#cigar catering

[jeonghansbunny]

An Unrefusable Offer | Scoups

Rating: 18+ | Read at your own discretion

Content warnings: dom/sub, manhandling, crying, unprotected sex, creampie. Please keep in mind that I wrote this with the idea that everything is consensual!

Scoups 

Who is the leader of a mafia gang

And has multiple establishments to carry out his dirty work

His favorite one was a stripper club

Because it didn't take long before his clients would let loose and relax

Before signing inhumane contracts

Which of course are beneficial for his gang and its future

Tonight was no exception

In a private room which was filled with the smell of cigars and booze 

He tried to get a big client to sign a contract

By having strippers dance on him and getting him drunk

Usually Scoups doesn't do businesses directly 

He lets his underlings do it

But tonight was an exception since the client was the leader of a rival gang

And if he managed to trick him into signing a contract 

He could shut their businesses down 

But his client was quite the troublesome one

Refusing to sign the contract until he has had his fun

Irritated at the clients’ behavior 

He ordered more booze and cigars

In hopes his client would sign the contract faster if he got more drunk

Frustrated he leaned back and started smoking a cigar

He finally managed to gather his thoughts together

Until you came in to bring the beverages he had ordered

He was never one to show any interest in the strippers or the club itself 

He only cared about the deals and how the business was doing

But when you walked in he suddenly couldn't think clearly anymore

You looked so innocent in the white lingerie set you were wearing

Almost as if you didn't belong there

Through the white smoke of the cigars you looked like an angel who had mistakenly entered Satan's realm

And he wasn't wrong

He didn't know that today had been your first day on the job

Forced to work in a strip club in order to pay back your fathers debt

Fortunately for you, you only had to cater and help with the cleaning 

You put the beverages on the table and placed the empty bottles on your tray to take with you when you leave the room

Your hands were shaking slightly 

Nervous at the fact that you had to cater to the mafia boss himself

You were warned before entering to always follow his orders and never refuse

Usually they wouldn't send a newbie to the boss’s room but tonight they were understaffed 

The client must've seen the way Scoups eyes followed your every move

And insisted he shouldn't be the only one enjoying himself and that Scoups should get a lap dance too

This brought Scoups back from his trance

Now fully annoyed with his client for his foolish demeanor, he tried to refuse 

But before he could, his client continued to say that he would sign the contract if his wish was granted

He ran a hand through his hair

Frustrated at his idiotic and endless requests

But if it meant he could get this deal over with and leave then so be it

He looked over at you and told you to come closer

You wanted to say something but got disapproving glances from the other strippers’

So you stayed quiet 

Hesitantly you put the tray down

And started walking towards him

Not fully knowing what you're supposed to do

Scoups looked at you 

And noticed that you had probably never done this before

He let out a sight

And reached his hand out for you to take

He then guided you on his lap with your back facing him

His breath on your neck made you shiver and suddenly your heart started beating loudly

In a whisper he told you to grind on him like the other strippers 

You dismissed it though, whose heart wouldn't beat in such a difficult situation? 

Despite it all you slowly and clumsily started to grind on him

Trying to match your movements to the beat of the song

And trying to copy what the other strippers were doing 

Scoups hands grabbed onto your hips tightly 

Guiding you properly on his lap

You could feel his bulge beneath you

And his breath on your back

Seeing Scoups so flustered the client decided to take it a step further and asked if they should switch

"she seems quite inexperienced maybe I should give it a go" he said with a disgusting smile on his face

With a confident smirk Scoups told him that he didn't want to switch and that he would enjoy you all to himself 

Satisfied the client let out a loud laugh

Entertained with the situation he decided to sign the contract with the condition to be left alone with the strippers who were serving him

It was that kind of a strip club after all

The deal was finally done 

Relieved he grabbed your hand

And guided you out of the room

He turned to you and looked you up and down

"why are you working here" he asked

You told him about your father's debt

"how much" he asked, you noticed he's very direct and tried to spare as much words as he could

After telling the amount Scoups realized that due to the small amount you probably only had to cater and didn't have to do "that" kind of job

His night couldn't get worse

First his annoying client who wouldn't sign the deal

Now he's left all horny because of an innocent waitress 

He took you by the hand and guided you to another empty room

He sat down and lit up another cigar 

"I have a deal for you" he said in between inhaling his cigar and letting out the smoke

"I'll take care of your debt if you help me with this instead" he pointed to his boner and took another drag

Flustered you looked away

For him it might've been a small amount of debt

But to you it meant that you didn't have to work at the strip club anymore 

Seeing your hesitation, he urged you to answer quickly 

He's a busy man and doesn't have all night 

So you accept

He tells you to come closer and to do what you did before 

Slowly you start to grind on him

With your back turned to him

His free hand gripped your waist and give it a squeeze

Moving his hand down further to your thighs

And stroking them up and down

Soon his hand rested between your thighs

Playing with your clit

Your head thrown back

Now fully leaning into his chest 

Breathing heavily at the sensation of his thick fingers 

"turn around" he commands 

And you oblige

You turn so that now you're face to face with him

His doe eyes looking up at you

As you start to grind on his bulge

He sees your expression change 

And become flustered

Shy at his staring

You hide your face on his neck

He takes another drag from his cigar and puts it out

He then takes you by the hips and lifts you up

Unbuckling his pants

He takes out his cock

And tells you to grind on it

Hesitantly without saying a word you follow his order 

And start to grind on his bare cock

The friction starts to drive you insane

And before you know it 

You're unwillingly letting out soft whimpers

Which turns him on even more

Seeing you hold onto his neck for support

He's not able to endure it anymore

He moves your underwear to the side

And starts to slowly push his cock inside of you

Your grip around him tightens

And his arms go around your waist 

Capturing you in a hug

He starts to slowly thrust his hips up 

Until he's deep inside of you

Then increasing his speed more and more

Until you start moaning out loud 

Not being able to hold back your voice anymore 

He brutally pounds into you

Which has you screaming in pleasure

And tightening around him

Until you're cumming all over his cock

With a few hard thrusts

He shoots his load inside of you

Breathing heavily

He tells you, you did a good job

Exhausted, you ask him if now you're free to go and that you don't have to work here anymore

Not wanting to let you go

He gives you a devilish grin

And tells you, you should've gotten that in writing before agreeing

You stare at him in shock

Realizing he's not about to let you off the hook so easily

Your eyes start to well up and you start crying

You could feel his cock twitch inside of you

He wipes away your tears, trying to comfort you

In a pout he tells you that you don't have to work at the strip club anymore 

But that he wasn't nearly ready to let you go

And that he will pay your debt if he could continue to do this to you

Your mind was in a haze

All you could think of was your colleagues warning you to never refuse his words

Not knowing what to do you give him a slight nod

With that his cock has now fully become erect again

And he starts to fuck you for the rest of the night

Satisfied with tricking an innocent person into a contract she can't get out of <3

#seventeen smut #svt smut #scoups smut #seungcheol smut #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen reactions #svt reactions #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #kpop smut

[lady-z-writes]

(Jealous Karl x reader. "You're mine" smut)

Swear I thought I posted this, but here you go:

(ETA: ...I'd posted it in 2021, apparently. 🫣)

He'd made the decision to bring you, despite his best efforts to avoid this type of thing.

As soon as Alcina found out about you, she'd been urging him to join her little charade where she pretends to be a good oversized hostess.

She just wanted to get a taste of you, he was sure; lock eyes with you and hope to seduce you, steal you away from him.

Who knew the fucking caterer was going to be yet another threat.

The way he's staring at you makes Heisenberg notice. Sipping his whiskey, he keeps an eye on things as you chat kindly, probably unknowingly.

The smile on your face, the way you look in that outfit tonight - it's too much. He barely let you leave the factory without a mark on you; just in case someone got close enough to see the bite marks on your inner thigh.

You knew you were his. But with some alcohol in you, he wasn't so sure you'd behave yourself. Clearly, you hadn't started this interaction. Of course Heisenberg had been staring since you got up from the table; always an eye on things. He'd rather silently watch you than play socialite at Alcina's ridiculously over-the-top gala.

You'd been good, he just didn't trust the rest of these fuckers.

And the longer he stares, the more heated he's getting.

You'd noticed Heisenberg's staring. It was hard not to. He'd been grinding his teeth when he wasn't taking a sip of that almost-empty whiskey glass.

Speaking of, you knew you were meant to get the bottle from the server.

The caterer is nice enough but if he doesn't watch it, Heisenberg is going to make him into a mechanical plaything.

As you say goodbye, the caterer takes your hand and kisses the back of it. Totally flabbergasted, you shake your head at him.

"You need to stop," you say.

"Stop? We were having such a lovely chat. Perhaps we could have a drink under moonlight."

You glance over your shoulder, but Heisenberg isn't there.

Fuck.

"No, thank you," quickly, you back away toward the serving plater with the whiskey he likes.

It's gone.

Eyes wide, you gaze around the room to see if it's on anyone's table. If you come back without that bottle...-

Suddenly a familiar smell of cigar smoke overwhelms your senses. Glancing to your left, you notice Heisenberg's gaze fixed on you from a few feet away; whiskey bottle in hand.

"Come with me," he demands, shoving the bottle into your arms as he passes.

Before long, you're in a loading bay area, wrapping your arms around yourself from how cold you are suddenly.

"Karl, I-"

"Take your clothes off."

"What?"

He exhales smoke in your face as he shoves you against a crate.

"Now," he hisses.

Shivering, you follow orders, hand him the bottle of whiskey, watch him take a hefty gulp as he stares at your nakedness. As he hands you the bottle back, his eyes linger on the bite marks on your thigh.

You sip the booze in hopes it'll warm you up. Heisenberg takes pity on you - or maybe it's an act of ownership - but he gives you his coat and you're greedy for the warmth.

Not wasting time, he hoists you up, shoves you completely back on the oversized crate. It's freezing and hard but you don't sit up. You set down the booze before you spill it. Heisenberg pulls himself up, crawls over your body with a deep growl that exhales smoke around the cigar in his mouth. When he's eye-to-eye with you, he pops it out of his mouth, ashes it near you, uses his gloved fingers to uncover your right nipple from beneath his jacket. And then the left.

His eyes scan hungrily as he takes another inhale. You can feel him hard against your body and to be honest you're not surprised. It feels good to be this wanted.

He nods down at you and you know what he wants so wordlessly you undo his pants and belt. When his cock springs out, you guide it toward your naked pussy and let him shove himself inside you.

Arching your back, you moan out for him, knowing he wants you to be loud and the pressure of his thick cock is tender without any prep. But he wants it like this. It's a punishment of sorts.

"See you made a friend tonight," he grunts as he puts his cigar out beside your shoulder.

When he's completely in, you feel like you can finally speak. "N-no, that's not it at all. Karl, I-"

There isn't a second of hesitation: he starts pounding into you at such a pace, you can't help but grip his shoulders and whimper.

"You're mine," he growls. "You got that?"

"Yes."

"Say it," he grunts, biting your neck.

"I'm yours."

"Again."

"Karl, I'm yours!"

"Mmm, that's right. You are. You're mine to bite and to fuck. You're mine to make a scene about."

He's putting so much pressure on you, you're consumed by him and it's such an overwhelming feeling you can't help but love it.

"This cunt is mine to fill," he chuckles. "Oh? You're close, aren't you?" a deep laugh. "Bad girls don't get to cum."

You whine and grip him tighter. "No, I'm good. I promise."

"Oh, are you now?" he teases. You nod. "You look good...my jacket falling off your body like some centerfold...tits with my bitemarks on them, little marks from my facial hair...heh, it's like you're my little plaything."

"I'm yours," you whisper out, nodding against his chest as you feel your orgasm nearing. "Please, Karl, please."

He hums as if thinking it over. "One condition, doll."

"Anything."

"You sit in my lap and ride my cock while you cum."

You nod quickly and shift positions, staring in awe at him. This new position gives you so much pleasure. Your mouth is on his shoulder then kissing at his neck, moaning and crying out his name as you ride out your orgasm.

"Good girl," he laughs. "Ah, that's it, kitten...getting me so close."

After you've come down, your heartbeat in your ears, you kiss his neck again, open your eyes, throw your head back a second to stare at the ceiling as he pounds up into you.

It's only when you look straight ahead of you that you notice the door is open.

"Karl," you whisper, tapping him on the arm, trying to pull back.

It's too late. He's got an iron grip on your hips as he's moaning and pumping into you.

All while the caterer stands there in shock next to his crates of pastries.

"Get a good enough show there, bucko?" Heisenberg pants a yell over his shoulder where you're still staring in shock.

No response, just the sound of footsteps retreating.

You smack him on the bicep.

"You knew he was there."

He laughs loudly. "Of course I did!"

"Heisenberg!" you hiss.

"No harm. I didn't even kill him. Besides, look at that entire crate of pastries he left...just for us to sneak back to the factory."

You groan, hiding your face in his chest out of pure embarrassment.

"What? You're a sight when you're cumming. Probably gave that guy plenty to think about..."

"Can we go now?"

"Depends. Learned your lesson about talking to strangers?"

You roll your eyes.

"Yes, sir."

#karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #heisenberg x you

[imamotherfuckingstar-lord]

what he deserves, chapter 3

Sanji x Reader, a bit of Law x Reader

Warnings: angst, one-night stand, not really a love triangle – law and reader are mature about the situation. Some implied smut.!!!! WANO SPOILERS!!!!!

a/n: this will be several parts. Leave comment for tags.

Summary: Witnessing all the suffering Sanji went through on Whole Cake Island, all you want is for him to be truly happy…even if it means not with you. Set after the fight in Wano, you go through the motions of an endless fight and end up in bed with the Hearts Pirates’ Captain to distract yourself from the one thing you want the most – Sanji.

masterlist

The village was lively; Otama showed you around since you hadn’t had a chance since landing in Wano. Her hand was glued to yours, pointing out different homes and who they belonged to. She went on and on about how great her big bro Luffy was and how full her belly had been from the last three days of eating. Her smile put into perspective how vast the world was and how this country, this village, was just one small story among millions. There were more stories like Otama’s, more people to help and when you glanced over to Luffy – who was busy devouring his fifth bowl of rice, you knew he’d be the one to liberate everyone. Leaving her to go to the man’s side, you wandered off toward the edge of the village – where the trees were high and shading. Needing some time alone, you walked further into the forest and then perched yourself down near a small pond. Sitting on the ground, your eyes drew closed.

Moments flashed in your mind, memories flowing like a stream. A smile burned through your heart thinking of the crew…Merry…than Sunny… All the arguing and laughing among the seas you all traveled. The best moments in your life were had on the ship but hidden in the cracks of memories were the ones of your family. Biological family. Pain sears through your soul and for a moment, you thought you could smell your mother’s perfume, father’s cigars. You loved them once and you were sure they loved you, but people can become the worst versions of themselves.

And never come back.

For years, you were always on your own. Fending for yourself – being hurt by others, sometimes far worse than what your parents did to you. The physical scars always heal but damage the heart, that was harder to mend. The pond was still, too still for your liking, so you swat a hand into it. Ripples catered to your needs, and you inhaled the air, lungs filling with relief than the tears fell from your eyes. Body shaking, fingers digging into the dirt, all you can do is just sob. Cry until you collapsed onto your back; eyes stung as you stared up past the tree line. It was getting dark, and you felt sleepy, even though you had slept so much last night. Still, there was an incredible tiredness that came over you and it only took a few minutes before you fell asleep…

Crickets woke you up.

How soft their sounds usually were, you were surprised by how loud they were when no one was around. It was dark, moon high and above the trees. Your back ached from the ground and when you sat up, your head felt dizzy. You yawned, getting up from your feet to tug on your kimono; it was dirtied from your nap. Stretching your arms, you felt energetic and started back toward the village – it was a short ten-minute walk, and the village was quiet. The streets were empty sans a few folks walking back to their homes, Luffy was nowhere to be found.

