on the hot side and doesn't need it. But he's doing it for you, just like he is doing so many little and big things for you all the time. Anything for you, without you ever having to ask for it. Because he loves you.

It makes your heart feel so full.

You lean across the center console at the first red light, pressing another sweet kiss to Sukuna's cheek. But he turns his face so your lips end up on his. You feel his grin against your lips as his large hand captures your chin, cupping it firmly, holding you in place so he can deepen the kiss, licking into your mouth with a few playful flicks of his pierced tongue before he pulls away again.

You smile, your fingers tightening around Sukuna's hand, which is back in your lap,

"Thank you for picking me up, baby."

You see the corners of Sukuna's lips lift in a matching smile even while his gaze is fixed on the street before him, and his voice sounds playful but warm at the same time,

"You're welcome, princess. From now on, I'll pick you up every time you have a late shift. There's no way you're walking through dark alleys without me."

Protective boyfie Sukuna makes me SWOON aaaahhhh. Honestly, this gave me such a feeling of safety. In my old job, I had to do late shifts, too, and I was so scared walking down to the train station and waiting for my train because all those sinister-looking men were already starting to crawl out of their holes, and I felt very unsafe there. Protective boyfie Sukuna would have made me feel SO safe.

I hope this could give you comfort, too 💗💗 Thank you so much for reading!! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #jjk x y/n

[guttersniper]

@curiosityshop​ as bunty said: everybody wanted to get in the newspaper story about it.

alice’s restaurant massacree.  

“ load of shit. “ gnawing off the remnants of a hangnail makes it plenty plain what mutt thinks of that. 

natural causes, they said. that stopped the flocks of opportunists, but he knows better. natural causes, his ass. lots of ways to do that. lots of ways he knows how to do that. he’ll keep that to himself. 

“ ‘ve got a friend down at the morgue. “ attendant. curly-headed. hardly a man grown, but likes to act like he’s old enough to boss mutt around. (nobody is.) young and stupid. chews tobacco and always keeps a spit cup with him. “ owes me a favor. “ he’ll keep the hows of that to himself, too. “ we’ll go see what’s up. “ 

#i love when hes weird and crafty and also that he has friends everywhere #comes in clutch when ur in a little english town with a crime problem #curiosityshop #curiosityshop: bunty. #t. 1950s. #answered.

[tvthemesongs]

Clutch Cargo intro

#clutch cargo #syndication #1950s #i still see the x

[mortal-eternity]

#1950 s la regale beaded clutch

[vanwritesfan-fiction]

Watch What You Say

Anon Request: Hahahaha I rlly want a concept where reader gets pissed with jack about the captions of his Instagram stories he’s written lately lmao

Warnings: language, references to condoms lol

"Jackman."

Jack's head shot up to look at you as you entered your shared hotel suite. He was laying on the bed resting before his Vegas performance, and Urban and Cope were relaxing on the couch across the room.

"Ooh, you're in trouble." Cope teased Jack in a sing song tone of voice. The room could tell you were pissed about something, and while your boyfriend dreaded those times, it was pure entertainment for his friends.

"Dude, shut the hell up", Jack tossed one of the pillows from the bed in Cope's direction, but ended up hitting Urban square in the face instead. "I'm not even involved in this!" Urban yelled as he wrapped the pillow in his arms, shielding himself from your impending rage.

"Baby, what's wrong?" Jack sat up in the bed, throwing his feet off the side. You pulled out your phone and scrolled quickly to Jack's Instagram story.

"I wanna try a 1950s condom", you read his caption aloud, your face in a permanent scowl. Jack was always posting what you referred to as "dumb shit" on Instagram, and usually you found it funny, but lately his Instagram stories were just over the top. "And then you just had to post two photos of vintage condoms, didn't you?"

A smirk climbed on Jack's face; he thought it was hilarious, but it quickly dropped when you threw daggers at him. "What? I thought it was funny," he whispered under his breath but you heard every word.

"What the hell goes through your mind when you post?" Jack opened his mouth, but you held up a hand to stop him before he got a word out. "You know what? I don't even wanna know. You know my mom follows you on Instagram, right? And every time you post something, she texts me asking to explain what you mean. She wanted to know why they refer to you as 'Missionary Jack'." You placed your hands on your hips. Jack could tell you were serious, but if he was anything, he was an instigator.

"I mean, I can show her better than I can tell her." Jack shrugged nonchalantly. Urban snickered, but stopped when you snapped at him. Jack barely had a second to laugh at his own joke before you had snatched the pillow out of Urban's arms and were smacking him with it.

"I'M.PISSED.AT.YOU.AND.YOU'RE.MAKING.A.SLEEP.WITH.MY.MOM.JOKE?!?!" You pummeled him with the pillow with each word, Jack cowering away from you. "Babe, stop! I was kidding!" You ignored him, continuing to hit him to get out your frustration with something that wouldn't get you 25 to life.

"Enough!" Jack was stronger than you, and took the opportunity to take the pillow from you when you were starting to get tired. You huffed at him as he stood up, placing his hands on your hips. "I'm sorry, I'll tone it down with the Instagram posts, okay?" He tried to lean in for a kiss, but you face palmed him. "Come on, don't be like that."

You allowed him to give you a quick kiss on the lips. You could never stay mad at him for long. "You better."

"When was your mom born, babe?", Jack asked as you snaked your hands around his shoulders, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. "Like 1975 or something, why?" You furrowed your brow at his question.

"Damn, I was hoping she would know someone who could help me start my vintage condom collection." Jack looked down at you, quickly seeing your face turn sour. You pushed him off of you, hard, making Jack clutch his chest. "Ow, fuck!"

"Don't be surprised if all of your shit is in the hallway when you get back from your show tonight, Jack!" You stormed out of the room, flipping him off as you left.

