#Lew is so soft and intimate

[lupoteodoro]

Lew? Wake up.

That's fantastic, Lew, good for you.

Lew?

My friend, Lew, died in 1995.

#Lew #winnix #band of brothers #lewis nixon #dick winters #Lew and Nix are different #Lew is so soft and intimate #Oh Lew

[thisismeracing]

King of my heart | MS47 | part. 10

Pairing: hamilton!reader (she/her) x mick schumacher

Warnings: curse words, mentions of food and alcohol, smut (p in v, oral - fem receiving), not proofread etc etc. Minors DNI!

word count: 3.3k

part. 09 | series masterlist | part 11 | taglist

Summary: Mick Schumacher rode a lousy wave for quite some time, so when the sky gets cleaner and the sun brighter he just knows something terrible may be in store for him. Whereas y/n was just so magnetic, and the possibilities of life with her seemed better than anything his mind could ever create, that’s why, for the first time in forever, he throws cautious carelessly through the window, hoping to get to the finish line before it catches up on him.

Y/n woke up to soft skin and a hard chest under her. There was one arm looped around her waist keeping her securely close. She opened her eyes to Mick’s room. Not a surprise, Yn remembered everything, but still, she took the time to observe her clothes on his bathroom floor, her heels lazily thrown around, the blank he was using still on the sofa, his luggage opened on the ground,  one of his Mercedes shirt dangling from a chair. Being in his room felt intimate, even more so when the German was sound asleep under her. 

Sleeping with someone meant you trusted them because you’re completely vulnerable while out. And who would let themselves be vulnerable around someone they do not trust? How could you peacefully sleep knowing someone is close to you and not being sure this person only wants your best? 

Y/n tentatively runs her fingers over Mick’s smooth skin. It’s like she’s testing if this is real if he is real, if she wasn’t dreaming or still drunk from last night. And as it turns out, he was way too real because as soon as the tip of her fingers went from his collarbone to his neck, he mumbled something in his sleep and tightened his hold on her. 

When she’s finally able to put a bit of space from his body, she sits up admiring Mick’s features, his long lashes, his messy blond hair, and the way his chest would rise up and down with every calm breath he took. She stared at his pink lips and relished in the way they felt against her neck and shoulders the other night. When realization, this time sober realization, hit her again, she was all the way inside her head thinking about how she liked Mick and how she wanted to experience drunk nights and sober mornings with him to hear her phone ping. Only when the sound came two more times did she dentangled her body from the German and grabbed the device that, for some reason, was in the middle of the bedroom floor. 

It was a message from Lewis making sure she was ok and asking where she was. 

Yn panicked. Should she tell him she slept with Mick but just slept? Should she give up and confess that she liked his friend and she was scared as hell to do something about it? 

In the midst of the chaos, Yn grabbed a pair of underpants from Mick’s luggage and one of his sweatpants before hazily putting it on and grabbing her heels and bag. She gave one last look at the bed watching the German sleep peacefully, and she felt horrible for leaving without saying anything, without so much as a message, but her mind was everywhere, and so were her feelings. 

It was still early, and the movement in the corridors was close to none, so Yn took the opportunity to get to her floor as fast as possible, shower, and only then knock at her brother’s door.

“I’m starving. I hope you ordered room service,” Yn quips trying not to appear nervous, and Lewis rolls his eyes playfully. 

“I did. It’s getting here any minute.”

“See? That’s why you’re my favorite brother.”

“The only one you have, fortunately, I don’t know if I wish this burden upon another human being,” he teases, and it's her turn to roll her eyes.

“You love me too much, Lew.”

“I sure do, Bitsy,” the British use her childhood nickname, and Yn smiles, throwing her body in one of the chairs. “I wanted to ask about last night. How was it? I did not see you leave. I only got a text about you being with Mick…”

“He’s a good friend,” she explains.

“A close one for what I’ve been seeing,” and although it's not a judgmental comment, Yn almost flinches. “You know my opinion on this. I think you guys are playing a risky game.” 

“We are not playing games. Mick is my friend, Lew, and it’s nothing more than that,” Yn blurted out, and for a second, she thought that maybe she was trying to convince not only her brother but herself too. “I don’t like him the way you think I do,” now she was really lying. 

“But what if he likes you?” 

“He doesn’t. Mick is just a close friend. I’m exactly the same with Charles, you just don’t see it,” she deflates. 

“Did you sleep with him last night?” 

Her facial expressions shift to annoyance, “I did not, we just got here together because everyone wanted to keep drinking, and I had enough. I am not dating him, nor do I plan to. Believe me.” 

“I’m just worried about you. You’re my little sister,” Lewis confesses, and Yn gets up to hug him.

“You don’t have to worry about me. You have too much on your plate already. And besides, as I told you, Mick and I are nothing. He’s attentive to me because that’s just who he is with everyone, including you.” 

They exchange a look, and before Lewis can add something to the topic his doorbell rang, room service was there, and Yn made sure the next conversation topic was how good the vegan menu was. 

When Yn left for the room, there were some messages from Mick asking where she was and if everything was ok. Yn felt her heart lunge inside her ribcage, part of herself was angry for leaving without saying anything, not even leaving a note, and now not answering his messages, because that’s exactly what she did when she got them: she ignored them.

She had just told her brother she did not like Mick. She kind of made a promise to him. 

But what if it was too late? 

Yn spends at least thirty minutes inside her room in a battle with herself thinking about what she should do, what was right, what was wrong, what her heart wanted, and if she should do it when her cellphone pings again with a message from Mick. He’s apologizing as if he did anything wrong and asking if she’s ok because he was worried. 

