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#italian loafer
the-sartorial-journey · 7 months
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...weekend!
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Emmat Watson in Prada head to toe in Milan 24'
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oxfords---notbrogues · 10 months
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The iconic Gucci loafer
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Pure. Clean. Italian.
#Inspiration
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dandyshoecare · 1 year
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Before and after.
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levbolton · 9 months
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I can just…. Buy manga in italian…. Like….. it’s cheaper and sometimes they have stuff we fon’t have here or it has a better design……… it the skip to loafer manga cones with color pages i might:… you know….. just switch to collecting it in italian………….
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italianshoesco · 2 years
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Shop shoes online and find the best brands of luxury men's shoes. We have the latest styles of wingtips shoes for men and monk strap shoes for men. Shop luxury men's leather shoes today.
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alex dimitrov is so right about strong men. beautiful sentences. italian leather.
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oncomingnight · 8 months
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Yandere! Artist
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Lorenzo was an incredibly well-groomed man. Only ever wearing the best tailored suits, minimalistic patterned ties and perfectly polished loafers. His mindset and obsessive tendencies completely contradict his organized persona.
A vast array of his works are just murals and life-sized portraits of you. Never in his life has he seen such an undeniable beauty like you, the closest anyone else other than him will get to admiring you is on the canvas. The two of you will be at the opening of one of his exhibitions watching everyone stand and stare at his works of you, it's an odd feeling but it's nice to witness how extensive his love for you is.
It's not that rare of an occurrence for someone to approach the both of you in public and start the conversation off with:
"So, the man and woman of the hour!"
Lorenzo has several works of his that he'll never allow anyone see, he keeps them a secret from the public eye. These private crafts consist of ceramic forms of your naked body, he never creates them for sexual pleasure but more so to admire every little crease and mark on your body when you're not there with him. He's also not known for ceramics but rather paintings in the style of impressionism and realism.
He has a friend group filled with people that are involved in the art scene, like, poets, architects, film directors, song artists and other well known painters. His presence in the art scene is pretty prominent as he's had books and articles written about his work and the supposed meanings behind them. When other artists are being interviewed and the topic of inspirations is brought up, his name is dropped all of the time.
Lorenzo grew up on a farm in a little agricultural town. He got used to churning butter, helping his father determine which produce was ripe, cutting homegrown vegetables on a creaky wooden table. He enjoyed this upbringing as it prepared him to make his own meals with what he had and how to grow food the correct way. Now, as he moved away from the countryside and into an immensely populated city, he always drives downtown to the farmers' market to not only get a sense of home but to get his groceries in a reliable space.
His love languages are all five of them; quality time, words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts and physical touch. During the most unexpected moments, he will place a framed portrait of you that he painted with the upmost attention in your hands. He will take you on a day-long trip to an area that you mindlessly mentioned of wanting to visit, taking you on a shopping spree to purchase anything you want and maybe he'll purchase an Italian leather jacket for himself.
Lorenzo really enjoys reading books but the genres he favors the most are philosophy, auto-biographies and (art) history.
He is an incredibly classy and proper man so when it comes to confronting somebody, he uses knowledge and soft insults to shoot them down. The two of you were at an opera that Lorenzo had dragged you to, and when a singer that was previously flirting with you walked on stage, he couldn't hide his disdain for the man. Lorenzo began critiquing their shrilling voice and off-key notes
"Isn't he supposed to be an alto? He's practically yelling as if it's spring break and he's a school boy." "Rossini didn't compose it that way, why did they alter it?" "My goodness, we should've never came, come, let's leave."
He can be a bit petty but there's no limits to the things he'd do for you.
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zepskies · 3 months
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Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x F. Reader, Ben and daughter!OC
Summary: Ben spends the day alone with his daughter, to varying degrees of success. When you get home, it prompts a serious conversation.
AN: Another one-shot for the BMD-verse, set sometime after "Until Morning" (you'll see). This can be read as standalone as well!
Word Count: 2,500 Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Father and daughter fluff, followed by husband and wife spice.~
Read more of the BMD-verse! ⤵️
💚 Break Me Down Masterlist
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Father and daughter were glaring at one another, gazes locked.
Green against green.
“Young lady, I’m telling you right now. I’m not gonna tolerate any more of your little attitude,” said Ben. “If you want to try me, be my guest.”