"I'm serious babe! It might be worth something one day!" Jack called out to you just before the door slammed shut. He plopped back on the bed and pulled out his phone again.

Knowing he was in the clear, Urban leaned over to Cope. "She terrifies me."

Cope nodded, his eyes wide. "Me too, man. Me too."

#jack harlow #jackman thomas harlow #jackharlow #jackman harlow #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow fanfic

[sweepweep]

Something I love about Arther and John’s level of trust, is that they trust each other enough to drive

Now, Malevolent is set in around 1930. The first automatic car was invented in 1929 and they were only widely distributed in the 1950s.

Arthur trusted John enough to help him drive a manual. John trusted Arther enough to drive a manual.

But just IMAGINE the complications

“Shift to 3rd Arther we can speed up.”

…

“ARTHER FUCK! NO! YOU WENT TOO FAR OVER ARTHER WE’RE IN 5th ARTHER YOU STALLED THE CAR SHIT RESTART IT HURRY”

“I THOUGHT I HAD THE MUSCLE MEMORY”

“CLEARLY NOT ARTHER”

“ARTHER. WHY WOULD YOU SHIFT TO NEUTRAL??”

“YOU SAID THE CAR IN FRONT OF US STOPPED”

“HE SPED BACK UP ARTHER GET IN GEAR”

“STOP YELLING”

“ARTHER FUCK NO WHY WOULD YOU SHIFT TO 4th WE’RE TOO SLOW FOR THAT WE’LL NEVER ACCELERATE LIKE THIS. NO DONT DOWNSHIFT NOW WE’RE GOING SLOWER HIT THE CLUTCH FUCK”

#i drive a manual #when i first started learning these were some complications #and some complications now that im teaching other people #john doe malevolent #arthur malevolent #arthur lester malevolent #malevolent podcast #malevolent #stick shift

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 1: History]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+) and drugs, alcohol, smoking, astronomy, mental health struggles, Missouri.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

* * * I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 * * *

@borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @randomdragonfires​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @libroparaiso​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ @moonlightfoxx​ @partypoison00​ @bellameshipper​ @coffedraven​ @greenowlfactif​ @catalina-howard​ @babyblue711​ @marvelescvpe​ @heimtathurs​ @ammo23​

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 💜

“You are a professional,” you tell your reflection threateningly, like it owes you money. Your hair is painstakingly tidy, your makeup neat, subdued, businesslike. You are wearing a black blazer, a white blouse, and Cookie Monster pajama pants. You are in your one-bedroom apartment in Kansas City, Missouri: grey, thunderous, humid as hell, June raindrops on the windows. “You have a master’s degree and hundreds of clinical hours and you are not afraid of clients. Not at all! Not even a little bit!”

You check your phone. 2:55 p.m.

“Oh God,” you whine to the checkered tiles of the bathroom floor, to the floral wallpaper. You clutch the cold porcelain of the sink: rose-pink, 1950s, diners and Thunderbirds, housewives and Valium. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t do this. Oh my God.”

But there is no escape! You hurry, sweating profusely, to your laptop. You start the Zoom meeting and wait for your client to arrive, chewing your thumbnail until it bleeds, a scarlet semicircle of dull warm pain, a crescent moon like spilled merlot. You glance at your notepad again. David Mills, 25, married, anxiety upon relocating to a new city and beginning employment there.

Wait.

You confirm with a quick Google search in a new tab. David Mills was the protagonist in Se7en.

You sit back in your swivel chair, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The blue-white luminance of the screen glows on your face like moonlight. Your client is either a coincidence or a liar.

So what? People lie. People lie about therapy especially. So he wants some anonymity. Big deal.

“Strange,” you murmur to yourself.

You have no further opportunity to mull it over. A gratingly cheerful ding announces your client’s arrival in the Zoom meeting waiting room. No avatar, name still listed as David Mills.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Here we go.”

You shake the tremors out of your hands and admit him. He pops onto the screen like a bloom of ironweed, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s nighttime wherever he is. The background is dark and indistinct, shadowy; lamplight cascades across his face, topaz and fool’s gold. You are startled to realize that you already know him. And his name is definitely not David Mills.

“…Aegon?!”

He grins, sly and cocky but never cruel. “Hey.”

“Aegon Targaryen??!!”

“That’s me!” he concurs brightly. “What’s up, Stargirl?”

And instantly, you are transported back to almost exactly one year ago: a rooftop bar downtown, neon signs coiled in shades of violet and rhodonite and sapphire, night wind, constellations, ice clinking in misty glasses, locks of his hair skating between your fingers, the sting of his teeth on your throat, the Weeknd. “Hey,” you say softly. And then again, with more enthusiasm: “Hey! I saw you on Good Morning America last week!”

“Yeah? Was I good?”

“Jace was good. You were slightly offkey.”

“Aw shit. I usually am.”

“That’s okay. You’re the hot loser, right? That’s your character?”

“That’s me, baby. That’s why it works so well.”

It’s impossible: time has passed, thousands of miles have opened up between you, and yet it’s like he’s right here in the room, he never arrived, he never left, he’s always been here for life to grow up around like the framework of a house, a trellis, a skeleton. “How did you find me?”

“I couldn’t remember your name, but I figured you must have finished school by now. So I Googled therapists in Kansas City. Do you know how many there are?”

“500,” you guess.

“712,” Aegon says. “At least, that’s how many I scrolled through before I found your photo.”

“Wow.” You’re smiling; you can’t take your eyes off him. A lot of girls have that problem. That’s why he’s worth $100 million. “Couldn’t remember my name, huh? I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

He chuckles, a little bashfully, sweeping his blond hair off his face. “No. No, you definitely made an impression.”