Mick did not deserve the silent treatment. He did not deserve to wait for her to decide her shit and be honest with him. That’s why Yn feels terrible because not only she left him to wake up alone, but she ignored him when everything he did was to make her feel safe and good. 

She grabs her cell phone and runs to his room. Consequences be damned. 

Her mind is everywhere when she presses the button to his room, clicking repeatedly as if by doing so, Mick would show up faster. When she heard his voice, half of the confusion going around her head settled, and she took a deep breath, closing her eyes and opening them the second the door clicked open. There he stood, half of his body behind the mahogany. Half of his naked body was because Mick was wearing just a towel around his waist. He was dripping wet. Mick was showering, she gathered. Mick just left the shower. Now the other half of her mind went blank, she stared at him, gaping like a fish, and he seemed as confused as her. What should he say? Why did she leave? What was she doing? Why was she buzzing nonstop? 

“Hey,” Mick breaks the silence. 

“I- I’m sorry I left in the morning.” It’s all Yn can muster.

Mick nods, he seems to think for a second before he takes a step back and pushes the door open a bit wider, inviting her in. 

“I’m gonna change real quick, just-” 

“Wait,” her small hand finds his forearm, and they freeze with the contrast. His skin is hot while hers is a bit cold. “I-” she starts but finds herself lost following some droplets of water running down Mick’s chest. Yn gulps, fingers sliding down from his forearms to his hands, and he seems ready to take her in his, lacing their fingers, and staring patiently at her. 

Schumacher's mind has a lot of questions right now such as How his friendship with Lewis would be? How he would deal with the extra fame that Yn brought along? How they would deal with the constant travel? For some reason, it did not matter at that moment, all that he wanted was her, and he did not give a damn about anything else in the world. They raced many laps to get there and shared too many moments and too many stares. Too much tension. He was in front of the finish line, just waiting for her last signal so he could finally cross it. 

And a signal she gave when, without noticing, Yn took a step toward him. Closer to him. It was like her body was seeking Mick. He inhales before throwing cautiously carelessly through the window and dipping his head closer to hers, their foreheads touching, their noses bumping. Yn stands on her tiptoes like she did at the party, or like she did many other times to peck his cheeks and jaw, but this time, it's finally to find his lips. To discover its taste, and how it will feel against hers, how warm, soft, and wet. 

Her body’s reacting too fast to him. Her nipples already peaking in anticipation. 

They stare at each other for a beat, Yn feels like she could drown inside his ocean-blue eyes, while Mick sees infinite possibilities in her brown ones. 

“I’m not drunk,” she whispers remembering how last night he said they shouldn’t kiss because they had too much alcohol, not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted her to remember. Just like she would remember this morning when the last image her eyes captured was his small smirk before he was on her. 

Her shirt sticks to her body when he brings her closer, damping her body with the water running down on his. Mick’s lips are soft, warm, and precise, he tastes like mint, and she whimpers when he bites her bottom lip waiting for entrance. Her mouth is obedient to him opening like a flower, but so is her body because one of her legs went up on its own accord lacing itself around his waist and bringing him closer.

Mick groans with the contact, he can feel everything, and her taste is even better than he anticipated. He takes the moment to dip one of his hands to her thighs angling her body more open on his and receiving a whimper in response, but he swallows her noises in the kiss. 

“Fuck,” Yn breathes. “I wanted to do this for so long,” it's a confession made in the haze of the moment, her mouth bites and kisses a spot just under his ear, and she feels her body gets hotter with the groan he lets out. 

These moments, when you finally reach something you’ve wanted for so long, something you thought you were not worthy of, you are aware that the earth keeps spinning, that the world goes around as usual, that people are packing, talking, crying, living, but for a while, it’s like everything comes down to that moment. 

For Mick, everything comes down to Yn.

For Yn, everything comes down to Mick. 

When Yn lets out yet another whimper and grounds her hips harder against the blonde in front of her. He fights back a moan and mutters beside her ear, “Let me make you feel good, Schatz.” And what could Yn do if not agree? 

It’s a matter of seconds before both of them are in front of the bed, Mick on his knees in front of Yn, his hands escalating under her dress. They stare at each other for a beat sharing so much in the silence of the room, his fingers hook themselves in the elastic of Yn’s panties, and she grins, holding his shoulder for leverage while stepping out of the piece of cloth. Mick puts her in a seating position in the bed before starting a trail of kisses from her legs to her center. 

Yn watches everything attentively, elbows pushing her body just enough for her to be at eye level with him, to watch the devotion to which Mick treats her. 

Just as his mouth finds her mound in a chaste yet provocative kiss, Yn lets out a gush of air, hips going up to push his face closer. She sees the smirk on his lips before one of his arms pins her waist in place, and he gives her one last look of confirmation before diving into her pussy. His eyes close when Yn’s hands find his hair gripping it tightly and guiding him, making a mess on his face. 

“Just like that, Micky,” she praises, and can almost feel his smirk against her skin.

His free hand reaches up to cup her breasts, and Yn pushes down her dress, exposing the skin for him to touch. His pointer and forefinger pinch her hard nipples, and her hips buck against his face, a loud moan passing between her open lips. 

“Fingers,” Yn breathes, pushing his hand down. 

Mick takes her clit between his lips again before looking up at her, one of his brows furrowed, a defiant smile on display, “I think you can do better than that, Schatz.” And Yn is so desperate to work the knots on her lower belly, that she gives in to Mick’s game.

“Please, Micky, use your fingers.”

So that’s exactly what he does. And he puts all of him into it, he inserts one, and keeps licking her, and just when Yn’s about to protest he inserts a second one, kissing her inner tights and hitting just the spot. 

It’s his name that leaves her mouth between a series of praises when she finally reaches her high. Mick makes sure to help her come down from it, lazily pulling out one finger while keeping the other and dotingly licking off her cum. 