 Shit. Realizing it might be later than you initially thought, you didn’t bother asking anyone if they had seen your captain or gone looking for Otama. Going back to the inn seemed like the best choice but as you moved past the homes, you noticed two young girls in front of their home. They looked no older than sixteen and when you drew closer to them, you saw that one was giving the other a haircut. You stopped and watched, the one getting her hair cut smiled at you. She looked so content and free; eyes filled with a hope of a better future and her hair…it looked good shorter. Asking if you could be next in line, the would-be hairdresser grinned. “Of course.”

An hour later, you stood in front of the inn; your once long hair cut under your chin. It was a drastic change, even a bit severe but losing those inches of hair felt freeing. Being among other women who have been ruled by others, being free by the same man that freed you – it felt electric. You needed this and when you walked into the inn, you hadn’t expected to be rushed by Nami. Her arms flung around your shoulders, and she cursed you under her breath.

“Everyone was so worried.”

Confused, you hugged her back, fingers running through her hair. She pulled back and gawked at your head, asking what you had done to your hair. You laughed. “It’s called a haircut. The real question is why you were so worried, I was only gone for a bit. When did Luffy get back?”

“Eight hours ago!”

She explained that when Luffy came back right before sunset, he said he didn’t know where you were. Everyone figured you were just around. “Or with Law but even he didn’t know where you were! He had gone out to look for you too. Sanji’s been worried, he was the first to go out to find you. Where the hell have you been!”

Chopper rushed into the inn’s entry way and summoned you to the other room for an examination – in tears, asking if you were hurt. Kneeling in front of him, you patted his head three times, just the way he liked it and told him you were fine. “I just fell asleep in the forest.”

Nami scoffed. “Apparently got a haircut on her way back too.”

“Does it look that bad?”

You stood up and looked at the navigator, she glared at you for a long time before giving into a smile. It was cute, she said, and you felt relieved – a bad haircut might set you off again but before you could thank her, Robin and Brook walked in. Both were pleased to see you; the latter urged you to go outside. “The others are on their way; they’ll be happy to see you.”

Following him outside, the rest trailed behind you – Robin noting how pretty your new locks were. Smiling, you walked into the streets and looked in the direction Brook pointed towards. The first person you saw was Luffy and before your eyes could register the figures next to him, his hands grabbed a hold of your shoulders. Knowing what was about to happen, true fear set in as he screamed your name – no doubt waking up every person in the vicinity of the inn. A unison of shouting and pleading from the crew did nothing to sway Luffy’s determination to hug you. All that there was left to do was accept your fate. Bracing yourself, your eyes closed shut and seconds later his entire body seemed to be wrapped around yours. He felt heavy but when you tripped back there were two arms holding you up. Thinking it was Robin, you giggled as you were pushed back into a standing position. Everyone laughed. When Luffy finally released you, the owner of the hands was revealed to be Sanji. He asked if you were alright, chastising Luffy. “You could have hurt her, you moron!”

He slipped his hands away from you, eyes taking in your hair. His heart galloped in a way it never had but he pushed it back the feeling and asked where you had been. You confessed the nap you had taken, and he smiled warmly. A hint of earnestness swept his eyes when you apologized for making him worry. “For making you all go out looking for me,” you added.

“As if we’d leave you behind,” Usopp chimed; you looked to him and mouthed a ‘sorry’. He knew you meant for earlier and he just grinned at you – all was forgiven. Then like the sap you were, tears started to flow alarming everyone. Zoro demanded you to stop crying, but you knew it was only because it was making him uncomfortable. Sanji told him to shut up and placed an arm around your shoulder, asking if you were hurt.

Hurt?

No, you were…happy.

Happy to be with your family and more importantly, happy to be wanted.

Brushing tears from your cheeks, you looked at everyone than to Sanji. “I’m pretty hungry…”

….

The inn’s kitchen was cozy, you sat on a wooden stool watching as Sanji cooked. He had long rid himself of the yellow yukata he had worn for most of his time in Wano; he now wore black slacks and a white, loose button up. Sleeves rolled up his forearm and the first two buttons of the shirt undone. He looked relaxed as he cooked a small dinner for you; neither of you speaking but comfortable enough to enjoy the silence. His hands moved effortlessly, and you studied his every move, moves you had longed memorized. All the times you spent with him in the kitchen, asking questions but confessing you weren’t much of a cook. He smiled when you said that.

“That’s fine, I can do all the cooking.”

Now, he worked diligently – cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth.

“We were all pretty worried when you didn’t’ come back with Luffy.” He spoke but didn’t look up from dicing potatoes for the soup he was making you. “At first, we thought you had gone out on your own, but then it took Luffy an hour to mention that he had lost track of back at Otama’s village. That’s when everyone started to freak out. With everything that’s happened…it seems we’re all on edge.”

“I’m sorry…”

Sanji looked up from his work, eyes a bit sad. “Don’t be sorry for having people that care about you.”

“Then you shouldn’t either,” you snapped back much to Sanji and your surprise. He stopped dicing and placed the knife down. Neither of you knew what to say next, but neither of you could look away from each other. It felt like a standoff with words, both of you trying to figure out what to say next. Then he resided and continued to cook, and for ten minutes no words were spoken until Sanji finally broke the silence.

“Why did Nami lie about you being there when we talked through the mirror dimension?”

Heart racing, you fought the urge to avoid his eye contact, avoid him all together and run upstairs but your feet were frozen to the wood floor. Gripping the edge of the stool, you told him you asked her to lie and when he asked why, you wished lies could roll off your tongue. “Because I was angry at you. Angry that you had no faith in Luffy or us or me to help you.”

“They threatened Zeff, threatened you all.” They being his awful family. Sanji’s head hung low, hands on the small kitchen island. “I couldn’t let them get to him, Luffy, the others…you…. I – I couldn’t…”

Your heart ached for Sanji and all you wanted to do was go to him, hold him, absorb his pain but again, you couldn’t move. A woman frozen. Dread riddled your bones as he looked up to you, eyes pleading for you to understand. God, you did, you did but…

“You were going to go through with it,” you whispered, tears forming. Letting go of the stool, you held a hand to your chest and trembled. “You were going to go through with the wedding because they wanted you to. The family that discarded you. You told me how awful they were to you, Sanji.”

“But I had to…”

“I understand why you did it,” you admitted, wiping away a stray tear. “I do. But you didn’t even give Luffy a chance, give me a chance to help you. Not from the start. Didn’t you realize that we would do anything for each other? Was not that evident enough after all this time? We are your family, Sanji. We are. Not those awful people and not that awful girl.”

Sanji couldn’t comprehend the scene before him – the tears in your eyes, the look of devastation on your face, or the pain in his heart. He couldn’t form words, let alone a sentence but somehow, he managed to speak and the instant he did, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Even if he had said it out of nerves, trying to ease the tension. It would be something he’d regret until the end of time, but he couldn’t grasp the knowledge that you might feel the same as him – couldn’t be possible.

“She wasn’t so awful.”

His response to the heart pouring you just did stun the nerves in your system and all you could do was laugh. A low, melancholy laugh. Willing the tears away, you stood up from the stool and smiled softly at the startled cook. “Well, then, maybe Usopp was right. Maybe you should have married Pudding. You’re the kindest person I know Sanji and if you couldn’t warm her heart, no one could. I’m not feeling so hungry anymore. Goodnight.”

The cigarette fell from his mouth onto the cutting board as he watched you exit the kitchen; he wanted to call out to you, beg for your forgiveness. Yet, the shame of even mentioning Pudding kept him where he stood. He listened to the sound of your sandals clicking until he could no longer hear it, and when the coast was clear, he allowed the tears to flow freely. He didn’t know if it was possible to even come back from a conversation like this one. Or if you’d ever be willing to speak to him again and he wasn’t so sure he even deserved a second chance.

......

tags:

@stuckinthewrongworld @theyluvmesblog

@synchronised-beat @hi3431

@fandomsunited @ghostercy

@yuki190 @bowscale @utakamo

@fire-child-kira @cheshireshiya

@teenyforestfairy @sukilovesyou

@69cocktimusprime @littlemissfiore @kodzuchim

@angeiisa @bitchycoffeepainter69

@secretlife028 @idiot-sanwich02

@abandonedbrat @breens-nick

@bocchi-the-heart @sseleniaa

@depression-247 @sweetgurl1623-blog-blog

@punem69 @themossiestchick @sweetcoldmelancholy

@sanjipudinzinho @baelien-queen

@kodzuchim @kfcmuncha @bloodysweetcat

@angeiisa @gingersnap126126

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#what he deserves series #sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #sanji #one piece #law x reader #trafalgar law

[wanderingelvis]

Heyy so i have a request since u want some ideas mabye like an elvis x Innocent reader 🤷🏽‍♀️ I mean I don't have that much imagination so whatever u do with it will be brilliant 💕

Oh wow! My first request and I've barely started but this is such a dream request, so thank you!! Here goes nothing, I hope you like it! 🧚 🧚🏻 Masterlist 🧚🏻 word count: 1,503 pairing: elvis presley x f!reader

Ever since you'd been signed to the same label as Elvis, you'd struggled adjusting to the Hollywood lifestyle. You'd found a friend in Elvis though, something you'd never thought you'd say. As soon as he'd met you, he'd been kind, protective and patient with you, when not many people had been. He'd let you spend time in his trailer between takes and rehearsals which you were grateful for, especially since you were having a tough time in media training classes with other new talent that had been signed.  The boys and girls in those classes weren't as kind to you as Elvis was, they all came from the Hollywood area, with rich relatives who were higher up in the label, whereas you'd auditioned and came from a pokey little town out in California. You tried your best to fit in but your upbringing just hadn't been the same. 

That's where Elvis felt awful protective of you, he'd faced a similar difficulty, growing up in Tupelo all those years ago. He could see the talent and potential in you, not to mention how hard you worked. He didn't want you to face the same hardships he'd had to. 

You'd had enough today, you'd been made fun of, yet again by the other guys that were all training to be dancers and stunt guys, and it had all gotten too much. You missed home and everything that came with it. You made a beeline for Elvis' dressing room, keeping your head down because you knew if someone even dared to ask if you were okay, you'd burst into tears.  You gently knocked on the door, praying that Elvis was there and hopefully not with his entourage. The door swung open and you were met with Elvis' grin.  "Are you busy? I don't wanna bother you." You asked quietly, looking past him to see if he had company. 

Elvis moved away from the entrance, making room for you to walk in, "No honey, want to come in?" You nodded, walking into the room that smelt of cigar smoke as he closed the door behind you. "Don't you have your press conference training now little one?" Elvis asked as he went to pour himself a drink.  "M'not going." You said grumpily, collapsing down onto the plush couch.  "I know it's a drag baby, but you gotta go, I made your Momma a promise that you wouldn't slack on your work." Elvis chuckled, not clocking onto your upset mood yet.  "I said I'm not going!" You snapped, your voice cracking a little. You were just so upset at always being left out and feeling like an idiot.  Elvis stalled, he hadn't heard you speak like that before, especially not to him. You were an innocent little thing, everyone on set knew it and you would never openly challenge or disobey anyone, whether it was a label executive or one of the catering staff.  "Baby, I don't know where you found that goddamn attitude but you best get rid of it right now. I ain't gonna let no little girl talk to me like that." Elvis warned, walking over to you. 

The harsh words tipped you over the edge, the last thing you'd wanted was to upset your one friend on set. You were just frustrated and Elvis snapping at you caused you to burst into soft sobs. You covered your face with your hands as you blubbed and Elvis immediately softened, taken aback with concern as he watched you hiccup and cry. "M'sorry," You choked. "I had a b-bad day." You stuttered, tripping on your words as you let out soft cries. "Oh little un', what's happened hm?" He cooed, sitting next to you, placing his hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles as he grabbed some tissues with his other hand to give to you. "I miss home, Elvis," You said quietly, "Everyone at the rehearsals and classes is so mean and they say stuff and I don't know what they mean and um," You paused to sniffle and wipe your pink nose, "They all laugh at me and it's n-not funny." You said as you sat cross legged on the couch, your whole body now facing Elvis. "What are they saying baby?" Elvis asked gently. He wasn't exactly surprised at what you said, you were an easy target, you were sweet, kind and gentle and it was a tough industry, one you weren't exactly made for. "I don't know, I don't understand it." You said quietly, feeling dumb and ashamed. "Can you tell me what they said to you, little?" Elvis encouraged.  You paused, taking a wobbly breath, glancing at Elvis who only smiled at you. He never made you feel dumb or stupid, even if you could be at times, a bit naive. "They a-asked me if I 'give a head' or if I ever have done and I said I don't know w-what that means, because I don't!" You said, tearily. "A-and they all laughed at me and they wouldn't tell me and I don't know what they mean and it's really confusing." You said, quietly trailing off.  Elvis felt his blood boil. He knew he was protective of you, the baby in front of him, everyone knew he was and maybe he was overprotective at times but how could he not be when this would happen to you? In front of him was the sweetest little girl and whilst Elvis would never call you dumb, even if other people might, he knew you were just innocent and inexperienced and definitely someone that somebody with bad intentions could take advantage of easily. It made Elvis, rightly or wrongly, want to protect you and take care of you in the way that he saw fit and that way was to preserve your innocence.  If Elvis could have his way, he'd take you away from all of this sin and misdemeanour, all the way to his home, Graceland, where he would let you stay and do everything you loved without the stress and pressure of working this gruelling schedule. "Who said this to you?" Elvis said sternly. "It's all of them Elvis, i-it's just confusing." You hiccuped. "I want a name, Y/N." Elvis said as you glanced up at him through wet lashes. "Paulie Matthews." You mumbled softly. "Are you gonna make me go back to rehearsal?" You asked meekly. "No honey, you're gonna stay right here, with me." As soon as Elvis said that, it was as if a visible weight had lifted from your shoulders. Elvis knew the press team would be angry at the lack of your attendance but he had enough power that no-one would question it. 

"Elvis?" "Yes, little one?" Elvis said, gently pushing back some hair that had fallen in front of your face. "What does 'give a head' mean?" Your brows furrowed together and cocked your head to the side with confusion and curiousity. Elvis breathed a heavy sigh at your question and the innocence in the way that you said it, before the door burst open with laughter and chatter, making you jump slightly. Elvis rubbed your back soothingly straight away to try and calm you. It was Jerry, Red, and the rest of the Mafia, chatting after their outing to the local steakhouse. "What have I told you about goddamn knockin'?" Elvis barked furiously. The guys all apologised, insisting that Elvis just needed to hear this story about how Red had pulled a waitress and got a free steak out of it, none of them paying any attention to you, the sweet thing, sat near Elvis. As the bustling continued, Elvis noticed you shuffled a little closer to him. 

You were visibly overwhelmed at all the men and the commotion. "You okay baby?" Elvis whispered to you softly. You chewed your lip feverishly. "Want to stay by my side and keep me company?" He offered, in a sweet and gentle tone. You nodded almost instantly, making Elvis smile down at you. "C'mere sweetheart." He nodded. You nestled into his side as he led his arm across the back of the couch, allowing you to perfectly slot in next to him. Elvis pet your hair and placed a tender kiss atop your head, as your wobbly breathing evened out.  "Elvis?" You whispered. Elvis hummed in response, lowering his head so you could whisper in his ear cutely. You leaned up a little, putting your hand by your mouth so no one could see or hear what you were whispering. "Do ya think the guys might know what 'give a head' means? Should I ask them?" You asked before moving back a little so you could study his face. Elvis laughed a little at you, he couldn't help but adore how sweet and innocent you were. "No baby, I'll show you later, you just relax now pretty girl." Elvis smiled. You smiled back, feeling relieved that you could always be yourself around the most famous man in the world.