He held the ravioli poised on a pink plastic spoon. His daughter Lila sat in her highchair in the kitchen, boldly refusing any more of her lunch.
Her stubborn face reminded him entirely too much of you. But he needed her to eat. He wouldn’t have it said when you came home that he couldn’t feed a damn two-year-old.
He huffed. “Work with me here. Just a couple more bites.”
Lila made a shrill sound of refusal when the spoon came near her face. He knew she could use a spoon just fine. She was being difficult on purpose.
To demonstrate her resolve, she slapped at the ravioli with a chubby little hand, and it ended up splashing back into the bowl. A bit of red sauce splattered onto Ben’s cheek, with a pinch of it hitting his eye.
He blinked in annoyance. “Delilah Marie, I swear to Christ—”
She’s just a baby, a voice that sounded a lot like you infiltrated his mind. It still didn’t take away his aggravation.
“No!” Lila insisted. It was her favorite word, right behind Bluey.
She then pushed the bowl right off the highchair. It spilled ravioli and pasta sauce all over the floor in spectacular fashion. Ben was sitting in his own chair by the dining table, where he moved his feet back at the last moment. She almost got his Italian loafers.
“You gotta be f…” It took every scrap of patience within him to hold his tongue…and breathe calmly through his nose. He didn’t want to reward this destructive, disrespectful behavior, but he also knew that he needed his daughter to eat.
“Want some applesauce?” he said, as a peace offering.
Lila’s face scrunched.
“No applesauce, huh?” Ben muttered. He glanced at the mess across the highchair and the formerly white tile on the floor. “Your mother’s gonna have a conniption.”
“Mommy?” Lila asked. “Mommy’s home?”
“No, she’s not here right now,” Ben replied. “She’ll be home later.”
Lila seemed to understand, because that’s when she got upset again. Her red-stained finger drew a shapeless form in the sauce as she pouted. At least she wasn’t crying.
Ben sighed, once again, and stroked her cheek with his thumb.
Fuck it.
“You want some ice cream?” he bribed.
Her sadness dissipated at the thought; she smiled brightly and nodded. “Yeah!”
“Yeah, I thought so,” he grumbled.
After a scoop of strawberry ice cream for each of them (she liked it because it was pink), Ben wrangled her up out of the highchair and declared, bath time.
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He did fine with the bathing process. He’d helped you with this before, and so he knew what to do in order to wash the sauce off her face, hands, and even her hair. It was what came after the bath that remained a problem.
Lila was stubborn beyond belief, even before she could articulate what it was about the soft green onesie that she didn’t like. No, she wasn’t satisfied until Ben pulled out the yellow Starlight themed pajamas. Probably because they had “Auntie Annie’s” face all over them.
He rolled his eyes, but this wasn’t a hill he needed to die on. He dressed Lila and tried to tuck her into bed for her afternoon nap. The problem was, she refused to lie still in the crib.
Instead, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, using the edge of the crib for balance. He’d be impressed, if she wasn’t trying to climb out and give him a small heart attack.
He grabbed her and gathered her against his chest. Despite the super strength you’d temporarily displayed off and on throughout your pregnancy, Lila’s powers were latent at the moment. Dr. Baker seemed to think Lila would start to display them once she got old enough. Like Ryan, who hadn’t started growing into his powers until around 10 years old.
So for now, Lila was a mostly normal two-year-old who could still get hurt.
Ben frowned. “This is the time you usually go down. Why do you have so much energy?”
She just giggled at him and put both hands on his face, over his eyes.
“Daddy, guess who?”
He sighed, but couldn’t help smiling. As usual, he indulged her.
“Could it be my baby girl?”
He waited until her hands came away from his eyes, and he opened them wide.
“There she is!”
She squealed and giggled and grabbed his hair when he kissed her cheek. In the comfort of his own home, he could afford to be this openly affectionate.
Aw shit, he thought, as something occured to him.
He finally realized why she was so fucking hyper. Maybe it had something to do with the giant scoop of ice cream she’d had for lunch.
Goddamn it. Ben sighed and unwrapped her arm from around his head.
“Okay, let’s watch some TV.”
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Lila didn’t seem all that interested in watching anything, or even playing with her toys. She mainly wanted to jump on Ben’s stomach while he was trying to relax on the couch. He put on a football game you taped for him. Or recorded, as you'd said.