“How do you say?” the blonde whispers, lying on top of her, lips finding a sweet spot on her neck.

“Eh, I’m not sure. I feel like I deserve another one before praising you,” Yn jokes but yelps when he bites the skin between her neck and shoulders. “I was just kidding! Thank you so much, Micky,” she guides his face to hers and sighs when he kisses her passionately. 

“You tasted so good,” Mick mumbles right before lowering his mouth to one of her breasts to suck and bite on her hard nipples. One of her legs goes up his waist again giving the German just enough space to ground his hard dick on her wet pussy. Right now, the only thing between their bodies is the bunched-up dress and Mick’s towel, “take me out of my misery, Yn,” he murmurs. 

“Let me su-”

Mick interrupts, “I will let you do whatever you want, but let me feel you, or I will cum on the spot,” the last sentence makes both of them giggle, excited and ready for the intimacy beyond what they already shared. 

Yn watches Mick get up from the bed and walk to his suitcase, her eyes wander around his body, the way his back muscles are rippled, his messy hair, and his large shoulders. She couldn’t wait to have him close again, that’s why a delightful smile paints her lips when he finally turns around, condom in hand, the towel now thrown somewhere in the room. 

She takes some time to study his whole naked form, and she only notices she’s biting her lips when Mick steps between her legs and holds her face between his fingers. 

“Like what you see that much?” he teases, and she rolls her eyes playfully.

“It’s just…” Yn lowers her eyes watching his abs flex along with his arms to keep him on top of her. “You’re just so gorgeous.”

Mick holds her chin, moving her face to his. “Say it again,” he commands, and she can feel her pussy clench around nothing, “to my face.” 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” she musters up the courage, and her body feels warmer when he gives her a proud smile. She can almost hear the ‘good girl’ go past his pink lips.

When their bodies are aligned, all the fabrics scattered somewhere in the room, their skin against hers, Yn runs her fingers through his hair again, pushing some of the blonde strands off his sweaty face. Mick leans into her touch when her hands find his jaw. He leaves a kiss inside of it before bringing her legs closer, his eyes leaving her for just a second to watch their bodies finally fitting. They both sigh. 

The German litter kisses around her collarbone while waiting for her to adjust to his size before finally pushing all his girth. Yn lets out a string of curses and digs her nails into his shoulders. They know things won’t ever be the same again. 

Yn snaps her hips up in an attempt to tell Mick he can move and that he does. His pelvis withdraws just enough before pushing it all in one go, everything hits just right, and they both moan, one more sound added to the symphony around the room. Their hips find again, and Mick takes the opportunity to improve his pace. Yn legs circle his waist, bringing him impossibly closer, so much so that every time he goes all the way in, he brushes her clit. 

“You’re taking me so well, making me feel so good,” Mick remarks between strokes, and Yn grins.

“You have such a dirty mouth. I knew you were kind of a freak, and it’s so hot,” she declares and he smirks. 

“You haven’t seen half of it.” 

“I’m hoping you’re gonna show me,” 

“Oh, I plan to,” Mick declares before positioning his body upward and putting one of Yn’s legs on his shoulder. The change of positions proved to be even more intimate, the way he was hitting so many new spots made her moan louder. He’s big and hard inside of her, and every time he goes out to get inside again, Yn can feel her pussy stretching out to accommodate him on this new angle. 

Her body is already sensitive from the first orgasm, consequently, when Mick’s fingers find her clit Yn can feel herself losing the edges, her body slipping closer to her high. 

“I’m about to cum,” her voice is almost inaudible between the noises their bodies are making together, but Mick still caught it and gives her a nod. 

“Let go, Schatz,” he instructs while guiding her body. Yn calls out his name, toes curling and pussy clenching. Mick’s strokes getting harder and messier by the time, their eyes not leaving each other. 

“I wanna see you finish,” she hisses if he kept going, she would cum again. 

Yn’s hands travel down his body scratching just over his abs, and he tenses, her touch having powerful effects on him. It doesn’t take too long for Mick to fall over the pleasure cliff when Yn purposely clenches around him again, eyes locking during the whole moment.

His body falls on top of her with caution so that they wouldn’t hurt each other, and Yn smiled lazily running her nails over his back. Their bodies are sweaty and spent, and there’s no better feeling. Mick pushes up the upper half of his body to study the woman under him. Her curls around her head like a halo, flushed cheeks, and post orgasm smile on her plush lips, he can’t help but dip his face to her, going for a languid kiss. 

 “Can I suck you off now?” she asks sweetly, blinking her eyes at him before they both burst into laughter. 

“Let me at least drink some water. I didn’t even have breakfast yet.” 

“Oh, I think you did,” she points down to her body and makes a clean motion on his lips, bringing yet another fit of snickers to the room. 

“You’re insufferable,” Mick voiced before kissing her again.

“You like me just like that,” Yn points out, and the German grins. “I do. I really do.” 

taglist: @sachaa-ff @ferrariloverr @kenanlotus0 @lara03 (I can't seem to find this username, so I'm guessing whoever you are typed it wrong :( make sure to resend so that I know your correct URL and can tag you <3

#f1 imagines #mick schumacher imagine #f1 imagine #black!reader #mick schumacher x reader #hamilton!reader #mick schumacher social media au #mick schumacher #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher one shot #mick schumacher x black!reader #ms47

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

Ignorance Is Blitzed (Part 7)

Ron Speirs x Reader

Summary: When you come into contact with some substance that makes you sick while on a routine building search, Ron realizes he may not be as emotionally detached as he’d thought initially thought.