So did he. In the downstairs bathroom of the bar, tucked beneath a staircase, stark white florescent lights and red walls, lip biting and ripped seams on your dress. He’d finished in approximately thirty seconds—which, oddly, felt more like a compliment than anything else—and then promptly snapped off the condom, dropped to his knees, and went down on you until you came not once but twice, a rarity for you. But that wasn’t the best part. Afterwards you’d gone back up to the roof together, sat in a quiet corner booth until the bar closed, talked about anything and everything with your bodies folded unconsciously into each other, origami, blended watercolors, whispers and murmurs, your palm on his thigh, his fingertips ghosting the underside of your wrist.

“So,” Aegon says through the laptop screen. “Are you, like, kind of unemployed currently?”

“No,” you reply, palpably defensive. Embarrassing! “I’m clearly working right now. You literally made a virtual appointment with me. I’m just…getting my practice off the ground.”

“Yeah but you seem lowkey unemployed.”

“You are so fucking rude.” But you’re laughing.

“I’m just saying, you had a lot of appointment times available. A lot.”

“I’m recruiting clients!” you exclaim. “I’m not like you. I can’t simulate sex with microphone stands to sell tickets.”

“That was one time!”

You smirk at him, eyebrows raised.

“That was…four times. That I recall.”

“I’m a professional. A serious, grown-up, certified professional.”

“You’re a glorified hobo, admit it.”

“You’re a dollar store Harry Styles.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, clutching his chest. “Okay you win.”

“Why did you do this? Why did you track me down in order to make some fraudulent therapy appointment?”

Now Aegon is something you’ve never seen from him before. He’s nervous. “I, uh…I need your help.”

“Really?”

“Well, not me specifically,” he amends. “We need your help. Comet does.”

Comet. What he means—what screaming fans all over the world mean when they drop this name in Reddit threads or Twitter hashtags or Tumblr gifsets—is the boy band Comet Donati. Three albums, five members: Aegon, Jace, Luke, Cregan, Daeron. The lineup has changed recently. Everyone knows why. “Help with what?”

“I mean…I’m sure you heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you say, somber now. Six months ago a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck at the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo. It hit Aemond, costing him six inches of flesh on the left side of his face, his sight in one eye, and his position as the undisputed, archetypal fearless leader of Comet. The celebrity gossip sites had reported that he was taking time off to recover, and then that his younger brother Daeron would be filling in for him at a few shows, and then suddenly Daeron was the fifth member of the band, and everyone was so charmed by his distinctly buoyant, sunshine-and-rainbows quality that Aemond faded from the discourse almost entirely, a ghost, a phantom, an antiquated word like telegraph or courtship or laudanum.

“So things are different now,” Aegon continues. “Things are…not always easy. And I think it might be a good idea to have you around.”

“Look, I’m not…like…” How can you put this? It’s something you have difficulty admitting out loud. “I’m not a real therapist, you know? You’re right, Aegon. I’m basically unemployed. I’m fresh out of my master’s program, I don’t have anywhere near the kind of experience that someone would need to adequately help Comet. So, maybe I could recommend some people to you, but other than that I don’t think I can—”

“It has to be you,” Aegon says.

You shake your head, gazing through the screen at him, through the space and the time. “Why?”

“When Comet performed in Kansas City…when we met at the bar that night…” He is hushed, meditative. “I don’t really remember what we talked about. But I remember exactly how you made me feel.” He smiles, the sort of smile you didn’t know he had in him: soft, pure, nostalgic, without edges. “I think Aemond could use some of that.”

The walls fall down around you, this apartment, this city, this life. “Where are you right now?”

“Capri.”

“Where?”

“Capri,” he says again, amused. “But we’ll be in Rome tomorrow. You can meet us there.”

“In Rome,” you repeat, like it’s Mars or one of Jupiter’s moons.

“Catch the next flight out. The band can reimburse you. We’ll get you a contract of some sort. Nothing too long-term, so you won’t be locked in or anything. A few months. Then we can reassess.”

“Okay, but…I don’t feel comfortable serving as an official therapist to you or anyone else in Comet, Aegon. The circumstances are less than orthodox. And not just because of the…um…bar bathroom situation.”

“Fine, whatever.” He’s high on the victory; the details don’t matter so much.

“Okay,” you say. And then again, giggling wildly at the ludicrousness of it all: “Okay! I guess I’ll see you in Rome tomorrow!”

“Cool. Let me give you my WhatsApp.” You exchange information, and then he grins at you, crafty and radiant through the screen. “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

“We’ll see,” you reply distractedly, already opening Expedia in a new tab.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Midwest, the East Coast, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, Southern Europe, green to blue and then green again as the plane descends into the Leonardo da Vinci Airport of Rome. You roll your single carry-on bag through the corridors, peering out the windows at cloudless cerulean skies and towering stone pines. Aegon meets you at the bottom of an escalator. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a neon green tank top, and matching Crocs. He’s slightly chubbier than you remember, just as beautiful, just as chaotically charismatic, the sun made flesh. He’s standing with a man you don’t recognize.

“Benvenuta, bella!” Aegon proclaims, nearly tackling you with a hug before taking your bag. He smells like beer, sunscreen, Axe body spray, summer air that unfurls warm and golden in the lungs.

“Oh, thank God,” the other man—possibly Italian, definitely gorgeous—exhales with great relief. “Aegon said he needed to meet someone at the airport and I was 90% sure that you would be a drug dealer. But you do not look like a drug dealer. You’re not a…are you a…?”

“No, I’m definitely not a drug dealer.”

“Okay. Great. Hello.” He extends a hand, tan and muscley. “I’m Criston, I’m the tour manager. It is my job to keep everyone alive and uninjured.”

“Four out of five isn’t bad,” Aegon says. And then, when Criston is clearly distressed by it: “Uh, anyway, there’s an Escalade waiting outside.”