“All right, enough. Your old man’s trying to watch the game,” Ben said, bringing Lila down to sit in lap.
That lasted for about two seconds. Thereafter, she was climbing up his chest and trying to smother him with her little hands.
He took her hand from his nose so he could at least breathe in peace.
“Where’s Mommy?” Lila asked, as she sat on his shoulder and beat a little fist on the top of his head.
“She’s with your aunt,” Ben replied. “Well, not your real one, the fake one.”
Lila made a sound of confusion. Realizing that she didn’t know what the hell he meant, he rephrased.
“She’s with your Aunt Annie. They’ll be back soon,” he said.
He didn’t mind you wanting a day out to yourself. What he minded was the attitude you’d struck when he suggested dropping Lila off with Louisa, your actual sister.
“What, you can’t handle her alone for one day?” you’d asked.
His pride hadn’t allowed him to say no to that.
So here he was, with a wily toddler who was doing her damndest to suffocate him. Better attempts than this had failed, but it was still annoying while he was trying to watch the game.
Somehow, he managed to tune it out while he watched the ref make a bad call.
“What was that?! You gotta be kidding me!” Ben said, holding Lila to his chest even as he pointed and shouted at the TV. “Son of a bitch. What a pussy call that was.”
“Bish, bish, bish,” Lila said, making a game out of the word. It called Ben’s attention.
He forgot about the game for a moment when he looked down at her. His eyes widened a fraction, even as a smile pulled at his lips.
“What’d you just say?”
“Bishhhhhh,” Lila repeated. “Somvabishhhh.” Her lips squished like a fish. And then she giggled, like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
“Aw, fuck,” Ben uttered.
And he pressed his lips together with ever widening eyes at what he’d just said.
Lila grinned. “Fack!”
“Uhh, no. No. Don’t say that,” he said, trying to sound stern. Inside, he was trying not to laugh. He didn't really give a shit what she said, but you were particular about the kid not inheriting his vocabulary.
In fact, he was pretty sure you were going to go nuclear for this one.
“Why?” Lila asked.
“Because it’s uh…a bad word,” Ben replied, even though he wanted to roll his eyes at himself. This was what he’d become. A suburban dad.
"And it's not ladylike," he added.
“Fackkkk,” Lila giggled some more.
Christ on a cross. Ben bit the inside of lip hard to stop himself from laughing.
“Whatever. Just don’t say it around your mom,” he relented. He brushed his fingers through her soft brown hair. She preened at the attention, like the little showboat she was.
“Daddyyyy…” Lila wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled as deeply into him as she could, like a koala clinging to a shaking branch.
Ben sighed and rubbed a hand up and down her back as he cradled her against him.
These were the moments he didn’t mind. In fact, these were the moments he did his best to remember. They helped block out the older, darker ones that this kid would never know.
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Ben woke to the shutter of a camera going off.
He blinked his bleary eyes open to find you standing there with a highly amused smile on your face, and your phone poised in your hand.
He groaned, but he soon realized that Lila was sleeping in his arms, on his chest. You leaned down and rested a hand on her back. You also greeted him with a kiss to his temple.
“Long day?” you teased quietly.
Ben gave you a deadpan look, one that had you straining to taper down your giggles. Though he drew you closer by your hip and squeezed the soft flesh over your white sundress. He took you in with a lazy once-over.
You looked good. Sexy as hell, really. Your face was glowing and relaxed, and he liked the shade of red you’d done on your nails.
“You have a good time?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you replied, massaging his shoulder. Though you arched a brow. “There’s a catastrophe in the kitchen.”
Ben blinked.
Fuck. He forgot about that.
“Yep,” he said, giving you a teasing smirk of his own. “Right on time for you, baby.”
You chuckled, though your eyes narrowed in warning. “Yeah, right.”
You still helped him put Lila down in the nursery for the rest of her nap. She yawned and turned over onto her back. You pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, though you had to smile when it accidentally left the red mark of your lipstick behind.
You bit your lip and gently rubbed it off without waking her up. (An amazing damn feat, as far as you were concerned.)
Ben laid a heavy hand on your back, prompting you to straighten up and turn into his waiting embrace.
His lips curved as he looked down at you. “Hey.”
You laughed quietly. “Hey, yourself.”