Warnings: SMUT! YA GIRL FINALLY WROTE THE SMUT!, light angst, fluff, SMUT, Ron is a dom but he’s so into you he turns into a soft!dom, Reader is a mess, Ron is a tease, SMUT!

~

~ ~ ~ ~

Lewis Nixon was a dead man.

Even if Ron’s sudden (if not minute) PDA hadn’t clued you in to the fact that someone had told him about Nuremberg, the look of fear in Lewis’s eyes when you’d caught his gaze basically confirmed it.

 You’d mumbled something about getting some air to Ron as you watched Lewis hightail it out of there, hot on his heels as he tried to escape the wrath that you were sure showed plainly on your face.

He doesn’t get far.

 When you catch his elbow in what seemed to be the hotel staff’s dining room, he whines like a wounded animal and holds his hands up pleadingly.

 “I swear to God I, thought you’d told him already—”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Nix scoffed at that, despite the fear clearly paling his face.

“Okay, one- people were going to find out eventually. Two? How in the hell was i supposed to know that you hadn’t told your boyfriend—”

 “Not my boyfriend—”

 “—yes he is your boyfriend- about it? And three: and he doesn’t even seem to be mad about it!”

 You scoff at that, hands going to your hips as you stare at him in disbelief.

 “It wasn’t something for you to tell- if the news that I was being asked to go in hadn’t come from you in the first place, I’d never have told you either! No one was supposed to know—!”

 “What were you going to do, just dump him and disappear?!”

 Your rebuttal sticks in your throat, guilt flooding through your veins at the bluntness of his question.

It must show on your face, because Lewis furrows his brows and looks at you in disbelief.

 “No… Y/N, you aren’t seriously trying to tell me that you—?”

 “I was giving him a clean break. I am giving him a clean break.”

 You’d made the decision after you’d heard about Ron’s decision to stay with Easy and go to Japan, when you’d realized that neither of you were going to be going home anytime soon. 

In Ron’s case, he may not come home at all- and if you knew him as well as you thought you did, you knew what that would mean for the two of you. 

Hollow promises to keep in touch, followed by equally well-intentioned agreements to find the other when it all was over, both of you ultimately knowing in your heart of hearts that those commitments would inevitably fizzle out and die the moment the going got tough.

 You didn’t want that, didn’t want to trap Ron in something that was destined to fail from the get-go.

As much as he liked you, cared for you, you also knew who he was. What he would always be.

A ruthless, brilliant soldier, ready to lay it all on the line at the first opportunity. And you loved him too much to ever ask him to be anything else.

 He deserved to find happiness- even if it wasn’t with you.

 Nix looked at you pityingly, a forlorn look on his face as he digested what you’d said.

 “Look, I don’t know the guy well,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and taking a step towards you to rest a hand on your tense shoulder. “But anyone with eyes can see that you mean a lot to him.”

 You nod and offer him a tight smile, eyes drifting downward to avoid letting any potential tears come to the surface. “I know I do- I don’t doubt that. It’s not about how things are right now, though. We don’t get to live in the right now for much longer.”

 The hand on your shoulder squeezes at the muscle there, a small sound of admonishment escaping under Lew’s breath as you feel him watch you. He doesn’t like what you’re saying- you can tell that he wants to argue that you’re being ridiculous.

 But even he knows that it wouldn’t be of any use. It wouldn’t change your mind.

 “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here, Y/N. I’d bet if the others knew, they wouldn’t like it much either.”

 You sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you look back up at him and nod. “Guess I’m breaking up with all of you, aren’t I?”

 Nixon’s eyes are shining, and you wonder if he’d be this upset if he were 100% sober. When you step into him to embrace him, he beats you to the punch and wraps his arms around you quickly, taking a deep breath that seems to make his chest expand to twice his size.

 “I suppose you’re right. Not that being dumped ever stopped me before,” he gives you a sad smile when he eventually releases you, giving your shoulder a final pat before taking his hands away. 

“Don’t be surprised when I show up at your window, drunk as a skunk and proclaiming my undying love for you at 3 am sometime in the near future.”

 As you open your mouth to reply, you see Nix’s focus flick to something past your shoulder.

Even if you hadn’t seen the fear on the man’s face, you still would’ve known that it was Ron.

 Because of course it would be him. 

 Gritting your teeth, you sigh and close your eyes. Dread tasted sour on your tongue as you turned your head to peer over your shoulder, flinching at the look of silent fury marring his handsome face. Sniffing, you force yourself to speak despite the tightness clenching at your throat.

 “You should go, Lew,” you say quietly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 Lewis says nothing as you turn around to face Ron, the sound of his retreating footsteps barely registering in your ears as anxiety sends blood thrumming loudly in your ears. Ron’s sharp eyes make you feel impossibly small, and you think you can now understand what everyone else had been talking about for the past few years. Ron was scary. You did feel scared.

 “You and I need to get some things straightened out.”

 His words are clipped, and if he sees you flinch at the tone in his voice he doesn’t show it. You inhale shakily, realizing you had been holding your breath for too long and wetting your lips as you searched for the right words to say.

 Just as you open your mouth to speak, Ron turns on his heel and begins to stride off, and once you are able to unstick the soles of your shoes from the floor you trail after him cautiously. When you reach the doorway, you see that he’s stopped a few paces from the door frame, waiting. In a move that surprises you, he uncurls his hand from the fist it had been in and holds it out to you, eyes heavy and dark and trained on you.

 Quickly, you flicker your eyes between his face and his hand, only stepping forward and taking it after you’ve mustered up enough confidence that it wasn’t going to be something you regretted doing. You’d never had someone mad at you like this before, at least not for as intimate a reason as he was now. Of course, you’d never allowed yourself to care for someone like this before either- maybe this mortifying combination of guilt and heartbreak was normal.

