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[precious-little-scoundrel]

Four Weeks in New York

gorgeous gif credit to @violaobanion

Requested: ☑️

Warnings: SO. MUCH. SEX. 18+, reunion jitters, potentially out of character actions due to rough sex? but then again, they’ve missed each a lot other, ok?! Also, i dunno, but beware he’s a horny over thinker and he’s in a funny headspace due to, ya know, war. Jean is a champ, Harry can’t manage to blow a load for awhile, mild breeding kink if you wanna call purposefully making a baby that…Gerry Hamilton and Margaret Blakely make tiny little cameos in here and I swear I’m half thinking of writing this trio of women all giggling over their legendary husbands

Word count: a hefty 7k and we’ve got more coming for ya

Coauthored with m’baby @crazymadpassionatelove

Synopsis: Harry Crosby is sent stateside to be with his wife for a month of terribly needed R&R in the summer of 1944

Caveat: this is based off a portrayal of real people in a tv series, while Jean wasn’t represented by an actress as Harry was, in this price of media I intend the same. I mean no disrespect to the real men and women mentioned and dramatized herein.

Scene One:

Jean had been at it so long in front of the mirror she began to notice every grain of powder collected in her smile lines and every infinitesimal blur of strong coal from around her eyes and -she needed to step away, at least a few inches from the reflective glass and get a grip. At the more sensible distance of gripping onto the edge of the counter -marble and swanky like everything in this posh and paid for hotel- she saw her face restored to what it was, a pretty decent cutie’s with a perfect mask of makeup and freshly styled hair: fit for a homecoming.

It was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. She was going to need to make him fine again, and give him back to them strong enough to come back to her for good. Happiness and dread swirled in a gnawing cocktail inside her, the cruel thought of almost wishing not to be teased with him at all until she could keep him for good fighting with the braver parts of herself that wanted every second of him she could have, even if it had a big red finish line drawn at a month.

A month was a long time, a month was about all they’d had to be married before he left. Technically, or at least Jean wondered if technically, it would mean she’d only been fully “married” for two months. Of course that was nonsense to the general public and the pastors who reminded about vows and the wedding band she flashed at over eager servicemen, but to her select little girl gang, the ones who worked at the factory with her and who had to give up their husbands too- they talked about their brief marriedness with hushed and giggly fondness, like something out of a dream and just as brief.

The fiancés in the girl gang were jealous of this topic and Jean supposed they had a right to be. She indulged the innocents with all their questions about being “actively” married, tried to repay them with the same frankness she’d so desperately sought before her wedding. But as it was, she’d only had a month of active service, and while it had been spent as vigorously as any young couple’s first four weeks of legal license, it had left Jean in the interim with a plain impression of herself being a little bit of a hussy.

She wanted Harry so badly this past year since he’d gone she hardly thought it medically sane. Wanted him so badly, and that was something not even the girl gang could always bring themselves to titter about. It was one thing for Margaret Blakely to joke about her Ev coming back the previous month ‘taking’ his leave in more ways than one, but they weren’t often out here asking each other if nothing really fixed the hunger since their man had been gone. It was all Jean thought of. Jean wanted to ask if it ever cooled, if the sticky frustration with one’s own inadequate fingers ever subsided.

By the dreamy eyed state of the recently visited Mrs. Blakely, the answer appeared to be a resounding no. Nothing ever beat the real thing. And that made Jean want to writhe in frustration before learning that she too, would be visited by a on-leave husband.

A year of being married and only a month of it “active”, Jean had concluded it was a chronic case on her part of salivating need for her Bing, the only cure would be him -him inside her, in perpetuity. All she’d gotten out of Maragret had been a grinning warning to Jean to “get in shape for Major Crosby’s furlough, you’ll spend it on your back.”

Jean could freely admit to herself that she needed to be ripped apart by her man, she needed him lingering inside her when he left again. She just feared that it wasn’t exactly their usual way. How could she tell him, what if that’s not what he needed. What if it was all different, what if it needed to be?

Jean pointed a finger at herself in the fancy gilt mirror, red nails pointing at her fancy clad self in pastel silk and tiny bows, “He’s your husband,” she told herself sternly, trying not to sweat at the idea he could be here any hour, catch her in this state of intentional undress, and help himself to her jittery body, “he loves you, you love him. All you need to do is let him have his husbandly rights and things will go smoothly. It’s a vacation not a death trap. You’ve got a man to patch up, get on with it.”

This speech gave her four whole seconds of empowered determination before a vigorous set of knocks on the hotel suite’s outer door made her jump out of her skin in surprise. She could go open the door but then -what if someone was in the hall with him? And saw her in this state of…lack of…well, her in her lingerie. He had a key, they’d have given him a key. He was the Mister to her Missus Crosby, they were allowed a shared suite.

“Jean?” Hearing that dear voice for the first time in twelve months, even faintly from far outside the bathroom door, flooded Jean with so much feeling her knees locked up and her throat collapsed on her response. He was her husband, her Bing, her first and only love, they’d be alright. They had to be.

Harry gingerly closed the door behind him, the heavy painted wood shutting with a finality that made him feel terribly anxious. While he had been trudging up the hall to their suite he’d been able to laugh a little at his dismal procession, morose shuffling and hang dog attitude. It had been absurd for a guy coming back to see the wife who he loved. He knew that and he could say that again and again in his head in a voice that morphed more and more into Bubbles’ voice an-

-and now he was in the room and he wasn’t anticipating anything, he had arrived and as if he’d just touched down in occupied Europe, he couldn’t help his braced posture or hunted surveillance of the oddly empty room.

“Jean?”

She wasn’t in here, but the en-suite bathroom door was shut. She wasn’t in here but from the bathroom came wafting something so viscerally nostalgic of her that he felt his heart pound in devoted recognition before his brain even caught up: her soap. Not some fancy hotel brand, it seemed she had brought her old stuff, the stuff he’d lathered on her as many times as he’d had the chance before leaving, the stuff she smelled of before church and the stuff that got more strong and pungent when he made her sweat in it from their exertions in bed.

It smelled like Jean in here and it was enough to make him drop his duffel bag with a decided thump. He was staying. This was his wife, everything might be different but some things like soap -they’d still be the same, as would the dry mouthed want it filled him with.

“Jean?”

He ventured further into the room, not bothering to call her name again, maybe being around guys had made him callous to spooking her but no real harm would be done, he was…him.

“Oh! Bing?” Jean sounded flustered behind her door and Harry found himself grinning. “I’m coming! I’m coming right out!”

It sounded less like a reassurance than it did an order to herself, which was amusing and it made him wonder, just how awkward were the two of them going to manage to make this? God knows he’d tripped over himself enough times winning her over the first round, he had such hopes never to revisit the bumbling stages of courtship. Seemed like once they’d married and joined it had been smooth as glass ever since- until…until he’d stopped being himself.

Until he had wandered into a hotel room with a woman who didn't wear a matching gold band. Jean knew nothing of that though. She never would. Sweet peaches and cream Jean who had come all this way to see him. Bringing that soap and the books he saw stacked on the night table. Bringing that sweet, pink pussy he needed to sink himself into. Remind himself of who he was. He didn't want to be Major Crosby at the moment. He wanted to just be Jean's husband. He heard the clock in the room ticking, felt the sweat pooling at the back of his neck as he waited for her. Her Elizabeth Arden lipsticks lined up like perfect little soldiers on the dresser. It had been so long that kissing her was surely going to feel like the first time all over again.

There was more amiss in the room, upon further inspection, besides her trunks and her hat boxes and the lipsticks. Amiss in that: there were elements no hotel should have, the plate of very delicious looking misshapen fudge, for instance, the plate itself looking suspiciously like their wedding set. Harry could describe that pink and green pattern on ivory in vivid detail if you had asked him yesterday, tracing it now was like no time had passed at all since that first breakfast as husband and wife, tittering over having “things” of their own. And beside the plate a book, one he’d not finished when he went over, he realized with a lump growing in his throat. Then there was the bed beneath these things, tidily made but not pristine, ha -how could it be with homey floral sheets in place of pristine white and a monogrammed pillow case each.

Giant embroidered C’s. For Crosby, of course.

Jeepers -he’d taken Jean for the first time on those very sheets, now he was recognizing them, and some very uncivilized part of him suddenly wanted to rip the covers back and find out if her virgin blood hadn’t fully scrubbed out-

“Bing!”

He is awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages of Look Homeward, Angel when Jean manages to saunter out with a summoned amount of calm. His hair is sleek and trimmed, his jacket well fitting, his whole self in his army duds seeming so comfortable, filled out, self possessed -it’s the floral sheets beneath him that ruins the effect just a little, makes him seem shifty, out of place. That and those great brown eyes suddenly round as a newborn calf’s at the long awaited sight of her.

She’s seen the soldier’s return posters -does he expect the same greeting? No little party at the station in satin and lace here, but they’d both agreed it would be better to be private, secluded, uninterrupted. Now it feels too tame and mild.

Does he want that? That reunion embrace?

Before she can rethink it she rushes him. “Binger!” she gasps out right as he stands to meet her head on, long arms outstretched to engulf her. This she knows, this she dreamed of. If she squeezes too tight she must be forgiven, it’s too fabulous to be considered real for many moments, the feel of his flexing back beneath her hands and his chest under her cheek. It’s tight and jarring and not a bit smooth but it’s him, it’s him and all is well.

Harry has his nose buried in her hair, that smell is wafting in again. It’s Jean -hits him with the force of a rocket and he’s suddenly responding in kind, arms crushing her to him, can’t get close enough, can’t tell her enough about missing her and loving her and how he’s put one step in front of the other all these years for this moment.

“Oh Bing,” she exclaims again, her face just barely pulled away to really get a look at him, her hands on his cheeks, “I can’t believe it. I’ve prayed, every day I’ve prayed for this.”

Prayers -the word sours in his mind after what he’s seen, after how many he’s sent up and not plane returned with an answer. “Mmm, Mrs. Crosby.” he contemplates the dear face before him before dragging his hand beneath her hair, cupping the back of her head with his large hand, watchface cool on the back of her neck. She’s been waiting for him to kiss her, wanting to let him lead, hoping her initial enthusiasm would embolden him like before. Instead he seems lost in archiving her face, those dear, melancholy eyes flitting over every feature, the hands studying and firm but not a caress. It’s obvious there’s something missing here, a piece ajar from the puzzle.

Jean stands atiptoe carefully, and determinedly slots her lips against his plush, red ones. That seems to rouse him a bit, Harry responds instantly, making up for his hesitancy, deepening it as his tongue meets hers in a heart wrenching reunion of sorts. He always was fond of kissing, her Bing. Now he was kissing her senseless and this -this was more like what she imagined.

His hands trail from her neck down the her ribs and into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hips where he vaguely notices she’s adorned in some silky little something, no doubt chosen and worn just for him.

Say something Croz, you big idiot —he thinks to himself, confronted with the fact he is gripping at her and sucking face without another word said besides inane repetition of her name.

“Jean you look…perfect.” he mumbles against her lips.

It’s boyish and reminiscent, the stumbling praises mumbled so earnestly. It makes her giggle fondly. She breaks their kiss and takes hold of his face in her hands, indulging a little inspection of her own. “My beautiful boy,” she croons, “you came back to me.”

She kisses the prominent bridge of his nose and his perpetually furrowed brow and the smooth below each heavily fringed eye, his cheeks, his chin, the corner of his mouth -she pressed at his chest till she’s got him sat on the edge of the bed again. He’s fully dressed, taut as a bowstring and she wants him, needs him, to relax. She can feel the tension, the uncertainty, rolling off him.

She won’t let them take this away from them, she won’t let them rob them of their comfort with each other.

She kneels gently before him and undoes his boots, enjoying the way he pets her hair, quietly admiring its shine and style. His trousers are creased and starched and knelt between his legs Jean finally notices it then, the prominent tent beneath the olive weave. It makes her breath hitch. Was he always this big? Even camouflaged by trousers?

“You must be tired,” she frets aloud, working on the laces, “and cramped from such a long flight. Did you take something? Your eyes are a little…funny.”

Harry nods before realizing she’s not one of his men. Wives tend to value words and sentences, the more syllables the better. “Yeah,” he croaks aloud, “something for the stomach.”

Oh Bing and his stomach. Ever the dutiful wife, Jean rubs the sock feet she just liberated and kneads her way up his calves, hoping to leech some of the tension out of him. She works her way to his thighs, rising back up to her feet when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into another kiss. It’s even hungrier this time and his first moan of the evening sends a jolt of longing triumph straight to her core.

“I’ve missed you.” she chokes out between kisses and he responds by biting her neck, his thumbs rolling the satin in circles on her hips. His front pressing hard and firm against her lower belly, making her mouth run dry.

Still, Harry’s not saying much and if he wasn't kissing and caressing her so ardently, she'd have no clue they were even on the same planet.

And so Jean decides to do something rather bold. Something her mother would not approve of. She puts her hands on his shoulders, briefly causing him to pull away from her neck, then she whispers temptingly in his ear, “Last night I…slid my ring finger inside me. pretended it was you…I won't have to pretend anymore, will I, Harry?”

She feels him twitch against her belly beneath his layers. It’s her turn to kiss his cheek and nibble his neck, finding his little groans to be intoxicating. His grip tightens on her waist as he buries his head against her with his eyes closed, breathing her in. That scent.

That's when she adds in a plea, “Y-y-you're gonna have to…open me

up again Croz.…..you know what I

mean?...my poor little fingers are so

tiny and now I'm back to how I was

on our wedding night…”

Harry’s groan is animalistic and pained and she -well Jean’s a horny, rambling mess and she can’t bring herself to be ashamed, she missed him too strongly. “You're a hero to America.” She swears into his panting mouth, “And to me. I'm gonna give you the strength to help you get through the rest of what you need to do. But I need something from you, I need you to put a baby in me Bing.”

That is what he responds to, like orders in war. He’s good at finding his way with directions. His head rears back and his eyes sharpen with concentration. Jean wants something? he’ll deliver it, always was that way.

He nods.

“Lay back on the bed Jean.” his voice is quiet but she’s never heard it so steady, so commanding. That must be the voice he uses when he speaks to his men over there. If she wasn't squeezing her thighs together and scrambling onto the bed to follow Major Crosby orders, well, she'd cum right then and there. This isn't the same Bing that reads the paper, his beautiful lips mouthing the words as he does, the one who brings her flowers just because, or is quick not to curse in public. This man before her is a war weary Major who is used to being obeyed. Jean intends to follow every word he says, the thought of seeing him off without a little piece of him nestled inside her would just devastate her.

She burrows up against their Crosby pillows, looking like an absolute treat and admiring her man's package that seems to be growing bigger by the second. He's panting like a wild horse above her and she realizes she should heed all that advice she'd been given. Be a good wife, take care of his needs. Her painted toes rub against the sheets as she slowly inches forward to help him undress. Major Crosby beats her to it though, ridding himself of his uniform efficiently and tossing it on to the floor in a rumpled mess accompanied by a huff.

Is he mad? Jean wonders to herself. His freshly exposed cock sure looks mad. It's red, and almost looks hot to the touch as it dribbles and leaks down his thick shaft.

Was it always that big? Were his eyes always so wild? Bright -she remembers them as being bright.

He collapses on her purposefully, a crushing embrace with his hands snarled in her hair, elbows to the bed, his belly to hers, his lips devouring her own. It’s a shock and a thrill, that first feeling of skin against skin again, Harry’s so warm his tongue is nearly scalding and she feels herself sweat in her skimpy finery. The anticipation is harsh, the dynamic fumbling in its ravenous rush, her head spins when an irrational spike of fear slices through the heady haze of desire that his touches coax. Touch? -a mauling of sorts, more like, he is all teeth and nails and assessing hands, grabbing at her ferociously.