The SUV is massive and black with tinted windows. As you follow Aegon into the backseat, several paparazzi appear on the sidewalk and begin snapping photos, calling out to you and expelling rapid-fire white flashes like lightning. Aegon ignores them. You’ve been travelling all day, and the sun is setting now in Rome. The sky is the color of embers, autumn leaves, Saturn. Criston climbs into the passenger seat and gives instructions to the driver. The Escalade wheels out of Arrivals, paparazzi sprinting down the sidewalk after it to take a few final pictures.

“So,” Aegon says, smiling. He pops open the mini fridge and hands you an ice-cold can of San Pellegrino. “Do you have a boyfriend back in Kansas? Or, maybe, boyfriends?”

“Missouri,” you correct him automatically. “And no. None worth mentioning.” A guy you’ve had lunch with twice, a guy you made out with at an Olive Garden, a guy you hooked up with back at UChicago who you’re still texting, guys who flit in and out of your mind like birds through the sky, impermanent, inconsequential.

“You still on the pill?”

“Yes.” You’re not offended. Aegon is teasing, and so are you. It occurs to you that talking to Aegon is a bit like talking to yourself; there are no awkward lulls, and he rarely says anything that shocks you. “But that’s not why I came to Rome.”

“That’s fine. That’s not why I invited you.”

As the Escalade zooms by iconic landmarks—the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, the Piazza del Popolo—you ask Aegon about them. He has no idea; he makes things up instead.

“That’s the duck waterpark,” he says as you pass a fountain that’s over 1,000 years old. Then he points to a naked statue of an extremely buff Mercury. “That’s me before I started eating carbs again.” His only snippet of accurate trivia comes as you drive by the twilight-lit Colosseum. “Holy shit, that’s where Taylor Swift made out with Tom Hiddleston!”

“Surely more important things have happened there at some point in the past two millennia.”

“I doubt it,” Aegon replies, frowning out the Escalade window, taciturn. “I wish I got to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum.”

Comet Donati is staying at the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, which closely resembles a palace. When the Escalade stops at the front doors, you drag your luggage out onto the cobblestones.

“No no no,” Criston says, grabbing the rolling suitcase from you. He gives it to a white-gloved butler along with a room number and then escorts you and Aegon to the top floor. It’s not until the three of you are in the elevator that you realize you are still wearing your highly unsophisticated travel-day attire: yoga pants, flip flops, a tie-dye hoodie with Louis Tomlinson’s face on it that you purchased from Etsy last winter. Aegon catches you scrutinizing your reflection in the mirrors that line the inside of the elevator.

“Traitor,” he says with a grin, massaging your shoulders. His eyes lock with yours in the mirror. His touch is—just as it was a year ago at that bar in Kansas City when you were home from school on break and he was a transient visitor, fleeting like a rainstorm—familiar somehow, pleasant and comforting but not profound, welcome without being necessary.

“Don’t hate him ‘cause you ain’t him. When was the last time you wrote a #1 hit single?”

“Never,” Aegon readily admits. “Although I got into the Top 5 in Norway once.” No, everyone knows that Aemond was Comet’s Louis Tomlinson: their best songwriter, their relatively unproblematic and grounded team captain, their protector, their compass. And now he has no official place in the band at all.

When the elevator doors open, Criston leads you and Aegon down the hallway to a bustling suite. Inside there are white leather couches and gold-colored lounge chairs, a bar, a staircase that leads up to the loft bedroom, people wandering in and out of air that is hazy with whispers and cigarette smoke. There are men in suits, women in short tight dresses, leather and velvet and sequins. You are woefully underdressed. Fortunately, so is Aegon. He is greeted with a dizzying array of cheers, waves, and toasts. Someone shoves an emerald green bottle of Peroni into his grasp. Kesha’s Your Love Is My Drug is vibrating through the speakers mounted on the wall: “What you’ve got, boy, is hard to find, I think about it all the time…”

“Hey, hey, listen up!” Aegon shouts, stepping on top of an ottoman, and the chatter lowers in volume like a radio being turned down.

You scan the smokey room until you’ve located all five current Comet Donati members: Aegon the disaster playboy, Luke the sensitive and kindhearted one, Daeron the energetic ray of sunshine, Jace the heir apparent in the power vacuum created by Aemond’s departure, Cregan the brooding, mysterious, sexy Northern Englishman. You know them, and yet you don’t. You know the characters they play, their reputations, their public personas…but that doesn’t mean you know them. Aegon is the only man you spoke to at the rooftop bar that night in Kansas City a year ago. So far, the mythical version of him seems quite consistent with reality.

Cregan is slumped at one end of the couch by the window and knocking back shots of what appears to be straight vodka. In the night sky beyond the glass, you can see stars and the illuminated Rome skyline: modern skyscrapers, ancient rubble. At the other end of the couch is Aemond. He’s smoking, drinking something iced and bloody pink, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, all in black like he’s trying to disappear. His left eye, the blind one, is an ethereal cloudy blue that reminds you of renderings you’ve seen of Neptune, Uranus, exoplanets, the Earth from space. He glances up at you and holds your gaze for just a few seconds too long. Then he looks away, bewildered, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Aegon introduces you to the room as you stand beside the ottoman, awkward and ashamed in your Louis Tomlinson hoodie. “She’s a friend,” Aegon says. “And she’s also a therapist.”

“Good, you need one!” Jace shouts through cupped hands, and there are tipsy titters and guffaws.

“Not for me,” Aegon snaps. “For you deranged bitches.”

As Aegon descends from the ottoman—klutzily, stumbling, clutching onto Criston like a baby lemur to its mother—Luke approaches to present himself. He has a mess of dark curly hair that falls over his face and large, honest eyes. There’s a black spiral notebook and a white gel pen in his left hand. He offers you his right. “Hi! I’m Luke Velaryon.”