 The moment your hand finds his, he turns away from you and starts walking again, and as you follow you realize that he’s leading you towards the room you both share. There's no softness in the way his hand holds yours, the grip firm and unyielding. It almost makes you feel like a child being pulled off for a private scolding from a parent.

You hate it.

 The journey to your room is both too long and not nearly long enough, and it’s only when he opens the door and releases your hand that you fear that you may never get the chance to feel his touch ever again. That reality was already one you’d been dreading, with him leaving so soon to go where you could not follow. The thought of that time coming sooner because of something like this was devastating.

 You stand in front of the door once it closes, ready to have him ask you to leave at a moment’s notice. Unblinking, you watch him shirk off his jacket and toss it on a nearby chair, shrugging the suspenders down from his shoulders with a spark of agitation. His hair has begun to fall into disarray, and the idea of him hating you while looking so unfairly handsome makes your heart tighten painfully in your chest. 

Unwilling to wait out the inevitable for a moment longer, you clear your throat at steel yourself.

 “Ron-”

 “You don’t get to hide that kind of shit from me.”

 He doesn’t look at you as he speaks, his voice quiet and uncomfortably devoid of emotion. As he walks over to the table that held a decanter of whiskey and fine crystal glasses to pour a drink, you tuck some of your hair behind your ear and try again

 “I was just trying to give—”

 “—give me a 'clean break', yeah. I heard.”

 Bringing the glass to his lips and taking a sip, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.

“Did you ever think about asking me what I wanted?“

 That does throw you, and as he sets the glass down and turns to look at you you make no move to hide the look of confusion on your face. Glancing down at your shoes, you shake your head softly and try and find your voice once more

 “I- but you don’t want this. You don’t want to be tied down—”

 “And what makes you so confident that you know what I want, huh?” 

There's clear anger in his voice now, and you look up just in time to watch him walk over to you. You straighten as he comes to a stop right before you, hands braced on his hips as he all but glowers down at you. 

 “You don’t get to make those sort of decisions for me- got it?”

He emphasizes the bite on the ‘t’ in ‘it’, the puff of air from his breath hitting your face. 

 When you make to turn away from him, one of his hands flashes up to grip your jaw- his touch gentle but authoritative enough that you know it’d be a bad idea to go against it.  Something about the movement irks you, makes your heart beat faster from something much darker than fear or dread. Pressing your lips into a thin line, you tilt your head back infinitesimally. Defiantly. 

 Ron notices, his nostrils flaring slightly. “Last time I checked, you aren’t a mind reader- and even if you were, you’d be a shit one because if you think what I want is anything other than you, you really don’t know me at all.”

 “Stop it, Ron,” you mutter quietly, watching as his eyes flicker down to your mouth before dragging back up to meet your eyes again. “You’re being mean.”

 He exhales sharply at that, a ghost of a rueful smile quirking his mouth before shaking his head. 

“Am I?”

 When you roll your eyes, he steps into you even more, using his hold on your jaw to tilt your head back further so you are still able to hold his glare.

 “Like it or not, Y/N, you’re it for me- you got that? If you don’t want to believe me, that’s fine- but know that I’d tear this whole entire goddamned continent apart if you wanted me to—”

 “Why!?” you snap, his declaration bringing forth the sadness you’d managed to temporarily quell. 

 At the sight of tears refilling your eyes, Ron’s brows furrow and some of the darkness leaves his face. Shaking your head imploringly, you bring a hand up to circle his wrist. 

 “You could do anything, be anywhere with anyone you wanted! We….we’re just children, Ronald- and I love you but I’d never delude myself into pretending that I know the first thing about how to do this- any of this!”

You bring your other hand up to rest lightly on his chest, lowering your gaze to look at the slight tremble of your fingers as you do so. 

 “You were born for greatness, born to lead and fight and conquer….but all I was born to do was just exist for other people- like my parents or my family or whoever else needed something from me. Then, eventually, become somebody’s wife and give him a family. But….. I threw away any chance of that future in order to be here, and now that this is ending I have no idea what I’m supposed to do!”

 Swallowing in a vain attempt to keep your voice from breaking, you look back up at him, offering him a small, shaky smile.

“I won’t drag you down that mess with me, you deserve more than that- than me. I won’t ruin you, too—”

 “Y/N,” Ron murmurs admonishingly.

 “What?!”

 With an ease that you two had only just begun to establish, he seals his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up and forcing you to take the first deep breath you’d taken in a long time. There’s an edge of desperation to it- just as there had been in your first kiss back all those months ago in Foy. 

 Only this time his lips taste like whiskey and something a tinge more wicked. 

A promise of more.

 Breaking the kiss but keeping his face close you yours, Ron brings his other hand up to cup your face. Brushing his thumb across your bottom lip, he eyes you softly.

 “Don’t tell me what I deserve.” 

Kiss.

“Stop telling me what to do.” 

Kiss 

“Let me conquer.”

 This kiss is filthy, his lips plush and confident and unafraid in their mission to leave you completely mindless. Ron has stepped so close to you that your head has tilted all the way back into his hands, his fingers purposefully twisting in your roots so he has more control over the kiss.

 Despite the fact that he’s never handled you this way before- you have no desire to ask him to slow down or be gentler.

You like it. You want more.

 When you whimper into his mouth, you can feel him grin briefly before sliding one hand down your back to fist at the material of your shirt and bunching it free from where it had been tucked into the back of your pants. 

 Up until now, Ron had been nothing but gentle when it came to you- and while you knew him to be dominant and ruthless in battle you’d considered what his temperament would be like as a lover. Clearly, the confidence translated. 