Instinctively Jean begins to rub him, his shoulders, his neck, his forearms

-a soothing caress at a kinder pace than he allows but she means it well, channels that little spark of anxiety she feels to sooth his own keyed up self.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she keeps swearing as she feels him buckle just that little bit to the insistent kneading of her hands on his arms, “I’m not going anywhere.” she swears and the rigid line of his body sags further into her neck, some off kilter focus he’s carried about him slipping under her gentle persuasion. “Baby, how about a little rub?” she coos, lithely extracting herself out from under him before she thinks on it too long.

“That might be nice.” he manages, not sure what the hell it is he needs, “My neck maybe..took a little spill a few days ago...” he casually mentions the incident, underplaying that whole fiasco of passing out cold from exhaustion, splattering on the floor like the contents of a mop bucket.

“Then let me rub your neck.” she begs.

He allows it and with a slightly lost gaze he follows her movements as she props up beside him and brings him closer for leverage. She scoops his head into her lap with that familiarity that made him fall first and hard for her, and suddenly he is pillowed on the warm, giving belly of a woman. His woman. And Croz feels himself begin to melt from that feeling alone, long before her clever thumbs start working at the knots nearly calcified at the base of his neck.

She used to do this for him when he was at school, too much reading in an ill advised position had him often so stoved up he couldn’t be of any use on the baseball team. Jean had learned to work her magic then, and Harry had learned how very much he liked his face buried against the swell of a girl’s womb.

Oh fuck -her little speech comes rushing back to him- Jean wants a baby.

Damn the jet lag, the separation jitters and all the rest that got him sent here like a looney to a special holding facility. Jean wants a baby and he hasn’t been rock hard since Dartmouth only to let it go to waste by sleeping it off.

Right when she begins to feel the motion of her hands take effect on his rigid shoulders, her Harry is suddenly lifting his head again, face slightly flushed and creased from the lace of her nighty and he smiles at her then. Mischievous and warm, “C'mere,” he beckons with a voice that means something and so she follows him as he sits up, “stand up babydoll, show me that outfit. Let me appreciate ya.” He slides his warm palm into her smaller one and tugs her to her feet, an easy sort of dance move to bring her round in front of his position, swaying her back and forth just outside the v of his legs.

“Well, look at you.” he marvels at her, his expression gone soft under that wrecked mop of curls. Jean recognizes the old spark alight in him, the one that might go dormant for her when away or when she couldn’t make up her damn mind but anytime she wanted him back?—oh he looked at her like this, like he was lucky as hell to have her and intended to be brave with that luck. “Turn around for me, loverdoll, c’mon, show me what I’ve got, come onnnn Jeaaann,” he insists, his voice playful and insistent as he spins her with a hand at her hip until she shows him the back of this frilly little excuse for nightwear, “Look at that.” he whistles behind her and Jean feels her cheeks burn pleasantly, “Pretty as a fawn, Jean.” he punctuates this odd little compliment with the back of a finger running up the length of her thigh, to the little swell of her rump and Jean knows her legs tremble in helpless response. “Go on, strike a pose for me, I know you didn’t put on this get up for nothin’. Who'd believe it? My Mrs. Crosby out here lookin’ like one of those girls.”

‘Those’ girls, whoever they are exactly, are left nebulous and Jean likes it that way, it gives her a saucy bravery to pitter patter away from his hold and turn back to face his unabashedly admiring gaze. Jean cocks a hip and drops a shoulder, knee turned in, toes pointed. Gerry had made her perfect it a million times in the mirror when she should’ve been sensibly getting into a gown and getting some shut eye instead.

Thank God for Margaret Ann Blakely and her fun loving pastimes. And also: “Screw him for us Jean!!” -thank God for Gerry Hamilton and her brazen preoccupations with her own man, for how she piled on as she convinced Jean of an assortment of little silk things thrown into her suitcase, “Screw him good, for all of us! For Americaaaaa!” the young and empty Mrs. Hamilton’s candor had built until Jean was close to frantic to get into the taxi and leave her best friends and their antics behind.

Jean didn’t doubt for a single minute that Hambone and Ev would shortly be receiving letters that good naturedly bemoaned Jean and Croz’s luck.

“You think you needed to look like this to get me to nail ya?” her Croz teases her now and his grin is lewd and Jean likes it that way, it matches the disrespectful hands that reach out without her Harry’s usual calculation and instead paw at her tits like a sex starved man. It sends a line of electricity straight to the little button between her legs and Jean ends up leaning into those hands until she’s suddenly so near him she’s on top of him and then, easy as anything, he knocks her sideways and under him once more. Legs splayed wide and with a husband lying on top of her with a very determined look on his face -she reckons the games are over.

“Gonna be like a second wedding.” she squeaks out, giddy eyed in excitement, toes curling in terror, he feels so big slotted at the spot.

Was he always so big?

Harry slings her leg over his hip and he’s suddenly in her without even needing to fumble for entrance. Little Croz pries her open all at once in a smooth, brutal, unyielding shove and that’s all it takes, he’s so overwhelmingly substantial that Jean finds herself bowing under him in a climax from the painful pleasure of reunion alone.

“Really, already?” he chuckles at her as she hoarsely keens out her ecstasy beneath him, her nails digging crescents in the flesh of his tense shoulders, his own thumbs stroking along her throat, “I missed you too, Mrs. Crosby.” he laughs.

She slaps at him, lovingly as her throat still hasn’t fully come back to use, “God you feel good.” She croaks.

“Just wait till you learn there’s more.” he teases before pulling his hips back and keeping that far tip barely nestled in her petals before slamming in again so forcefully she feels something funny in her chest.

“Bing!” it’s not a protest on her part but, my God -he, they…they used to give it the ole college try before he left, but this? This must be what it’s like to get really and truly screwed.

Screwing her, that’s what he’s doing and she wonders in a vague haze of helpless sensations if he’ll auger a hole straight through her back to the mattress with this merciless rhythm. She’s as vaguely impressed by his strength and capability as she is by her own body’s ability to absorb it, her freshly rediscovered hole burning at the use and somehow it’s all just a wonderfully heated, overwhelming miasma of delight as she keeps on seizing under him and he bullies her right though one peak after another with only a wicked grin on those full lips to suggest he’s got any idea what she’s so happily enduring.

“I can’t stop, I just can’t stop, it's just so -it’s so much.” she babbles, very keen to get her point across but very unsure what her point actually is. All thoughts, feelings and intentions center around Harry and that fat schlong of his rearranging her insides. She’s not sure her toes have been uncurled in over a quarter hour and her mind’s not been her own for longer still. “You’re so much.” she wails, and for half of it she means not his size but how long he’s been going at it.

“And you’re gonna take it.” he confirms, the hand on her hip inexorable and his pretty face is half snarling at her in desperation. “You miss this?” his voice shakes from his exertions and Jean is sure she’s never heard a more attractive sound than his wrecked breathing, “Miss this, huh? Bet you did, so goddamn tight. No married woman’s got any…any…any business being so tight. Gonna fix that, gonna make you so married you’re not gonna-“ he presses her legs back until she feels her hamstrings burn, knees to her chest, his body lunging into hers…angry again? she doesn’t know he just keeps grunting “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She’s milking him so perfectly, peaking and shuddering and clenching more frequently than he ever remembers and he should be so saved up he can’t manage to hold on but instead -the fuck if he can blow. It just won’t let go. The noise of his work is a lew phwap phwap phwap of split splat suction and from her whimpers and begs he knows he has already spent her but-

Goddamn! Came all this way, waited all this time and he can’t let loose?

Through the haze of her overstimulation Jean can feel something amiss, the tension back and worse than that, there’s the frustrated anger of before. Harry is breathing hard and his face is dark and the prominent vein across his alabaster forehead is popping so significantly she worries about stroke. He’s about to crack a tooth at this rate, his tension is so extreme and then suddenly, there’s a pause.

He stares down at the wet mess where they’re joined, brows knit together and mouth firm before a flicker ignites in his eye and in a fit of rage at himself and this deficient cock, he grabs at one of the decorative pillows and throws it across the room. It bangs dully against the window and flops to the floor.

Unsurprisingly the outburst against cotton batting and fancy trim does little for his pickle, he’s still stiff as a board and nowhere close to relief. He fought a whole goddamn war and came back just to not be able to get his rocks off. What a joke.

Gently as he can, and with rampant self pity running loose, he disentangles from Jean’s snug self and throws himself beside her on his back.

Bewildered Jean is more than a little grateful for the intermission. She does her best to collect her wits, looking over at him and clocking his defeated expression and closed eyes, the hand pinching the bridge of his nose. And poor Little Croz that is a furious magenta red with veins about ready to burst from swelling, sticking straight up from between his legs.

Shifting onto her side to face him rubs her poor kitty just wrong -or right- and a helpless mewl escapes her as she creams herself again from that little movement alone. The sound and shudder of his wife makes Croz crack open an eye, watching intently as Jean bites her lip and timidly runs her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“Come sit on my lap, Jeanie.” he mumbles.

She perks up with a smile, “Whatever my hero wants, baby.” she condones before shakily straddling his lean hips and sinking down with a noticeable squelch. It earns a drawn out moan of satisfaction from both of them. Sensing the agony and desperation of the man beneath her as she begins to lift her hips and slam them back down, juices splash on her feet from the movement. To lift his spirits she attempts her best at shoving her tits in his face while she does it and gets her nipples tugged in thanks.

This right here is perfect, she’s so full she can hardly bear it but he feels so good she ignores the burn of her legs and keeps her pace up, the beautiful expanse of her man laid out before her a perfect spur. The sun seems to have set by now and through the open curtains the sounds and lights of the city pour in, glistening off his sweaty skin like a million stars and doing nothing to dim the noise of his appreciative moans, the hoarse grunts of her name, the sounds of their sticky hips colliding.

“I've dreamed about being full like this every night since you left.” Jean tells him, stuffed beyond her limits it feels like he’s so damn deep he could describe the feel of her cervix in detail.

She can feel those tight bowling balls she's sitting on that need to unload inside her, and precariously she reaches backwards to fondle them with one hand, remembering how he used to react to it. She gets her first high pitched whine of the evening from him at that, his chest heaving and his head thrashing, curls everywhere. “Bing -- oh it's big, it's big, I'll take it all though I-I promise….we gotta make you cum, baby.” she determines, not needing the discarded pillow or fuming passion to alert her to his desperation, “Lemme help you…just fill me up, let it alllll out... you need to, must be aching so bad”

At the mention of the ache he begins to buck into her wildly like a feral thing. Jean would have toppled off from his vigor if he hadn’t seized her hips in an iron grip and held her still for his assault from below. Jean hears herself squealing and whimpering and begging nonsense, still a bit fresh -and respectful- to this new and ferocious side of him. Somewhere in it though, Harry’s beginning to crack, frustration going from anger to fury to desperation to some boyish and pitiful need for relief.

Harry doesn’t mean to groan so loudly, so pathetically but it’s all so perfect and he’s so damn close and Jean’s like a sprinkler down there she’s enjoying herself so much and -why the hell can’t a fella just blow?

Jean instantly stills atop him and cradles his face tenderly, soft searching eyes and lips whispering about …something, something something “baby boy” -and he shudders. His pants are harsh as if he’s about to have a heart attack and his chest is so winded and achy he thinks he might. Or else cry.

Wouldn’t that be fun.

Beneath his hands he feels Jean’s hips begin to flex and she’s grinding on him again, twisting her hips in a slow figure eight that feels like a man’s heaven beneath his palms, and ten times that for his cock. It’s not doing it enough to make him blow but for a moment he decides that’s fine, he inflates his poor lungs again and lays back, admittedly a bit too stiff and rigid, and touches her as she pleases herself on top of him. She giggles shyly to him and her near constant moans are music to his ears as she swivels on his cock. He enjoys watched the pink little folds absorb him and the way their curls brush and mix where they meet, his lower belly a wet mess and streaks of the same running down to her ankles, they’ve made such a soup.

Clam fuckin’ chowder, by the looks of it.

Maybe he did blow. Doesn’t feel like it. And after watching and coaxing her through another melting peak, he lets her sag onto his chest for a minute and regroup before, with a kiss to her hair and a hard smack to her ass, he tells her,

“Hands and knees, Jean, if you want that baby -hands and knees.”

He barked it like an order, and while a little startled by it, she still wastes no time in flipping herself over and off him, scurrying into the position he specified, shaky from so many orgasms and the anticipation of him back atop her. Wincing inwardly at the thought of that package at this angle with how sore she already is-

-and he wastes no time. But instead of a cock she feels the shockingly familiar but never less exquisite feeling of his tongue running up the messy length of her slit. Her face collapses into the pillows along with her pleased shriek of “Bing!”.

He he laughs warm and wicked behind her, enjoying the ass up display of what he’s done to her.

“Spread ‘em Jean.” he tells her, and two dainty hands leave off from gripping the covers to bashfully pull her cheeks apart and show her husband where his fat cock belongs. He can see her pulsing down like a living entity of its own, even in this dim light.

“I'll be good... I'll be good for you, Major. Tell me what to do.” Jean swears hoarsely, those fawnish legs trembling again.

“Just take me.” he mutters simply, mounting her suddenly with his hand on the back of her head, keeping her cheek to the pillow and her scream muffled as he shoves in and begins to plow this squeaking little lady like tomorrow is indeed not promised to men like him.

Beneath him, between the high pitched squeals of pleasure and the urgent whines of endurance, Jean is muttering a litany of …something. Again and again she’s saying words like “it’s ok baby, it’s ok” and Harry isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or her, she sounds like a drunk fairy and his head begins to buzz with likelihood. “It’s ok baby, they told me you'd be like this, it’s ok. I can take it. I’ve missed you—“ she just keeps muttering that and vaguely Harry is pretty sure that comfort is meant for him and he wonders who ‘they’ are and what ‘like this’ even means.

On Jean’s part she is legitimately unsure who’s she’s trying to convince, likely herself but also, maybe that part of her between her legs that’s torn between panic and absolute ecstasy at his rough usage. Jean's mind spins at the realization of how much she likes it, likes the feral proof of how badly he missed her, needs her, wants her still. Her sweet and mild Harry climbed on top of her and is now railing her, and while it’s not your average little jaunt in the sheets, she clings to her pillow and takes it with something like pride…in between the moments when Harry’s fat cock wipes her mind a starry white as her legs kick up helplessly beneath him and her back arches and her hole clenches and another happy mess slides down her inner thighs to the sodden sheets.

And all through it the best of it is Harry and his voice, half sane sounding for once this evening as if to balance out the animalistic pose he has her in, groaning above her,

“That's it, be my good girl..my good, good girl. Always so good to me.”

He’s petting her hair like she’s a damn Labrador or something, wrapping her beautiful curls around his hand, arched over her like a cat, it’s perfect and he’s so deep he thinks he could fuck his balls in, foot placed sturdily on the bed beside her for further leverage.

“-Croz! You gotta!” His wife wails nonsensically beneath him, he picks her head up by the hair to hear what the hell she’s jabbering about now, husbandly rights or how she was ‘told’ he’d be.

She’s so cock wrecked it ain’t even funny but when he prods her with a “What's that Jean?” between thrusts he gets a slightly more formulated thought-

“You gotta put a baby in me!” she insists through sobs, orgasm after orgasm turning her into this shaking, shuddering, limp excuse of a woman.

A loverdoll, for real.

Her words ping in his head like that damn red light everywhere he goes on base. A light at the end of the tunnel, an eminent thing he’s needed for. Tightness seizes his belly and takes him unawares, suddenly Harry’s roaring out a resounding,

“Oh FUCK! Jean! Fuck-“ that bounces around the room like a cacophony.

The hotel guests next door might be

wondering why a moose is dying in

Manhattan? But no sweat, it’s just Major Crosby seeding his willing wife.

Like a soothing balm on a surgical wound, Jean feels him exploding warm and sticky and healing inside her at last. It doesn't stop coming, rope after rope of the thick, steaming hot gold of his body swelling her own and this adds the finishing touches to what was already a melted woman. In his last rapacious thrusts, she can feel her body playing the minx, trying to squeeze him out but her Croz is having none of it, like a dying man to water, he uses every bit of strength left to shove himself back in and flood her until she’s a collapsed and leaking mess.