“Yeah, I know. I spend a lot of time on Comet’s Spotify page.”

He groans. “I look so bad in that header photo.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the nose. I have a pug nose. The label has been trying to convince me to get it fixed for years.” He turns to a girl who is practically hiding behind him: arrestingly beautiful in a fragile sort of way, gentle like a doe. “Maybe you can help Rhaena talk to people.”

“I have social anxiety,” she explains apologetically. Her voice is very quiet yet lyrical. There are weights tied to her confession, years of shame and despair. Luke throws an arm across her shoulders and hugs her to him, touching his forehead briefly to hers.

“That’s okay.” You give Rhaena a reassuring smile. “It’s super common, and there are a lot of strategies you can try that might make it more manageable.”

“It wasn’t a big deal at first, you know?” Rhaena says. It comes out in a rush like water through a cracked dam. Luke looks astonished but pleased. You have been known to have this effect upon people, a compulsive sort of disclosure that drains, empties, unburdens. Aegon is watching from several feet away, beaming between swigs of Peroni. “Luke and I met before he got famous and we could just hang out around the neighborhood. Ice cream, public parks, Pret a Manger, riding the Tube together. But now…now he’s always meeting new people and there are all these events I’m supposed to go to with him, and I can’t sleep properly for days leading up to each one, and half the time I end up hiding in the bathroom or being too nauseous to eat anything, and…”

Jace is at the bar and slurping a vesper: shoulder-length curls, flashy blazer with nothing underneath it, a contemplative appraisal of you. There’s a stunning girl sitting beside him that he’s not listening to.

As you are explaining the potential benefits of exposure therapy to Rhaena and Luke, Daeron bursts through the crowd to greet you. He’s their Niall Horan: warm, uncomplicated, disarmingly friendly, beachy blond hair, a golden retriever on two legs. He hugs you—spiritedly, like Aegon did—and then compliments your flip flops.

“So you’re our new therapist?” Daeron says eagerly, like this is something he knows they’ve needed.

“Well, I’m a therapist, but I’m not really your therapist. Because I can’t hang out with you guys all the time and also be your therapist. It’s unethical. But Aegon thought I might have some good ideas, I guess. In a strictly unofficial capacity.”

“Okay! Cool! And you and Aegon are…friends?”

“Um…yeah. Sort of.”

“Remember that show in Kansas City last summer?” Aegon tells Daeron. He’s supernaturally gifted at making everything sound blissfully casual, like there couldn’t possibly be more to the story. “I met her at the bar we went to afterwards.”

“Totally,” Daeron says. “Great city. Awesome barbeque.”

Criston asks him: “So, uh, how’s your mom doing?”

Daeron is puzzled. “Fine…?”

“Criston, please stop asking about my mom,” Aegon says. “It’s getting weird. It’s been weird. It was weird four years ago and it’s weird now. She has a husband.”

“Yeah, but is that…you know…is that still going well?”

“Yes, Criston.”

“Fantastic,” Criston mutters, pouring himself a Scotch. He uses the glass to gesture to you. “So what the hell am I supposed to bill her as? Aegon’s friend?”

“She’s a…” Aegon considers this, waving his Peroni around in the air. “Human resources mental health consultant.”

“She’s a what?”

“She helps resolve both intra and interpersonal conflict.”

“That sounds imaginary.”

“Well then you figure something out!” Aegon says, exasperated. “Isn’t this what you get paid for? To make problems go away? To keep us happy? To stop us from killing each other? You figure it out.” He saunters off to grace the drunken masses with his presence. Criston sighs and goes to stand by the wall with a herd of stone-faced businessmen in suits, record label guys, guys who only know how to see the world in terms of contract clauses and account balances.

Rhaena goes to stand by Jace’s companion, who—as you conjure up vague recollections of celebrity gossip sites—is named something like Bella or Bailey. Daeron is commandeered by a gaggle of adoring Italian women. Luke is showing Aemond something in his notebook: black pages, sparkly white ink. Aemond is nodding and giving critique, not that saccharine, generic, brainless kind of praise but authentic encouragement: try to think of a more specific word here, move that line up to the first verse, I love the use of this metaphor. Aemond’s voice dredges up memories you didn’t know you had of him on talk shows, in YouTube compilations, in songs you’ve been streaming on Spotify for years. Smoke drifts from his lips. Ice jangles in his organ-pink cocktail. And again, he looks up at you, inhaling poison as Luke makes his opal-ink edits.

“What’s that drink called?” you ask the bartender, and he squints across the room to where Aemond is seated on the snow-colored leather couch to discern it.

“A Bramble,” he says. “It’s named after blackberry bushes.”

“Can I get one?”

“Sure.”

You procure your drink and when Luke leaves the couch, you whizz past him like a meteor as you walk towards it.

“Hey,” Cregan flings impassively, not knowing why you’re here, not caring either.

“Hey,” you return.

And then you sit down next to Aemond, deliberately on his blind side. He glances over at you, his brow crinkling with confusion. Because—surely, undoubtedly—no one ever speaks about his injury, but it’s veined through everything they do, it’s a perpetual undercurrent that steers his life and yet cannot be voiced without breaching those vigilantly constructed levees of propriety. It’s the elephant in every room. It’s a ghost rattling doorknobs and tapping on windows. And sometimes the only way to free yourself of something is to throw the cage door wide open and set it loose.

“I accidentally wore your competitor’s merch,” you say. “I didn’t want you to have a good view.”

Aemond laughs, and the strangest thing happens: everyone in the room turns to look. On their faces are expressions of shock, bafflement, relief, wonder. Aemond shifts so he’s facing you, one elbow propped on the back of the couch. He sips the Bramble in his right hand, puffs on the cigarette in his left. And there it is, what people like to call a spark, but it’s something deeper than that: organic chemistry, neurotransmitter plumes, wells of marrow that sing to each other from beneath the darkness.