 You slide the hand that had been on his chest up and around his shoulders, your elbow hooking around his neck and pulling him closer. As you nip at his bottom lip, Ron hums low in his chest. The hand he’d had on the small of your back has moved down to grip at your ass, and with a quick peck he pulls back slightly.

 “Hold on,” he grumbles, and just as you open your mouth to ask for clarification Ron wraps his arms around your hips and lifts you so you’re having to lean into him, your feet stumbling across the floor as he turns you both and quickly walks the both of you to the bed. 

 He’s barely set you down before his hands find the hem of your blouse again, rucking it up your sides before your brain catches up with him and you tear it over your head. Your skin feels hot, and it feels even hotter at the feeling of Ron’s lips mouthing at the tops of your breasts as you fumble with the clasp of your bra.

 “Shit,” you hear yourself curse, hating your fingers for being so uncoordinated. Undeterred by the fabric of the bra you’d pinched from one of the homes the lot of you had been asked to secure a week ago, Ron bites softly at your nipples until they stiffen. When you finally unhook the fastenings, he pulls the cups of the bra down easily and continues his attentions.

 You curse again, head swimming at the realization that his own fingers have found the zipper of your pants and begun to pull it down. Carding your hands through his hair, you desperately try and calm your breathing while distantly realizing that he’s still fully clothed.

 “Ron,” you gasp, looking down your chest and meeting his bright eyes as he sucks marks down the valley between your breasts. “I wanna see you—”

 His hum is dark as he mockingly tilts his head at you, successfully pulling the fabric of your trousers down your hips until gravity takes over and it all pools at your feet.

 “You are seeing me,” he insists quietly, trailing his blunt fingernails down your hips until they catch your underwear and shucking them down your legs as well. When you frown he bites some of the skin just under your left breast, chuckling wickedly at the squeak of surprise you’re unable to hide.

 “Take your shirt off!” you nearly whine, your head falling back as he laves at the bite with his tongue. “You’re not being- shit….you’re being unfair—!”

 “Then do something about it.”

 You do whine at that, too frustrated to worry about being gentle as you take your hands from his hair to claw at his shirt- bunching and pulling at the fabric covering his back until you manage to get enough in your fists to pull it gracelessly over his head. Pure want has boiled your blood like a fever, with the only two thoughts in your mind being more more more and faster faster faster.

 Before you can work his shirt any further down his arms, he shoves you back unceremoniously onto the bed, quick to pull your hips to the edge of the bed before bothering to continue undressing himself. 

With a nearly comical desperation, you toe off your shoes, licking your dry lips as you watch the muscles of his torso bunch and lengthen as he strips the remainder of his clothing off- his eyes on you the entire time and his gaze doing nothing to calm the heaving of your chest.

 “Christ, look at you,” he says quietly, a clear note of pride in his voice. “Too pretty for your own good, aren’t you?”

 You blush at that, swallowing audibly at the praise and squeezing your eyes shut.

It all just was so much….

 When you open your eyes again, you moan at the sight of him kneeling before you and pulling at your legs until they were over his shoulders. As you start to sit up you are pushed back down again by his hand on your chest, the feeling of his breath on your sex robbing you of any speech capabilities you had previously possessed.

 “Just like that,” he commands gently. “Stay just like that.”

 Maybe it was because it had been a while since you’d had any sort of sexual intimacy with another person, or perhaps it had more to do with the fact that your previous sexual partners hadn’t been particularly invested in the act, but one thing was for certain:

 Ron Speirs was unfathomably good at cunnilingus.

 You could only gape stupidly at the ceiling with your mouth open in a silent scream of overwhelm as he took your clit between his lips and absolutely ruined you- his tongue and teeth and fingers tearing you away from reality with a nearly cruel proficiency. It was almost humiliating how effectively he dismantled your already tenuous sense of composure, and if you had any sense of pride left you probably would’ve hated him for it.

 He was making a mess of you, and he was doing it too easily.

 Feeling a sheen of sweat glisten your skin, you can only hold onto him as your body trembles- and it’s all you can do to keep your hips on the bed as your back arches and your body rocks.

 “Ron, please….I’m gonna cum—” you hear yourself choke out in warning, squeezing your eyes shut as something burning hot and sugar-sweet builds deliciously in your lower belly

 “Oh yeah?” you feel him ask, one of his arms hooking around your hips to help still you. “Want to bet?”

 Your eyes flash open

“What—?!”

 You nearly howl in fury when he takes his mouth away, instantly sitting up to watch in betrayed dismay as he curls two fingers inside of you and adds a new kind of stimulation- one that keeps you on that cruel precipice without offering you any sort of relief.

 He smirks up at you, and any affection you’d previously held for him is jeopardized by his clear mirth at the situation. 

 “Sorry, Sweetheart,” Ron says lowly, nothing in his voice conveying any sort of remorse. “But you don’t get to call the shots right now.”

 You open and close your mouth desperately, unable to decide which sort of response would get you what you wanted. A frustrated shriek slips out in the interim, and when his smile broadens you remove your hands from his hair and smack at his head.

 “Jesus Christ, Ron! What’s the matter with you—?!”

 “Do you have any idea how good you taste, Y/N?” He continues as if you hadn’t spoken at all, ducking down to place a greedy kiss to your sex before pulling back again. “To think you were going to have me leave without letting me get my mouth on the source….absolutely heartless—”

 “I get it, okay? Fuck Ron! What more do you want me to do?” 

 You wince at the addition to a third finger inside of you, the stretch adding the tiniest bit of ache to your horribly prolonged almost-orgasm. The forearm across your hips holds you down when you try to squirm in any direction in hopes of getting some more stimulation.

 “Apologize.”

 You widen your eyes at him, a scowl on your face as you look down your panting chest at him. “What?”