#elvis x y/n #elvis smut #elvis imagine #elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #yandere elvis #elvis movie #elvis aaron presley #elvis x oc #elvis x you #austin butler #austin!elvis x y/n #elvis fic

[l0velylecter]

PLEASEEEE, I need more of Lana Del Rey vinyl coded men a.k.a Philips Graves and Captain Price (maybe a 'million dollar man' inspired(?) fic) if you're still taking request or not busy 🫦🫦 everytime I listen to her, all I can think about are these fine men 😩 your writing is EVERYTHING btw, chef's kiss 👌 also, don't forget to take care of yourself!!! 🫶

(I'll be 🧸 anon if you don't mind 👼)

Look like a million dollar man — captain john price / f!reader 

— “you're screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man”

summary : price takes you to an opera and fucks you in the backseat of his bentley after pairings : captain john price / reader fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii pairing :  f!reader /  captain john price rating : e for explicit, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : graphic descriptions of sex, cursing tags : female parts, kissing, making out, praise kink, size kink, sugar daddy vibes, papa smurf takes you to an opera  alternative title : the cod : mw ii men as lana del rey songs, vol.ii song used for inspiration : million dollar man by lana del rey

01| You stared at your face in the bright, fogged bathroom mirror. This must be a dream. You thought, staring back at the dress, the earrings, the bracelet— everything was bought and gifted to you by Price, right down to the skin. Subsumed, like Venice, into his world. This wasn’t all of it. One last parcel laid unopened by the foot of your bed. The pristine, white bow holding it together gracefully. You glanced worriedly by the window, swallowing your nerves to unwrap it, knowing John would be here soon. When the Bentley pulled up by your driveway, you were already by the door, still adjusting the heels. He was in a black wool overcoat: double-breasted, with gold outlines around the buttons, scarf draped over his shoulders. He lit a cigar and smiled at you: eyes crinkling by the corners with mirth. They paused to admire the necklace : the centerpiece to the carefully crafted costume Price had catered for your date tonight. You released the trembling breath you didn’t know you were holding.

02| He doesn’t start the car right away, lingering to watch you. John didn’t need to say anything. You can tell from the look in his eyes, the hitch in his breath as he cups your cheek to stroke the skin with his thumb. Yet he compliments you anyway. The warmth of his hand as they helped you down the stone steps earlier, still stubbornly clinging onto your fingers. You look exquisite. You hide your smile, and he tips your chin his way, angling your face as if to kiss you — only to retract, starting the car and letting the hum reverberate down the interior. Knowing that if he were to kiss you now, you'd never make it on time.

03| You looked down at the crashing ocean of people beneath. Bright dresses and black tuxedos. The flash of gold and expensive watches and sharp eyes. Above the house, lights started to fade. The sound of shifting fabric dwindled down to a monotonous murmur. You smiled, sinking into the glamor, entertained by the show of music and plot. And in the periphery of your mind, you stole a few glances at John. With your arm around his, resting atop the soft fabric of his suit, he chose you over the performance. You joked that he should pay attention, or else that would be at least a hundred worth of pounds down the drain. He let out a small smile. Thousands, actually. John didn't look the slightest bit remorseful.  04| By the end of the night, draped in his coat, you descend into his cologne — it’s aromatic. He tells you it has patchouli oil from leaves grown in Sumatra. Clove bud oil from Zanzibar, bay oil from the East Indies. Cinnamon and Carnation. Your head feels heady as you parade past the crowd. People were looking, eying you — eying John in an almost envious and approving way. How could they not stare, love? It’s true. The jewelry should be under a sport of lights and protected behind a ten millimetre thick glass instead of around your chest, cold and heavy, sporting two emeralds, hundreds of diamonds, and a litter of fine pearls. You shivered in delight, spine straightening when Price’s fingers skimmed it. Backless dresses. He seemed to have an obsession with that lately. 05| The stretch was almost too much. His cock was thick, leaving you struggling to relax around it.

Breathe. John reminded. You tried, but the further he pushed, the less room there seemed to be for air. Static was overtaking your mind, the heat making you melt into the leather seat. You've only been apart for half a year, and still, your body needed to be accommodated. He's ruined you for other men. There was no one like him. You were sure of it, nails digging into his shoulders.  Just don’t stop. You begged, tears pricking your eyes. Don’t stop.

He tells you how good you are. With each thrust, he emphasized just how sweet and good, and exquisite you are. And suddenly, you were being lifted, gripped by strong arms, and manhandled around to face him, knees on either side of the captain’s hips — cock pulsing inside of you. When you came, you let out a string of ‘thank yous.' They quivered past your lips, your chest heaving up and down: the jewels reflecting the white, translucent light brought by the moon across his face. His beard scratches your chin as he shudders, hot liquid running down your legs and ruining the million-dollar coat around your naked body.

a/n : HI  🧸 ANON THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS, THIS WAS SO FUN FOR ME TO WRITE BECAUSE I AM A FELLOW LANA FAN <3 and i am lowkey obsessed with men who are lana del rey vinyl coded ( this is the consequence of being exposed to her music at such a young age, anyways ) thank you again for requesting, i know you said graves as well but i feel like it’s better to include him in a separate work ! don’t worry though, i have more graves content coming up soon because this silly evil man has me on a chokehold 😔 in the meantime, merry christmas and enjoy this fic ! i hope you’re having a wonderful time with your loved ones, thank you for the sweet reminder to take care of myself ❤️ → also for those curious the bentley i chose as a hc for price is a 2003 Bentley Arnage T !

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare ii #call of duty imagine #call of duty fanfic #cod #cod mw22 #cod mw ii #cow mwii #captain price #john price #captain john price #captain jonathan price #john price x reader #jonathan price #barry sloane #call of duty smut #john price smut #john price x you #john price x y/n #call of duty imagines #call of duty headcanon #call of duty headcanons #call of duty fanfiction

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Hosting a High Society Dinner Party

In every period piece, the rich, the noble and the Royal often gather for an exquisite meal where etiquette reigns supreme. The intricacies of these high society dinners are complex, one foot out of line and you risk offending your guests. So how can we write them?

Place Settings

Perhaps the most complex part of a dinner is how the silverware, plates and glasses are arranged on the table. First the table is laid with a wool cloth to keep the white tablecloth in place. The tablecloth has to hang midway between the floor and the table. Every course has to have its own set of silverware, every course must have its own glass for the wine being served. Napkins are usually of linen, cut about twenty-four to twenty-six inches. Most tables would have centrepieces either of candelabras or flowers. This would be undertaken by the footmen under the eye of the butler.

Seating

Table seatings are just as important as anything for a dinner as it marks rank. The head of the house sits at the head of the table. The guest of honor sits next to the head and if they have a guest, say a friend, they sit on the other side of the head of the household. A spouse of the female guest will sit to the left of the host and the spouse of the male guest at the left of the hostess. Important guests are seated near the host or hostess. Other guests at the table are arranged by interests, usually near people they can speak with. Married or engaged guest generally do not sit with one another. Most dinners are arranged in a man-woman arrangement. Most dinners, especially formal ones, would have assigned seating.

Serving

In the dinning room, there are usually a collection of footmen and the butler to serve. The butler selects and pours each wine for the courses served. He serves the host first, working clockwise around the table with each footmen carrying either the sides, accompanying sauce or the meat/fish itself. In very formal settings, every guest may have their own footman to cater their needs. While waiting at table, the servants don't talk to the guests unless asked a direct question they must avoid avoid eye contact and offer the plate to the appropriate height so the guest can easily serve themselves. All footmen and the butler must wear white gloves while serving.

Timeline

Before dinner, guests gather in the salon or drawing room to have a drink and get settled before hand. Some houses served cocktails during this time. When dinner is announced, the guests will make their way into dining room with the men escorting the ladies they are seated with, following after the host in order of precedent. Most formal dinners had multiple courses, sometimes as much as twenty or so. After dinner, the ladies would leave the men to their drink and cigars while they take coffee in one of the drawing rooms. They would reunite after for some light conversation and entertainment.

Drink

There are strict rules involving drink. Most courses would have their own wine. White wine is served with the fish, red wine with the meat, and champagne or sherry with dessert. Port, coffee and other drinks such as curaçao would be served after supper. Wine would have had to be strained for sediment by the butler beforehand and decanted once opened.

Dining Etiquette

There are numerous rules to follow when is dining at a formal dinner right down to leaving the table or what you wear.

One doesn't sit until the hostess has been seated, the guests wait behind their chairs until she sits.

Men would pull out the chair for the lady to their right. Hands should remain off the table when not in use they should be ones lap.

Napkins are placed on one's lap but only after the host/hostess does, with the fold tucked at the waist.

As for silverware, one begins with the outermost pieces and work your way in for each course.

One only begins eating or drink when the host does. When the host/hostess stops eating, placing their silverware on the plate at the 10:20 position, everyone must stop eating.

When a lady rises, the men near her are expected to stand, pulling out her chair and pulling it in when she returns.

When being served, one is not expected to thank the servants.

When at a formal dinner, men would wear their whites and tails. At a less formal dinner, men would wear dinner jackets.

Married ladies would wear tiaras at formal suppers and all ladies wore gloves, removing them while eating.

#Fantasy Guide to high society dining #Dining Etiquette #Writing guide #etiquette #Dining Etiquette guide #Fantasy guide #writing #writeblr #writing resources #writing reference #writing advice #writer #writer's problems #spilled words #writer's life #Fantasy Guide

[yeyinde]

"Don't trust me?" "I don't even know you—" His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff.  "Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we, love?"

》 WARNINGS: allusions to political corruption, mild horror (maybe??), mentions of death and murder; more banter in a pub; Price has a past

》 WORD COUNT: 8K

》 NOTES: This was originally much longer but the second part delves heavily into the mechanics of the world (we FINALLY see MC—I'm not good at creative nicknames—go into the underground/black market and it is like, a Thing!!!!) and it felt like a bit of an overload with soooo much being revealed at once. So, I split them up. More Reader x Price in a pub. Bantering. Because, ummm, I’m so goddamn creative, lads. 

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS : NEXT

Makarov's outburst clots in the fibrils of your still reeling mind, replaying in an incessant loop that keeps you up into the early morning hours, unable to sleep. 

Each time you close your eyes, you see the unavoidable truth in blood looming before you. Inner Circle. Inescapable. 

All this time, you'd been under some false assumption that Makarov was the sole lender to whatever medical intervention was needed to bring you back from the clutch of death. It would make things easier. 

People die every day. 

It was the macabre ideal you clung to, digging into the notion until your nails cracked and bled. The only constant in your life that brought some semblance of hope. 

After all, the dead can't collect any debts. 

But a corporate entity can. 

You're pulled out of your reverie when the sound of a news alert fills the silence of your penthouse. The screen flickers to life at the apex of dawn, just when the indigo sky above splits into a varicoloured smear of pastel pink, ochre, and lavender. The looming horizon—sun a hazy flaxen—swallows the tenebrous that gnaws on the skyscape outside of your window. 

The vacuum fills the familiar jingle of your normal routine. A man sits behind a podium. The chyron below warns of a biblical rainstorm approaching, enough—

"—to wash the whole city away," the newscaster jokes as he jogs the stack of papers in front of him. A bead of sweat catches in the flushed light of the newsroom. The implants on his cheekbones flash; the chromatophore upgrade in his sleek skin shifting in a kaleidoscope of colour. "It comes at a good time, though, as reports of sickness are spreading through the medical bays. It must be flu season—," he titters before shifting his attention over to a man on the other half of the screen. 

He wears a black poncho and a wide grin. 

"A flu?" He echoes, the words swallowed by the passersby in the city square. The jumbotrons in the back bath him in a hazy, neon smear. "In this economy?"

They chatter in the background about a sickness spreading through the city, the storm looming closer, Atlas Corporation putting in a series of patents for some big, technological feat of engineering—Four Horseman has some steep competition this year! Atlas is the up-and-coming tech company that has new, innovative ideas and a focus on the environment!

It's the only mention of Four Horsemen Corp.

It doesn't surprise you. 

Money is a powerful tool. Those who weren't already in their back pocket were quickly added, and those who couldn't be paid off were—

Enticed. 

Whatever Anatoly—his primary enforcer—couldn't do, an encrypted file deep in Makarov's secured vault filled the gap. 

The White Horse is a multifaceted venture. On its surface, a luxury club that caters to a specific clientele. Its exclusivity makes it desirable. People fall over themselves just for the chance to enter. The prestige alone from saying, "I've gotten an invitation," is worth more than money in the circle of the upper echelon. It's elusive. Draped in mystique. 

Coveted. 

They want to get in so bad, just for the sole purpose of throwing their weight around and saying they've been, that they don't stop and think about the potential dangers that lurk. 

After all, a club funded by the Inner Circle and owned by Makarov—the White Horse—could hardly be dangerous. 

It's not the club they have to worry about but the man who owns it. The one who has people in high positions of power froth at the mouth for a chance to attend. 

It is impossible to convince a man with millions to risk his neck for someone else. 

But blackmail does the trick. 

From the utter silence of the media regarding this, barring a few fringe sites that are too small to bother with, you'd wager that your hard work was utilised now more than ever before. 

"—pull out your umbrellas, because—"

You reach out, pressing the power key. It clicks off. The hologram darkens to sleek black. 

Your face stares back at you, shaded in tenebrous. Empty. Vacant. Sometimes, you try to piece together what you might have looked like as a child, but all that surfaces is a void. Nothingness. 

It isn't a mental block, but an absence of everything. Anything. A gaping hole. 

You think of the missing man—Alex Keller—and something rotten gnarls between empty ribs. 

Six days. 

Three years. 

You wonder if anyone is still looking for you now. If your face is plastered on the communication poles on some distant planet. If the uncanny likeness of you is whispered in a neighbourhood in Al Mazrah where your family mourns. Or if there is now an empty spot at a dinner table that will never be filled. 

You doubt it. 

Nothing ever appears in the searches. No one ever stops you when you wander down the streets, and belts out an unfamiliar name. The closest you'd come to some sense of recognition was that man. The closest you'd come to thinking finally, finally, someone knew you. 

But he didn't. Doesn't. 

He isn't combing the shady side of down for you, but for Alex. A missing man who's been gone for six days—long enough for the man to tear through the redlight district and force your hand to aid him in finding out where Alex had gone. 

(You wonder if someone fought that hard for you.)

Ugly. Stupid. 

No one is looking. Makarov assured you of this when you asked him. 

You're a nobody, kitten. A stray. I picked you up off the streets and brought you back. You want your family? Well, all you have is me. Ain't that swell, kitten? What more could something like you ever hope for?

Worthless. 

You're caged up like an exotic bird. A toy to be kept on the highest shelf until it's needed. 

A pet. A plaything.

But Makarov's reach is everpresent. His eyes are everywhere.

You can run, and run, and run—

You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

—and he'll always find you.

You have this recurring nightmare that started a year into waking up.

Makarov's idea of avoiding the hassle of you constantly asking questions about the unfamiliar world around you was to just preemptively teach you about it all. In a single session.

Despite the hesitation from the man administering the chip that would flood your mind with knowledge of the world, he pushed for it. And really—who is going to stand up to a man who not only pays their bills, but funds a vast majority of the country?

Against all codes of ethics, you were given the chip.

There is no way of describing the pain of suddenly knowing, but it left a mental scar on your psyche, one that is fundamentally irreparable. A bruise that's always there. A sore spot in your mind as it slowly heals itself from the aftermath of information overload.

But in that knowledge, came the awakening of something else.

Something that the man touched on briefly. Your lack of implants. Cybernetics. The flesh on your body is unblemished by technology, save for a small port where your spine meets your skull. It's always been there. You woke up with it.

It is covered by a layer of tissue meant to keep debris from getting in, and most days you forget about it's existence entirely.

Until, of course, days like these.

When you remember a piece of that overwhelming puzzle that was forced into your head. Artificial intelligence. Androids.

Project Sentience.

It's now considered a cruel, awful experiment conducted by the forefathers who founded the technological epoch that bloomed, by many accounts, out of control and transformed life within a few, short decades.

The project was started with good intentions. They meant to mind the gap between the limits of knowledge and erase the blemish of human error. Where they dreamed up the impossible, the AIs were meant to fill in the missing holes in the theorems and puzzles.

Working, together, for a better future.

But there was an unseen flaw.