In a haze, Croz pulls his now mercifully limp cock out of her and surveys her wrecked self with bleary, appreciative eyes. “Looks like you been through a war of your own, baby.” he jokes but his voice is so wrecked from his previous yells it startles his newly moderated self and he ends up toppled over beside her, no longer capable of giving a damn about anything.

His eyelids refuse to stay open and his neck is laying funny but -fuck! He was just inside Jean!

“You ok, Bing?” he hears her sweet voice whisper beside him and it was no dream then, and God forgive him he was probably mean. She’s panting beside him and when he can’t manage to answer he feels her hand grab his wrist and gently guide him somewhere until he’s petting startlingly warm petals that are saturated with his spunk.

“Think you managed to open me up, alright.” she titters, still sounding drunk and he can’t help the way his cheek crinkles in a returning smile.

Smashed into the pillow as it is, it’s still the prettiest expression of the best man Jean has ever known. “Y-Yeah.” her man croaks, half insensible but his beautiful hand keeps petting her where she’s sore and recently excavated, his identification bracelet jangling softly in the stillness, “You were such a good girl Jeanie..a good wife…ya did your job.” he mumbles more, fully in Major mode as he begins to drift off, forgetting entirely that maybe a fella shouldn't praise his wife like she's one of his men gotten back from a mission.

But Jean takes the compliment well, knowing how it’s meant, knowing that maybe tomorrow when he’s more conscious and healed, she may be blocked out from that world entirely. It’s a little glimpse and she takes it for what it is, with soft appreciation. Smilingly she lets go of his hand to give deflated Little Croz some pats, the sticky, shrunken thing is playing at being harmless and she has a longing to meanly suck on it until it shows it’s true colors again.

But no, for now, Croz’s heavy and nearly insessible arm throws itself over her waist and drags her to him, slotting the married couple together like spoons in their drawer.

They could try to shower but that seems too daunting a prospect at present, and highly futile considering what lies in store -more of the same. And for her part, Jean doesn’t dare move and slosh and waste any of what her Bing gave her. His forearm is heavy over her battered womb, cum and abuse swelling it just that little bit as if she were on her menses. She’s not, those were two weeks ago.

When his hand splays and cups the swollen bulge he made, Jean whispers to his already snoozing self, “We made a baby Bing, I just know it.”

And if not— there’s four more weeks to make certain.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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#mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #masters of the air #mota #harry crosby #anthony boyle #Harry crosby x Jean Crosby #Harry crosby fanfic #Harry crosby imagine #mota smut

[thefallennightmare]

Arranged-ten

Pairings: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: language, smut, angst, fluff, mentions of death.

Summary: Reader would do anything to make her parents happy and that included agreeing to an arranged marriage. She never expected it to be to one of New York's most feared Mob Boss: Bucky Barnes. He is anything but loving towards Reader however when her parents are mysteriously killed, Bucky makes it his mission to find out who were at fault. And in the process, ends up coming close to losing Reader.

Authors Note: Tags for this will be open, just shoot me a message or comment if you're interested!

Tags: @alexxavicry @mdpplgtz03 @broadwaybabe18 @samsgirl93 @cherryflavoureds-blog @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @clqrosmgc @loumaaria-blog @queerqueenlynn @pampeop @cjand10 @purplerain85 @savannahcole99 @evanstanhoney @sebastianstansqueen @portrait-ninja

Arranged Masterlist

The sudden rush of wind blew the bottom of my dress but I paid no mind to it, the cold breeze having no effect on my already frozen stature. My broken eyes were glued to the large hole in the ground where a two person casket had just been lowered, now filling up with dirt. The men on both sides of me stood with their arms crossed at their hips, not bothering to utter a word. Even if the funeral had ended some time ago, they knew that it wasn’t the time to leave. 

Bucky spared no expense, giving my parents the best funeral they could ever imagine. All of their friends and family came out, some shocked that I had gotten married, especially since it wasn’t known that I was even dating anyone. A quick lie of ‘we kept it quiet for so long, that's why’ seemed to suffice. 

I don’t know how I would have made it without Bucky by my side. He was there for me this past week more than I could have ever thanked him for. He put the majority of his meetings on hold so he could be with me, giving me whatever I needed. 

The night I received the news was the first night Bucky and I shared a bed. I was broken and Bucky was afraid to leave me so he stayed with me that night, holding me in his arms until I fell asleep. The next night I found myself crawling into his bed when the nightmares began, thinking of how my parents died, and Bucky quickly wrapped me up into his embrace. 

That was the last night we slept separate, opting to fully move into Bucky’s room. 

It had been a week with zero updates from the detectives. There was no fingerprints, DNA, or any sort of evidence left behind. 

“Whoever this person was, they knew what they were doing.” Detective Roth’s words kept replaying in my head. 

Up until now, I had been upset and broken about losing my parents, especially after the last conversation I had with them. But now I was pissed, angry, and ready to figure out things on my own. I thought about asking Bucky, him having connections that I would need, but I didn’t want him knowing what I was up to. If he did, he would force me to stop. 

“Doll?” 

I hummed, still not able to form words, but kept my eyes glued to the ground below. Bucky sighed and linked out fingers together, the vibranium of his wedding band pressed into my skin. He decided to wear it on his right hand, mentioning something about having enough vibranium on his left. Bucky made that joke a few days ago, in hopes of it cheering me up. 

It didn't. 

“Y/N,” he pressed again. “They’re done.”

I blinked, shifting back to reality, and looked up towards Bucky. He’s had the same look plastered over his face the last week; sorrow. I told him countless times to stop giving me that look, I didn’t need him to feel sorry for me anymore. 

Which is exactly what I told him now. 

“Stop giving me that look, Bucky. I’ve been getting it all day and I’m so fucking tired of seeing it,” I sighed. 

Bucky nodded then wrapped an arm around me to pull me into his chest. “Sorry. Let’s get you back home then.” 

With my own arms wrapped around Bucky’s back, I looked over towards the other man that stood next to me all day. 

“Are you coming back with us, Steve?” 

The blonde shook his head. “I’ve got some errands to run but I’ll be there tomorrow.” 

Besides Bucky, Steve had been there in my mourning and grief stricken state, a shoulder to cry on when Bucky had to step out for some kind of business. 

“I’m guessing it's back to business,” I looked up towards Bucky. 

He answered my question with a soft kiss to my lips. “I’m sorry, doll.” 

I shrugged, letting him know I didn’t mind. Only because I had been planning on running a couple errands myself and the only way I would be able to do that was if both Bucky and Steve were preoccupied. 

Soft snores sounded behind me as I traced the gold bands of Bucky’s vibranium arm while he slept. His bare chest pressed against my back worked like a personal heater, warming me the second we laid down together. Our feet were intertwined together at the end of the bed, and I knew when he began to twitch that I would be safe to sneak away. 

Steve and him had been busy all day in the office with meetings working like a revolving door. I didn’t see who was coming or going because I had been in bed all day. Bucky thought I needed more alone time to mourn but I was doing the opposite. 

I spent the majority of the day on my laptop and phone trying to chase down any leads I could in my parents murder; where they spent their last moments before coming home and who saw them that night. 

It was all dead ends until I remembered someone who could help me in getting the answers I wanted. As much as I didn’t want to or the fact that Bucky told me to stay away, I needed his help. He had connections in law enforcement that I didn't. 

It was almost midnight and he said that he would text me soon with an address of someone that remembers seeing my parents an hour before the murder. 

Turning over in Bucky’s embrace, I watched him for a moment. His eyes moving underneath its lids, snores coming from his parted lips, and his messy hair falling into his face. Under the moonlight breaking in from the window, he looked so peaceful and divine. 

I brushed the hair out of his face and laid a soft kiss on his cheek, the growing beard scratching my lips. His grip tightened while he buried his face deeper into my neck, leaving his own kiss. Guilt filled me knowing that I had gone against his word and was lying to him but I knew that this was what I had to do. 

My phone buzzed on the table behind me and I did my best to reach for it in hopes of not waking Bucky. 

21412 Longview Lane. 30 minutes-J.W.

“Who is it?” Bucky grumbled into the back of my neck. 

Shit. 

“Just another friend of my parents sending their condolences,” I lied while snuggling closer towards him. 

“At midnight?” His half lidded eyes looked at the clock. 

I smiled at his sleepy voice and nodded. “Late bird I guess.” 

Bucky hummed before rolling towards the other side of the bed and when his back was turned, I placed a few kisses down his spine. 

“I can’t sleep so I’m going to go downstairs and make some tea.” 

With his grumble of words as a response, I knew this was the only chance I would get to sneak away for a bit. 

I rubbed the red mark on my wrist with a grimace towards the guard who opened the metal door in front of me, a loud buzzer sounding throughout the building. As I walked through the long hallway, I tried to mentally prepare myself for the fight that was about to ensue the second we got into the car. 

What I had just gone through the last two hours paled in comparison to the man that was waiting in the lobby. I wished they would have called anyone else but since he was my husband, they had to call Bucky. 

My tired glance landed on Bucky who was leaning against the front desk, an angry scowl on his face. The cop next to him handed him all of my personal belongings and he took them without saying a word. 

“Hi,” I muttered once I was in front of him. 

Bucky kept his hardened face before linking our hands together and somewhat nicely dragged me to the car. The twenty-minute drive home was complete silence, the only thing that could be heard in the small confinement was Bucky’s heavy breathing. He had been gripping the steering wheel so tight that his flesh knuckles had gone white. 

The car eased up the drive and once he was parked in front of the house, I made a quick dash inside, hoping to avoid whatever conversation that was about to ensue. 

“Arrested, Y/N? Are you fucking serious?!” Bucky’s voice boomed as he slammed the front door shut. 

The sudden raise in his voice caused me to jump slightly and I turned on the staircase where I had only made it to the third step. 

“It was stupid. The cop only arrested me because I'm married to you. He wanted to make a point by arresting New Yorks most feared mob boss' wife,” I shrugged. 

Bucky pinched his eyes in annoyance. “What the hell were you doing trespassing on someone's property across town in the middle of the  night? Do you know how dangerous that was, especially because Steve or I weren’t with you.” 

“I wasn’t alone,” I defend. 

HIs shoulders went rigid. “John Walker? Really? Have you lost your fucking mind?” 

I sliced him in half with my gaze. “I know what I’m doing, Bucky.”  

“Did you forget what I told you about Walker?” He asked. 

“I didn’t have a choice, Bucky. He’s the only one that can help me!” My voice was now raised, anger mixed with annoyance. 

His brow raised in confusion. “With what? Breaking into someone's house?” 

I hesitated, unsure if I should tell him the truth. He could see the way I resisted and I’m sure he could hear my heart hammered hard against my chest. Sweat began to form in my palms so I wiped them on my pants before taking a deep breath. 

“I’ve, uh, been looking into my parents murder,'' I stuttered. 

Bucky’s eyes softened. “Why, doll?” 

“Because no one has had any answers! It’s been over a week and nothing!” I snapped. “If the cops won’t do anything then I will!” 

“And you go to Walker for help?” 

The hurt in Bucky’s voice didn’t go undetected and my heart dropped, realizing that maybe I should have gone to him in the first place; could have avoided an arrest charge. 

“The John that I know is different from the one you do, Bucky. There was a point in my life where he would have done anything for me,” I defended my choice. 

“You knew him, Y/N. He’s not the same anymore,” Bucky responded with a flat tone. 

“How do you know?” I curled a brow. “Oh that’s right, you won’t tell me because it’s on the list of ‘secrets to keep from Y/N.” 

I turned on my heels, ready to end this conversation, but Bucky followed close behind as I made my way to our room. 

“You need to end this whole pretend cop nonsense.” Bucky said while shedding himself of his leather jacket, tossing it onto the couch in our room. 

I chuckled dryly. “Haven’t you learned that you can’t tell me what to do?” 

Bucky stepped in front of me as I tried to slip away from him into the bathroom. 

“This is serious shit, doll. You can end up hurt or worse.” 

I raised a finger to him. “I won’t stop until my parents' murders are either caught or dead. If I get hurt in the process, who cares.” 

Bucky’s face fell. “Don’t say that.” 

I shrugged. “You mean to tell me that you would be hurt if something happened to me? Bucky, this marriage was built on an arrangement between you and my parents. They’re dead so you can consider yourself off the hook.”

“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice cracked. 

I ran a hand through my hair. “Look, I'm exhausted and just want to go to sleep. We’ll figure everything out tomorrow morning.” 

I didn’t bother giving him time to respond as I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

#mob!bucky barnes #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes and reader #mob!bucky barnes x yn #mob!bucky barnes and yn #mob!bucky barnes reader insert #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes and reader #sebastian stan

[deadboyfriendd]

Cochise l: Nellie

Summary: A dark stranger blows into town, bringing Hell with him. Little did he know, Hell was already here, in the form of you. The air here is stale and the residents stagnant. This town was as wild as the west was able, and you are the most wild thing about it. 

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, wet dream, smut included, feminine rage embodied and I gave her a gun

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.4k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading!

Find the series masterlist here!

When the dust blew in from the East, Hell came with it. 

And Hell hath no fury like a woman’s reproach. 

1890. From the ashes of the Civil War rose a phoenix of economic expansion and spurs the great migration west. Farmers, ranchers, prospectors, killers and thieves seek their fortunes. Cattle drovers turned cow towns into armed camps with murder-rates higher than those of modern-day New York or Los Angeles. Silver is discovered in Arizona, and the prospectors dragged their young wives and their Parisian fashions with them. Siphoned together out of greed, hundreds of Texas outlaws banded together to forge a new way forward, resulting in the birth of early organized crime. 

Out of this chaos came the great legendary lawmen, and none as mean as you. 

The air was stale this time of year, heavy enough to flatten a lizard, when the turn of the season brought the green back to the ironwoods and the snakes back from their hides. When it brought the heat back with a haughty laughter and a heart full of vengeance. The sun cast down a glare that warped the mirage of the desert backdrop of Cochise County, turning from a comforting radiation to a wasp sting when the night turned. The cereus blossom fragrant with rot that filled the stagnant night air and its timely beauty– and ultimate untimely death. 

He reaped a certain morosity with him, spurs scraping across the floor like a toll, steps sure as snow in the northern country– as they dragged the dust from his heels eastward. His skin was of alabaster, and his clothes of obsidian. He was not from here, and it drew a shudder from the mesquite doors upon their sun-dried hinges. The dirty faces of prospectors, drunks, and cattle drovers turning to peer at him under sweat-laden brows. 

The Whispering Sands was not the ritzy bar, no, that was the bar located in the lobby of the Grand Hotel up the holler. No, Your dealer was as straight as a Christmastime wreath, your doors hung as crooked as your dealer, and if you didn’t carry when you walked through, you had spares. There would be no clean men and women with their Parisian dresses and costly hat pins occupying this place. This was the lowest of the low. 

He peers at you from under the brim of a coal-stained, honest-to-God gunslinger wool Stetson, lined with the hammered silver and turquoise-inlaid band. It laid flat across the top and around the brim. You hadn’t seen one like it since your wedding night on the ritzy hardwood grounds of the Grand Hotel herself. He takes a seat in a singular fell swoop, frock coat flaring outwards and casting a soft breeze over your presence. Single-breasted, large notch lapels. Beneath it, his dark pinstripe trousers folded under the weight of his body, the silver brocade vest above the black cravat remaining stiff. From where your eye connected with him, you could see the nickel plating of a Colt 1873 single action revolver, sheathed under the oiled ellipse of the leather-bound shoulder holster. It was apparent he wasn’t here to push cattle. 

It was a fleeting gaze, the kind that rattle each of your vertebra and settled in your coccyx. A single golden curl slipped over a broad shoulder and swung heavy in the tension between your two bodies. 

There was a resonant patriarchal tenor that buzzed amongst the patrons in this space, tense on the outcome and flat-lining in deliverance. They tried to avert wandering gazes from this new resident— strung together words in staccato, interrupted by morbid curiosity and on-looking eyes. Michael Doten– amicably monickered “Mudsill”, shattered this hum like china. He was a worm of a man, slimy in all of the worst ways, and, on this day in particular, aptly under the impression of laudanum and drink. He shared these sympathies with his own father– a man no more than fifteen years his senior. 