 Like the cruel bastard he is, Ron shrugs as if the solution to all of this has been obvious the whole time.

“Say you’re sorry, and I’ll make it all better.”

 Shaking your head, you hear yourself scoff. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

 You yelp as he turns his head to bite your thigh, fisting a handful of his hair to pull him away.

 Smoothing the flat of his tongue over the bite, he closes his eyes wistfully and sighs.

 “Close, but that’s not what I want to hear,” Ron says before tilting his head and looking back up at you, the tendons in his forearm pronounced as his fingers tirelessly continue their strokes inside of you.  

“Say it. Say ‘Ron, I’m sorry.”

 Biting the insides of your cheeks, you fix him with a glare and sigh with frustration.

“Fine! I’m sorry, okay? I’m really fucking sorry, Ron!”

 He purses his lips, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. You whimper as he slides his fingers out from inside you, but before you can think yourself victorious Ron uses those fingers to start rolling your clit- still keeping you on the edge while giving you just a hint of what you needed.

 “Goddamnit, RONALD—!”

 “Tell me that you deserve me,” he demands, his words taking on a gravelly tone. As you search his eyes, you see a heartbreaking shine of sincerity staring back at you.  “Say it and then I’ll let you cum.”

 Your throat is becoming tight, an unexpected wave of emotion hitting you and bringing tears to your eyes. The hand not currently torturing your clit squeezes your hip, and with a shake of your head you close your eyes.

 “I-I deserve you,” you acquiesce, feeling your lower lip threatening to quiver. “I’m sorry.”

 “Gutes Mädchen (good girl).”

 Your head falls back with a moan as he latches his mouth to you again, body bowing as he ruthlessly finishes what he’d started and destroys you- sending you spiraling into bright euphoria and letting you float in the heat of it. You’re suddenly thankful for the arm across your hips, for it’s the only thing anchoring you to the real world as you shake for him.

 “So perfect,” you can hear him saying, his voice now at your ear as you become aware of the press of his cock between your lower lips. “You’re the most perfect thing I've ever seen.”

 Whining pathetically, you tilt your head back and clutch at his back.

“Please,” you beg, eyelids heavy and gaze unfocused. “Please—”

 He doesn’t draw it out this time, quickly hooking his arm under your left leg and opening your hips so he can press himself inside of you. Still wrung out for your orgasm, you can only cry out softly at the feeling of him bottoming out, a broken sound of his own vibrating through his chest into yours.

 You’ve never considered Ron to be a particularly talkative person, so when he begins to babble it catches you off guard while simultaneously endearing him to you further.

 “I can’t believe how good you feel You surely were sent to ruin me God you’re such a good girl Better than I could’ve imagined Squeezing me so tightly I don’t want to be without you I want nothing else than this In what world would you think that I wouldn’t adore you I am yours entirely you ridiculous woman Shit I can feel you shaking Getting so tight Fuck do that again Are you going to cum again I want to hear you scream….”

 Too lost in his words, you don’t know if you actually screamed as you came again- but you do know that at some point you’ve turned your head and sealed your lips to his. His hips stutter as he cums with a breath shout, his free hand dancing up and down your side with a carnal desperation that you could understand but not replicate- not now.

 Because now you are well and truly wrung out.

 The weight of Ron’s body atop yours is welcome, and the sweet way he kisses you is almost too much for your fragile mind to process.

 “Y/N?”

 Ron’s voice is soft, and as you blink your eyes open you cannot help but smile satedly up at him. He looks beautiful, and the soft way he’s looking at you makes you feel beautiful, too.

“Hm?”

 He brings a hand to your face and smooths some of your hair behind your torn ear. 

“You weren’t born for someone else,” he says the words carefully, as if he is struggling with ensuring that they are the right ones. “But…. I’m starting to think that maybe I was. Or that, maybe we were…..Do you get what I’m trying to say?”

 Taking his face between your hands, you take a deep breath and let your eyes drift across his handsome face.

Lifting your head, you lightly press your lips to his and sigh.

 “Yeah, Ron….I think I do.”

 He deepens the kiss, pulling you with him as he rolls to the side and holds you against him.

 “Mo Leannan,” he murmurs into your hair as you rest your cheek against his chest. “Mo Chridhe.”

 You furrowed your brow, the words unfamiliar and in a language you could not identify. It was common knowledge that Ron spoke a passable level of German, but from the way his mouth wrapped around these words, you wondered if he was fluent in another language and had just never told you about it.

 “What did you say?” you asked softly, exhaustion having crept into both of your bodies and rendered you mostly immobile.

 Humming, Ron wraps the hand you’d rested on his chest in his and brings it up to his face so he can kiss your palm.

 “Later,” he says sleepily before lowering your joined hands to rest on his sternum. “I’ll tell you later. Rest.”

 And because you believe him, you do as he says and allow yourself to be swept away.

~ ~ ~

HELLO AND HI! This took forever and a day to write but only bc I overthought everyhting and got distracted by other shiny things SO WHOOPS MY B! Anyhoo- I love ya’ll and remember to hydrate!

Taglist: @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​ @ricksmorty​ @liebgotttme​

#band of brothers imagines #band of brothers x reader #ron speirs x reader #ronald speirs x reader #ron speirs imagines #problematicfavesareproblematic

[filthyair]

girl this prompt list really got me thinking so i’m back🤭 think about 57 & 58 w/ lew but it’s soft and intense and really intimate 😭

Oooof yes, I’m gonna let you into my brain for a moment bestie cause all I was thinking about today was super intense intimate sex with Lewis so this is the perfect last request

#ask

[mercurygray]

Lovely Merc, could I please request the following passage from the Normandy invasion chapter of TDS for director's commentary?💛

“Do I get that kiss now? You did promise. Or have you forgotten since yesterday?”