Your hands glided up his chest, and further still to hold his face. You brought him down to kiss you, with your fingers slipping into his hair, and your nails dragging along his scalp. He hummed into your mouth.
“Miss me?” you teased.
Ben huffed. As usual though, his answer was in his actions. He held you close for a moment, just to feel you there.
Your arms slipped around his, clinging to his shoulders as you rested against him. This was your safe, comfortable place where you always felt at home.
But, you couldn’t help but break the spell.
“Come on. Clean up on aisle 12,” you quipped, reaching around to smack his ass.
Ben rolled his eyes, but when you pulled away from him, he followed you into the kitchen.
“You know, I had a lot going on. Your kid is a fucking menace,” he said. “Like a bull in a China shop.”
You scoffed. “She’s only my kid when she gives you a hard time. Where do you think she gets it from?”
“You,” he retorted.
You had to laugh at that one. It still didn’t get him out of helping you clean the kitchen from top to bottom.
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After a long shower, waking an errant child from her nap, dinner, and a joint effort of getting Lila to sleep for the night, Ben joined you in bed wearing just his usual sweatpants.
You’d opted for some black satin, he noticed.
Good, he thought, for the night to come. You’d spent the whole day getting massaged and moisturized and whatever else women did on a day out.
When he rolled onto his side, you greeted him with a smile and a hand running up his arm, already pulling him toward you. His hand glided along your bare thigh as you hooked it over his hip.
“I need to tell you something, but you’ve gotta promise not to say anything to anyone,” you whispered in the small space between his face and yours, and you tapped his chin.
Ben raised a brow and squeezed your thigh. Whatever it was, couldn’t it wait until long after he’d undressed you?
“What?” he asked.
“Annie’s pregnant!” you said with a wide smile. “Six weeks. She just told me today.”
Ben blinked at that one. “Is it Hughie’s kid?”
“Wha…of course, it is!”
“Wow. Guess he had it in him after all,” Ben remarked. “Who woulda thought.”
You shook your head, but his grin made you laugh.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said, through your remaining giggles, though you leaned forward and stole a kiss. It led Ben to want more, and more of you.
He started to ply you with slow, lazy kisses that grew deeper, becoming all-consuming as his tongue warred against yours. His hands dove under the satin covering your body, and his thumbs brushed the sides of your breasts.
“Maybe it’s time we go for number two,” he said.
You uttered another incredulous laugh, gripped a fist in his hair and tugged. “Excuse me?”
“You fucking heard me,” Ben said. He rolled you onto your back and pinned you there. “Ain’t no way we’re stopping at one. Lila needs a brother.”
“You can’t even handle one,” you teased. Your hands slid up his arms and then down his chest. “Baby, we can talk about having more kids, but—”
“And? We’re talking now,” he said. He dipped his head to start kissing a hot, wet line down your neck. It made your breath falter and your back start to arch. Your hips shifted against his, trying to find friction. You could feel his length hardening against your thigh.
“Ben,” you warned, and implored, but the graze of his teeth on your neck made you shudder.
Your grip on his arms tightened. “Please…”
“Please what?” he smirked against your skin. His hips rocked against your heated core.
This conversation was going into a no man’s land very fast.
You literally took matters into your own hands…by reaching down and grasping your husband’s cock through his sweatpants. You gave him a demanding squeeze.
His breath hitched. Ben paused, unlatching from your neck, and turning his lips toward your cheek.
“I’m listening,” he said, in a gritted voice. You smirked.
“We can, and we will talk about this,” you promised. “Just not when you’re about to be balls-deep inside me.”
You were back on birth control anyway (the pill this time).
Ben chuckled. His hand reached up and smoothed your hair away from your forehead.
“Fine,” he conceded. A smirk grew across his face. “But we can still practice.”
A giggle fell from your lips, just before he claimed them once again.