He slinked through the door with the demeanor of an old tom-cat, crooked in stride and greasy to the touch— not that you could fathom anyone wanting to touch him at all. He demanded a house whiskey with a slovenly belch– a concoction made from your own sarsaparilla, burnt raw sugar, and chewing tobacco. 

“Michael, I’d say you’ve about had enough today.” You chided, firm in your answer. The stranger peered a doting gaze towards you, then turned it toward ‘Ol Mudsill from a downturned hat– wistful in demeanor and daring in residence. He watched as Michael cast a thumb of brown saliva onto your floor, intentionally ignoring the existence of the spitoon a mere few feet from it. 

He sneered towards you through leather-laden eyelids, a protuberance straight from the aforementioned spittoon, and filled with piss and vinegar, “Now,” He started, “ – if I wanted an old bitch telling me what I can and can’t drink, I would have considered marrying.” It was a slimy statement with a profound lack of remorse. It dripped from the gaps of his rotting teeth like a tar. 

“I wouldn’t marry you, even if I was fixin’ to face death herself.” It wasn’t the first time you had denied him a drink, nor was it the first time he had spoken ill toward you. You doubted it would also be the last. You were a harum-scarum, devil-may-care woman, tough as nails and pretty as a mink stole.

“You don’t listen too good, now do you?” Mudsill spit back, standing now. Your fingers grazed the pearl handles of the Remington Model 1890 tucked away in the fold of your dresses. You hoped to God you didn’t have to use it. 

Before ‘Ol Mudsill could think of something to say back, the dark stranger stood, “That’s no way to talk to a lady.” 

“Is that a fact?” Mudsill raises a wiry brow towards the man, standing erect in front of him. 

“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He said back, quietly. It was a discerning quiet, the kind where you figure trouble might be brewing. 

“Well, for a man that don’t go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless there, don’t ‘ya?” The stranger said, standing a little more erect– like he was fixing for trouble, though, by the context of the rest of the conversation, you’d say trouble had already been brewing. Now, you waited for the pot to boil over, “No need to go heel to get the bulge on a tub like you, huh?”

Mudsill glared toward him though tight lids, a reckless abandon only a drunk could possess, “Is that a fact?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, I’m ‘real scared.” Musill replied with a bobbling nod of his head, reaching for the firearm tucked away behind his waistband. 

“Damn right, you’re scared. I can see that in your eyes.” The stranger followed the movement of his hand momentarily, eyes settling over the worn wood of the stock before meeting back up with his eyes,  “Yeah, go ahead, skin it. Skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.” 

“Listen Mister, I’m gettin’ awful tired of you–” He was cut off, the stranger landing a stinging, open-palmed blow to his face. 

“I’m gettin’ tired of your gas, now jerk that pistol and go to work.” Mudsill stared back, stunned. Frozen like a scared lizard. Another blow. “I said throw down, boy.” A third blow landed across his cheek, harder this time. You could see where the blood filled his mouth and covered his teeth. “You gonna do something or just stand there and bleed?” 

“No?” The stranger raised an eyebrow, reaching upwards to put a forceful hand on mudsill’s shoulder, “Now, come on, Junior.” 

The wire snapped behind ‘Ol Mudsill’s eyes, and with a sleight of hand, he reached for the worn pistol tucked into his overcoat. The dark stranger was fast, but you were faster. The pearl grips cold and smooth against the sweat of your palms. Quickly and in one motion, you stepped out from the bar, hand forced steady only in fear alone. 

“You’re bluffing.” Michael sneered towards you, taking a step forward, closer to you with the barrel now in your direction. It was enough for the stranger to bear his arms as well, though, he wouldn’t need them today. The barrel met Michael’s forehead. 

“I don’t bluff.” Your thumb met the hammer, pulling it back enough for a deafening swell click, “Now your family may be back to rush me, but that won’t stop me from blowing a canoe through your head first, y’hear?”

His eyes widened, and he pulled the barrel back from you, finger leaving the sheath of the trigger and thumb only staying tucked around the grip enough to keep it held. 

“Don’t come back here. Ever.” You ordered, and he nodded slightly. 

“Yes’m” 

The stranger spoke then, pistol still planted firmly against the back of the offender, “And you’re gonna drop that weapon right here, Michael.” He ordered. 

The worn colt clattered against the floor as he tossed it from his waist-height to the ground. The stranger took this as the opportunity to grab Michael by the collar and drag him out the front doors like a calf. You could see the durst stir from outside, but didn’t sense a further commotion. You sat idly in one of your stools, letting free an exasperated sigh as you threw your head down against the bar. You didn’t sign up for this when you found yourself out west. 

You felt the stock of a pistol press into the meat of your upper arm, “Here. Keepsake. Hang it over the bar, Nellie.” The stranger spoke back to you, sliding the firearm across the worn mesquite bar top. 

You raised a brow at him, more at the moniker, but also at his enthusiasm, “Nellie?”

“I had a horse like you once,” He released a breathy laugh between his words, maybe more nervous at the fact that he was comparing you to a horse, “ —even after she broke she was meaner than hell, but prettier than a mink stole. It’s a pleasure, Mrs–”

He thought it was foolish, comparing you to that mean old mare, but he didn’t have time to dote on it before you stopped him mid-sentence. 

“Ms.” You corrected. 

He couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted down to the ring on your finger, a single thin gold band that he dwelled on for just long enough for you to notice the cogs attempting to turn in his head. 

 “Dead.” You clarified, and he felt his heart contract as the word left your lips. 

“Sorry to hear that.” He dips his head low, only now taking off the Stetson to greet you properly, “Name’s Munson. Edward Munson.” 

You shook your head, forcing that still-bruising ache away to push a smile, “Ain’t no changin’, may God have willed it, Mr. Munson.” 

He matched your smile, handsome cheeks creasing deeply around the curvature of his mouth, “Just Edward will do, ma’am.” 

You pulled open the humidor, nimble fingers gracing along the stack of cigars beneath its lid. You chose the one with the cleanest-looking wrapping, one that looked sufficient enough as a thank-you, before offering it to him. He took it with a nod of his head, thick fingers wrapping around the base gently before pulling the kerosene vase near him. You watched the smoke roll from between his lips in a vapid crescendo, all too graceful and all too beautiful. 

“I take it you're not a prospector?” You questioned him gently, voice sure, yet smaller than his resonating alto. 

He laughed softly, the kind that heaves itself from the chest. Hearty, “No ma'am.”  

“Then how does someone like you find yourself in a place like this?” You leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting firmly in the warmth of your palm. You tried to ignore the sweat building between the flesh. 

He looked down at the cigar between his fingers, twirling it around and feeling the paper it was rolled in, “Well I find I could ask you the same thing–”

The bell above the door was shrill in the staleness of the air, the resonance of the prior entanglement floating back up in a cloud in an attempt to re-settle over the old furniture like silt. The man that waded through its wake was tall, but not gangly, no, he did not share the demeanor of a scarecrow. He looked like he meant business.

You pulled your attention away from Edward for a brief moment, your eyes tearing from his personage and settling over the familiar face, “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Hello, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his hat towards you in greeting, peering briefly at the man sat at the bar in front of you, “‘Ol Mudsill seems pretty shaken up, did somethin’ happen again?”

“Nothin that Edward here couldn’t handle.” You watched as his eyes flicked back and forth between you and Edward, like he was trying to piece a puzzle together but there were too many missing pieces, “Sheriff, this is Edward Munson, just unloaded from the train in Tucson.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached a broad hand out to meet with the sheriff’s. 

He accepted the offer, hands locked together in a firm grip, “Steve Harrington.” 

“Pleasure.” Edward mentioned, politely. 

“You have a place to stay, Edward?” He asked, hand still interlocked with his for a brief moment. 

“Not as of yet. Know of anyone housing?”

“I’d say the Grand Hotel just across the way.” 

+

The walk to the other side of the road is brief, but the sun beat down against Eddie’s back like a brand– the eyes that followed his movement, the hands that held the iron. The dust kicked up behind him and collected at the bases of his boots seemed to slow his stride as he sunk into its softness. He would have to have them polished tomorrow. 

Steve turned to him, boots casting a hollow thud as they stepped up onto the decking of The Grand Hotel, “I am inclined to ask, what exactly happened back there?”

Eddie cleared his throat, righting himself, “Just some drunk. Got all riled up when she wouldn’t serve him and started waving his gun around.”

Steve shook his head, removing his hat to run a finger through the hair beneath it, sand ripplying against his scalp beneath his finger, “Christ, well, thank you for handling that for her. She’s been through too much this year.”

“She dealt with that right on her own, sheriff, the only part I took part in was getting him out.” 

Their boots made a clunk against the sun-rotted wood on the staircase of The Grand Hotel, stairs creaking in affliction. There was a moment of silence between the two men, tense and fleeting, like there was still something to be said. 

“Her husband died last spring.” Steve finally mentioned, understanding that it wasn’t his place to tell. 

“She mentioned it.” Steve felt a relief at him knowing. He didn’t want to be the one to have to bear the shock of the statement. 

He sighed before continuing, “Shot and killed on that bar floor. ‘Couple of bandoleros robbing the place.”

“Chist–- She seemed capable.” Eddie mentioned to him, raking his hair back under his hat. He felt the sweat bead around where the band met his skin. 

“But still, no woman should ever have to bury her husband.” The sheriff said, reaching up to place nimble hands on his hips, “‘Specially not that young.”

The Grand Hotel is the essence of luxury in the west. Well, as luxurious as they could ship by train. Mahogany covered the expanse of the palace in a grandeur scale, only being broken by the pin-striped wallpaper covering the upper half of the wayne-scotted wall on the second floor. The taxidermied elk that hung above the bartop was shipped from the northern country, as were many of the axis and whitetail deer that hung on other walls. 

This seemed to be the only place in this town that a fine layer of dust hadn’t settled over. 

The velveteen nature of the drapery that hung over the stage to the left in a heavy abismality had remained nearly untouched by the traces of the desert around it. The gold of the drawstrings that held them back still contained the luster under the light. 

He couldn’t help but to search for you in the madness of coiled, unabashedly tentative curls piled on the heads of the women in the large bustles that scraped between tables and each other. You looked like you belonged here, but he knew where you would be. 

This night’s show had ended already, the lingering patrons also taking residence within the palace. The backing curtain drawn to a close and the actors retired to their quarters. Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, overrun, overplayed. Edward thought about it. Of all the things in the world to know, why learn The Devil’s craft? He figured if it was the only thing left to know, he’d probably learn it, too. 

There is a man of about five foot, ten inches sat at the bar, elbows rested against the glossy finish of the bartop. He is a burly man, Eddie can see that even from his sitting position. Steve guides Eddie towards him, taking his own seat next to him. Eddie stayed standing. 

He looks back behind him, Steve muttering a few words that Eddie couldn't seem to hear over the drabble of lobby patrons, “Milt. County Marshall.” 

He sticks a rough hand out, and Eddie takes it in a firm clasp. 

“Edward Munson.” He shakes his hand once, Milt was a man of few words. 

Steve buys Eddie a drink. A golden bourbon, not watered down like many of the bars out west did for reserve. Real golden bourbon. An import. A thanks. 

They settled on a less-occupied corner of the palace, one that lacked faro tables and drunk patrons. On the opposite side of the baby grande that played anything its player knew how. 

“Her husband was a good man.” Steve said between sips, sweat dripping down the crystalline glass like glitter, “Too good if you’d ask me. It’s what got him killed in the first place.” 

He felt the pang in his chest, a tightening of muscles like tears, “It’s a shame. Pretty woman like that having to run that place by her lonesome.”

Steve chucked a bit in agreement, looking back over his shoulder like you would somehow appear, “That isn’t by our choice. She could have her pick if she wanted it.” He took another sip of his drink, and Eddie knew he was right. You were pretty, sullen skin like satin, hair like ribbon. He’d pay all of the money in his pocket just to touch. 

“She doesn’t?” Eddie questioned, looking over to meet Steve’s eyes. 

“I’d reckon not.”

He tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the piano. He watched the woman sat on top, the way the lace of her undergowns flowed upwards with the swing of her ankles. He watched the man play with skilled– albeit drunk– fingers. 

This place was lively, perhaps a little too lively for the hour. People still yelling obscenities and praises over faro, ice in glasses. He felt the sweat from the glass beneath his fingers, and it matched the band of it building beneath his cap. His collar felt tight, like someone had been pulling it from the back. Shouldn’t it have gotten cooler when the sun went down?

“I’d reckon I’d better turn in for the night.” He said suddenly, placing the glass down on the bar in front of him, about a milliliter of fluid left watered-down and pooling at the bottom. 

He ascended the mahogany staircase to his quarters, where he would retire for the night. However, as he stripped himself of his frock coat and underclothes, he couldn’t help to peer towards the luminescent glow coming from The Whispering Sands upper floor across the bend. 

The curtains billowed outwards towards the street below, casting a light over the sand beneath it like a halo. White linen backlit by yellow butane lighting. And there you sat, all woman. He’d have half a mind to buy you some night clothes, and the other half a mind to burn them if you even had them. 

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He could feel the windowsill digging into his palms, it grounded him– kept him from free-floating into the stagnant desert air. 

The Grand Hotel is a loud place, and it never sleeps. The faro games did not stop on his account, and he didn’t expect them to. He closes his eyes, a glass breaks. A fight breaks out downstairs in a triad of commotion, shuffling, and yelling. This was the first time he had been in a bed in days, yet, it felt horrendously unceremonious. Sleep would not evade him in the way he willed it. 

The flooring creaked, drunk patrons hit the wall outside of his quarters with intense, muffled thuds. Two people in the suit next to him were clearly of relation. He tried to ignore the way the oak headboard creaked and hit the wall in a rhythmic fashion. He tried his hardest not to think of you. 

This place did not sleep, and he knew he wouldn’t either. So instead, Edward collected his hat and gun, pulling his trousers back on and lazily doing his shirt back up. 

The night air had cooled some, less blistering than when the sun was out, yet it remained stale. He walked a bit, eyes still shimmering with the adjustment of light from the palace to the stark darkness of the desert. Light traveled a lot further here, darkness even further. The hum of the palace dimmed as the distance between them grew, air heavy like a barrier that stopped the noise from traveling. 

He settled himself in the soft sand beneath him, back planted firmly against the knotty base of that twisted old ironwood. Someone else still awake at this unholy hour plucked delicately at old piano keys– these ones slightly more out of tune and reverberated off of the walls with a static hum that resonated through the otherwise empty streets. Sleep evaded in a thankless percussion. 

And there you were. 

He allowed his fingers to trail over the delicate expanse of your shoulder, brushing soft curls over its bridge. Soft presses of his mouth trailed from your year to the valley of your clavicle. He pressed your gowns down your shoulder as he went, the loose garment sliding off with ease.

In your glorious, supple nature. All woman all the time. Your hands, nimble and soft, were forceful against his chest as you pushed him back against plush white linens. Fingers as sure as death and as right as rain. The haze from the butane lamp cast a glow around you, baby hairs illuminating around your head like a halo. 

Slowly now, but with an urgency, you right yourself in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his shirt in a way that made him want to beg just to feel a finger brush against his skin. He whined as he watched you with wide eyes.

His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, a welcome breeze blew through the open window, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. Songs of “Oh- Gods” and small giggles creating perfect songs- a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of the desert around you. You could feel his hands on your back, fingers his fingers unwrapping you from linen bed sheet confines and introducing you to your own bedroom like an heirloom– a home in which you yourself haunted. The palms of your hands feeling the smooth surface of stone beneath the skin, and the dewey droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue. 

His fingers pressed firmly into the plush of your outer thighs, and your skin was soft. Calves skin, another import. Too soft for this place. Too soft for this sadness. 

“So soft.” He whispered, voice a tenor to its usual pitch. 