The sentience wasn't foolproof. The android working with the engineers thought themselves to be exactly what they were: human.

It was then that project commenced in secrecy. They led the androids to believe they were real, flesh and bone, but when the flawed aspect of the human ego (a byproduct of their tweaked code to mimic the behaviours of humans to seem more passably real) led them to declare themselves the greatest engineers of all time, it was then that human engineers made it known what they were.

It wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if they were just confined to the lab. But they weren't. They were meant to be human, and so—

They led human lives. Love, dislike. Heartbreak. Some had gotten married. Some had lobbied against AI agency.

All had thought they were human.

The ripping of the veil was a nasty one.

Their partners were ostracised. Lives ruined. Their agency was taken away from them in fear of an insurgence from the androids who were now feeling the distinctly human emotion of abject horror.

Everything they knew was culled overnight over something so disgustingly simple as human envy.

It was deemed too cruel to continue. Public outcry made it so that any android made with sentience was told they were artificial, and treated as such.

The lawing of this pulled people in different directions. Subservience. Superiority. Purist.

You think of that experiment, and then of the many markers left behind that give someone an advanced understanding of their anti-humanism. The first, naturally, being a lack of noticeable enhancements. Why would something made to be perfect need an upgrade or an implant when they can just be designed with that specific feature?

The second is a sudden awakening into cognisance.

An emptiness. Nothing. And then—

They're awake.

You think of that as you stare at yourself in the mirror, but it passes just as quickly as it came. Your attention was stolen away by flickering light overhead.

They warned of an oncoming storm, didn't they?

It draws your eye, and you watch the light recede in small bursts as it struggles through the power surge of the grid. It's a common sight. Static in the air. The taste of rain.

You've always been more attuned to the change in the weather, almost as if you could feel the building of kinetic energy buzzing across your flesh.

From the prickling goosebumps ghosting over your skin, you know it'll be a bad one. Biblical, they said.

You turn back, mind blank, sluggish. It's weird. All of this is—

The face in the mirror is not your own.

Well. No. No, it is. It's—

You.

But—

Your flesh drips. Raindrops of flesh slide down your cheeks, dripping into the porcelain basin of the sink where it hits the ceramic with a sickening splat.

(Pat, pat, pat—)

It doesn't hurt. You don't feel anything. Nothing, nothing at all—

And you should, shouldn't you? Agony over the slippage of skin falling off of your face in wet flakes until the smooth curve of metal is shown—

Metal.

Your chin dips. A mass breaks away, the ruination of Pangea, and falls into the basin with the rest until sleek gunmetal remains. Wires crossed, connected. You feel—

Nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Where terror should brim, you're empty. A vacuum.

(Made in his image.)

You force yourself to reel back, to fling away from the thing staring at you—the thing that can't be you, can't be, can't be, can't be—until you trip. Until you fall to the ground with a thud that you can only hear but not feel.

You know you're sitting down on the solid ground because you can feel the physical weight of gravity pushing against you, and meeting a barrier in the middle. Something stops it from sending you down, down, down.

The floor. Your fingers dig into the marble. The whine of metal across flat, recrystallised limestone meet your ears, but the breaking of your nails causes you no pain. No blood, either. Nothing. The uncapped tips of your carbon fingers leave scratches on the polished surface.

He'll kill you, you think, mechanical and distant. You ruined his floor.

It doesn't hit you the way it should. It doesn't do much of anything.

It feels like you're floating. Suspended. You can't feel the ground, or the floor, or the wall against your back. All that filters in is the knowledge that you are on a stable foundation, and not caught in a free fall.

You catch sight of yourself in the brass handle of the door.

A metal face stares back at you.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

A blink back into wakefulness, and you're in your bed. The mattress is soft beneath your feverish body, the sheets saturated in your sweat. They cling to your skin, trapping you. You feel the weight of gravity. The solid frame of the bed keeps you up.

Your hands fly to your face, nails scratching against your skin.

—Skin. Skin.

It takes hours to calm down, and days to shake the terror of looking into a mirror.

You sit, huddled in your room, and wonder if maybe all the signs were there.

Sometimes you wish that if Makarov had really, truly, made you from scratch, he would have given you solid gold plates for skin, and diamonds for bones, so at least every pound of flesh would be worth something.

(Worthless.

You are—)

Your loyalty to Makarov is a tenuous thread, one frayed and knotted from the inherent sense of ownership he lays on you. An obligation of recompense for saving your life—something you'd never asked of him. 

And so, it doesn't really feel like much of a surprise when you pull the rim of your hood low over your brow, tug your mask high up the bridge of your nose, and sneak past your guard for the evening to meet him instead. 

The place he picked is known as Industrial City—so aptly named for its abundance of postmodern buildings from somewhere in the mid-to-late twenty-first century. The crumbling ruins of an archaic homage to humanity's progress now sit abandoned in a cluster of rotting steel, cracked concrete, and mouldering asbestos. 

It's a haven for small-time gangs, and at one point, was thought to be the hideout of a notorious Purist leader who tried to sever the dependence on technology, and plunge the world back into a natural darkness. 

(He got as far as snipping a single wire from the Grid before he was detained for terrorism.) 

Bathed in an inky black, and void of the artificial neon smear of lights and LEDs, it looks almost haunting in the indigo gloam. A graveyard of the past. 

There's a prevalent feeling of unwelcomeness simmering low in the air around the abandoned buildings, one that grows ever-potent as you wander past it, and down the overgrown path leading to an old warehouse on the opposite side. 

Tension thickens the air. You feel it clot in your lungs. An uncanny sensation of being watched. Hunted. Your eyes skirt the row of crumbling industrial buildings, peering into the black voids of the smashed windows. Jagged cuts of glass, opaque from a thick layer of dust, grime, and the inevitable decay passage of time brings, gleam in the pale light of the moon suspended in the aether. 

It's dark. Uncannily so. 

The only light illuminating your path is the jaundiced glow of the moon and the buoyant flicker of the shuttles docking on the station. An infinitesimal dot against Tycho's vast, grey dip. Barely enough to make a difference in a place that leaks a palpable sense of unwelcomeness from the tenebrous surrounding you. 

Something shifts in your periphery. Your eyes dart to a third-story window of a vacant building. 

The stark, unfathomable blackness gives nothing away but you still feel the unmistakable sense of something, someone, glaring back into your eyes. Eye contact from the void. 

Your gaze drops to the underbrush. 

The static in the air grazes your skin. You're being watched. Stalked. Hunted. 

In the furze, you make out a depression in the dirt. Oval-shaped. Plain. 

It's a footprint. 

It rained all morning—a small appetiser to the biblical flood they promised: a looming thundercloud inched closer to the city each day—but the print in the wet ground was undisturbed. Fresh.

Above it, you find another. And another. Another. Until it disappears between a bottleneck of the two buildings. 

The path leads you back to the broken window—to the vat of black. 

The mini-gyrojet you stole from Yuri a long time ago sits heavy in the waistband of your trousers. Barely the size of your hand, and certainly less potent, but the laser is just as deadly as its parent. Comforting, almost. 

Your fingers twitch. You stifle the urge to grab it, and force yourself to turn around. Back to the enemy. Stupid. You know better. 

But whatever is looming in the shadows isn't a concern of yours. 

(And maybe, maybe, if they did shoot you in the back, you'd know once and for all what your insides were made of.)

Stupid. 

Nails bite into the soft skin of your palm leaving a crescent indent against your lifeline. The flash of pain, of discomfort, quells the knot in your stomach, the one that curls tight around your organs, and claws its way up your esophagus. Fear. Anxiety. They pollute inside of you with each step through the industrial mausoleum and toward the dilapidated building in the distance. 

An old parking lot sits to your right. The cracked concrete is barely visible under the thick overgrowth that congeals around the space left behind. Nature reclaiming Her land. Against the hazy ochre smear in the distant horizon, slowly being consumed by the vat of indigo that follows swiftly behind it, the tangled vines of emerald green look ethereal in the gloam. 

It's a vivid glimpse into the past when this place meant something to the people who ventured here. Office buildings. A parking lot where archaic vehicles using gasoline to run once sat, wheels on the concrete. Feet on the ground. They wandered to the buildings—just another cog in the machine. 

You wonder sometimes what they would think if they could see the world today. The broken line between fantasy and reality where slipping a chip into their brain stem could create a gap in time, one that lets them wander through any period of history, any memory inside their head. 

They called it virtual reality. 

Another plane of existence they hadn't the technology to exploit fully. A digital dimension that lingered between the layered worlds. 

Some live inside that realm exclusively, refusing to risk themselves in the physical plane where an errant jet could end their lives. 

It's a strange juxtaposition from that to this. Where the graffiti that stains the crumbling ashlar is now considered with reverence to this world as a handprint in a cave was to that one. 

A noise echoes through the vacant lot. The sound of a cut-off shout. Your eyes dart to the left, taking in the sight of two men standing outside of a Burger Town, jostling each other over the last jetbike parked in the charging dock. 

Inside the restaurant, a man leans against the tinted glass, cigarette in his hand, watching the same tousle as you. Under the flickering neon sign, his lips quirk up in amusement when one of the men loses their balance, tumbling to the pavement. 

It's another odd juxtaposition. A rotting graveyard of the past, some buildings salvaged and converted into a strange array of low-brow pubs, and—

Neon lips open, a pink tongue glides over the plump line of red before disappearing into a closed-mouth smile. It repeats. 

—a pseudo redlight district for those who can't afford the rent on the main boardwalk. 

The graffiti on the wall of the building is faded. The paint peeling, and weathered from the passage of elements. But you can still make out the shape of a yellow dick on the wall. 

Bars. Fast-food. Sex. Testosterone. 

The world might be different, but the people certainly aren't. 

You pull your hood down lower over your brow, and quickly keep moving. 

The converted warehouse doesn't have any markings on the outside to identify it as a pub, and you almost miss it until your tracker chimes, indicating your arrival.

Upon first glance, it's just a long, rectangular two-storey building made of chipped burgundy brick and scattered windows, all crusted with grime until it's tinted in a thick, opaque grey. 

You check the map again—just once to be sure—and send off a delayed alert with a timer set to go off an hour from now to Yuri. 

If you don't turn it off before the time runs out, he'll know where to find you.

(Or whatever is left of you.)

Everything about this, in hindsight, is pretty dangerous. Meeting a man who slings accusations at your saviour, and somehow knows about you, about your debt, in a graveyard that reeks of mildew and wet concrete is something people will hear about in passing, and wish you ill in the afterlife for being so stupid. 

But you're here. 

The choice has been made—whether or not it's a smart one has yet to be determined. 

Military. They have power. Influence. However pantomime it might be in the face of overwhelming wealth, it's still something. You thought they were all corrupted by the Inner Circle's clandestine whispers of affluence—sign here, Colonel, and we can give you armour and weapons beyond anything you'd ever seen before (just look the other way while we sell the antis to your enemies—can't let you get too powerful, after all). It seemed like they were. The parade of men and women who congregated at White Horse, or any of the other subsidiaries around the city, the world, was a testament to that. 

But he seems different. 

(And really, you've always had a thing for gruff men who'll disappoint you in the end. 

The heartbreak always tastes sweeter when they're worth something.) 

You glance down at the screen, staring at the timer as if it was your last lifeline, and hope, desperately, that you have. 

Your finger lifts. The screen fades to black. The white emblem of Four Horsemen Corp., gazes, almost accusatory, back at you. 

(If anything, Makarov will kill you before the man has any chance of breaking your heart.)

Turning back now is forfeiture, weakness. 

And you'd rather not walk through the graveyard again.

The door is made of rusted metal, and whines loud enough to echo through the barren landscape when you push it against the hinges. Muted gold leaks through the crack, spilling out onto the dirty pavement below your feet. Light catches on the motes dancing in the beam, and cuts through the murk of the falling night. 

Inside, you hear the fading tune of an old song playing out its last chorus. The scrape of a mug being pulled across wood. A low murmur. And nothing else. 

The normalcy of everything so far—or as normal as a strange retro pub in the middle of a mouldering neighbourhood could be—goes against the theatrics Makarov likes to pull, and you know from that alone that if this was somehow a trap, it wasn't his design. 

Anatoly would be jeering at you from the very top of Makarov's tower, fingers pushing against your shoulders until you were forced further back with each question you didn't answer. All the way to the ledge, where Makarov would intervene—always wanting to play the part of a saviour—and spare you. 

Just answer me this, kitten, and I'll put an end to it all. 

But the moment you opened your big, stupid mouth and gave him what you wanted, he'd begin monologuing by the sidelines, pacing as he speaks, until—

Well. We can't all be heroes. Sometimes, we need to be knocked down a peg. Anatoly would move closer, oblivious to your pleading demands for leniency, and Makarov would smile, sharp and shark-like, and say, as if it pained him: or a few stories. 

And you'd fall. Three hundred floors to your death. 

By the time you hit the pavement, you'd be a wet puddle of mush. Unidentifiable. They'd ensure it by removing your identity chip, and anything else that would give the mess of your remains a name. 

You've seen it play out enough times to know how it goes. The script might bend to fit the needs of the accused, but the plot was always the same. 

Theatrical. Dramatic. 

Your fingers curl into fists by your side, and find some solace in the fact that a two-floor drop probably won't kill you. 

This is survivable as long as you're useful. 

A new mantra is craved in the recesses of your mind. Useful. Useful. 

You repeat it to yourself as you pull the door open wider, glancing in the room warily. Hesitant. 

Whatever you expected, this wasn't it. 

It's normal. Archaic in design. 

Lanterns are strung across the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the small room in a muted gold. It complements the raw topaz colour of the wooden decor inside—herringbone floors, shiplap-covered walls, dark spruce tables and benches—and something about it all feels almost homey. Comfortable. 

The size and cut of it err into intimacy or claustrophobia, and you wonder if that's why he picked it. 

On the opposite side of the entrance is a dark hallway. A flickering exit sign glows softly in the gloom. Two darker doorways branch off on either side of the back door. Washrooms. You can vaguely make out the light spilling from the insignia etched into the wood. 

It's flush against the rightmost wall where a series of old photographs sit, crookedly, on the panels. The images are too faded, jaundiced from time, for you to make out the shapes, but they all look human. Humanity from a bygone era. You catch sight of an old aeroplane, the vessel barely longer than the height of the man standing in front of the large propellers. 

The rest of them are of people standing together near old landmarks that no longer exist. 

Metals line the interior of one, kept guarded behind a new protective seal. They shine in the soft glow, and the label beneath reads: chest candy. 

These are personal photos. Family heirlooms. Staring at them, struggling to make out the full shapes of the children, the men, and the women, standing around and smiling happily make you feel a touch voyeuristic.  Gazing into a tomb not meant for your eyes. 

You pull away from the wall, glancing at the one that sections off the washrooms from the main room. It, too, is decorated in photographs, but these ones are less personal. Images of long-gone celebrities. Artistic renditions of landscapes that evolved over the last centuries into something new, something different. 

The theme of the wall is aerial. You make out old etchings of aircraft in all sizes. Commemorative pieces. Militaristic in its design. 

Three booths sit flush against the wall, all made of dark wood, and each seat empty. 

Against the leftmost wall is the bar itself, separated from the seating area by a long, oak countertop with six bar stools pushed up close. A mug sits, half-empty, in front of one. An empty glass in front of the other beside it. An ashtray in the middle of the two seats, filled with cigarette butts. One still burns away, wheedling down to a snubbed point. 

The wall is lined with bottles. A tap behind it. At the end is another doorway which must lead to the back area. The sign above says employees only. 

Near the only window in the room is where you find a solitary table with three chairs. In the seat facing you, back angled between the cut of the walls, shoulder turned to the bar, is where you find the man. Watching you. 

A glass rests in front of him, half-empty. A burning cigar in an ashtray curls wisps of smoke over his face. 

The implant in his eye glows sapphire blue, expanding as he reads the information in front of him. The other is darkened under the flushed light, almost black. Gazing right at you. 

It's a contrast that makes you shiver. 