You nod to his cigarette, Benson & Hedges according to the shimmery gold pack that lays open on the glass coffee table. “You think that makes you cool?”

“I know it does,” he says. His gaze flicks down to your Louis Tomlinson hoodie…or what’s under it, perhaps. “Wouldn’t work on you though. Too far gone.”

You hold out your hand. After a few seconds, Aemond passes you his cigarette. You—very stoically, very nonchalantly—take a single drag and then erupt into a coughing fit, eyes watering, lungs gasping, surrendering the cigarette emphatically. Humiliating! Irredeemable!

“Told you,” Aemond notes. But he’s rubbing your back with a hand that is large and strong and yet careful. You smile at him. Aemond smiles too.

Criston pulls one of the suit guys aside and says: “Get her on the payroll.”

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon x you #aegon x y/n #hotd fanfic #hotd

[tittyinfinity]

Andrew Tate's "How dare you?!" Is the first time I've ever seen someone say that online unironically. It's as if Greta was Actually Right and he was flabbergasted at the thought of someone actually knowing his dick size.

Sounded like he got possessed by the ghost of a wealthy 1950s christian woman clutching her pearls

#andrew tate #greta thunberg

[susoriginals]

SAlE 70% OFF Vintage WALLETS Black Leather Checkbook Wallet and Light gray taupe Leather Clutch Makeup Bag Coin Purse get BoTH for $2.99

#vintage wallet #black leather wallet #checkbook wallet #makeup bag #vintage makeup bag #leather bag #leather wallet #womens wallet #vintage clutch #leather clutch #1950s clutch #etsy #vintage bags #sale #vintage sale #etsy sale #sale vintage

[snailsdraw]

[Start ID: 7 pages of HLVRAI narrative doodles about Benrey wearing skirts based on [this post here].

Benrey looks at his reflection in the mirror and the long skirt he's just put on. It's a purple vintage swing skirt from the 1950s, an unused item Dr Coomer had tucked away up until just recently. Dr Coomer stands behind Benrey, sporting a hawaiian shirt, with his hands proudly on his hips: "I think you look very handsome, Beppy! Would you say the same?" Either sides of the skirt are bunched up in Benrey's hands where he's lifting it up and away from brushing against his legs. His mouth is a tight, thin line. "it's, uhh…yeah. like it. looks. can i take it off now, please?" Benrey grits out. Tommy winces at the stream of flimsy red sweet voice bubbles slipping out from the corner of Benrey's mouth: "Uh-oh. Red like, like a brick means that's a bad, uh, ick."

Tommy leaves the shirt he's just finished folding and picks up a pair of comfy black pajama pants with a green grid pattern on it from off the pile of unfolded clothes next to him on the couch. "Here! This'll help!" he says, before launching the pants right at Benrey's face. Dr Coomer chuckles at him.

Sometime later, Gordon knocks on their open front door. He asks: "Hey, any of yall seen Capt- Joshie's stuffed horse? I think he might've left it here the last time we-" He's interrupted by an abrupt "hey" from Benrey. Benrey's dressed in his hoodie, playstation socks, and most importantly, the pajama pants and skirt from earlier. He leans forward, a hand on his hip while the other twirls a chullo string around his finger playfully. Benrey smiles smugly at Gordon, showing of his new skirt: "bet you're, uh, jealous you can't pull this off, huh?"

Tommy pipes up: "Oh! I was just about to go give- to return this to you. Hello, Mr Freeman!" Benrey looks displeased at Tommy's sudden entrance as the taller man pops into view behind him, a stuffed horse held in his hand. Gordon's smile is a grateful one as he passes Benrey to retrieve the toy: "Aw fuck, thanks man." "yo what the hell man? you ruined my moment…" Benrey pouts, arms crossed and side-eyeing Tommy. Dismissively, Gordon tells Benrey: "Dude, I've been rocking those since, like, preschool."

Benrey just grumbles and blows a rasberry, back stubbornly turned on the two behind him: "you're no fun." Gordon takes Joshua's stuffed horse from Tommy's hand. Not looking at Benrey, he mumbles with a shrug: "I mean…I didn't say it was bad or anything. Suits you, I guess." Benrey gives him an unsure look as Gordon passes him again on his way out: "/gen?" "Uh, yeah, /gen-" Gordon says distractedly, rushing out the door. "L-look, I gotta run. If Josh finds out Cap'n's gone, he's gonna freak. Thanks again, Tommy!" (Cap'n is the name of the stuffed horse) When he's gone, Tommy taps Benrey on the shoulder.

Tommy whispers sideways to Benrey: "Don't worry, Benrey. I think he liked it." "wuh?" Benrey says, looking up at him. Tommy does a series of ASL hand signs indicating that Gordon had been blushing. Benrey's eyes widen at him, and a couple of shy peach sweet voice orbs bubble from his mouth.

In the elevator, Gordon has his back pressed up against the wall, the horse plush clutched to his chest. "God, hope I didn't catch a cold or something," he thinks, mistaking the awkward heat in his face for an oncoming fever. He is, as Tommy had communicated, blushing.

End ID.]

Thanks to the op of the post this was based off for the inspo heheh.

Also, I don't know if Tommy's signing is accurate😬 (I never formally learned sign language so I could only look for references online).

#* writes the colour of the skirt and pj pants in the id even though it's not in the image * #this was supposed to be a short thing but hahA #hlvrai #hlvrai benrey #hlvrai coomer #hlvrai tommy #hlvrai gordon #snail's art #id #frenrey

[thinkbolt]

Synchro-Vox: the Animation Technique Nobody Wanted

#Synchro-Vox #Clutch Cargo #Mr. Incredible #Frozone #1950s #TV animation #documentary #Space Angel #Youtube

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Happy Couple 3

Part 1 Part 2

I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t! But here we are. I make no promise and am just following a whim.