He watched where your bodies connected, the way you slid up and down on him, the way his fingers rippled your skin where they dug in, the gyration of your hips. Your hair is down this time, braid long since combed through, and the ends of it tickle as they brush against him. 

“God, Nellie.” He isn’t particularly introspective or anything, but he does know that he’ll never feel something like this again. 

Your tender touch a velvety petal trailed down the expanse of his chest where it heaves, nothing left to impede your touch. No overcoats, no holster or gun. Your hands like the claws of the bobcat pawing into the sand where his heart lay in an unmarked grave.

“Edward,” You whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands pressing the center of your back to bring you close against your chest. It was a plea. It read like a prayer. “Take me, please.” 

His upward thrust slowed from long, meaningful bass crescendos to harsh uneven staccatos. Your breaths became erratic in nature to match. Your release washed over you like a storm, rolling and violent and all at once. His own followed suit. 

Edward realized then that this was how the west would be won. If it wasn’t, he’d wage the war himself. 

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie munson smut #eddie x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie x you #Spotify #outlaw!eddie #cowboy!eddie

[rom-e-o]

Worthy (Constance/Ebenezer)

Trigger warning for mentions of s*xual abuse and physical abuse perpetrated by a third party (AKA Orin).

How does almost 20 years of marriage break? It shatters like bone.

Before Ebenezer came into her life with the speed and majesty of a summer storm, Constance DoGoode (specifically, Constance Spiegler) hadn't thought herself to be particularly ... affectionate.

She liked to flirt; a wink here, a flash of the ankle there. The best men got a swish of the skirt.

It was recreational for her; an exercise is the perfecting the persona of a stunning socialite. It was part of her job to maintain the image as a model and a soon-to be businessman's wife.

People noticed Constance, and they also noticed how others (especially men) treated her.

All the doormen at New York's ritziest apartments took turns on Friday evenings while gathered around shots of rye whiskey to brag about if she'd touched their shoulder or tossed her hair at them to throw the cent of her lily perfume. Bellhops would fight over who got the opportunity to handle her luggage or, heaven forbid, the opportunity to walk her to her room or bring room service. The jewelers at Tiffany's frequently invited her to their 259 Broadway storefront to solicit her opinion on the latest diamonds and jewelry styles.

When eager friends told Constance stories of her not-so-secret fanclubs, she'd laugh coyly, her smile bright as the stars. The unsuspecting onlooker might think the news overjoyed her.

Truthfully, she was indifferent. She liked attention in the way a horse liked sugar. It was a delightful treat, but it wasn't by any means necessary for survival or daily well-being. She felt the same way about the birds and bees.

While she'd had her first kiss at age 14 with a giggly classmate from her French lessons, she'd been a sterling little virgin on her wedding night. As for why she'd waited, it hadn't been an intentional decision. She'd simply never had the desire to go to bed with anyone before meeting her first husband. Others had definitely tried to persuade her, but the woman was nothing if not resolute, even when it came to her disinterest.

Her wedding night with Orin had been...nice. Delightful, even. Then, the next day, he'd 'shared' her with a group of other businessmen he'd met that morning in the Swiss ski lodge they'd opted to honeymoon in. She woke up bruised, bloodied, groggy from alcohol she didn't remember drinking, and most of all ... broken-hearted.

As the years passed, kisses were nonexistent and hugs were only initiated in the company of others to keep up the couple's images. Sex was more awkward than painful, thanks to Orin's below average endowment (which she became beyond thankful for). When he did want to hurt her, he used his fists, broken bottles, or the steel-toed tips of his boots if she was especially prone.

She tried to rekindle their romance if for no other reason than to save her life. It failed, and she turned to a razor blade and scalding bath tub for salvation. She was denied. Orin found her and delivered her from ethereal release to the painful confinement of a hospital. Even while in a half-sleep, her body reeking of copper from the blood coagulating in the lace trim of her nightgown, she swore he mother's screams shook the city.

That night was the only night Orin held her hand, stroking her wedding band. It seemed to be a means to comfort himself more than her.

Doctors gave her pain meds - morphine, codeine, and heroin. Opium as well, of course. It lessened her libido further, something Orin would stomp his foot about like a child whenever she tried to shove him away after a long day.

After he shoved her down the stairs, snapping both her femurs like toothpicks, the pain medication and grain alcohol cocktail she sloshed down daily numbed her to almost everything. Everything except the desire to escape.

The 30-day boat trip to London has been a miserable, rat-infested, shivering detox. Yet, as far as she was concerned, death would have been another form of release. Whether she reached the shore or not, she was free.

When she did reach the shore, what she lacked in money or prospects, she made up for in hope. The city was grimy, freezing cold and dark, but it was without him. For that reason, it was heaven.

Then, she met Ebenezer Scrooge.

He and Orin were physically similar, in many ways. Handsome. Tall. Dark-haired (well, past-tense for Ebenezer). Broad-shouldered. Their voices were even similar, striking her as a blend between velvety and smoky that she had never heard before. Orin's accent was distinctly Bronx, while Ebenezer's leaned more Welsh than the traditional London accent or cockney flair she'd heard so far.

Ebenezer rolled his 'rrr's easily, which separated him distinctly from the pronunciations of largely Dutch-settled populations of New York. Orin's family had hailed from the Netherlands and Germany, and he spoke fluent Dutch as a result. Constance spoke the language recreationally, and the two would often converse in Dutch at parties if they needed to speak privately.

"Tenzij je wilt dat je arm vanavond gebroken wordt, rond je gesprek af en laten we vertrekken," he growled. "Dat zal ik nu doen," she whispered, frantically waving to the acquatance she's started chatting with moments before. They stared back in confusion, but she kept smiling as to not alarm them. "Het spijt me." "Zorg dat je dat doet, slet!"

Both men were financial bigwigs, but Ebenezer's talent was sincere and founded on skill (skills that had come at a hefty price). Orin was ... well, a master of illusion. He talked an enthusiastic deal, cut shrewd deals, and adored parties and festivities. Yet, the management of money often fell to Constance because the man lacked any sense of self-restraint.

Where they widely differed, of course, was in personality.

"How would you pronounce your name in Dutch?" he asked, using his elbow to pop is head up. The angle allowed him to look down upon her lovingly while simultaneously providing space for their nude bodies to slot together easily. They laid side by side in bed, his blunt fingertips tracing hearts idly over the skin of her bare hip.

"Konstanz."

He hummed, testing the pronunciation on his tongue. "Beautiful, of course."

She smiled modestly. "I've always liked my name, I'll confess. My mother chose it for me, after all."

He paused. "So, Theresea gave you your name, not ..."

"No. If I had a name before they left me, I don't remember it."

"I can't imagine a more fitting name for you," he said softly, flattened his palm to give her hip an affectionate squeeze. "Steadiness. Resoluteness. Persistence. How fitting for a woman of such strength."

"My schoolmates teased me for it, though," she commented. "They said it was too prim and proper for a redhead with freckles."

"Too prim?" he repeated, genuinely confused.

"I like the way your name sounds much better," she said, rolling over in the bed to have a better angle at which to toy with his hair. "Even H'azer. Similar to Hebrew."

He chuckled, capturing her hand to kiss her knuckles. "It sounds pretty when you say it."

"You don't like your name?"

"I'm indifferent," he explained. "It's certainly a name that sets a high standard. One I'm uncertain a can stand up to."

"I adore your name," she said sincerely, twining their fingers. Her thumb stroked his palm, and she took great joy in watching a deep blush color his cheeks (and not for the first time that day). "It's a worthy name for a worthy man."

"W-Well, thank you," he chuckled, stuttering a bit in the process. She adored why boyish embarrassment came over him in small glimpses. It was rewarding to see him accept compliments.

"I mean it," she repeated. "If anyone deserves a name of such esteem, it's you."

His facial features, already soft with affection, became borderline mercurial. "You're serious?"

"You are one of two men I hold in the highest esteem possible," she said. She pressed a kiss to the tip of his owlish nose. "Sorry, but I'm afraid my father takes the tippy-top spot."

He laughed at this, not in mockery, but in joy.

"I'd expect nothing less," he beamed.

Her heart swelled at his response.

"Oh, he would have loved you..." she said softly. "He never liked Orin. My father rarely lost his temper, but the first time I ran home with a black eye, he grabbed a pistol and tried to march out the door. He said, 'I'll kill the bastard.'"

Agreed, Ebenezer thought secretly.

"He sounds like an amazing man," he said, "And he raised an amazing, wonderful, strong, and beautiful daughter. One I promise I'll fight every day to be worthy of. For the rest of my days."

It was her turn to blush as she lifted her arms to wrap them about his narrow waist. Her cheek fell against his furred chest, finding the steady thud of his heart without issue.

"I think you'll find that your fight is over," she said with a smile. "Both of ours are."

@quill-pen when writing a character's past hurts so much that you HAVE to throw in SOME fluff at the end to stay sane.

#scrooge 2022 #scrooge x oc #oc constance dogoode

[klaineccfanficlibrary]

Here's a bingo card full of great Klaine fics:

Debut: Days by AllyThePotato

Page Turner: Come Alive by delires

Need Tissues: Stick Season by Blurglesmurfklaine

Unusual Occupation: Witch Wanted by RockItMan

Wild Card: Running in Circles, Coming up Tails by izwordsoup

Summer: Swing, Swing by quizasvivamos

Challenge: Ebb and Flow by maanorchidee

Laugh: these inconvenient fireworks by redheadgleek

Trope I don't normally read: Out of Eden (and the whole 'verse) by wowbright

Thanks for your Bingo card! HERE is the collection (125 fics and counting!) and here is the info for the 2023 Klaine Bingo! ~Lynne

1) Days by AllyThePotato

Blaine lives in San Fransisco, Kurt lives in Lima. They've never met in person, but befriend one another and talk over the phone. They make plans to live in NYC together, but will everything go as planned?

2) Come Alive by delires

1960s NYC: Newly-wed junior advertising exec Blaine Anderson finds a missing piece to his puzzle in the back room of a Manhattan bar. Mad Men era AU.

3) Stick Season by @blurglesmurfklaine

After Finn dies, Kurt leaves everything he knows behind without a trace. His hometown, his family, his boyfriend. When his dad has a medical scare, he returns to Lima, one year after breaking Blaine’s heart with no explanation.

4) Witch Wanted by @rockitmans

Blaine is cursed to not touch anyone, Kurt is the grumpy neighborhood witch. They each have something the other other needs (the thing is love)

5) Running in Circles, Coming up Tails by izwordsoup

Kurt and Adam are married with a seven-year-old daughter, Ellie. "Happily married" is another question. Ellie takes piano lessons from none other than Blaine Anderson, who also happens to be a good friend of Kurt's since college. What happens to them when Adam goes to England to star in a West End musical, leaving Kurt and Ellie in New York? What happens when Blaine becomes a more frequently-seen figure in Kurt and Ellie's lives due to Ellie's piano schedule?

6) Swing Swing by quizasvivamos

The Skanks, Kurt and Quinn, are a thing. Blaine, a bit of a bad boy, is dating that goth girl, Tina. The four best friends are fully immersed in the Emo/Scene subculture, the kids everyone at school calls emo or just plain freaks. As close-knit as a friend group can get, the couples share a lot in common: their love of choir and band, tastes in music and art, partying, going to shows and concerts, getting wasted, and—oh, yeah—each other's partners. They swap sometimes. Because it's cool, and it's hot. Besides, it's just for fun. Then, in the summer before their senior year, they take a life-altering road trip to Cleveland for Warped Tour 2005.

7) Ebb & Flow by maanorchidee

Blaine Anderson is yet another anonymous New Yorker who's trying to get a job in the entertainment industry. His days are filled with auditions, bleak subway rides, piano lessons, and complaining about his annoying next-door-neighbour. But Blaine has a secret that he cannot share with his other friends: he dreams of playing competitive Splatoon 2. He already has a hard time justifying this music degree, so he doesn't need to add an interest in eSports to that. That's why the only person who knows about this, is yet another stranger on the internet named Kurt. The two met in an LGBT Splatoon 2 Discord and became fast friends. Little do they know that they also know each other offline.

8) These Inconvenient Fireworks by redheadgleek

After an unexpected Tony award, Kurt Hummel is Broadway's hottest up and coming star, which comes with expectations and some admirers that won't take a hint. When his best friend Elliott Gilbert suggests that they pretend to date to get the leeches to back off, Kurt takes him up on the idea. It's all working out great - until Kurt starts to fall hard for the dark-haired music director of his latest musical.

9) Out of Eden by @wowbright

As a gay Mormon, Kurt Hummel has decided to go the rest of his life without falling in love. But toward the end of his two years as a missionary in Germany, Elder Anderson moves into his apartment—and Kurt's best-laid plans fall apart.

#2023 Klaine Bingo #Klaine fanfic #klaine fanfiction #glee fanfiction

[billthedrake]

BREAKING THE DRY SPELL

Luke Carlson still felt proud of his body. He'd slimmed down to 230 but was still trim as ever. He'd stayed with the Panthers organization in a scouting capacity after this big retirement announcement. He credited being around football as inspiration for staying in top shape, and it helped that he still had access to the weight room and the same strength coaches he had as a professional player. And on weekends, he always had his health club in the suburbs.

Luke sat now at the bar of the Capital Grille. This was his regular weeknight meal out, once or twice a week. Just some alone Luke time, having a good steak and a couple of beers before taking a car service back to his suburban mansion. He'd started dressing more professionally when he showed up at the Bank of America Stadium... wool trousers, loafers, button-down shirt, and he had a custom blazer he'd throw on for these steakhouse dinners.

"Mr. Carlson..." a voice interrupted him. Luke looked up to see a 30-something business bro, in a similar attire, standing nervously next to the bar. 6-foot-even, dirty blond hair, brown eyes... Luke was a sucker for brown eyes. Like a lot of millennial bros, this guy was solid from dedicated time at the gym. Even with a busy career and a wedding band that suggested family life. "I hate to ask you, man... but could I have your autograph?"

Luke gave a faint smile and nodded. He hated this ritual, to be honest, but it came with celebrity and success. "Who am I making this out to?" he asked as he took the pen and paper.

"Um... Tom... God, thanks... I'm in New York but I'm a huge Panthers fan... grew up as one actually."

For some reason Luke was warming up to this guy. "Carolina boy?" he grinned. He hadn't picked up the usual local lilt, however.

Tom shook his head and laughed. "Chicago suburbs," he said. "I just thought the uniforms were cool as a kid... I got so much shit for that."

Luke laughed and handed him the pen and paper.

"God, thanks, man. I know you must get asked for that a million times."

"Some," Luke said gracefully but truthfully.

Tom got the hint. "All right, sorry to disturb your dinner, Mr. Carlson." And like that he returned to the party of bankers who were leaving after a business dinner.

Mr. Carlson, Luke thought. He couldn't remember last time he'd been called that. It made him feel old, at 30, but he also appreciated the implicit respect. Luke wasn't crazy about the way total strangers thought they knew him. Or were looking for a piece of him.

His shank of dick throbbed in his trousers. Carlson had somehow imagined that his NFL retirement would free him to get laid more. No longer under a media microscope, he could line up a nice thick cock to suck. Or a hot daddy ass to fuck. The old Luke would have reeled that Finance Bro right in. Dude might be straight and married, but he was starstruck as hell. Luke had spent his first few years in the league enjoying groupie sex after encounters pretty much like that. He missed those carefree days. His cock missed those carefree days.

But something was missing in his life. Luke didn't want a groupie. It was a catch 22: as an elite athlete Luke knew his worth and knew he deserved a special man, but he didn't trust anyone into him solely for being an elite athlete.

He took a sip. Stop being a sad sack Luke. You're 30. Not 50.

There came a twitch of his boner again, a firmness that made him glad his hardon was hidden underneath the bar. If it had been a while since he'd connected with a dude sexually, it had been even longer since he had a 50 year old. A daddy. It had taken Carlson until his mid 20s to realize, or admit, he was wired for older men. There were the teen crushes on authority figures in his Ohio town. And for a while he blamed his fixation on his losing his cherry to a State Street exec in Boston, a BC alum who chatted him up at a fundraising event. Luke still thought back to that man as his ideal, but he also knew if it hadn't been John Daley, it would have been some other older, successful man.