"Made the right choice then," he says, words low as he lets them fade under the steady cadence of the song playing somewhere in the back of the bar. 

It isn't much of a perfunctory greeting, but you take the opening all the same, and make your way toward him.

"That's yet to be determined."

"You're still here." 

The wood is warm under your palms when you press them against the grain, shuffling into the bench across from him. Warm, and sticky. 

You peel your fingers off, glancing at them warily. "Not much of a choice, though—" your eyes find him, narrowing into slits when he snorts, shaking his head at the disgust in your gaze. "What's so funny?" 

He huffs and the blue light flickers out, fading into dark blue. "You," he offers as if it was obvious. The condescension bleeds from his lips when he speaks, and leaks into his clear eyes when you fold your hands into your lap. "Not the kinda place Makarov normally takes you, hmm? Ain't you spoiled."

"Makarov doesn't take me anywhere." 

"That so? What? You his dirty little secret?" 

Your brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothin', love. Nothin' at all." 

He's baiting you. The condescending draw of his voice, thick with derision, sets your teeth on edge, and makes the knots in your stomach tighten. 

"Look," you start, sticky fists cleaned tight in your lap, irritating the indents in your flesh from earlier. It's enough to ground you. "I didn't come here for games. This is my head on the line, and—"

"Mine, too." 

You scoff. "You started this." 

"And it's my men who are out there, yeah?" 

He leans forward slowly, the wrinkles in his brow deepening under the hazy glow until all you see is darkness cascading over a rucked canyon. Anger pinches at the corner of his eyes, the near snarl of his mouth. 

He'd go for the jugular, you think. Sink his teeth into your flesh until a pound is ripped out, reaping his dues. 

You wonder if his fury is as animalistic as the teeth he bares in anger, in warning.

"Gettin' injured, killed. Goin' missin'. Fighting a battle your men are waging." 

"Makarov isn't waging anything. You don't know much about him, do you? The only thing he cares about is his stocks and his public image. Whatever you think he's doing, or he's behind, I can assure you—he isn't." 

"You sound certain. What, hmm? Ain't the kinda pillow talk he likes to indulge in?"

"Pillow talk?" His words make you reel back until you're flushed against the chair, eyes widening. "I think there's a massive misunderstanding here."

He says nothing, merely opting to reach for his forgotten glass of scotch and dwindling cigar. 

Pillow talk. "You think me and Makarov are—? No. No! That's—" you fight a shiver of disgust, knuckles digging into your thighs. "No. Makarov wouldn't—it's not like that. He's—"

"He's what?" He implores, resting his elbow on the countertop, cigar dangling dangerously between his lax fingers. The look in his eye is sharp, keen. 

"He's my—" 

You bite your tongue suddenly, stopping the familiar words from slipping out. It's the response you give when people ask what you are to Makarov—why he keeps you around on such a short leash. 

My saviour.

The words have different connotations inside Makarov's sprawling skyline palace. Where his guards simply nod, in understanding, and accept your words as is, because he, too, is theirs as well. A common ground where nothing else needs to be explained as one word covers everything. 

You won't find that here. Not with him. And maybe, maybe, some part of you is shying away in shame over the word. Saviour. You sound like the zealots running around proclaiming they heard god whispering to them in the grid, and felt Its holy touch when they plugged something in. 

Electric, they say, reverently. Our saviour is stuck inside the machine—!

(You wonder, now, if Makarov chose that particular word on purpose, and know, immediately, that he did.)

"I owe him money. Why wouldn't he keep me around with such a staggering debt?" 

Bringing it up gives you the opportunity you need to shift the conversation away from the game of Messiah and Disciples Makarov likes to play, and you knot your trembling fingers together tightly in your lap. 

"Speaking of—" you huff, gaze fixed on him. Taking everything in. You might not have the same implant that he does, one that allows him access to the net in an instant, and feeds it right to his cerebrum, but you've always been good at reading people. Catching their tells. "Makarov isn't the one my debt is owed to. It's the Inner Circle. Still think you can erase it?" 

He hesitates. Briefly, almost indecipherably, but you catch the dip of his cigar when his body tenses, fingers tightening too quickly on the stem. It twitches only once before he steadies it. His eyes cut to yours, impassive and unreadable, as he takes in the information you just offered. 

The Inner Circle banking division was notorious for having contracts upon contracts to avoid buyouts without some hefty fee attached to make up for the lost interest. 

It's a roadblock. Almost everyone you've met so far, ones with idealistic dreams of stealing you away from the clutch of Makarov, bulked at the number alone. This, this new piece of information, was bound to make him flee. Cut ties. Run. 

Another hero with too much on his shoulders to bear another burden, leaving you behind to rot. 

Tough luck, kid, one of them said after a three-week-long courting period that left you feeling moon swept and dizzy. Wide-eyed and jejune. Naïve little kitten, Makarov taunted the morning after you found yourself alone on the dock, bags packed, waiting for a man who'd never show. But Makarov met you there. Yuri, with sorrowful eyes, took the bags gently from your trembling hands, downcast as he murmured in your ear, you'll be okay, kitten.

Anatoly's biting laughter haunted you for months. Christ, he howled. You really thought there was a man on earth more powerful than Makarov? Damn, he swindled you good, dumbass. Was he at least a good fuck? I'd be so goddamn pissed if this happened to me and the idiot was lousy in bed. 

But it was Makarov's palm against your cheek that broke you the most. The icy eyes never softened despite the coo of sympathy in his voice. 

It hurts, doesn't it, kitten? Who knows if this is your first heartbreak, but I'm sure it feels like it is, doesn't it? Ahhh, You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

"Now about this betrayal…" 

He had you locked in your flat for months, and everything iota of your time monitored in some capacity. The leash was shortened. The collar tightened. 

The punishment for your betrayal came weeks after, when a package arrived at your flat. A golden box weighed down with precious gems and metals. 

A holographic card popped up when you opened the package, hands shaking around the heavy box. 

Makarov's voice flooded the room. What's more precious than gold and diamonds? The latch on the box clicked. You lifted the lid. At first, it didn't make sense. Your mind blanked, wiped, as you struggled to figure out what it was you were staring at. 

A heart, kitten. His heart.

Then—

Horror. Stomach-churn terror.

Your hands snapped back, and the box dropped to the floor as mocking laughter met your ears, static and faded over the recording. 

The still-beating heart tumbled out, connected to an array of small wires that kept it alive without a host. Without—

Your hand pressed against your lips as you fought the bile rising from your throat. 

Betray me again, he said, and I'll make you cut it out next time. 

You stare at the man across from you and know that the wishfulness inside of you will soften his flaws, blur his lies until anything he says just sounds right. A dangerous precipice. The yearning knotting around your mouldering ribcage is hungry. Wanting. 

He'll ruin you. And you'll be forced to ruin him. To carve his heart out as Makarov keeps him alive the whole time. The last thing he'll ever see would be you holding his still-beating heart before Makarov makes you crush it between your trembling, bloodied fingers. 

The image surfaces—horrific, garish, gut-wrenching—and you wish you were a little more jaded, a little less idealistic, to have that alone snuff the last vestiges of hope from your rotting heart. 

"Doesn't change anything," he grouses, and then brings the glass to his lips. He downs the scotch in two swallows, and you can't pull your wide eyes away from the way his throat bobs, and stretches, as he tilts his head back. 

When he's finished, he huffs. The glass hits the countertop with a clang that seems to shake something inside of you. 

"They're all rotten," he snarls, words a rough rasp that makes you shiver. "All of 'em. Rotten to the fuckin' core."

The corruption never surprised you. Maybe the exposure to it all, feeding Makarov the names of the politicians and diplomats that wanderers through the club's door numbed you to it all, but seeing his visceral disgust over it makes something swell inside of you. 

He's not too different from the heroes you've met, the ones you read about, but where they cut their anger into pieces of understanding and compassion, he wields his like a claymore. A battle-ready man brimming with a fury that leaks from his marrow and into the icy blue of his steel gaze. 

He doesn't give you kind smiles or false promises. No, he gives you third-degree burns on your flesh from the molten heat of his rage. 

"Who are you?" You demand, the words slipping out before you can chomp them down. "And why do you think I can help you?"

It doesn't make sense, not really. 

The look he levels at you knocks the air from your lungs. 

Fear curls in your gut. Wariness. The urge to flee wells, and you just barely manage to push it down. 

"I told you already, didn't I?" He leans closer, drawing the cigar to his lips. "Heard about you, 'bout your debt." 

"Yeah, and you thought I was Makarov's—lover—;" the word nearly makes you recoil. "But I'm not. He tells me nothing. Still so certain I can help?" 

He takes a drag of the cigar, the tip burning through the dim interior of the empty pub. His eyes never waver from yours, but you know that this piece of information must, in some way, change things. He sought you out specifically because of your assumed relationship with Makarov. The precariousness of your debt has doubled into not just an inconvenience, but a legal issue with extra fees added. 

You're more trouble than whatever you might be able to weasel out of Makarov. 

More trouble than your worth. 

The smoke curls in front of him like a hazy shroud of white. The light catches the indent in his cheekbone, and down the side of his face where his implant sits, humming with kinetic energy even while unlit. 

Without the beanie on his head, you can make out more of the circular insignia on his temple, but the crest is unfamiliar to you. Unknown. You've never seen it before, and that unnerves you. 

You know all the clubs, the crests, the gangs that roam the streets. From the upper echelon of the Shepherd family to the 54 Immortals seizing the power gap left behind by the fall of Brakov in a neighbouring country. It comes with knowing the underground. With making friends in the shadows. 

But this one escapes you. 

He shifts, moving the cigar from his lips. A waterfall of smoke rumbles from his mouth when he breathes out. 

"Yes," he says, pinched from lingering smoke in his lungs. "I do."

"How?"

"Told you, love. Heard 'bout you—from many sources."

The back of your neck prickles under his reproachful stare. Something in those cerulean depths makes you tense. 

"From who?" 

His metal knuckles clink against the glass when he nudges it out of the way, resting his forearm down on the wood, bringing himself closer to you. With your spine flush against the back of the chair, there is nowhere to run. It hits you, then, when he draws himself into the scant space separating the two of you, angling himself until he takes up the entirety of your periphery, that this was intentional. 

Of course, it was. Of course. 

"Oh, from lot's a'people a lil' thing like you shouldn't be hangin' around." Despite the derision in his voice, his brows lift, arching high until his forehead wrinkles, and you catch something that seems almost impressed when he dips his chin, staring at you from down his nose. "You get places most can't. That's useful."

"Useful enough to wipe a debt? How do I know you're good for it, and this isn't some scam?" 

"You don't," he answers simply, and something snaps inside you. 

"Are you joking—? Do you have any idea what Makarov will do to me, and you can't even give me some—"

"Like I told you, I know people in high places." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like it isn't your life in balance. "They want to remain anonymous, but can settle your debt." 

"How?" 

"Don't trust me?"

"I don't even know you—"

His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff. 

"Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we?"

It isn't fair. It isn't right. A part of you wants to rebel, to grab the cigar and crush it under the heel of your palm. The anger wells inside of you, white-hot and aching, and brings with it the strong urge to scream yourself hoarse. 

You believed him—if only for a moment, for a single second, but it was long enough for the vestiges of hope to claw their way up the prison you kept it in, and leak back into your marrow. A pollutant that wrecks you viciously. 

But—

Maybe you expected this. It doesn't sting as much as you thought it would. He's never really committed, and said—

"But," he continues, and you wish he would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—

"I promise it'll go away once we're done, yeah?" 

Fuck. 

Your voice wobbles when you speak, soundly dangerously thick, and wet. You peer up at him and wish with everything inside of you, there wasn't a thin veil of tears gathering across your lash line. Weak. You haven't cried in two years—

(You look so cute when you cry, kitten—)

"You promise, huh?"

He lifts his hand to his temple and taps his index and middle finger against the strange insignia implanted there. The hard metal of the crest meeting the soft polymer cover of his fingertips makes a muted thud not at all dissimilar to your beating heart. 

"On my family name, I swear it." 

Why—

To go so far for someone he barely knows, and doesn't trust—

And then it clicks. It isn't about you at all, but some personal vendetta, a promise to himself, that he'll accomplish what he sets out to do, and so, making this little oath with an outsider, the pet of the enemy, is nothing to him. It's performative as much as it is sincere, and the warring contrast makes your chest ache, and heat bloom under your skin. 

"You—;" you start, but stop yourself. 

He's not at all unlike the heroes you've read about in fantastical stories or the ones you'd met. The one whose heart you held in your trembling fingers as it slowly stopped pulsing in the palm of your hand. Whose blood you scoured from your skin until it was raw. 

But where they offered a smile at the end of the promise they swore they'd keep, he frowns. 

He doesn't strike you as the type of man to go out of his way to make others feel better. He believes in himself, and his prowess, and speaks about that in clipped, gruff declarations that are not meant to sway, but reinforce what he knows. 

He will win. This isn't a question or a belief, but a statement. A truism. 

Hope surges. The levee cracks. 

"Who are you?" You ask, dazed. 

The man who cupped your cheek, and whispered to you about escaping the clutches of this festering city, of going so far away, that grasping hands could never reach you, and greedy fingers would never again touch your flesh, didn't fill you with this same sense of awe, of pure belief in the words he said. But this man, this man, makes you feel like anything is possible. Hope blooms, brims bright inside of your chest like an inflating balloon drifting up to the heavens—

His mental hand splays flat over the table. "Names John Price."

The man sitting across from you is someone you know. 

It makes sense, then. The insignia on his temple is the Price family emblem—a conglomerate in its own right, mostly composed of military men with staunch, unflinching moral codes. The incorruptible. The untouchables. 

They were the ones who led the counterattack on the coup that changed the political landscape from the Feudalistic tyranny of the past, to—

Well. It was meant to be free reign, or maybe democratic, but the technological boom a few years after the liberation from the iron fist made little things slip by as the world was suddenly painted a lovely shade of roseate. Why worry about mega corporations becoming richer than most of the governmental bodies, and countries, when they made this new piece of cybernetics that let you see like a hawk, that introduced a new colour spectrum to the general public, when sickness, injury, and even death itself came something that could be bartered over for the right price. 

The things that they let slip stacked up. It piled higher and higher until the free future the Price family, among others—Laswell, Shepherd, Walker, MacTavish—foresaw was smothered out in favour of the blatant mega capitalism that rules. 

It might not be with an iron fist, but it is with a monetary chokehold that always seems to get tighter. 

Their legacy is one founded on a strong moral core that is unbendable. 

It makes sense why you didn't recognise the emblem at first. 

The last of their pristine lineage—tarnished.

The man responsible for the power gap left behind by Brakov. The one who threatens his superiors, and uses brute force to get his way. John Price—the one who gave into temptation and was ousted from his family, and from the military, for taking bribes from people in low places. A man who'd side with anyone—for the right price. 

Political turmoil and espionage must run in the family, then, as you somehow find yourself sitting across from the man implicated in a failed coup. One that resulted in the collapse of Urzikstan.

John Price. 

Disgraced former captain. Rotten to his core. There's a graveyard filled with people who died because of his choices; a massacre that made headlines just a few months before you woke up. A man you know by sordid, rotten reputation alone, who somehow escaped condemnation for the people he indirectly (and, by many accounts, directly) killed. 

John Price. Swindler. Scoundrel. Swine. 

"John Price?" You echo, numbed. "The John Price?"

He leans back in the chair, posture relaxed, at ease, as if this wasn't a massive reveal. As if he wasn't a war criminal who was exonerated because of those friends in high places he so casually mentioned before. 

"So," he rasps, pulling his cigar back to his lips. Despite the ease in his mien, his eyes tighten. A cobra ready to strike. "You've heard of me." 

(—it blooms, and then all at once, it bursts.)

Nothing says cyberpunk like a morally ambiguous character.