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AN: A little callback to the BMD Epilogue at the end there. 😂
What did you think about the father/daughter time? And do you think Ben won against either of the ladies in his life? 🤣
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Soldier Boy Masterlist
Main Masterlist
BMD Tag List (Part 1):
@this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @mrsjenniferwinchester @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26 @spnwoman @syrma-sensei @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @muhahaha303 @123passwort
@xoxoviennaa @katherineann814 @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28 @nancymcl @ashbatz @secretdreamlandmentality @kristophalis @wonderland2022 @emily-winchester @shelh93 @sl33pylilbunny @spoonmynoodle @chernayawidow
@buckybarnes-1917 @asgardprincess97 @sometimes-i-sing @itsyellow @karnellius @kimberleymjw @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @iamsapphine @sanscas @se-fucking-hun @lassie-bird @jessjad @yepimthatperson @fromcaintodean @stoneyggirl2
@spnfamily-j2 @im-a-slut-for-fluff @lacilou @venicesem @mimaria420 @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @tearsfortheyouth @agalliasi @chriszgirl92 @kazsrm67
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the-sartorial-journey · 8 months
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Blue Power
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i love kristoph so much but youd never guess because my headcanons about him are all like . he's a conservative. he's a respectability politics-loving hypocrite (it's okay for him to be gay and gnc but not anybody else). he hates klavier's music and is constantly making jibes at him about how it's just noise. he's extremely snobby about classical music. he snaps his fingers to get service workers' attention. he has two main emotions: passive-aggression and active-aggression. he's all the negative things that people seem to think edgeworth is. he's faking being french+italian in the same way that klavier fakes being german, just slightly more subtle about it (which isnt hard). he doesnt wear socks with his loafers. he's a truly intolerable man. just rotten to the core. i love him.
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Level up your fashion game with Royalfee Robbins Patterned Genuine Embossed Leather Shoes . Experiment your look this season without compromising on comfort with these classy boots. These boots promising long comfort and durability are must-have in your shoes collection.
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lizlazer · 2 years
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my girl
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Possessive!Tangerine x fem!Reader
1.5k words
rated E, more fingering so nsfw, no minors~
thank you to local fandom legend @avocado-writing for reading this over!
for @northerngalxy who asked for:
"Tangerine x reader where a drunk guy is trying to kiss her…?"
i found a TikTok of a man who said a certain key phrase in this fic, and i had to write it coming out of Tangerine's mouth. enjoy!
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It’s a warm summer night, but a steady breeze makes it bearable. You’re out at a bar with Tangerine, who showed up without warning at your door a few hours ago. 
“How long would it take you to get ready, if I wanted to take you out?” he asked, knowing the answer, but grinning mischievously. 
“Maybe thirty minutes? What’s gotten into you? This can’t be the same Tang who left a week ago,” you said, heading into your bedroom to change. 
He followed behind you, watching you undress. Leaning against the doorframe, he was wearing a striped button up shirt that was barely buttoned, dark jeans that fit him perfectly, and black leather loafers. Never without his gold jewelry, he removed his medallion and placed it gingerly around your neck. Aside from your underwear, it was the only thing you were wearing. 
“I want you to wear this tonight,” he said, his hands sliding down your arms to thread his fingers through yours. “Make sure it’s visible.” He’d met your eyes in the mirror, and it had been so hard not to shove him down onto the bed and take him then and there.
Tangerine is in a rare fantastic mood, not an ounce of the usual grouch in him. After dining at the most decadent Italian restaurant, you’ve decided on a night cap at your favorite local spot. The inside of the bar was packed, so you grab a table on the patio. The tables and chairs are black wrought iron, with an outdoor bar off to the left. They’ve strung lights between the brick walls of the buildings enclosing the space, and they give everything a soft, romantic glow. 
Tangerine is telling you what he can about where he’s been, about Lemon, and the books he read on the journey there and back, joking often and laughing loudly. His good cheer is contagious, and you find yourself smiling so much your cheeks hurt. Every time your drink gets low he’s dutifully heading over to the bar to replace it. After you’ve had a few, you can feel the warmth of the alcohol radiating through you. You ask him to get you a glass of water, and he carefully collects your empty glasses and gets up.
Tangerine is only gone for a few seconds before a stranger comes over to your table. You didn’t notice him at first, busy reaching for your phone in your bag, but the scrape of metal against concrete causes you to jerk your head up. He’s pulling out a chair and sitting down next to you, way too close. 
“Hi,” he starts, clearly a little drunk but not totally inebriated. “I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to talk to you all night.” Everything about him looks expensive, from his suit to his haircut. There’s something predatory in the way he’s watching you that immediately puts you off.
“I’m here with someone,” you tell him flatly, pulling out and unlocking your phone. You’re hoping he’ll take the hint and leave you be, but no such luck. 