Like the banker who'd just arrived at the bar, three seats down. Suit and tie, just carrying his success in his demeanor. Luke took a second to size him up without being too obvious. Tall, about 6'3", and medium build, probably mid-50s, mostly gray hair kept banker-short, thinning but not receding. Handsome guy, with a roman nose, strong jaw, and just the right amount of tan and crows-feet wrinkles. And those brown eyes. Fuck.

It took a second, but Luke knew he was a familiar face.

"Hey, you go to my swim club, don't you?" Luke blurted out before he could even think or stop himself.

He expected the man to be annoyed, but instead the professional looked over at the former jock and gave a grin of recognition. "Foxcroft?" he asked to clarify.

Luke nodded. "I'm only there on the weekends, but I'm pretty sure I've seen you before."

The man smiled. "Probably. When I turned 50, I made a vow to get back in shape, and I've been holding to my end of the bargain ever since."

"Yeah?" Luke smiled. "Impressive." He didn't want to seem overly lecherous, but he had to admit this man was a total DILF and the body beneath the suit was clearly well kept. "How long ago was that?"

"I'll plead the fifth on that one, buddy," the exec smirked. "A while."

"That's cool," Luke said. God something about this man had the right amount of laid-back easy going, and right amount of no-BS gruff exec. "Listen... I know how it is to come to a bar looking for some alone time and everyone in the world coming up to you."

That got a sympathetic raise of the eyebrows from Bank Exec. "People been hounding you for autographs?" he asked.

So the man knew who he was. "Shit, I guess that sounded like one of those 'you know who I am?' lines," Carlson said with a blush.

The Exec laughed. "It's all good, man. I'm not famous," he added. "But I had to stop going to Del Friscos cause the gold diggers circle around there like flies. Took me a couple of tries to find a steak house that wasn't a divorcee scene, you know?"

Luke flashed an eye at the man's left hand. No ring. He thought he was being subtle, but the man caught where he was looking.

"Yeah, divorced myself."

Luke felt rebuked. "Sorry, man."

The Exec shook his head. "Don't be. I'm living my best life now. Got two grown kids off at college. And a job that pays for my golf habit," he joked.

"I kind of feeling that way, too," Luke said. "After retirement. At least mostly."

Exec gave that sympathetic look again. "But not entirely?"

Luke almost wanted to unload on this guy. But he just gave a wry grin. "Look man, you didn't come here to hear about a retired athlete's problems. But if you wanna come over, I wouldn't mind some company with my steak dinner."

There it was Carlson putting himself out there. Even if the Exec didn't see it as flirting, it was forward in its own way.

Thankfully, Exec picked up his scotch and scooted his stool back, sliding down to the free stool next to Carlson. "I'm Scott," he said, offering his firm businessman handshake.

Luke gave a friendly smile. "Luke, though you know that already.... so, Scott, what brings you out on a Wednesday night?"

"Long day... and I wasn't ready to go back to an empty house just yet, you know?"

Luke felt a connection to this man but had promised not to talk about his loneliness lately. "Where you live? Burbs I take it?"

Scott nodded. "Yeah, Foxcroft, right near the swim and racquet club."

"I do too," the athlete said, and they traded their street locations. They spend the next half hour talking animatedly about their suburb and what it was like to live there. Then the following half hour about their interests and hobbies.

"I wasn't sure what it would be like to transplant to North Carolina," Luke admitted, but it's actually great for fishing and outdoors stuff.. you have the mountains and rivers and lakes, all nearby. The hunting is actually better in Ohio... " then turning to the Exec, he asked, "you hunt, Scott?"

The man shook his head. "Nah, but I love fishing. A few college buddies and I go out to Montana each year for a week."

Luke's eyes lit up. "That sounds amazing... invite me along next time," he joked.

Scott laughed and nudged his legs gently against Luke's suited one. There was a brief spark between the two, but Scott paused, feeling like he'd gone too far. Been too familiar.

There were men that Scott Monahan was attracted to as potential sex partners. And there were those incredibly hot, impossible men he'd jerk off to for a quick release after a late work night. Luke Carlson was very much in the second category.

"Um, well," the Exec said, checking his watch. "I should probably go. Long day tomorrow, you know." Somehow the time had passed and it was almost 10.

"Yeah," Luke said, trying to hide his dejection. His hardon had long gone away and been replaced by a half-forgotten fluttery feeling in his belly.

"Maybe I'll see you around?" the businessman said as he took the spare receipt and put it in his wallet.

"At the swim club," Luke replied in an almost a chipper tone. "I'm here pretty much every Wednesday, too," he added. "Kind of a little ritual. Some other nights, too."

Scott nodded and clapped Luke's strong shoulder before offering his hand again. "Well, it' was a pleasure to meet you, Luke."

"You too, Scott, take care, man."

***

Luke felt dumb the whole next few days. He actually jerked off imagining Scott the Exec over him, lifting Luke's legs and fucking him. Deep, hard, loving. Luke made a point of going to the swim and racquet club on Saturday. And again on Sunday. No Scott.

On Monday he went back to the Capital Grille. The same seat at the bar, where Josh the bartender always knew how to look after him. It felt less lonely this time, somehow. Like Luke was alone, but not alone. The memory and spirit of Scott was there. Luke smiled as he ordered a scotch, neat.

"Hey buddy," Luke could almost hear in Scott's mellow, refined tenor voice.

Only it wasn't his imagination. A hand clasped his delt muscle beneath the blazer and there was the 6'3" executive in the flesh. A navy suit instead of charcoal, but still very much dressed for the C-suite and looking like a million bucks. "Is this seat free?"

"God yeah," Carlson beamed, maybe a little too eager. But fuck it. Scott didn't seem to mind, pulling up the spare stool and sitting down.

"Quiet here on a Monday, huh?" he said as he flagged Josh down for a drink.

"Pretty much. Out on a school night, Scott?" Luke asked playfully.

The banker grinned. "Not ready to go back to a quiet house. And a steak dinner sure beats whatever microwave meal I was gonna have."

Luke laughed. It was like they were picking up right where they left off. Small talk, friendly banter, lots of eye contact, some light touching and bumping of the knees.

And their conversations went deeper. Scott showed Luke pictures of his kids. "Julie's at Williams... Mike's a freshman at Stanford, pretty good at soccer, too," the Exec beamed proudly.

"Impressive, man." Luke enthused.

Scott smiled but nudged Carlson's elbow. "You don't gotta be impressed. Mr. Pro Bowler..."

Luke blushed. "You must think I'm an asshole."

Scott shook his head. "Nah, just successful. I admire that."

"Thanks, Scott," Luke said. God it was hard to keep his eye contact from meeting the man's gaze directly. But the way the Exec was looking at him drove him wild. No longer mere butterflies, Luke was feeling some major wood in his trousers. "You give off that successful vibe yourself."

"I do huh, buddy?" Scott was definitely teasing him now. "What's your guess?"

Luke took a second to look the man up in down. Hot as fuck in his mid 50s and had the kind of expensive suit to show it all off. The blue brought out the dark-specked gray hair and those brown eyes. "I'm thinking.... definitely banking... upper executive.... maybe BofA...?"

Scott grinned. "Pretty good guess... Chief Operating Officer."

"Impressive," Luke said sincerely. Carlson was well to do in his own right and most NFLers wouldn't find a bank executive a particularly interesting profession. But Luke admired men who were successful in business - and since his BC days had admired the men sexually too.

"Thanks, buddy," Scott said as he took a sip of scotch. "I keep saying I'm gonna take an early retirement, but..." he lowers his voice as if sharing a secret. "Between you and me the money is too fucking good."

Luke laughed. Then his mood got a little more serious. He didn't want to kill the fun vibe but he craved to know more about Scott. "So, personal question, man, and you don't have to answer. But how long you been divorced?"

Scott had his easygoing manner. He was good at talking to people, with people. "I don't mind, bud. It'll be 10 years in May. Wife caught me fucking an intern."

Luke blushed. The devout Catholic part of him wasn't crazy when men didn't take their family and vow seriously. On the other hand, Luke had his own complicated situation. Besides, he was a man who was used to crude talk - in the locker room, on hunting trips, or wherever. "Was she worth it at least?" he asked in a conspiratorial kind of way.

Scott grinned. "HE was worth it, believe me. Princeton lacrosse player and built like one..." he stopped himself before his talk got lewd. "I mean, not worth hurting Kate or my kids, but I guess I had to own up to some stuff about myself, you know?"

"Yeah," Luke replied. A little too empathetically.

"My turn for a personal question," Scott asked, his brown eyes twinkling. "And you don't have to anwser... but you're married, right? Why are you having your dinners here instead of at home?"

Luke almost made up a lie. Like he usually did. Instead he decided to be honest with Scott. "Sharon and I... well, we've kind of separated." Luke sighed. "I mean, she's super Catholic and so am I, so we don't believe in divorce or anything, and there are the kids... I love them to death, you know."

This is the last thing Luke wanted to do. To spill his guts. To seem like an emotional mess with this perfect man.

Scott just patted his back. "I get it buddy. And good on you for being there for your kids. That takes guts, man." That hand rubbed small circles along Luke's broad back.

"Thanks, Scott," Luke grinned gamely.

Scott gave another reassuring grin then ordered a second scotch.

Josh came over with a new three-quarters-inch filled rocks glass without the ice, and it occurred to Luke that the two men had paused the conversation the whole minute it took. Finally, as the bartender walked away, Scott spoke again. "It's funny, when I was younger, everything was black and white. I knew what I wanted in life and how I was gonna get it."

Luke felt a strange empathy, even if he didn't follow exactly. "You don't now?" he asked.

Scott thought for a second and added, "I do for some things. At work, I don't have anything to prove really, and I know how to run a business. I'm good at it and I reap the benefits."

"But..." Luke prodded.

Scott grinned, realizing he'd been caught in some ambivalence. "No matter how many Princeton interns you fuck, that won't fill that hole for something more, you know?" He looked at Luke with a look that was suggestive but vulnerable.

"Tell me if I'm out of line, Scott. But I can't think of anything I'd rather do tonight than be your intern."

"Fuck!" Scott whispered, in almost a grunt.

"Did I say the wrong thing?" Luke asked nervously. He was a 30-year-old pro bowler goddamnit, why did he feel like a kid asking a girl out to prom?

The exec shook his head and smiled. "The opposite, man. It's just..." he lowered his voice. "You gave me a huge fucking boner just now."

Luke laughed. He loved the man's easygoing attitude to sex. Like Scott had been around the block and didn't have time for bull shit.

"Um... I'd say me, too, Scott. Only I've had one the last ten minutes." Luke blushed but not too shyly leaned back in his bar stool and spread his thick thighs to show off the ridge of ex-tight end cock riding up into a solid ridge in his trousers. "Guess all that intern talk got me worked up."

Scott grinned and chuckled, taking in Luke's handsome, chiseled face before facing his drink and running his thumb nervously around the glass rim. "I'm pinching myself here buddy."

That was the first misgiving Luke had. He wasn't angling for more groupie sex, but he had to admit it was probably unavoidable. And if his pro-jock celebrity status was what got a successful business daddy like Scott interested in him, so be it

The 55 year old looked back up with a twinkle in his brown eyes. "Maybe I shouldn't admit this, but I've stroked a couple loads out thinking of you."

"Yeah?" Luke felt flattered and excited. And more than a little happy the man had been doing what he'd been doing on his own, too.

Scott nodded in a conspiratorial way. "Like I say, my house gets lonely sometimes."

"I find it hard to believe you couldn't line up who you wanted," Luke assured him. "I mean, if I..." he stopped himself.

Scott chuckled. Their scotch was half drunk but he was rock hard in his suit. "Let's get out of here, man."

"Yeah," Luke gasped, mad that his horniness and crushed-out excitement was almost keeping his words from forming.

He pulled out his wallet, but Scott placed a hand on his forearm to stop him. "My treat, buddy." He fished out a few twenties and tossed them on the bar, giving bartender Josh a wave of thanks.

The Charlotte air was warm for September as they stepped out of the steak house. "Your place or mine?" Scott asked. Again no bullshit. Luke liked that.

"Either's good. But I haven't had a dude back to my place in ages. Kind of miss it."

Scott nodded and nudged Luke's blazered elbow. "Yours it is, then, buddy.... will be cool to see how a pro bowler lives."

Luke was really warming up to the hero worship, maybe because with Scott it felt playful rather than needy. And in a way, he saw the exec as a peer, a successful man in his own right. Luke offered his car service and soon the two were getting into a sleek black Mercedes.

"I half expected a mansion," Scott grinned as they got to Luke's house. Carlson almost objected with a running account of the square footage and number of rooms his house had, but he realized then the exec was just teasing him, almost goading him into bragging. He had to laugh defensively.

The vibe when they got indoors was surprisingly easy. It was like riding a bike to Luke, stepping up to a hot daddy, softly gripping him by the mid section and pulling him in for a kiss. The man's suited erection felt hard against Luke's and the ex-athlete realized that Scott Monahan was pretty hung.

He couldn't help it. Luke humped his hips against the man as they made out. The executive had a big goofy grin as he broke the kiss and pulled back to look at Carlson's 230 pound stud build. Slowly, he helped Luke take off the blazer and openly admired the muscle filling out the dress shirt with his more slender but strong hands.

"Fucking nice, buddy," the 55-year-old growled, his brown eyes sweeping up to meet Luke's in a heavy gaze.

Carlson meanwhile admired every bit of Scott's 6'3" body. Not a pro athlete build, but the ex-linebacker didn't care. The exec was really fucking fit and the tailored suit only made the middle-aged build look even more perfect.

"Shit," Luke gasped.

"What?" Scott laughed, getting used to the idea Luke fucking Carlson would be so into him.

The ex-jock sighed and had to spread his legs to let his boner ride up in his trousers. "I can't decide if I want a nice slow session or if I want you to ravage me."

Scott's nostrils flared and the side of his mouth curled up in a half grin. "How bout this buddy? Whatever you pick, we do the other one next time."

"Think you can go easy with just a spit job?" Luke grunted. "It's been a while since I've done that."

The older man nodded. "You call the play, I'll run it." He started removing his suit coat, but Luke stopped.

"Leave it on," he interjected. Then feeling he was too pushy, changed his tone. "Please man."

Scott grinned and made a show of feeling up his suit lapel. "Buddy if this is what gets me into your hot ass..." He stepped up closer and claimed another kiss from Luke, reaching down to grip those amazing steely, beefy buns before moving his hands to the front to help Luke undo the belt and zipper.

That footballer dick was rock hard and thick and dripping clear sap onto Scott's hands and he felt it up. Truth be told, if Luke Carlson had made a move to fuck him, Scott probably would have gone against his top-only policy. Maybe that would happen next time, or time after next. Cause the banker had a good idea there was gonna be a next time, and more. There was just too much clear chemistry between the men.

But he didn't belabor the jerking stroke on that Carlson cock. Scott leg go and gave a soft pat to Luke's hips as a signal. The athlete moaned into the man's mouth and broke the kiss, looking him deep in the eyes before turning around and pulling down his trousers mid thigh.

Monahan crouched down. He ran his hands up the outside of those tree trunk thighs and wondered how he was so lucky. Before him was the roundest hardest ass he could imagine. Ready for him. Gone was any memory of prior men from his head. Even that Princeton intern couldn't hold a candle.

Hungry now, Scott nudged his face into that warm cleft and started rooting deeper, till he could lick Luke's soft, crinkled hole. Instinctively Scott knew Carlson was no stranger to bottoming for other men. But that ring was tight as a drum, almost virgin tight. It had been a while for Luke.

Luke's thick tool was almost pressed against his rippled belly, he was so turned on. He leaned forward, bracing his meaty upper body against the granite countertop as he got eaten out by a master. Carlson wasn't surprised this businessman was good at eating ass, but he was taken aback by how fucking good Scott was. It was technique, to be sure, but also hunger. The way the tongue varied its approach, the way the man seemed so abandoned to munch Luke's pucker....