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #neon medusa #the smell of plot in the air #UMMM #i forgot how much i hated multi-chaps #cod price #call of duty modern warfare #cod: mw price #price x reader #price x you #captain price x you #john price #john price x you #captain john price x you #captain price #i'll come back and edit this in the AM

[hoppingonjim]

A is for Aftercare- holland march

note: decided to try and go in depth for an nsfw w holland and eventually jackson healy.

cw: religious imagery, afab!reader, just fluff. mentions of smut but barely explicit.

he declared there was an angel in his sheets. ribbons of coral sewn through tiresome limbs. for the past hour you acted on impulses with the detective. the neighbors to your left reported a wolf, howling.

there's a chorus he finds in your breath. the pattern of up down with your breasts engaging in a slight wave of movement. a placid sea undulating. his besotted fingertip swirls over your unalarmed nipple, flesh breathing into flesh. ingesting the feeling of relaxation. you're the prettiest sight his eyes have walked upon. the hills of your breasts and dips of your waist, the mississippi in your hair and the gateway of st louis in your back. georgia hips that stir home and children. still his eyes would roam and return back to your lips. parted with sporadic pants.

on the bed he promised a bath for you. where you could feel the time of tudors rewind when his fingers lave the sin in your locks. still his eyes return to your parted lips. opened just slightly. ajar for the glossary of your mind to pluck something grand out. something grand to share with him.

it's one in the morning but he assures the moon is a welcomed sprinkle that will accentuate the bubbles that'll float upon you. you nod your head lazily. with large hands it takes only a manhattan moment until your head finds the comfort of his bare chest. muscular pecks and a lean waist. the american man holds you in his nuclear glory. you observe how the veins in his biceps display themselves when your weight is reliant on one arm.

a smile forms on his thin lips when he can still feel your birthday figure cling to him. exhaling the serene zephyr of satisfaction. a joke is met with you regarding nuptials. a response only consisting of a grin is returned to him. a postcard of dreams. while the porcelain tub fills for you, he grants you apologies in an unscripted string before guiding you to sit on the tile floor. black and white checkered stinging in their coolness. your knees hinge then unhinge, silent brass with grease.

home is the drawer his lanky fingers reach for in your time of waiting. stuffed towards the untouched oak are his two backup packs. marlboros make a man a husband. rejuvenation blew out the opened window, residing over the porcelain sink. a view of the lords and the lizards, both disguised as average. disappearing together under flickered lampposts. one by one.

one hand caters the white stick to his mouth. puffing out that turbulent heat. dangling lifelessly. the other hand swims in the surface of the water, reaching over for the pink bottle of bubbles. the seeming potion poured seamlessly, foamy goodness bubbling to the surface and bobbing along the waves the stilled water bellowed. an eventual school of bubbles rising to the top.

you brought up the stash of marlboros he smuggled into your home. and he just laughs. repeating an old wives riddle about doctors and cigarettes.

then like every other night when he ropes himself into your walls, he deems the bath good enough for you. lips rummage a smile, messily. the cigarette dangles once more as he settles you in. questions float around you, was it good enough?

the water creeps up to your neck with your skulking slide. he knows it's perfect. and as promised he lets your scalp be cleansed of inferno that blazed from his loins. from yours. igniting both of you lovers into a volcanic coupling. once he's sure he's scrubbed lust from your body he swears he's met eden. the nature of your birth form once more.

the clock reads twenty. for twenty minutes he's bathed you senseless. gingerly and finely. letting soap whisk away with water that runs down the channel of cracks between his wicked fingers.

a puffy towel encapsulates you once the groans of the drain ring empty. your temple holds his kiss. the cigarette found the sink. another promise of his existence chimes your eardrums.

a promise that this will happen the following night. and he'll be sure to stock some more of your bubble solution.

the moon relishes in the cast and props of the show in front of him.

#holland march #ryan gosling x you #ryan gosling x reader #ryan gosling smut #holland march x you #holland march smut #holland march x reader #the nice guys #the nice guys fic #the nice guys smut #the nice guys 2016

[imagineyourgassyotp2]

There was a special ball being thrown in town, and A & B were organizers who had been helping prepare for a couple months, making sure everything was right. The decor, the bouquets, catering, waiting, bussing, and music. They were more than excited to see the turnout and spend the night dancing with each other, rubbing elbows with their colleagues and friends.

Come the night of the ball, A and B rode together, singing to their favorite music. A wore a deep purple suit, with floral embroidery, and a bowtie to match. B wore a matching gown that hugged from their shoulder to their behind, becoming loose and flowy around their legs. The two of them chatted happily about who they'd invited and what business they'd talk about, A keeping their hand on B's thigh the whole way.

Upon arriving, the ballroom was set up splendidly, just as planned. There was already quite a few people and healthy chatter. Gorgeous bouquets placed around the edges, the dining areas along the sides of the dance floor in two tiers with candle lights, and two long charcuterie table spreads at either end.

A and B both went their separate ways to socialize and take part in the appetizers and drinks. A went with their friends and a couple business partners to a balcony with a classic old fashioned, a plate of cheeses and fruits, and a cigar. B stayed inside, meeting with friends at the spread they arranged. The spreads A and B agreed on with their team was frivolous in taste, with great variety. There were assorted crackers and bread, and fruits both dried and fresh. For the cheeses, there was muenster, brie, yellow and white cheddar, blue cheese, and feta. For meats, there was prosciutto, salami, and pepperoni. It was impressive and incredibly tempting.

"B, you and everyone else did amazing organizing this, I'm sure I'll be stuffed when I go home tonight."

They smiled, "Thank you, I ordered catering in excess to be sure," they gestured to their full plate, "Don't forget there's an open bar between the balconies."

The others looked over, ears perked.

"Oh, do tell me you have rosé.."

"And some good vodka, with a good bartender ?"

"Of course, I did say it was open!"

After ordering from the bar and heading to a table, B chatted and laughed with friends, finishing their plate a while before dinner would be served. Having eaten so quickly and having a glass of champagne, B's gut was already feeling some turbulence, letting out a noisy gurgle. They felt bubbles coming up their throat, and swallowed them down, blushing. B's friends heard the noise, piping up to tease,

"Your belly rumbling already?"

"Awe, are you still hungry B?"

They put their hand on their stomach under the table, gently rubbing, hoping to silence it. "Ha, just a bit," they laughed, "but I'll wait for dinner so everyone else can get some of the spread. And like you said, C, we'll all definitely be full after this, just wait till you see what we've planned."

To B's dismay, their belly let out another loud series of gurgles and squelches. They felt their food and air shifting around, emptying into their small intestine. Some air bubbled upward, leading to a belch that couldn't be stifled this time. They covered their mouth quickly,

"E-excuse me, that must be from the champagne..."

Their friends laughed, C, patting their own gut and letting out a rattling burp.

"Oof, I'm there with you, B. Just wait till after dinner."

They laughed along, feeling less embarrassed, for now.

"Don't forget dessert, too."

Before dinner, A returned inside, finding B to have a dance with them. They held each other close, providing some relief for the pressure already in B's stomach. A noticed, feeling some vibrations against their own stomach, but they didn't say anything.

"Did you have a good time with your friends, darling?"

"I did, we have a good deal of laughter you know. C is doing very well, she has a fiance, now. Did you, my love?"

"I did, we discussed some projects moving forward from next month, and planned an outting soon."

"I'm glad to hear that, you don't relax nearly enough."

After a short while of dancing to the lovely musicians tunes, the waiters all walked out with platters, and more bottles of wine.

Once they all lined up, it was announced by the lead organizer that the main course would be served. A and B headed off to sit together with all of their friends. B put a hand on their belly, feeling a dull ache beginning, regretting eating so much so soon.

Upon everyone sitting, they were served. First was soup and salad, the soup being a mushroom bisque. Following shortly after, they were served with choices between the main dishes. There was a creamy pasta with mushrooms cooked in wine and garlic, lasagna with fresh herbs and parmesan, or a steak with shrimp, and various sides to satisfy any guests. B contemplated, knowing the steak would be far too much, and they didn't want to leave any food on their plate for the staff to clean. Either pasta would surely mess with their belly even more, but it was better than being rude or anything of the sort. Making their way through the mushroom pasta, they sipped on a glass of red wine and some water. They felt full and bloated already, wishing for relief. Soon enough after finishing their meal, dessert came, and they rubbed their stomach passively with pressure. At first, they declined the cake and ice cream. Though, their dear friend, C, spoke up again,

"Come on, you've earned it, working hard to make this night happen. You deserve to indulge with the rest of us."

A, having noticed their trouble, stroked their side, "Only if you feel like it though, love."

B smiled, trying their best to uphold their politeness, "C is right, and I wouldn't want to be rude to the chef and cooks when we've hired them to cook for so many."

Despite their stomach's protests, they ate the cake, and the ice cream, still sipping their wine. They were glad they decided to eat it, as it was delicious. The salted caramel was rich and wonderfully gooey. They chatted and laughed for a while, rubbing the tender spots in their tummy under the table. B was blissfully unaware that their partner was looking in concern. A had indulged a bit themself, sharing the bloat with B. But B, they ate much more than usual, their gut even more rounded out than during their dance. A knew that B's belly would be throwing a fit, remembering their wedding night. God, their belly was so rumbly and full of air.. it was amazing.. A shook off the thought, knowing they'd see it all the more later, and returned to socializing and eating.

Like clockwork, B's tummy cramped, feeling like lightning. They felt rumbles all around their sides and lower belly, in their large intestine. There was enough chatter and music to cover the noise when a fart rumbled out of B without their permission. They clutched their belly, blushing and embarrassed all over again. A saw their expression change, and watched in worry and interest as the smell hit and B stood up.

"Excuse me, I've got to visit the powder room to freshen up a bit. I'll be back shortly."

A few of their friends looked over, seeing B's pooched out gut, understanding quickly. They walked away quickly, a hand still cradling their stomach. Once across the ballroom and out of their friends' eyeline, they pulled the drawstring off the curtain to the balcony door for privacy, and went outside. They sat and rubbed their stomach, letting out a belch. "Ohh... .. I should not have eaten so much dairy..."

Their belly grumbled, and they felt the bubbles move through their intestines and downward. A few seconds later, they couldn't control it, and a toot rumbled out, deep and long, not at all quiet. B groaned, rubbing their gut in circles, letting out some more gas. They were deeply regretting their dietary decisions at this point, everything sloshing and bubbling, cramping all over. Their dress was definitely a bit stretched from this evening. Not to mention, the foul and impolite gas leaving either end of their digestive tract... They felt terribly embarrassed having stuffed themselves, and having digestive troubles in public with their friends and colleagues.

Their belly didn't quit pitching a fit, gurgling and squelching, pushing air up, down, and out, so B didn't dare leave their seat on the balcony. Inside, A was still chatting with all their friends and enjoying themself. Though, they noticed B's prolonged absence, and checked their watch. It had been well over fifteen minutes, and A worried they were having some rough tummy troubles, so they excused themself,

"I'm going to check on B, they've been gone for a while."

C was also a bit worried, "Ah, there was a lot of dairy served and I may have encouraged them to eat more.. I do hope they're alright."

"I do too."

As A approached, B heard the knob to the balcony door turn, and they straightened up, removing their hand from their stomach.

"Are you doing alright darling? You've been gone from the table for a while."

"I suppose you are right.. I'm okay though, just getting some fresh air."

A sat next to them, putting their hand on B's shoulder knowingly. Inevitably, B's stomach emitted a deep rumble, and their hand flew to it for comfort. They clenched, trying their best to hold in their pungent and obnoxious gas in front of their partner.

"E-excuse me, dear. I'm sorry about that noise."

"Oh love, you don't need to apologize for that, I know your stomach is unhappy."

B blushed, looking down, and squeezing A's hand. A squeezed back, putting their other hand on B's stomach. They felt it, applying pressure. It was hard, and the pressure caused a gurgle and a hiss of discomfort from B.

A continued rubbing B's belly with pressure, causing more gurgles, and more for B to have to hold back.

"Oh, darling.. it's very bubbly in there, you must have so much gas."

B was successful at least for a minute at holding it back, even if it meant more grumbles and cramps.

"I'm so sorry you have to deal with this, A.. all the dairy is disagreeing terribly with me."

"I thought so my, dear," A smiled softly, blushing, "I felt your tummy rumbling while we danced, and I saw later at the table you were getting more.. uh.. bloated and you held your stomach."

B blushed, looking away, speaking quietly,

"I really shouldn't have indulged so much.. I feel so embarrassed. I'm sure everyone saw.."

"Don't worry about that, now. If anything, they're worried and hope you feel better."

More deep rumbles sounded off in B's intestines, cueing A to apply more pressure. This made B's belly cramp terribly, the rumbles heading downward toward their rectum. Their hand flew to A's to stop the pressure, but it didn't make a difference. A low and bubbly fart rumbled out of B's backend, lasting a few seconds.

B blushed and looked down, clutching their lower belly. They could still feel the bubbles rumbling through.

"E-excuse me, A, I'm so sorry. I-I couldn't hold it…"

Another cramp hit B, and they gasped, a long string of bassy, gurgly gas leaving them. It smelled a bit of rotten eggs, making their belly churn even more.

"Oh lord, I'm so so sorry. I really don't feel well."

A smiled, and chuckled lightly, trying to comfort B.

"Darling, it's alright, like I said. I know your stomach is quite gassy. I honestly think I will be later, too," They said, unbuttoning their jacket to show B their own rounded out tummy. "It's alright to indulge on special nights. I want you to feel better, so may I rub it again?"

B frowned, unsure, but looked up to see A's smile and loving eyes.

They nodded, "Yes, y-you may."

A returned their hand to B's bloated gut, and slowly began rubbing, more pressure with each circle. B rested their head upon A's shoulder, gripping their jacket. They both felt the bubbles and stomach contents shifting very easily, intriguing A. Most of the activity remained along their sides and below their belly button. A pressed a bit harder, working B's lower stomach. They whined, gripping tighter. A few short toots bubbled out of them, and more gurgles followed, everything in their intestines moving down.

"Oh.. Please excuse me for those…"

"Of course, B. I want you to let it out and feel better."

"O-okay, only if you're sure.. dinner is disagreeing with me more than a little bit…"

"I'm sure, darling. Relax your tummy."

B did as their partner said, hesitantly. As they relaxed their muscles, their belly groaned, and showed how bloated they truly were. They came to the party with a toned, nearly flat stomach. Now, their dress was stretched slightly, and they looked pregnant.

B whined into A's shoulder, their guts twisting and cramping as an airy fart exploded out of their rectum.

"Ohhh, my belly.. I'm so sorry, please make it stop, A."

"I will my love, just let it out and I'll keep rubbing."

A began using both hands and used their fingers to apply pressure on B's stomach. The gurgling was deep and low, and it smelled even more of eggs now, as B couldn't help letting out their gas any longer. Below B's belly button, it was rumbling constantly and audibly.

"My goodness, you're very bubbly, B…"

A decided to start rubbing with one hand around B's belly button, hoping to soothe their troubles. Not long after, a liquidy rush of bubbles was heard, and B felt it move downward. They squeezed A's shoulder, a cramp rolling through their colon.

They were very lucky no others decided to utilize the balcony to the left, as following that ominous gurgle, B let out the worst of their gas yet. It was deep and long, ending with a string of wet and gurgly bubbles.

"God .. I'm so sorry," B moaned out as more wet gas exited them freely.

"My bowels are a mess… please excuse me, I can't control it…"

"I promise, I don't mind. Would you like to go home early darling? I-I have something to share with you, and I can give you medicine to make it feel better."

Their belly gurgled, and they sighed, "Yes please. I would only embarrass myself if we stayed. What is it you would like to tell me?"

A stood and held their hand out for B, wanting to tell them now, "It's nothing much, and it should wait till we're home and you're relaxed anyway, love."

B tooted again as they stood, the sound ending with a sputter, "Alright my dear. Excuse my gas again, please."

"It's quite alright, love."

B was not looking forward to what else the heavy dairy would do to them if their gas was already like this. A, on the other hand... they were lucky to be wearing a long enough jacket to hide their excitement.