He reaches over, putting his hand over the screen. “Give me a chance. I promise I’m a better time than that pretty boy,” he says with a smirk, cocking his head toward Tangerine at the bar. “Let me get your insta, at least.”
“Careful, your jealousy is showing,” you tell the creep, pulling your phone away and replacing it in your bag. “Kindly fuck off and let me enjoy my evening, thanks.” 
He only smiles, and it puts you in the mind of a snake. “I could have you begging for me,” he says, clearly trying some kind of bedroom voice. To you, it sounds like a bad Batman impression.
Before you can respond, two massive hands come down on his shoulders, squeezing hard.
“I don’t think I quite caught that. D’you wanna repeat that for the class?” Tangerine asks, trying to rein in his own fury. The veins in his hands stand out prominently, reaching up his arms.
The man tries to twist out of his grasp, stand up, something, but Tangerine forces him back into the chair.
“No no, none of that. Listen to me,” Tangerine says, leaning down next to the creep’s ear. Voice low and full of venom, he tells the man, “You’re trying to get into her DMs, yeah? But you see my necklace around her throat? ‘Cause at night she’s sucking the rings off of my fingers.”
“Jesus, Tangerine,” you sigh, rolling your eyes, desperately trying to fight a grin.
He gives you a quick wink before getting deadly serious again. Jerking the chair back, the man puts his hands up defensively, cowering. 
“Look, man, it was just a joke,” the creep says, looking like he wants to collapse in on himself.
Tangerine steps in front of him, pulling him to his feet by the lapels of his suit jacket. 
“Look, man, I can’t see the humor,” Tangerine mocks him, shoving him into the table of men who were laughing a minute ago. He rolls ass-over-teakettle across the surface, finally hitting the ground with a thud. 
“Any of you wanna say something?” Tangerine challenges, cracking his knuckles, but they all look away quickly. “That’s what I fucking thought.”
He comes over to you, holding out his hand. “Let’s go, love.”
Without a word, you place your hand in his, and he leads you through the bar and back outside, now on the street. His skin is hot against yours, and you know he was hoping for a brawl. The man loves a good old fashioned fistfight.
After a few blocks of walking in semi-stunned silence, you stop, pulling him towards you. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you bring him into a kiss. His lips press hard against yours, and you catch his bottom lip between your teeth. Groaning, his hands go to your hips, pressing your bodies together.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours.
“Careful, ‘cause I will fuck you on the street,” he tells you, catching his breath.
“Maybe I want you to,” you tease, pressing your lips to his again. His kiss is eager, yearning, his tongue parting your lips. One of your hands threads through his hair, messing up the carefully combed curls. Your nails drag against his skull and he moans into your mouth. Without stopping the kiss, he drags you both over to the side of a short brick building, and pushes you up against a wall. You’re thankfully on a residential side street that happens to be deserted, because neither of you bother to check if anyone’s around. One of his legs pries yours apart, and he lifts up the skirt of your dress. His fingers rub against the soft fabric of your panties, teasing around your clit but not touching it directly. 
“Can I have you right here, love?” he asks, his hot breath on your lips. You smile.
“I nearly jumped your bones at the bar, in front of god and everyone. All that to say yes, absolutely,” you tell him, laughing. His mouth moves along your jaw, kissing and licking his way up to your earlobe. Just as he gives it a sharp bite, his fingers push inside of you. Unable to stop the loud moan that escapes you, you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He starts off slow, letting you get used to one and then two digits. 
“That’s my girl, taking me so well,” he says, looking at you with so much pride it hurts. “Telling other men to fuck off,” he laughs. His thumb finally starts circling your aching clit. The pressure alternates as his fingers pump in and out of you. A bead of sweat rolls down his throat, and your tongue darts out to catch it. He picks up speed until you’ve got his hair in a death grip with one hand, digging your nails into his rock hard forearm with the other. The orgasm hits you quick, your thighs capturing his wrist in a vice, pushing your body down his fingers, trying to get him as deep as possible. You bite into his shoulder, moaning his name and -yes oh fuck yes- into the fabric of his shirt.