Summary: Your father makes a deal to marry you to his top capo. (mob au)

Warnings: dark elements such a mob business and intimidation, spanking, threats. More to be added as they become relevant. You know what I write typically so you know what to expect.

Thank you all for the encouragement and I hope you enjoy.❤️

You choose a red satin halter dress and a pair of pointed Louboutins. The diamond studs gifted to you by your father on your sweet sixteen and a sparkly clutch finish the look, giving you the confidence to face Bucky. He’s always been slightly intimidating, all of your father’s men are scary given their line of work, but his charm adds another layer of fear.

Still, your father is your father. Bucky might have his blessing but he’s not familia yet. As you come down to the foyer, the click of your heels echoing in announcement of your descent, you find him admiring the portrait of you and your father propped up on a silver-trimmed table.

He shifts his feet to face you, his attention lingering on the frame for just a second. His blue eyes flit over and you see the twitch in the corners, the crow’s feet creasing handsomely. You get to the bottom and set your jaw.

“You said something about dinner.”

“Sweetheart,” he says breathlessly, “mmph, fuckin’ christ, look at you.”

“I hope you know I’m getting dessert. I always get dessert,” you lift your nose and strut past him.

“I love dessert,” he follows you, brushing by to open the door ahead of you. 

A waft of his cologne tickles your nose and you don’t look at him as you continue outside without pause. You sense his pursuit and move your hand behind you, batting him away with your clutch before he can clap your ass. You shoo him with the glittering bag and click your tongue.

“Ah!” You warn and spin on your heel, “you’re a traditional man, aren’t you?”

“Hm?” A dimple deepens in his cheek as he meets your glare with a placid grin.

“You said you’re a man of tradition. If we’re going to… be married,” you find the words hard to get out as they raise goosebumps along your skin, “then you’re going to have to slow down.”

“Slow down? What do ya mean, doll?” He reaches for you, gripping your hips as he steps close.

“This,” you touch his hand, circling two his thick fingers with all of yours, “save all that for the wedding night.”

He snorts, “you’re not serious? This isn’t 1950–”

“Oh, it isn’t? Right, then whatever my father told you is null and void, right? It’s the twenty-first century, a woman can make her own decisions.”

“Now, don’t you play with me,” he wiggles his hand free of your grasp, “we both know you’re not a virgin. Not flaunting that ass like you do.”

“Excuse me,” you gasp and put your hand to your chest, “are you questioning my virtue?”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I am?” You muse, “well, I hear there are lots of other fish in the sea. Mob wives are a dime a dozen.”

“But you aren’t, sweetheart,” he grabs you by the waist, firmly, pulling you towards him. His heat encases you as you stumble in your steep heels and push your hand and clutch to his chest, “fine, let’s be old fashioned. I’ll settle for a kiss.”

“We haven’t even gone to dinner yet.”

“You know, I don’t usually ask,” his voice turns rigid.

“Alright, fine,” you flutter your lashes as your eyes roll back, “a kiss.”

You pucker your lips and lean in. He does the same and you swivel your neck suddenly so his lips catch your cheek. You giggle and nudge him away, slipping free of him. He catches your wrist and pulls you back so stagger clumsily in your heels.

“That’s not what I asked for, sweetheart.”

“A kiss. You got a kiss.”

“Don’t,” he raises a finger as he grits his teeth, “I got a feeling your daddy didn’t give you enough spankings.”

“And yours didn’t give you enough hugs, huh?”

“Don’t think I won’t bend you over right here.”

“You wouldn’t dare–” You scoff and roll your eyes again.

Suddenly you’re spun around, off-balance in your stilettos. He twists your arm up behind you and grabs your neck with his other hand. You whimper as you stand on your toes, straining as the pressure aches in your shoulder. He pushes on you as you resist, clenching your jaw as you bite down on your anger.

“What the fuck are you–”

“You keep running that mouth,” he shoves so hard you can’t resist. You bend forward so you don’t topple completely. He pinches your neck as he lets go of your arm and trails his hand down your spine. “And I’m gonna keep teaching you lessons.”

He spreads his hand across your ass and you squirm. His fingertips reach the short hem of the dress and he pulls back, a rush of air before his palm lands. The impact stings and radiates down your thighs. You whine and reach back, trying to shield his next slap. He swats you away and gropes you meanly.

“Are you gonna be a good girl?”

“Let me go! How dare you?! My father–”

“Daddy knows the deal he made. He doesn’t need the details but I’ll be more than happy to tell him everything.”

“Get off! Now! You fucking old–”

He raises his hand and spanks you again. You yelp and teeter in your shoes, his nails digging into the sides of your neck.

“Ow, you fucker–”

“Clean up the mouth before I do,” he snarls as he kneads your ass, “old as I am, I’ll still snap you in two, doll.”

“You’re fucked–”

“Baby, this ain’t a negotiation, let’s get that straight because there’s no way you’re winning. So here’s what happens. I’m gonna give you one last tap, as a warning, and you’re gonna stand up, give me a kiss, and we’re going to have a nice dinner. You get your dessert and I get to watch you eat it. How’s that?”

You moan as his grip on your neck sends a pang up your skull and you touch his hand lightly, “alright, you’re hurting me.”

“I told you, I don’t wanna hurt you but I never said I would,” he slaps your ass again, as promised, and lets you go. 

His touch glosses down your arm as you stand and rub your neck. He pulls on your elbow until you turn to him and he presents his lips in an expectant pucker. You sigh and square your shoulders. You inch closer and bring your hands up to cradle his square jaw. You close your eyes and lean in until your mouth is on his.

He purrs as his hand settles on your hips and he kisses you back. His tongue flicks across your lips before you draw away, your cheeks hot and tingly. You arch your brow and look away, trying to appear frustrated rather than flustered.