He felt a gentle pat to his bare rump then knew Scott was standing up behind him. That executive cock was dripping a good amount and between the precum and the spit, Carlson felt good and wet for penetration.

"Ravage, huh?" Scott teased.

And all of a sudden Luke felt fingers grip his waist tightly and that daddy dick pressure its way in.

"Fuck!" Luke grunted as several inches of Scott pushed in.

"You got this," Scott assured him. His right hand rand up Luke's muscled back before coming back to its prior grip. "Ready for more?" he asked as he watched Luke's breathing return to normal.

"Yeah," the ex-linebacker said plainly.

This time everything felt amazing. Scott's girth, and more and more of his length, the sheer hardness of a man who loved to tap ass and was getting the fuck of his lifetime. Luke felt fuller and fuller, and with that sensation came the psychological thrill that he was getting taken. By an older, more experienced man. By a man old enough to be his father.

The balls pressed lightly against those creamy white buns, for a second. Then Scott pulled back.

"Fuck me, man," Luke urged, no longer embarrassed by his own need. It had been too long.

Scott Monahan was already doing just that. Deep steady strokes. The fingers growing tighter as they rode up Luke's obliques for leverage. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're tight," he growled in a voice that said it probably wouldn't take long to cum.

Luke reached down to his own neglected dick. It was slick with his own clear sap and he started working it up and down in time to the executive's hard thrusts.

"Harder, man," Luke urged. He was in the zone where he could take it.

"Fuck," Scott hissed and those hips worked faster. That hard prick pistoning faster in and out of Luke's hole.

He was hitting that spot, all right. Like that dick was made to get me off, Luke thought. The retired athlete looked up into the window. He probably should have pulled the blinds or something, but thankfully the view wasn't in the neighbor's sightline.

Good thing, because in the reflection, he saw his meaty body leaning over, bracing himself while his fucker, fully dressed in his expensive suit, railed his ass.

That vision did it. Luke came, firing onto the side of the island.

"Goddamn... here it comes buddy..." he heard Scott's urgent voice, cracking with orgasm. Then that heavy, surprisingly big dick inside Luke grew slick with seed. A lot of it. And it kept coming. It had been a long time for Scott Monahan, too.

They paused a second and Luke leaned up into Scott's embrace and soft, appreciative kisses along the corded neck.

"That was amazing, buddy," the exec whispered in Luke's ear.

He gave another appreciative pat on Luke's side and slowly withdrew. Luke played host and offered him some paper towels to wipe off as Luke did his best to wipe the spermed up crack.

"You gotta go?" Luke asked as he pulled his trousers back up over his rump. He tried not to let his emotion show through. Maybe this was groupie sex like so many times before.

The middle-aged man tucked back in, his dong still heavy but shrinking with post-release satisfaction. "Fraid so, buddy.... you know, school night and all."

"Yeah," Luke conceded. "I'll order you a car." He texted something on his phone, then after a second looked up. "They should be here in ten minutes."

The man zipped and stepped up to run his fingers along Luke's square chin. "I meant what I said earlier, man. We'll take our time the next time around... maybe a date if you're free this weekend?"

Those butterflies returned to Luke Carlson's stomach. But the defenses were hard to shake. Scott read his mind.

"We'll keep it low key, man," he assured Luke. "Kind of more my speed anyway."

"Honestly? I don't know that I can wait till the weekend," Luke said. Putting it out there.

Scott grinned and stepped back. "To tell the truth, I probably won't be able to either, man."

Luke chuckled and took a second to feel the man's shoulder though the suit fabric. He knew Scott was fit, but that delt muscle felt solid, more solid than Luke expected. "You better go, or there's gonna be more ravaging going on," he growled.

Scott laughed. "Yeah."

Luke walked him to the door and the two met for a soft kiss at the door.

Then Scott pulled back and stepped out the door into the night, giving one last wave just as the black car was pulling up.

#drakestories

[hippolotamus]

Autumn asks

Socks

Laces

Intricate

Handmade

😘

Socks - do you wear socks to bed?

nope, nope, nope. I get way too warm. However, I can't go to sleep until I wrap my blanket around my feet 🤷🏻‍♀️

Laces - knee high boots or fuzzy boots?

Knee high boots for sure

Intricate - what's a subject you have random knowledge about?

*promptly forgets everything I know* Probably the closest thing would be fonts (one of my favorite things to geek out on). Other than that I can throw you some random things I've learned for fic research: there are more than 7300 species of frogs, frog ears are behind their eyes, the New York Botanical Garden was inspired by the Royal Gardens in Kew, wedding bands weren't common for men until WWII, El Paso is roughly 800 miles from LA.

Handmade - do you like making presents?

I think it depends on what it is I'm making, but generally no. I very much enjoy paying for the convenience of having someone else make something 🙃

send an autumn ask

#thanks for asking #autumn asks #hippo gets mail #spotty mail #🍁🍂🧡

[wishingicouldfly]

Fanfic Faves - 2022

My 2022 favorites. Of course, I had 50+ on my fave list, and I had to narrow down to 15. I cut out fics that were rereads, and fics that I've mentioned elsewhere in lists. I removed double mentions of authors. It was still hard to get it to a manageable list. But here it is. My top 15 for 2022.

These aren't all published in 2022, but were all read by me this year. For some perspective, my total fic count for the year is 271, almost 20 millions words read. I've read some really good fics that didn't make this list.

Find me over at @FlyWishing on Twitter to chat, if you want! Adding a cut because this is long...

Say Hallelujah, Say Goodnight by alivingfire - https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749141/chapters/23831946

Louis is an angel who is just a little too bad to be good, Harry is a demon who is just a little too good to be bad, and they're both a little too in love to be impartial when angels and demons go to war.

My thoughts: Exceptional. No extreme smut. Soul mates. Louis angel. Harry demon. Save the world. Love each other across Millennium. Superbly written.

2. Of Mates and Men by BananaHeathen - https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640253/chapters/64964377

In which, Louis and Harry meet as best men for their best friends' wedding... well... sort of. Or, the one where Harry's just moved back from New York and Louis doesn't believe in romance. Or, I guess... the one where Zayn and Liam are getting married.

My Thoughts: This was the year BananaHeathen finished this WIP, so I can add it to my faves list! I LOVE this sweet friends to lovers slow burn. Louis is a romance agent, Harry is a photog getting over a serious break up. Great OT5 found family. Exceptionally written and long, but you never want it to end.

3. Burn to Ash by bethaboo - https://archiveofourown.org/works/1854157/chapters/3988654

Or the fic where Harry spirals out of control, the band breaks up, and then he shows back up, five years later.

My Thoughts: a new favorite. Canon to a point, except it's Harry as an alcoholic (Trigger warning) who leaves the band and doesn't return for five years. Slow burn as Louis learns to forgive him, but it's lovely and there's a small side plot of Ziam.

4. Lightning Strikes Twice by dinosaursmate - https://archiveofourown.org/works/12950415/chapters/29601396

Louis slipped his hand onto Harry’s thigh, snaking his fingers up and inwards. “I’m a big fan. You’re so talented, and I have to admit that I actually fancy you a bit.” “Yeah?” Harry reached up to push Louis’ fringe out of his eyes. “Well, you know, I like to try and be accommodating to my fans.” “You’re quite well known for that,” Louis whispered as he turned his head some more, their mouths an inch apart. “So I hear.” Rock star Harry Styles was nineteen when he met Louis, a groupie with a huge heart that Harry couldn’t quite shake from his mind. Fate granted him a second chance at the age of sixty, his washed up and lonely existence being transformed by a widower with a bookshop.

My Thoughts: I loved this one. Super sexy but also really sweet. Spans a lifetime. Older characters are written really well.

5. Torn on the Platform by frecklebomb - https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203497

AU where harry and louis are strangers but they always get the same train to work in the morning and one day harry falls asleep on louis' shoulder. louis wants to be annoyed because harry just broke a least seven rules of tube conduct but he looks so soft and peaceful that he just lets him sleep and wakes him ever so carefully when it’s his stop. it happens again and again until it becomes a regular thing where louis will let harry snooze and then gently nudge him awake, hand him the cup of coffee he took from him so it wouldn't slip and spill everywhere and send him off with a “have fun at work, love” and after the tenth time harry isn't even embarrassed any more.

My Thoughts: This is a PODFIC - I listened in the car. Such a good light story read by the author, who has a lovely narration voice. Loved everything about it.

6. Tied Down by HamPalphert - https://archiveofourown.org/works/16218140/chapters/37907963

The most interesting case in Liam and Niall's careers falls directly into their laps, courtesy of an epic fuck-up of one Harry Styles, partner to the almost-infamous drug dealer Louis Tomlinson. The investigation yields an unexpected yet satisfactory outcome for Liam and Niall. For Harry and Louis, however, things are far more complicated.

My Thoughts: I really liked this crime drama; it's told from a variety of different perspectives, and it all comes together at the end.

7. Desires for Woolgatherings by isolated - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30421635/chapters/75003873

AU: In the midst of his second world tour, Louis Tomlinson receives the devastating news that his former bandmate, Harry Styles, is in critical condition after an unfortunate accident. Fresh with the loss of his mother and his sister, Louis’ world darkens once more as he flies out to California, preparing for the worst. There, Louis is faced with the ghost of his past, realizing the hand he played in the band’s division. As time goes on, Harry’s condition becomes dire, and his only chances of survival forces Louis to participate in a makeshift, illegal drug trial orchestrated by a dubious neuroscientist.

My Thoughts: science fiction, love the angst and happy ending. Canon divergent. Louis has to undertake an experimental procedure to save Harry in his dreams.

8. Shadow Dances by itsmotivatingcara - https://archiveofourown.org/works/38097370/chapters/95165941

A FBI - Medium AU

My Thoughts: crime drama, supernatural, x-files-esque. GREAT characters. Great plot.

Cara burst onto the fanfic scene this year with a great list of crime drama/supernatural fics. If you like this genre, go read all of them.

9. I'll fly Away by juliusschmidt - https://archiveofourown.org/works/5390444?view_full_work=true

Harry and Louis grew up together in Lake County, Harry with his mom and stepdad in a tiny cottage on Edward’s Lake and Louis in his family’s farmhouse a few minutes down the road. But after high school, Louis stuck around and Harry did not; Harry went to Chicago where he found a boyfriend and couple of college degrees. Six years later, Harry ends up back in Edwardsville for the summer and he and Louis fall into old patterns and discover new ones.

My Thoughts: TW for some internal and external homophobia. But this has nice character development exploring small town Larry and 1 D.

10. Have Love Will Travel by kingsofeverything - https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971224

Rather than spend the summer working at their desks, Louis and Harry are given the opportunity to crisscross the country together in a tiny camper, filming their adventures for a YouTube series. It soon becomes obvious to their viewers that there’s something more than friendship between them. Eventually, they figure it out.

My Thoughts: super cute. Road Trip Larry. Lots of state parks, travel. Louis has a crush and of course they end up together.

11. Promise Your Whispers are mine by lightswoodmagic - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30297759/chapters/74675502

Harry’s the head chef at Azoff’s Catering, and he loves his job; the opportunity has always been more than he could dream of and he’s proud of the food he creates. Until he meets Louis, an event coordinator rising through the ranks with his own company, and who reminds him of the dreams he once had for his own career. While their easy friendship initially thrives in an industry known for chaos and betrayal, they soon discover they both have their secrets, and maybe it’s too late for either of them to try to find happiness outside of their work. Especially when they realise that their happiness might rely on each other.

My Thoughts: I liked this one a lot--it would make a good Hallmark channel movie--a bit of angst. Some internalized homophobia. Good OT5. Side of Ziam and a glimpse of Shiall.

12. The Murmur of Yearning by MediaWhore - https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575821/chapters/59353969

Four years ago, Harry Styles was forced into a marriage of convenience to enrich and ally both his and his promised's families. The sudden, and slightly suspicious, death of the Marquess of Haxshire, however, brings great disturbance to Crescentfield Hall and, as his late's husband's closest male relative, Harry unexpectedly finds himself the head of a family he never felt he belonged to. Between a meddling distant cousin hellbent on inserting himself in Harry’s life, his wicked and mistrustful mother-in-law and his late husband’s advisors refusing to help or take him seriously, Harry struggles in the fight to keep what he’s earned and make the Estate finally feel like home.

My Thoughts: This one is really good. slow burn. historical fiction. really lovely Harry. Great Louis. Rocking Niall as the valet.

13. Golden by shaylea - https://archiveofourown.org/works/38275321

Harry is fully dressed when Louis returns to the room. He’s slumped on the edge of the bed, fingers twining awkwardly around the edge of his pink flounces. “Can I come?” he blurts when Louis opens the bathroom door.

My Thoughts: Great slow build. Secret identity falling in love. Louis as a farmer is particularly sweet.

14. Down the Line by sunflouwerhabit - https://archiveofourown.org/works/34559743/chapters/86026318

OR: Star shortstop Louis Tomlinson only finds solace between the white-chalk lines of a baseball diamond, until Harry Styles- the absolute bane of his existence and (probably) the worst pitcher in Major League Baseball- becomes an overnight sensation in the city Louis calls home.

My Thoughts: Really liked this baseball fic. Good solid OT5, great character development. Love story feels believable as does the angst and past-trauma.

15. Swallow the Knife by whoknows - https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429339

“You came,” Louis says, still breathless, clinging to Harry, uncaring that his sweat is getting all over Harry’s presumably clean dad shirt, or that he’s making Harry hold up all of his weight. “Of course I came,” Harry says. He shifts, one arm curled underneath Louis’ arse, the other spreading wide in the middle of Louis’ back. “If I ignored you every time you pissed me off we would have stopped being friends a long time ago.” Louis already knows that, of course. It doesn’t do anything to stop the pleased squirm in his belly every time Harry proves it, though. They fight like nobody’s business, both of them too stubborn to pull their punches when they’re arguing, and it used to get them in trouble, but they always make up. Adrenaline makes Louis loose-lipped, and they both know it. He tightens his arms around Harry’s neck, buries his face in his hair. “I missed you,” he confesses, quiet. “Doesn’t feel the same up there by myself.”

My Thoughts: really enjoyed, slow burn, canon compliant. Louis needs support on his first solo tour and Harry comes along to help him.

Happy Reading!

Rosann xoxo

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AMERICAN HORROR STORY REACTION

This reaction is for season 11, first episode titled "Something's Coming" which originally aired on October 19, 2022. "Something's Coming" was written by Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk and directed by John J. Gray. Spoilers ahead!

Finally! The moment we've been waiting for all year is here! The latest season of American Horror Story debuted last week. This new season of AHS called "NYC" features a mix of old and new. We have AHS alums Billie Lourd, Denis O'Hare, Leslie Grossman, Patti LuPone, Sandra Bernhard, and Zachary Quinto joining some newcomers to the series - broadway actors Joe Mantello (Angels in America) and Isaac Powell (West Side Story) and television actors Russell Tovey (Being Human, Looking) and Charlie Carver (Desperate Housewives, The Leftovers, The Boys in the Band). We also have a new setting - New York City. 

Having watched the first two episodes, I have some thoughts as well as some theories about where this season is going. So, let's talk about it!

SOMETHING'S COMING ...

It's very rare I start a new season of American Horror Story not knowing the premise. I think not knowing what to expect is one of the main reasons as to why I thoroughly enjoyed both episodes. Speaking of episodes, let's begin with episode one, "Something's Coming". Without any fanfare, we're dropped right into early-80's New York City - 1981 to be exact. We see a pilot named Captain Ross (Lee Aaron Rosen) and a few flight attendants exit a cab and enter a hotel. While walking to his hotel room, Captain Ross is confronted by one of his coworkers, Tawny (Kelsey Lea Jones), and she comes on to him like gangbusters. Captain Ross flashes his wedding band and tells her thanks but no thanks and proceeds on to his hotel room where he proceeds to shower and dress in his finest leather gear. 