A patted B's stomach gently, "We'd better get going quick."

"I agree, I can barely hold it back.. and I'm still feeling bloated.."

They both walked inside from the balcony, A with their arm around B's waist and a hand on their tummy. B put their hand atop A's, and clenched their rectum to keep from letting out too much gas. They made their way to bid their friends goodbye, C wishing them to feel better.

They left the ballroom, walking through the parking lot to their car. A helped B into their seat, quickly getting in the drivers side. As soon as B buckled in, they unclenched, a series of gurgles echoing in their gut, and a long and gurgly fart burst out. They groaned, pressing their tummy, worried for their underwear. They felt just awful, letting out such foul gas in front of their partner. The sound and smell were offensive. The endless bubbling and cramps in their tummy were ignorable. Though, they just couldn't stop thinking on how their friends heard and saw their upset tummy, and they ended up leaving because of it. Just because B was gassy with the bubble guts.

"I'm so sorry for ruining the night, A. I know you don't want to be hearing or smelling my stomach troubles…"

A turned on the car and A/C, then squeezing B's thigh, "I'd rather be with you tonight after all the activity anyways. Plus, that one was the most impressive yet, dear. I want you to get all of that out of you and feel better. Let's hope there isn't much traffic for your poor stomach."

B groaned in unison with their gut, farting again.

"Ugh… let's."

#submisson #eproctophilia #long post #farting #sfw #otp #ot3 #eructophilia #submission

[the1975attheirverybest]

Dearly Beloved

A/N: This is it for Matty and Jo! Final installment of the Valentines Week mini-series. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU @abiiors for hosting 💗💗💗💗

Warnings: none. Typos are probably going to happen in my writing. While I do proofread before I post most of the time, I’m also 80% blind. Apologies in advance.

***

Jo and Matty looked into each other’s eyes, the nerves written all over both of their faces. 

He reached for her hands, squeezing them. “Tonight’s the night.”

“Mhm.”

In Jo’s eyes, Matty saw their entire lives together. Their first kiss in George and Charli’s garden; their first date; the first time they slept together; saying ‘I love you;’ moving in, having Sophia. The last few months had been hell on them. In Jo especially. Despite his best efforts to remain supportive and understanding, Matty did not always handle it well. It had driven them apart. In a way that could’ve easily changed them both forever. So, they both needed tonight. Their relationship needed it. They’d  been looking forward to and talking about it forever. And now, it was here. 

Their excitement teetered on the edge of anxiety. They both felt slightly disoriented. Jo found herself abnormally self-conscious. Aware of her body and the way that it has changed, anxious underneath Matty’s passionate gaze. He was scared too. Not wanting to make her feel weird and treat her differently, but he couldn’t deny that things were different now. They were both different. 

“You know we don’t have to do this, right?” Matty whispered. 

“Wh-why? Do you not want to?”

“Of course, I want to, Jo! Look at me! I’m wearing clothes, like, real clothes- not fuckin joggers and a t shirt, for the first time since Sophia was born. I’ve got a bit of aftershave on, too.” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “To seduce you. In case you haven’t noticed.”

Jo broke a smile, leaning into him and wrapping her arms around his waist. “You do smell divine.” She inhaled. “Sexy.”

“Right, then.” Matty cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Oh, wait. The baby!”

Jo frowned. “You’re bringing Sophia? isn’t that a bit-“

“She’s not gonna be in there with us. Just dropping her off at Louis’s.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

Matty picked his daughter up, cooing to her softly, “who’s ready for a lovely day with uncle Louis? Hmm? You gonna show him your new toys ?”

***

Jo and Matty rushed out, hand in hand, giggling into the street. 

“We’ve done it!” Matty looked down at her.”

“Finally!”

“We are, officially, husband and wife.”

He clutched the marriage license in his hand, dipping his head down to kiss her. “In the eyes of the state, and the patriarchy, this thing between you and I is official now.”

Jo giggled, “love it when you talk sexy to me.”

Matty took her hand in his as they walked down the stairs, into the crowded city streets. 

“Does this mean I have to start smoking big cigars and putting my feet up on the furniture now? Bossing you around and complaining about dinner not being at the table the second that I make it home form a long, hard day’s work?”

Jo laughed, rolling her eyes playfully at him. “We got legally married, Matthew, not teleported to the 1950s.”

***

“Okay, I think everything’s ready, yeah?” Jo looked up at him, breathless from the nervous pounding of her heart. 

“Yeah, yeah. I even added ‘Isn’t She Lovely,’ to the playlist, you know, for Sophia.”

Jo rolled her eyes when she realized that they’re having two separate conversations. “Matty, I’m talking about everything else, not the playlist! The - the dinner. The table. The house!”

“Everything is perfect, Jo. Relax.” Matty pressed his lips to hers, before she could interrupt. He took her hand, leading her to the couch. “Mum’s ordered from the chef friend of hers. Catering will be here in an hour. I’ve asked for a bartender. He’ll be arriving shortly before the guests.”

Jo nodded, going over the schedule helped her to get a real sense of preparedness. “Yeah, and- Charli’s in charge of the cake.”

“Ross insisted on flowers. Even though I said it was a home wedding. Very lowkey.”

“Ross is the best.” She smiled, fondly. 

“Would you please relax now? Everything’s accounted for!”

***

George stood up, smiling widely. “Ahem” he cleared his throat dramatically to gain the silent attention of the room. A hush fell over the place. Tim and Denise already brimming with tears. 

“Dearly beloved-“ the words were barely out of George’s mouth before Matty burst into laughter. 

“What the fuck, Matty?” George shot him a glare and whispered tight-lipped.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just….so formal. Go on.” Matty wiped the grin off his face.

“Dearly beloved-“

This time, it was Ross’s giggling that had interrupted the preamble. 

“Sorry, sorry. He’s right…you sound absurd… anyway, go on.”

George shook his back, loosening his shoulders in an attempt to remain composed. Giving both of his friends silent warnings, he tried again.

“Dearly-“ he cut himself off, turning to Adam. “You wanna laugh, too, I suppose? Get it out of your system now.” He demanded, stifling a laugh of his own. He was only deflecting, by projecting the laughter onto Adam. Now that it’s been pointed out to him, he was much too aware of the formality of the speech that he had prepared, unable to keep a straight face. ‘dearly beloved.’ What a ridiculous phrase. Why was it so unbelievably funny when you say it out loud?

The four boys burst into a fit of nervous laughter at the front of the room, whispering to each other incoherently, patting each others backs. 

Matty turned to the room filled with his friends and family, “sorry everyone. Erm. Hello! Thanks for being here. My- my beautiful wife and I, as you all know, have already been married a while. We just thought that….well, with baby Soph finally here and all that…we wanted to celebrate with you all.”

The room roared with cheers and applause, Jamie whistled. 

“I love you all so much. Thank you for coming.” Matty’s eyes welled up.

***

Charli handed Jo a bouquet of flowers that she had picked and tied together using a ribbon out of the decorations that Ross had ordered. “For the bride.” She kissed jo's cheek. “Congratulations.”

“Wait.” Carly held up her palms. “Those are the clips that I used on my wedding day. To keep my hair out of my eyes. You know….Something borrowed.”

Matty turned to his bride, mouthing, “all good?”

“Mhm.”

“Right. Where’s my ring bearer?”

Proudly, Adam and Carly’s son skipped over to the center of the room, with his hands extended out. “I’m herrreeee.”

Matty crouched down to be at his level. “Perfect. Thanks little legend. You’ve…gotta…mate, you’re meant to give them to me now.” Matty opened his hands, waiting for the reluctant ring bearer to complete his duties. “ So I can…you know… thank you! Smooth transfer, bro. You’re a natural!” He giggled, blushing like a teenager as his eyes locked on Jo. “Right, lastly, where’s my baby girl? Come here, Angel. Come to dada.”

Louis brought Sophia over, handing her to Matty.

“Hello my world.” He kissed her. “Come watch mom and dad get married.”

Their ring-clad fingers intertwined. Matty kissed his wife. She took a moment to let the tingle run through her, smiling, she turned to the crowd. 

“Let’s get this fuckin party started!!”

That was George’s cue to let the music play. 

Matty rushed over to the drinks corner, acquiring two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Jo, clicking it to his glass.  “we’ve done it. Cheers.”

“yes we have.”

“I love you, Jo.”

“I love you, too, Matty.”

#valentine75 #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy fluff #matty healy oneshot #matty healy x oc

[bainofjustice]

Kitty's Notes On Episode 2 Of The Payday Web Series

It is really funny to me that they made a “previously on” part for a web show and to recap a episode that clocks in at 6 minutes 

It's funny that Dallas & Houston have time for a very small argument. Also helps set up the insane amount of tension the web show portrays them having

The editing/camrea is so choppy like this isn't a review but omg I had to write that down

Okay it looks like Wolf keeps zip ties on his belt, makes sense both for the game stuff of tying up civis and also is probably helpful for his mechines

Chains and Houston demask INSIDE A FUCKING VAULT post running out of ammo and while they do tell the civis present to not look this is just such a bad idea especially because the vault is basically surrounded by cops 

But also the bromance between Houston & Chains is real, like they're in a bad situation and they plan it out

Also it seems like Dallas and Wolf are the main movers of goods within this heist, I'm not sure they're the best picks but with the limits the gang had at the time I suppose they aren't the worst, it just feels like in general the plan doesn't cater to the real talents of the gang. Which tbh is probably because the web show is meant to be a ad, so they wanted more action which required mostly gun fights and they didn't do fight scenes in a intelligental way 

Also I just realized for some reason Chains is using a damn hand gun meanwhile it's Houston with a assault rifle, which really doesn't seem catered to their skills

I just remembered a little later after writing the above that Chains mentioned being out of ammo for his own assault rifle so not as bad as I thought, still wonder why they didn't switch at any point, like it worked out but yeah

One thing I do like about the action scenes is that the gang uses more than juet guns and use melee attacks as well

Houston is able to flat out flip a guy over and steal his gun, I feel pretty confident in saying Houston has probably taken some hand to hand combat lessons.

Also it appears that both Dallas and Wolf are using assault rifles which makes sense given their roles in the heist.

WE GOT A WILHELM SCREAM!!!

In better lighting it seems Wolf actually has a shotgun which is even better for him actually 

We see the escape driver when Dallas and Wolf are ambushed at the escape van, he appears to be at most middle age, white, brown hair, slightly fatter build and wears a black hoodie with a band or event tee-shirt under the hoodie, grabbing a pic to see if I can locate the shirt later.

We see several of Vlad's men during the ambush including who we later learn seems to be his right hand / personal bodyguard

Vlad's intro is so funny to me, like he holds the gang at gunpoint and stalls their escape and this actually manages to end with him getting the gang to work with him, like I am sure that Bain or Vlad carefully planned this part but it could have easily gone wrong if for example Wolf shoot someone without thinking it through, or if a officer managed to follow them to the van, especially since everyone unmasks!

Houston Vc: Do you know these guys?.    Dallas, who is being held at gunpoint vc: does it look like I know these guys?

1. Vlad decides to shout “Bain” while explaining he is a ally, 2. He calls Bain in this instance “Mr Bain” which I find to be a fun detail of characterization and also to how at the time the only people sorta comfortable enough around Bain to be confident when saying his name and such is the core members of the Payday gan

Ah and then Dallas has to go back uncover which requires faking a injury, which he lets Houston do the honors of punching him, only adding to the family feud they seem to have in the web series. Also this one punch is enough to knock Dallas to the ground.

Also funnily Dallas or should I say, “Nathen Steele” is the one to call in the first world bank heist

Bain vapes! We see him vape, we also hear him in game talk about smoking cigars, so either he does both or in my opinion more likely he lies about the details of his smoking habits even to the gang.

We can see that Bain wears a leather jacket with a design on the back & front when in his lair, the design most looks like fire to me but it's very dark, I would love to someday see some behind the scenes footage or something with the costume.

#talk tag #payday 2 #payday #meta #my meta #payday web series #payday chains #payday wolf #payday houston #payday dallas #Natehen Steele #vlad kozak #smoking mention #bain #dallas #Houston #chains #wolf #payday bain

[terrence-silver]

What would Terry’s bachelor party be like?

---

― Twig undoubtedly is the type not to want to have a bachelor's party in the classical sense, because the only person he wants to spend time with weeks before his wedding, is the person he's marrying. Why? Because he's loyal, devoted, entirely besotted with boyish puppy love galore and wants every waking moment spent glued to his person's side, so really, nothing debauched is bound to happen. Not of his own volition anyway. No strippers jumping out of a cake, for example, even though he can more than afford an extravagant party, which, chances are, he'd be want to attend with beloved, even though, all things considered, that's not exactly how a bachelor party functions, but hey, try telling that to someone who is in love as much as a young Terry is capable of falling in love. Twig is very likely to go out with John, as the only male friend he holds dear at the time, or really, if we're honest, in general after the war. Have a drink. Toast for the good times. Talk. Reminisce. Perhaps make up for the lack of any festivity in the traditional sense by treating John to something grand as a way for them to kickstart and celebrate a new chapter in Twig's life together, doing so by spending money on John, even though Twig, generous as he is, should be the one receiving wedding presents instead of giving them --- something he absolutely insists shouldn't be the case because he's so happy he's getting hitched, he wants to share his joy in any way he possibly can. Afterwards, returning home to beloved with or without John absolutely sober, clean, very enthusiastic and eager to be married already, being entirely content with having no bachelor party at all, seeing it as a needless detour to what he wants --- what he really wants. And that is, as idealistic as it sounds, to be with his person.

― Terry Silver in the 80's is typically seen as something of a lascivious, unhinged hedonist, and while that isn't untrue whatsoever (and Terry himself prides himself on such titles to the highest possible extent), the same thing that rang true for him while he was Twig rings true now, except, somewhat flipped on its head; strippers do happen this time around. Sex workers, starlets, celebrities and escorts. The high end jet set of LA. Alcohol. Blackjack. Cigars. Cocktail gowns. Catered food. Personalized invitation cards. Limousines parked in front of the manor in the dozens. Waiters. Statues made out of ice. A privately commissioned band playing live music all night long. And a jacuzzi filled with champagne, for all we know. Terry Silver arranges all of this and much, much more --- but very much for the enjoyment of others. For his numerous important guests. Not for himself. It's a flaunting of money, power, prestige, unhinged fun that feeds into the whole playboy moniker he for sure garnered all while he doesn't really participate himself, even though...really...everyone would expect someone like him to, and for good reason. His bachelor party is the talk of the city. The talk of The Valley --- the whole State, in fact --- as the most extravagant, expensive affair of the decade where everyone who is anyone attends, but the man of the hour himself is scarcely seen without his beloved on the actual event; a twist few people expected. Truth is, Terry Silver has eyes only for his beloved and nobody else and chances are, somewhere in the middle of the party, he is likely to pretty openly disappear with them and be heard very ardently and vocally practicing for the honeymoon somewhere upstairs, in his mansion. He celebrates his bachelor party, in big style, in his own way.

― Old man Terry outright has no bachelor party to speak of either, not even formally, as a way to show off, no --- and this is exclusively by his own explicit choice and no force can dissuade him otherwise because he's a grown, mature man and feels he has no need to 'live it up' in the last few days of his singlehood and unmarried status, because he might be convinced he already lived large and lived fast all his youth. He has no desire to compensate for anything he hasn't already done by the tenfolds in decades prior. He views a bachelor party total waste of time at his age; in a chapter of his life when a man has nothing to spare and should, in his very own opinion, cherish every moment like the most precious luxury on the planet, he's undoubtedly already married and long since back from his honeymoon (with a pregnant partner, if at all possible, clearly working overtime) by the time anyone can expect any sort of stag from him or even have a single second to inquire about it (and even if someone does, he for sure charmingly directs the attention back to his newly-minted spouse instead, all while boiling below his nonchalant facade that someone even dared question him and his decisions). It is that easy for Terry. Time management's of the essence and he spends every moment with his beloved like he fears it could be his very last. Thing is, when Terry's committed, he's committed to the bone and when he's not committed, he's not. At any age, if he already reached the level of devotion where he's willing to marry someone and tie them to himself in every way one can be tied to another, he doesn't need anything or anyone else but them, growing absolutely singleminded in his objectives and his desires. No substitutes. No distractions. He knows what he wants and how he wants it.