“Can we go,” you sneer, “I’m hungry.”

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #drabble #the happy couple #dark drabble #dark!drabble #au #mob au #mcu #marvel #winter soldier #avengers #captain america #series

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Well damn… can I request an Abraham imagine where he’s super possessive of the reader and sees her innocently just talking with a man so he just walks up them, slaps her on the ass and drags her to his place to have rough sex? Spitting and choking included if possible?

Sorry this has taken me so long. I hope it's to your liking!

Warnings: Discriminatory language, typical 1950s social etiquette and attitudes, spitting, choking, smut. Word count: ~1000

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

“Just one more week, Mr. Ruskin, and we’ll be off your land, I promise.” She says, keeping her tone saccharine as she lays a lingering touch upon the farmer’s arm.

Truthfully, he makes her nauseated. She sees the lecherous way his eyes linger upon her and the other women within the camp, she’s overheard the vulgar names that he and his wife use to refer to the Romani people when he thinks they’re out of earshot. However, she needs to keep him sweet, they’ve more than outstayed their welcome in his field, but have yet to secure another location to move onto. She has no intentions of sleeping with him, but if she continues to make him believe it’s a possibility then maybe, just maybe, she can convince him to allow them to stay a bit longer.

The older man scoffs, cocking an eyebrow at her. “That’s what you said last week, and the week before. I need that field for cattle, can’t very well have my cows wandering around your caravans now, can I?”

“Just one more week, please?” She moves her hand further up his bicep, giving it a gentle squeeze as she does her best to flutter her eyelashes.

The darkened look that forms in his eye turns her stomach, his breath is sour upon her face as he leans in, thick, calloused fingers stroking her cheek. “Perhaps you could make it worth my while?”

“Oi! Get away from my girl!”

Shit.

Mr. Ruskin pulls hurriedly back from her as Abraham advances towards them, his axe clutched tightly in both hands. He looks between the weapon and the angry expression he currently wears, then turns and retreats back to his farmhouse.

“You’ve got twenty-four hours to vacate, gypsy scum, or I’m calling the police!” He calls over his shoulder.

She rounds on Abraham, fury causing her cheeks to blaze as she glares at him. “What did you do that for, you bloody idiot?! You’ve just cost us our place to stay!”

“You let me worry about that.” He snaps, placing the axe over his shoulder as his free hand moves to grab her by the arm and hurry her back towards the camp.

“Nothing would have happened, Abe, I was just trying to convince him to let us stay!” She protests as he marches them back towards their caravan, pushing her inside and slamming the door behind them.

“Oh really?” He sets the axe down by the door, shrugging out of his coat and untying his neckerchief. “‘Cause from where I was stood, looked like his hands were all fuckin’ over you!”

She wants to scream with frustration. She understands Abraham is the jealous type, he always has been. His ex-fiancée having an affair has made it difficult for him to trust anyone else romantically. But she needs him to understand she would never betray him like that.

“I was just trying to help. Ruskin’s been trying to turf us out for weeks.”

“That’s for me and Pal to sort. I don’t want you flirting with anyone else, you’re mine.”

She sighs, fixing her gaze upon the softness of his blue eyes. “I’m not Luella. I know I’m yours.”

He advances upon her, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look up at him. “Say it again.”

Heat pools between her legs as she stares up at him, taking in the sight of his pupils blown wide with lust. “I’m yours.” She whispers.

His lips descend upon hers, hot and rough and possessive as he releases her chin to bury his hand in the hair at the back of her head, the other moves to grip her hip, maneuvering her back towards the fold out bed they share.

He lays her back, his tongue sliding against her own and she feels the growing hardness of him pressing against her through his trousers as he settles on top of her. He finally breaks away from the kiss, hands frantically unfastening his belt and zip.

She is transfixed by the sight for a moment, before hurrying her own movements to ruck up her skirt and rid herself of her tights and knickers. Propping herself up on her elbows, she watches as he spits into his palm, stroking it along the length of himself.

“Lay back.” He orders huskily.

He hovers over her once she complies and she lets out a gasp at the stretch as he pushes himself inside of her. He stills once he has bottomed out, the only sounds in the caravan are their combined heavy breaths.

“Say it again.” He murmurs against the shell of her ear.

“I-I’m yours.” She breathes out.

The snarl that Abraham emits is almost feral sounding as he begins to snap his hips against hers, each bruising thrust causing the tip of his cock to nudge against the spongy spot inside of her, making her whimper and writhe beneath him.

His large hand wraps around her throat, squeezing gently as he leans down to kiss her sloppily.

“Open.” He mutters against her lips and then pulls away.

In spite of the restricted blood flow caused by his hand, she giggles, opening her mouth obediently and sticking her tongue out.

He smirks, gathering saliva in his mouth and letting it drip slowly from his lips onto her waiting tongue. He groans as he watches her swallow it, and she feels him twitch inside of her, his pace faltering as he nears his release.

“Mine.” He grunts, tightening his hold on her throat and brutally rutting into her, before spilling inside of her with a low moan.

The pulsation of him reaching his peak inside of her is the final nudge she needs to reach her own and she clenches around him with a desperate cry.

He lets go of her throat, collapsing against her and she strokes her fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair, something he is sure to gripe at her for later.

“Yours.” She utters one final time, kissing him on the temple.

He gives her a reassuring squeeze, his voice distorted by the crook of her neck. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll burn this fucking field before I let him kick us out of it. I look after what’s mine.”

#abraham #grantchester #ewan mitchell #abraham smut #abraham grantchester #abraham fan fiction #abraham fanfiction #abraham fanfic #abraham fan fic #grantchester fanfiction #grantchester fan fiction #grantchester fan fic #grantchester fanfic #grantchester smut