Letting you recover against him, he slowly withdraws his hand from you, replacing your panties and righting your skirt. Dazed, the thought of what he said earlier comes crashing back to you. You take his slick hand, bringing it up to your lips. Drawing his index finger into your mouth, you taste yourself as you drag your tongue down the length of it. Your lips tighten around the onyx signet ring and you suck on it. It comes loose easily, lubricated by your own arousal. Releasing his finger with a pop, you spit the ring into your hand, never breaking eye contact with Tangerine. His expression is something between stunned and painfully aroused.
“Was this your plan all along?” you ask him, dropping the ring into his shirt pocket. 
“I’m not that clever,” he shrugs, giving you a wolfish smile. His hands slide up your back, pulling you off the wall and flush against his body. He kisses you tenderly, tasting you. “Now let’s get out of here.”
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Bespoke day in Milano with a cup of Italian Espresso.
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whereonceiwasfire · 4 months
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If you're game to write a cheese melt (Vlad & Dani father-daughter dynamic) ficlet, I'd love to read one. If not, that's cool :)
*vibrating with excitement* My friend. Your cheese melt art has been living rent free in my head for WEEKS. It's my sincerest pleasure to write a ficlet for this. I hope it's okay that it's an outsider POV, I just had an idea and my brain went brrrrrrr LOL
May I offer you a dysfunctional parent-teacher interview?
Parent-teacher interviews are always a nightmare, but there's one in particular that’s making Amity Middle School’s beloved Ms. Burnell sweat through her shirt. As the time slot nears, her gaze keeps flickering to the clock, her classroom door, back to her nervously interlaced fingers on the desktop.
It’s going to be fine. Perfectly fine.
“This one! Over here! Dad! This is my class!” The excited words, shouted in the syrupy sweet voice of a little girl, sets every nerve on edge, Ms. Burnell’s heart plummeting straight into the pit of her stomach.
Oh lord. Maybe it’s not going to be fine. 
Her student comes bounding into the classroom, eyes bright and excited, oversized blue sweater sleeves slipping over her hands, even as she gestures emphatically for her father to follow. Black hair spills out of her ponytail, whipping across her face as she throws herself into a desk across from Ms. Burnell’s with a bright smile. 
Her father, on the other hand… 
The heel of his expensive Italian loafers strike against the linoleum as the man stops at the threshold of the classroom, cool gaze doing an assessing sweep of the space, expression crinkling in distaste as it does. He doesn’t say a single word, doesn’t make any move to actually step inside the classroom. 
Ms. Burnell is the one who clears her throat, pushing to an awkward stand as she extends a hand out to the man. 
“Hello, Mr. Masters. Thank you for making the time to come discuss your daughter’s education. I know you’re very busy.” 
The man’s eyes slip to her outstretched palm, and for a motifying second, she doesn’t think he’s going to take it. When he finally does, he just gives a brief, cursory shake before swiping his palm off on his suit jacket and striding past her toward his daughter. 
Ms. Burnell’s face is all kinds of warm, chest tight with embarassment as she fumbles back to her desk, trying to wrestle herself back into some kind of composure. Still, she barely looks up as she pulls out a folder with Danielle Masters scrawled across the tab.
“Dad! Dad! That one’s mine! Do you see it? Do you like it?” Danielle calls proudly, tugging on her father’s suit sleeve and pointing toward the paintings that are spread out beneath the windows to dry, paper wavy and crinkled.
“Oh, er. That’s actually a good place for us to start,” Ms. Burnell cuts in apologetically. 
Mr. Masters gaze snaps from where he’d been examining his daughter’s project, over to her, brows dropped low. 
“Why? Is there a problem with my daughter’s work?” The question is sharp, accusatory, and she’s pretty sure her soul shrivels up a little bit at the unguarded disdain in the man’s eyes.
Swallowing hard, sweat beading against the back of her neck, Ms. Burnell resists the urge to immediately take it back. Surely he can see the problem with the piece—isn’t going to make her say it? 
It's too scary.
When his challenging gaze doesn’t waver, she forces the words out. 
“Uhm. Well. It’s just. Not quite. Appropriate for a sixth grade class?” It pitches up into a question as she gestures vaguely toward Dani’s painting. 
It’s a bit sloppy, the layers of paint caked upon each other, the lines hasty and uneven, but the scene itself is clear enough—a little, smiling, white-haired girl in the shadow of some kind of hulking creature, its skin blue, eyes red, sharp fangs bared as its cape flares out to take up the rest of the page. 