#generally i can see terry organizing his own stag party for john kreese much rather than for himself #man lives vicariously through john's enjoyment in this one very specific case (and if we're very honest #in many other cases too) #john kreese gets the strippers jumping out of the wedding cake even though terry's the one getting married #and terry? terry's very likely to sit there giving out instructions and watching his johnny getting a lap dance #terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #bachelor party #terry silver twig #twig terry silver #80's terry silver #old man terry #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved

[imagine-silk]

AtSV; Brotherly Yandere Hobie dealing with a cop who hurt Morally Questioning Darling

》 It has come to my attention some people think I only do fluff. Cassandra, this is your fault.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

TW: Torture

It wasn't hard to like Hobie. He was so casual and confident in what he said and did, fashion, politics, personal relationships. As someone who grew up mostly alone you didn't understand what you were missing out on, friends. Intoxicating feelings of community among people like you, something you never thought possible as someone who crawled on walls. And the one they most looked up to was the one to take you in.

You didn't have to please him, he seemed all too happy to cater to you. Anything you said went into his ears and into his hands. "Hobie, I'm cold." He took off his scarf and jacket and wrapped them around you. As the snow fell on him he held your hands to his face and blew hot air.

"I'm not tired." He gave you his deep chuckle and said of course you weren't as your eyes fell for the last time that night. Even as you slipped away his hand never stopped petting.

"He, I… I can't believe he-" He held you in his arms for the entire day. And 'he' never bothered you again, couldn't even look at you.

"I'm not interested." He seemed to come out of nowhere and tell the person to piss off. Kicking them out the door when they grabbed you and said it back.

"You're my favorite person." He laughs every time and says of course he is.

You didn't think Hobie's actions were strange before. He was a touchy guy and looked out for those who he cared for and you and everyone else thought he just liked you more. That didn't cover a third of that.

A was hand around you whenever you were together. Now was no different. "Where?" You were held to his chest with one arm and you guided the other, the one holding the knife. "Love."

There was a man tied in chair in front of you already bloodied and bruised for the crime of shooting at you multiple times. He was gagged and blinded but that didn't remove his pain being seen. "I… I don't want…"

"Then what do you want?" You could smell the smoke from his last cigarette and somehow it was sweet.

"I want the cigar cutter." As quiet as your voice was he moved his hand with yours to find the small tool in his jacket. With shaking sweating hands you brought Hobie's hand to the man's and moved to catch his finger into the trap. "Make it quick." Hobie snapped his fingers to take it clean off. The next finger trapped. "Make it slow." The force he used was so small he could feel the blood underneath struggling.

Muffled screaming filled the room. "Shut up." There was no sense in saying it, no one would hear him, but Hobie was feeling a bit more short than other days.

"Hobie." He hummed against your ear to say you had his full attention. "I want his bones cracked." His hand found its way further up his arm inches away from his shoulder. "Here." With a tight squeeze and a scream you got what you wanted, the crack you wanted. "And here." But you wanted more. "And here." And he will always give it to you.

#dead dove do not eat #yandere #tw yandere #atsv #hobie brown #morally bankrupt #gender neutral reader #marvel

[zablife]

Placing a Hand on the Back of the Other’s Neck 

Part of my Corrupt a Wish challenge.

Request: Placing a hand on the back of the other's neck. Requested by @peakyswritings.

Warnings: drinking, language, Corrupt a wish reminder: If you think this story has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention. Proceed with caution.

“You’re so lucky Mr. Nelson has taken a liking to you,” Shelly said as she fixed her lipstick in the mirror.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you said shyly. “He’s only talked to me a couple of times.”

“That’s more than he’s done with me,” Doris said with a pout as she threw her hairbrush on the counter. “And I’ve been here six months!”

“Are you going to go out with him?” Shelly asked, turning from the mirror to lean against the dressing room table. She could barely contain her enthusiasm. 

“What? No, he’s not interested in me!” you said with smile and toss of your head.

“Well, if it were me, I’d be throwing myself at him!” Doris said with a dreamy look. 

“And you have!” Shelly added with a giggle.

“Well can you blame me? He’s rich and handsome! You’d be crazy to ignore him, Y/n!”

“Ok, I’ll try to remember that,” you said as you slipped into your costume.

After your number, Mr. Nelson motioned you over to his table and Doris gave you a wink. You knew it was in your best interest to cater to him. As the club owner he made all the decisions and could help your career greatly. However, you were always so nervous in his presence, you couldn’t think of a thing to say. That didn’t matter tonight though. He only asked for you to join him at the table.

“You were wonderful tonight, sweetheart,” he whispered in your ear.

You fixed the feather in your hair nervously as you accepted the compliment with a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Nelson.”

“Please, call me Jack,” he said, puffing on his cigar. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, gesturing toward the bar.

“Yes, champagne please, Mr….I mean, Jack,” you said with a giggle as you remembered his instruction.

He winked at you as he motioned a waiter to the table and ordered your drink. 

The rest of the evening was a dream come true. Jack kept you by his side and attended to you like a real date. Normally you would have expected to wait on him, but he seemed intent on pleasing you which made you positively giddy. You couldn’t wait to return to work the next day.

The special treatment continued day after day and everyone began to recognize you as “Jack’s girl.” That came with important privileges such as turning down bad shifts and coming in late when he kept you up with passionate lovemaking. You began to wonder if he might have serious intentions towards you and you allowed yourself to dream of running the empire with him one day. All the girls encouraged you to drop hints that you’d like a ring for Christmas.

One evening in December when you were left alone at the table for a quick meal, Jack had taken your hand and you felt a spark of energy pass between you. You wondered if tonight might be the night he would ask you to be his. However, the moment passed and it was soon time for the next act. “Go get into costume, doll,” he told you as he finished the last of his whisky. You stumbled away confused, but thought perhaps he had a more elaborate proposal in mind.

As usual, he called you over after your routine and he sang your praises to his companions. “My little songbird is quite the charmer, ain’t she fellas?” Jack said with a proud grin. You beamed at him as he rubbed your thigh under the table. It felt good to earn his approval.

The man across the table was an important business contact from London, Tommy Shelby, and you knew Jack wanted to impress him. You’d done all you could to look your best for the evening and Jack had allowed you to buy a new dress to change into for the occasion. It was a bright red color with a high slit up to the thigh which left little to the imagination. You were used to wearing less on stage. However, you felt more vulnerable when you were so close to the men on the floor. As the Englishman looked you up and down, you began feeling self conscious for the first time in your attire and began to cover your legs as best you could. 

Jack turned his attention back to Mr. Shelby and his business at hand. “So we’re agreed then Shelby? 30% to you and the import licenses are mine?” 

Mr. Shelby swirled the whisky in his glass before looking back at you carefully, eyes full of dark desire. “That’s not quite all, Jack. You see, I’ve one more item to add to the list now that I know what a generous man you are. Shall we add an evening with your songbird to close the deal?” he asked downing what was left in his glass greedily. 

You squeezed Jack’s hand under the table waiting for him to rebuff Mr. Shelby or even punch him. Who was this foreigner to come into Jack’s club and demand you like that? Jack would never agree to such a thing! You were incensed by the notion. The table was deathly quiet as Jack took a careful sip of his drink and extinguished his cigar.

The longer he took to answer, the more nervous you became. Not wishing to wait any longer, you stood to leave the table and Jack leaped up with you. He towered over you as he was easily a head taller and placed a large hand at the back of your neck. Leaning into your ear he whispered, “Where do you think you’re going, pussy cat?”

You trembled as you replied, “Jack, you can’t be serious? Do you really expect me to sleep with him?” You searched his eyes for the warmth you remembered when he made love to you, but found a vacant expression that frightened you deeply. His eyes darkened as his grip on your hair tightened painfully, “You ungrateful little bitch, sit the fuck down and entertain our guest,” he said through clenched teeth. “You’re being rude.”

#zablife corrupt a wish #rebelwriter ❤️‍🔥 #Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Jack Nelson fanfic #Jack Nelson imagine #Jack Nelson x reader #Jack Nelson x y/n #Jack Nelson x you #Dark!Jack

[specialagentblogger]

Chain of Influence from Alexa Chung's IT: Heathers and Beetlejuice

Alexa Chung was a British TV host, model, and the IT girl of the 2010s. Ballet flats, hot pants, cashmere cardigans, and statement sunglasses made Alexa a fashion icon. During a time when skinny jeans, neon accessories, and flower crowns were a thing, Alexa stood out with ahead-of-her-time style choices. She definitely was one of the first well-known women that I sourced my inspiration from.

"IT"

In 2013, Alexa released her debut book IT, featuring her drawings, style influences, witty advice, and stories. This perfectly pink, cultural reset of a book, catered to young, aspiring "It" girls and wannabe Vogue Editors. Despite receiving critiques akin to a "wasted opportunity," IT marked the sweet beginning of character development for my 13-year-old self. The book led me on a transformative journey, unveiling my taste in music, film, and fashion - a chain of influence, if you will.Alexa wrote a lot about the most iconic film fashion that inspired her throughout the years.

HEATHERS (1988)

One of the films that started my endless love for cinema and marked the chain of influence, was Heathers (1988) - directed by Michael Lehmann and written by Daniel Waters. A satirical and macabre cult classic about a high school, where obnoxious jocks rule and the mean girls are all called Heather - until Veronica (Winona Ryder) and her mysterious boyfriend (Christian Slater) decide to kill every mean kid at the school. Pair a cinematic legend (our girl Wino) with a sexy hunk that is Christian Slater, and you have yourself an 80s classic. Watching this film when you’re 14 years old, in your secret world (my room) on a mini laptop was a transformative experience. In a sense that, in that moment, I fully understood the magic that cinema held and I wanted more. My eyes could not get enough of the cinematography, the costumes and the beautiful young actors - all while the haunting Syd Straw’s voice sang Que Sera, Sera (strongly advisable to put this song on while reading this post). 

The film itself tells a classic tale of relational agression between high school girls. In the words of Lyn Mikel Brown or her book of the same name - girlfighting. In the book Girlfighting (2003), the author argues that for quite some time, soap-operas, films, and reality TV had only focused on women who are in competition with one another. Heathers falls right into that category. Its main focus is Veronica Sawyer (Winona Ryder) - one of the Heathers clique, who finally gets tired of being an accomplice to other school kids’ misery. Her character has a line in the film where she says: “I don’t really like my friends. It is like they are people I work with and our job is being popular”. It is the moment where Veronica foreshadows her involvement in the downfall of her mean friends. This twist is kind of ironic as Veronica is such good of a person that she cannot stand the meanness of her friends. Thus, she will become mean herself and even turn to murder, in order to end the meanness altogether.  

COSTUMES

Iconic, voluminous hair, fitted checkered jackets with shoulder pads, mid-length grandma skirts, colourful stockings and none other than bitchy attitudes! Every shot of Heathers is filled with endless outfit inspiration, curated by Rudy Dillon. Oh, how fun would it have been to dress like that in high school. I love how this kind of fashion evokes a nostalgic longing for a time before I was even born. From then on out, you would not see me leave a vintage clothing store without an 80's padded jacket.

It would be very easy to guess who I was planning to dress as on Halloween 2014. I put my grey skirt on, borrowed my grandpa’s ashy blue t-shirt, covered my face in fake blood and bought a paper cigar from Tiger. It was magical. I walked around saying “What’s your damage, Heather?” - sadly, no one understood the reference back then and I ended up really scaring my mum. I might have been better at Maths, had I not been rewatching Heathers every other evening. However, no regrets. 2 + 2 is still 4, forever till the end of time. 

Beetlejuice (1988)

The chain of influence from Alexa’s book continued naturally when I decided to explore Winona’s earlier work. The first one that came to mind was Winona’s breakthrough film 'Beetlejuice' (1988) - an absolute Halloween must-watch. Crafted by the extravagantly distinctive auteur director Tim Burton, renowned for the gothic and fantastical settings in his films. The contrast-heavy cinematography in Burton’s mise-en-scène is influenced by German Expressionism, an art movement that emerged in Germany in the early 20th century. The most predominant aspects of this movement include distorted sets, angular or weirdly-shaped architecture, and a dark, frightening atmosphere.

The film tells the story of a recently deceased couple, portrayed by Geena Davis and Alec Baldwin, who find themselves haunting their home after a new family moves in. In an attempt to scare away the living occupants, the couple summons a mischievous spirit named Betelgeuse (Michael Keaton) by saying his name three times. The narrative takes an intriguing turn with the introduction of Winona Ryder's character, Lydia, who, along with her parents (Catherine O’Hara and Jeffrey Jones), becomes entangled with the supernatural world. Winona Ryder delivers a captivating performance as Lydia, portraying a goth teenage girl who can see the dead because she has no fear of dying.

CINEMATOGRAPHY

Cinematographer Thomas E. Ackerman fully realised Burton’s ominous vision for the film. Every single shot is like a surrealist painting - a true feast for the eyes. Even if one does not find the film’s plot appealing, the visual aesthetic will still definitely satisfy one’s artistic hunger. Ackerman's attention to detail and use of lighting contribute to the film's haunting atmosphere, making it a visual masterpiece.

Beetlejuice vs. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari

As mentioned previously, the influence of German Expressionism is evident in Burton’s work, and in my opinion, especially in Beetlejuice. The film has striking visual similarities to, arguably, one of the first horror films, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), directed by a German director of the silent era - Robert Wiene. The film follows a somnambulist who makes horrifying predictions of future events. I watched it in university while I studied film, and I have to say, I was utterly spellbound. The fact that a silent film can be spine-chilling like that still blows my mind.

The distorted corridor in Beetlejuice mirrors the endless, distorted corridor in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. It evokes a sense of claustrophobia, almost like an optical illusion. The surrealist, angular structure of the Caligari corridor seamlessly fits into Beetlejuice, capturing the dreamlike, or rather nightmarish atmosphere. Exactly what one imagines the afterlife to be like.

In the following comparison shots, we can even identify a door with a diagonal line in Burton’s still, and the exact same shaped detail (window/door) on the house in Wiene’s still. I missed a crucial and rather obvious detail, which I just now discovered. You should have seen the way my jaw dropped: there is a black silhouette of a man in the background, seemingly holding a broom in Burton’s shot. Similarly, in Caligari’s shot, there is a man wearing black, holding what appears to be a cane.

The following two shots also sparked an 'aha' moment for me. In one, the green light and the appearance of a dead bride with a tulle veil emerge from the darkness. In another, there is a muted green light covering the room, and a girl sleeps in a white nightgown, reminiscent of a wedding dress, on a bed adorned with tulle sheets.

THE DINNER

There's a dinner scene in Beetlejuice that's wonderfully campy and even a bit meta, making it one of the most standout moments in cinema to date. The scene features Lydia, her parents, and their friends having dinner. In an attempt to scare them into leaving, the deceased couple (the Maitlands) and Betelgeuse possess the guests. One by one, they start moving involuntarily and break into singing Harry Belafonte’s legendary song 'Day-O (The Banana Boat Song),' in his distinctive voice. I truly love this artistic decision because it cleverly uses dark humour and absurdity to dilute the frightening topic of spirits and afterlife.

As I reflect on this chain of influence, I think of it as the epitome of 'one thing led to another.' I love that I could delve into Winona Ryder's creative universe and discover life-altering cinematic classics as a young girl. This, however, is just one of the many discoveries I made as a 13-year-old reading Alexa's book. More is yet to come...

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Beetlejuice

#beetlejuice #alexa chung #winona ryder #german expressionism #dr caligari #betlegeuse #it girl #tim burton #heathers #christian slater #catherineohara #geena davis #robert wiene #somnambulism #dark humor #horror #cinema