Captain Ross makes his way to a sketchy part of town and goes into a seemingly abandoned warehouse where men in various states of undress are hooking up in darkened passages. The last time we see the captain alive on screen is when we see him being watched by a muscular, masked man dressed in head to toe leather. The next thing we see is a headless body by the river. The NYPD, including a cop by the name of Patrick Read (Russell Tovey), are on the scene investigating. And if I didn't already know we were back in the 1980's, then it was made abundantly clear the moment one of the cops made a derogatory joke about the victim who is presumed gay. It's a harsh reminder that even though this scene is taking place over 40 years ago, homophobia is still an issue in 2022. 

To make matters even more bleak, we head over to Fire Island where a scientist and doctor by the name of Hannah Wells (Billie Lourd) is investigating a new virus that is threatening to wipe out the deer population on the island. Hannah suggests killing off the remaining deer before the virus has a chance to jump to humans. With this being 1981, I have a sneaking suspicion what this new virus could be.  

We learn that Patrick is gay and is living with his older partner, Gino Barelli (Joe Mantello). The two appear to be polar opposites. Patrick used to be married and is now living as a gay man, though he is closeted at work for obvious reasons. Gino is an openly gay and works as a journalist for a newspaper called 'The Native' which reports on issues concerning the gay community. They both have different approaches when it comes to the string of murders involving local gay men. While Patrick is content to quietly investigate, Gino wants to use the newspaper to shine a huge spotlight on the issue. There's obviously some tension between these two but they do seem to genuinely care about each other. 

We then meet Adam Carpenter (Charlie Carver), a young gay man currently in the middle of a breakup. His friend and roommate, Sully (Jared Reinfeldt) attempts to cheer him up by taking him to a cruising spot in the park. What I like most about Adam is his innocence which is a striking contrast to many of the characters we are introduced to in this episode. He's a romantic at heart and isn't really interested in anonymous hookups.

Adam is left alone after Sully goes off to hookup with a total stranger and that is when he sees the same muscular, masked man in the leather get-up we saw earlier in the episode. He runs away calling after Sully. Sully goes after him and is confronted by the mysterious, possibly murderous leather daddy. We hear him scream and that is the last we ever see of Sully.

Adam reports Sully's disappearance to Patrick at the police department. Adam thinks that Patrick doesn't want to help him but Patrick assures him that he does care about the situation and he does want to help but he can't and it's not because Sully is gay, it's because he hasn't been missing for more than 48 hours. He tells Adam to come back if Sully hasn't turned up in a couple of days and Adam leaves the station. 

Patrick then goes to talk to the captain, Mac Marzara (Kal Penn) about Sully and all of the recent murders but gets nowhere. I do find it interesting that we have a POC character in a position of power who could honestly give a shit that a bunch of homosexuals are being murdered. I imagine it couldn't have been easy for him to get to the position he is currently in, yet he seems intent on shitting on an entire community instead of trying to do right by them. P.S. - I love Kal Penn as an actor and as a person but the character he is playing in American Horror Story: NYC is a garbage human and I hope we get to see his comeuppance by the end of the season.

We then head over to Neptune Baths Health Club where the resident chanteuse Kathy Pizzaz (Patti LuPone) is performing "Fever" by Peggy Lee. Adam arrives and takes a seat at the bar. He notices a black and white photo of the same leather man ran into at the park and asks the bartender if he knows who the guy is. The bartender says he doesn't know who the man is but he knows who took the photograph. He points out Theo Graves (Isaac Powell) who appears to be pretty popular amongst the clientele.  

At the other end of the bar, Gino overhears the conversation with Adam and the bartender. He beckons him over and introduces himself. Gino tells Adam that the police won't help him but he will. He gives Adam his contact information. Adam goes to Theo's studio the following day and learns the identity of the masked man he saw in the park as well as in the photograph he saw in the bathhouse. Adam tells Theo that he thinks the same guy is hurting people and gives him his number to call if he finds out any more information on him. Theo rushes Adam out of the studio just in time for Sam (Zachary Quinto) to arrive. 

Sam is Theo's manager and boyfriend and it only took one line (no pun intended) for me to know this guy is bad news. Sam is every besuited businessman snorting coke off the coffee table we've ever encountered in an 80's movie and he and Theo have a really effed up romance. Sam accuses Theo of using him for his money and is trying to pressure him into going the porn route while Theo is content with the type of photography he is currently doing. Theo also senses that something dark is coming, which is where we first hear the title of the episode, but Sam seems unconcerned. Meanwhile, Patrick asks Gino about the significance of a blue handkerchief (a blue handkerchief was stuffed in the mouth of the severed head found earlier in the episode) and Gino tells him about the hanky code, a way for gay men to communicate their sexual interests. Patrick then tells Gino he is not authorized to investigate the recent murders and that he has to be careful about leaking information. He asks Gino to go to The Brownstone Bar on his behalf to gather information.

Patrick meets with his soon-to-be ex-wife named Barbara (Leslie Grossman) and presents her with divorce papers. The two of them have a pretty decent relationship considering the circumstances behind their relationship coming to an end. I also get the sense that Barbara is being as suportive as she can regarding Patrick being gay. She asks him why he married her and his answer seems genuine. Patrick, like so many gay men of his ilk, wanted to have the wife and family but ultimately he couldn't make it work. He tells her that he still loves her. It's a bittersweet scene but ultimately both of them seem better off apart than together. 

Gino heads over to the bar and chats with a regular named Henry (Denis O'Hare). Henry refuses to go on the record for Gino but he does give him a valuable piece of information: all of the serial killer's victims drink Mai Tais. When Gino goes to leave, he realizes he's been drugged. As he stumbles out of the bar, he is ushered into a car by a strange man. 

Sam is also at the Brownstone Bar and he's talking with an up and coming actor named Freddy (John Bubniak), arranging for him to be photographed by Theo as a means of garnering him exposure. Freddy arrives at Theo's studio and what starts as a homoerotic photoshoot turns into something a bit more scandalous when Sam flips over a wooden stool and asks him to sit on it. Freddy does follow through and Sam is pleased with the photos. When Freddy leaves, Theo asks Sam about Big Daddy. Sam gets upset and tells Theo that Big Daddy is dead. It should be noted that Big Daddy was standing outside of Theo's studio and that Sam seemingly acknowledges his presence. 

Adam meets up with Theo at the bathhouse and tells him about Big Daddy. Adam is perplexed because the person he saw in the photo is the same person he saw at the park the night Sully disappeared. Theo lives to go hook up and Adam is propositioned by Freddy. Adam declines his offer for sex and Freddy heads off to the steam room where he runs into Big Daddy. We end the episode the way we started with a very bleak scene and a sign of things to come. We find ourselves back on Fire Island with Dr. Hannah Wells as she watches a group of infected deer get slaughtered by the police. It's a harsh reminder of the storm that's about to come in the form of the AIDS epidemic. 

I'm gonna pause my reaction here and do my reaction to episode two in another post. This first episode feels very different from previous first episodes of American Horror Story. The characters, whether you loved them or hated them, felt really grounded. I really like Gino and a lot of that is due to Joe Mantello's acting. I also like Adam who reminds me a lot of myself in my earlier years. It's fun to see Leslie Grossman play someone so understated this season and I wonder how Barbara will be used in future episodes. The only character I dislike and it has nothing to do with the actor is Sam. Sam is a sleeze ball and I wonder what dark secrets he's hiding. The only character I'm truly on the fence about is Patrick. Patrick is giving me John Lowe (Wes Bentley) in "Hotel" vibes. I get the feeling he's a troubled individual but is he a bad guy? Cops, historically, on this show have turned out to be bad guys.

As for the episode itself - it felt surprisingly restrained in a way I'm not really used to with American Horror Story. As an avid fan of the show, I can also be one of its biggest critics. I've been a fan of Ryan Murphy since Popular and I have no problem admitting that while he swings big when it comes to film and television, he has just as many misses as hits. The same can be said about this show. Many would argue the show has lost the magic of the original seasons, but I think this episode is a promise of that magic returning. We're off to a great start. I just hope the writers can stick the landing at the end. 

I will post my reaction to episode two tomorrow. Until next time ...

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Royal Engagement Rings - An Best Guide to Getting Your True Noble Match

Three rings include been inherited. Coming from left to best, the rings are usually: The Queen Mother's Art Deco engagement ring, Princess Margaret's eternity ring (D-shaped) plus Queen Elizabeth's circle engagement ring. Of which first D-shaped design and style is by Audemars from 1902 and even the second the sapphire between four diamonds. But you may be wondering what regarding the third? The next design was a new wedding gift through QEII to Knight in shining armor Phillip in 1947. It had been revolutionary at the time because it broke away from tradition and blended gold with whitened; among the features which usually would be seen period and time again in subsequent Noble wedding rings. Royal Engagement Rings consist of various sorts of jewelry based in traditions passed straight down from Queen Elizabeth the Second. California king Elizabeth's wedding diamond ring provides a diamond coated band with the bed of platinum and two tiny diamonds since the main focal point. The particular sapphire surrounded by simply four diamonds will be worth about $160, 000. The Queen Mother's Art Decoration ring consists of two stones; a precious stone set in the center and a precious stone sapphire set upon the side. The Queen Mother's Gemstone: The royal engagement ring, invented by Noble jeweller Garrard throughout 1780 is manufactured up of 4 diamonds and the central sapphire bounded by smaller expensive diamonds. This style is most often referenced to as the particular "wedding ring" since it was used as a wedding band. It was invented how the sapphire would certainly be a symbol of eternity along with the diamond represents the woman love. The 2 smaller diamonds were designed to represent the woman children. With substantial familiarity with the subject areas along with the right thought, sourcing the proper item is not actually that hard. Presently there are a couple of on-line shops that has specialized in antique plus other jewellery pieces. Jewelers have usually been appreciated while they help men and women with work associated to jewelry and if you're looking for a particular item, they can help find and buy several at unbelievable rates. In the uk, a gleaming cubic engagement engagement ring is as popular as it is usually rare in the us. Usually, in England, young couples pick a ring for and give it towards the girl by slipping this onto her finger on National Relationship Day? March 20 th. This tradition grew to become popular with typically the Royal Family, after King George MIRE met Queen Elizabeth while they were college classmates at Trinity College.

Inside 1938 Queen Elizabeth (Duchess of York) married Prince Albert who was certainly not expected to come to be king because the big brother Edward and even their father California king George VI equally survived the démission crisis following Full Edward VIII? h decision to get married to Wallis Simpson, who else was twice his first wife Duchess of Windsor). Both were wed on Walk 20th of that 12 months and for yrs afterward she put on what was referred to as the? Fairy? or perhaps? Swan? tiara. The diamond-and-sapphire tiara, developed for Queen Alexandra by Cartier within 1908 and donned by her right up until 1917, was presented to Queen At the being a wedding offer from her father. This describes Full Elizabeth as putting on a tiara upon March 20th 1938.

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[dankusner]

Good ole boys

Neil Tennant on Dr, Dre's homey, Liza's hubby and disgusting myths about gerbils

BOYS TO MEN — Chris Lowe, left, and Neil Tennant will drop the flashy theatrics when they perform Saturday night at the Bronco Bowl.

By DANIEL KUSNER  | May 31, 2002

It's a whole new Pet Shop Boys — no wigs, no eyeliner, no lipstick.

"We're not even having video. This time around, it's all about the music," Neil Tennant says in a carefully articulated Northern British accent. "In fact, this will be the first tour where I won't always have to stay in specific places because of all the onstage theatrics."

The Pet Shop Boys' frontman is describing how the gay pop-duo's new organic sound will translate into their live shows.

Now that Tennant and bandmate Chris Lowe are each comfortably in their 40s, they've stepped off the dance floor, picked up acoustic guitars and have struck a refreshing chord in their 18-year career.

Apparently, as champions of the synthesizer era, the Pet Shop Boys were ready for some modifications.

While crafting material for their new album, "Release," Lowe and Tennant retreated to a remote country house to avoid outside influences on their creative process.

"I put the chord changes for the new songs down on guitar rather than keyboard. And Chris started programming drums. Using real drums rather than electronic beats. It all just started to change," Tennant explains. "Besides, we didn't really want to do dance music. We both thought there's so much dance music nowadays. That it would be more original if we just concentrated on the melody and lyrics, and slower tempos. Writing songs is what we do best. And frankly, dance music these days is not really about songmanship."

By taking this so-called "more mature approach," the Pet Shop Boys are hoping to draw attention to their intelligent compositions and their ironic sense of humor.

In a flash of clever brilliance, they recently penned "The Night I Fell in Love," a gorgeous ballad about a gay boy who falls for a famous rap star backstage at his concert and follows him to a hotel room for a "private performance."

"MTV played the song for Dr. Dre. And he laughed and said, '[Eminem] is going to fucking kill them!' But he seemed pretty good-humored about it. I don't see why he shouldn't be. The song is really sweet and warm," Tennant says.

"It was just taking the oldest issue of Eminem being homophobic, which I don't think he is, really. Eminem says he plays characters. And he represents the homophobia in America, which I think is a very strong argument. Everything he does is in character. So I thought I would adopt his method. I'm not suggesting Eminem is gay because evidently, he isn't. It was just kind of rating the possibilities of exposing a homophobic rapper for being gay."

Sly references about the rap world are nothing new for the Pet Shop Boys.

Many suspect the band's name is a humorous take on the nasty urban myth about "gay men and gerbils."

Tennant insists that was never the intention.

"I actually used to get really annoyed with that myth, because people are stupid enough to believe it," he huffs.

"In the early '80s, Chris had two friends who worked in a pet shop in West London. Everyone used to refer to them as "the pet-shop boys." We used to say that they should start a rap group called the Pet Shop Boys because at the time there were all of these rap groups.

"Like the New York Citi Peech Boys and the Beastie Boys. A lot of rap groups were 'boys.' And we thought it sounded like a weird rap group," he continues.

"The first interview I ever did as one of the Pet Shop Boys was when 'West End Girls' was released. A journalist said, 'So, Neil, what about the name? We all know what it means' She told me about [the gerbil myth], and I was absolutely furious. Anyway, I've learned to live with it.”

Working on the new album sadly kept the Pet Shop Boys from attending the marriage ceremony of the century.

"We were invited to Liza's wedding. And we even bought wedding presents from Tiffany's in New York. But we had a single coming out two days later in Britain. And we had all this stuff to do. But we saw her the following week because we were booked on the same London TV show. And then we went to see her in The Albert Hall two weeks later, which was great by the way," Tennant says of Minnelli whom the Pet Shop Boys collaborated with in the late '80s.

And as for Liza's husband, Tennant offers a diplomatic opinion.

"I don't know. My gaydar says that he seems like a manager to me. I didn't really get a gaydar reading from him. But then he always wears dark glasses. So it's hard to tell," he laughs.

Perhaps humor is the best medicine when it comes to guessing about other people's sexuality.

Last year Tennant poured an enormous amount of time and energy into Wotapalava, which was supposed to be the first all-gay music festival.

Unfortunately, it was cancelled when an erratic Sinéad O'Connor withdrew at such short notice.

"We put the whole bill together. And then, the day before it was announced, Sinéad O'Connor pulled out for personal reasons because she was getting married. I guess her gay phase didn't last very long," he laughs. "We thought we could go ahead and get another co-headliner. But, in fact, that proved very difficult. The promoter started getting a bit twitchy about it. So we decided to pull it."

Tennant says there's still talk about mounting Wotapalava this fall. But right now his plate is already full.

"It's a possibility. But there's no definite plan," he says. "It was very interesting — the enthusiasm we got from the promoters. You'd sort of think that the rock business is kind of homophobic in a way. But it was the opposite. Because so many people were really keen to do this. At the moment, however, we're really just concentrating on getting this theater tour going."

The Pet Shop Boys perform Saturday, June 1 at 8 p.m. at the Bronco Bowl Theatre, 2600 Fort Worth Ave. Tickets $35-$50.114-943-8088.     

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