Ms. Burnell almost set up an appointment for Danielle with the school counselor when she saw it, wondering if Dani felt like she was the little girl, trapped amongst nightmares and “monsters.” She decided against it for the time being, until she could speak with the girl’s father, but that’s proving rather unhelpful so far if the contemptuous way the man is looking at her is any indication.
“Did Danielle complete the assignment?” he asks finally. 
“Uhm. Yes.” 
“And adhere to the grading criteria?” 
“Sh-she did,” Ms. Burnell answers reluctantly.
“Then I don’t see the problem,” he answers, finality in the words as his gaze turns to his daughter. He takes a much softer tone with her, brushing the disorderly strands of hair off her face, an absent domesticity in the way he straightens the ponytail gone lopsided. “I think you did a lovely job, dear.” 
“Thank you! I used Alizarin Crimson,” she answers proudly, hair flopping right back into her eyes.
“Excellent choice.” 
“Uhm. Well, there’s also the matter of Danielle’s conduct,” Ms. Burnell cuts in.    
The man lets out an irritated sigh, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back against one of the desks, one ankle crossed over the other, unimpressed gaze finding Ms. Burnell once more. 
“What?” he says, like it’s an inconvenience.
She swallows hard. “She’s been…uhm. Not getting along with some of the other girls.” 
“That is so unfair, Mackenzie started it!” Danielle shouts abruptly, popping up to her knees on her chair, palms slapping down against the desktop. 
“Well that’s not what Mack—” 
The girl keeps going, cutting Ms. Burnell off. 
“She said the only reason Eli agreed to play with me at recess was because Joshua dared him too, and I said nuh unh and she said yuh hunh, and I asked how she knew that, and she couldn’t even prove it, it was so obvious she was making it up!” 
“Mackenzie told me that you said some pretty unkind words to her, Danielle.” 
“Barely! I just said it was a bad look for her to be so jealous of me and just because she looks like she fished her outfit from the same trash bin she got her personality from isn’t any reason to be a jerk.”
Her father’s expression twists into a sharp smirk, amusement lighting his blue eyes, and Ms. Burnell thinks she’s starting to get a better sense of why Danielle is proving to be one of the most challenging students in her class this year. 
“We treat people with kindness and respect in this classroom, Dani. Do you think what you said to Mackenzie was kind and respectful?” 
“Well…” Dani’s gaze drops, expression pinching in thought, and Ms. Burnell thinks she might actually be getting through to her.
“It doesn’t sound as though this other girl was treating Danielle with kindness and respect,” Mr. Masters answers, the words coming out with a mocking turn, like he finds the concepts incidental at best.
“That’s true. She did start it,” Dani reasserts, turning her gaze up to her dad.  
“I’ve spoken to Mackenzie about her part in everything,” Ms. Burnell answers tightly. “But we’re here to talk about Danielle’s conduct. That’s not the only incident of its kind that’s occurred this year and—” 
“You know, it sounds to me as though Danielle’s doing just fine,” Mr. Masters says, pushing up to a proper stand, tugging the bottom of his sleeves and smoothing the dark, wrinkleless fabric.
“But—” 
“Did she make this girl cry?” 
“Well. No, but—” 
“And how are my daughter’s academics?” he asks, gaze fixed on hers, sending a chill creeping down her spine. 
“Fine, but—” 
“Has she gotten into a physical altercation with anyone?” 
“Not exactly, but—” 
“Started any fires?” he asks, sarcasm and derision dripping from the words. 
“No, she hasn’t started any fires.” 
“Then I believe this meeting is finished. Thank you for your time, Ms…”
“Burnell,” she answers weakly.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Burnell. Danielle, are you ready to go?”
“Yup!” She pops up to an enthusiastic stand, rushing over to the windows to snatch up her painting, twisting it toward Ms. Burnell. “Can I take this home?”
She gives a heavy sigh, massaging her temples with her fingertips. “Sure, Dani. That's fine.” 
“Thanks, Ms. B!” As the girl traipses after her dad, a bounce in her step, horrifying painting swinging at her side, Ms. Burnell can hear the girl still chattering away, even as they pass out of her classroom, voices growing distant. “Do you think I should have made Mackenzie cry?” she asks.
Ms. Burnell is glad she can’t hear the man’s response—she doesn’t even want to know his answer.
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