Joan raised her eyebrows, remembering that she had, indeed, said that - and only yesterday, too. How far away the Upottery airfield seemed now, after everything they’d seen today. She adjusted her helmet, laid a hand on Lew’s shoulder and leaned in to give him a peck on both cheeks, in the French fashion. “Bienvenue a Normandie,” she said with a soft smile, stepping back.

“There one in there for Dick, too?” Lewis said, grinning in the dark. “After the day he’s had I think a hero’s welcome wouldn’t be amiss. Captured a map that had every single Kraut gun in Normandy on it.”

He was glad, suddenly, that it was dark, because the prospect of Joan kissing him - even in the friendly, collegial way she’d kissed Lewis - brought a flush to his face, and he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the wine. Why on earth had Lew even asked? “Or maybe Dick can give you one,” Lewis went on, still smiling. “That intel about the commander’s schedule was solid stuff.”

Dick felt his face redden again, but he shouldn’t have worried; Joan wasn’t taking him seriously at all. “It’s bad form for new commanding officers,” she said, quietly, meeting Dick’s eye with a patient stare. “Wouldn’t want to leave cam cream on his collar, have people talk before he’s even started the job.”

I love this scene so much, you don't even know.

When I started this story, it was incredibly important to me that this thing between Dick and Joan be organic - and that it works out to something that looks like a relationship between people who recognize, appreciate, and love each other's strengths, and so one of the things that I keep coming back to is moments where Dick gets to see Joan do something awesome and appreciate it for a second.

(Not only does this help the relationship, but it also helps the audience believe that Joan is great.)

Which is not what's happening here, necessarily - but it is what JUST happened before this. They both just talked about losing a soldier - Joan about Judy and Dick about Hall. It is an incredibly vulnerable moment. Possibly even more vulnerable than a kiss.

So after that, after that heavy moment, here is Lewis, who loves to tease, who looks at his two friends off having a quiet moment and can't resist getting in there to make a joke, as he often does. He asks for the kiss he was promised the day before, and Joan responds with a bise, a ceremonial or friendly kiss - the letter of the law but not the intention. And Lewis KNOWS that he's been had - so he goes a step farther. They kiss conquering heroes, don't they, we've got a couple of those around here! Dick, you could kiss Joan! It would be appropriate! Or the other way 'round! Either works! He's giving them plausible deniability to start something here. It's dark. No one else would see.

And Dick gets a little angry, or protective, or embarrassed, or all of them at once. Toward the beginning of the story he frequently doesn't have words for his emotions. In his mind, this reaction is more about "How dare you ask for something else she doesn't want to give."

Whereas Joan...doesn't quite say no. The best lies are the ones you don't have to make up, and what she says amounts to "Well, I'd like to, but I don't want people to talk." (Which is true. In this moment, there is nothing she would like more than to kiss Dick and tell him it will be okay, and to hell with the cam cream.) But she can't. And she very intentionally uses an image related to people who have affairs (lipstick on his collar) to describe why.

And what really seals this scene is what comes after - Joan leaves, and NIx just looks at Dick like he's disappointed. I set up your shot, buddy. It was dark! You were alone! It was RIGHT THERE. And then he says that it's just the first day - intimating that there will be other days, other dark nights, and other chances to finally make this happen.

But Dick doesn't understand what he means.

#director's commentary #the darkening sky

[himbowelsh]

18 with winnix for the kiss prompts please!

sha-la-la-la my oh my, looks like the boy’s too shy  💋 (accepting!) 18.   kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

this definitely...  escalated far past where you wanted/needed it to go, and turned into more of an exploration of their post-war relationship, when winters joins nix in new jersey...   i had fun with it, but oof, did it ever kinda spiral.  there’s definitely kissing towards the end, though, so i hope you enjoy!!

To be fair, Nix never promised him an enjoyable night.

His first pitch was “a party”. Dick, who’s had enough experience with the sort of parties that go on in Nixon, New Jersey, replied that he had paperwork to catch up on. It was a good excuse because it wasn’t a lie. Nix brooded for a solid thirty seconds before popping back up, smile bright, to declare, “an evening affair, then, and you’re my date. You have to be, since I need one, and I haven’t got anyone else.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “What about that girl, the one with the — the red hair —?”

“Hah,” replied Nix, in a flat tone that suggested his redheaded girlfriend was ancient history.

“One of the lobby girls, then.”

“Hah.”

“Blanche?”

“Hah!”

“I’m sure your mother would be honored to go with you.”

Nix had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling down, laughing.

By the time he regained his composure, Dick was pretty much resigned to accompanying him for the evening. He’s never been able to say no to Nix anyways, even during the war. Being home — Nix’s home — and seeing him in his element — for better or worse — just makes it harder. Something about Nix in the bustling atmosphere of the New Jersey social scene is beguiling, electric, and a bit haunted. Like watching a film noir, Dick can never look away.

He doesn’t expect to have a good time. Nix’s parties are not designed to be good times for people who don’t smoke, drink, or gamble. Nix was kind enough not to remark on the novel tucked into the inside pocket of Dick’s suit jacket as they strode up the walkway towards the roaring party. Loud music blared from open windows; lights and laughter twinkled from beyond the spacious French doorways. It was only nine o’clock, but Dick could feel exhaustion creeping up on him already.

“Come on,” Nix encouraged, guiding him into the townhouse with a proud hand on his elbow. “Let’s set you up on a nice sofa and find a Shirley Temple. Extra cherries, just for you.”

The one thing Dick will credit Lewis Nixon’s parties for — they’re never stingy with the cherries.

Now, three hours into the affair, he sets aside his most recent soda and scans the crowd. As the hours wind away, the raucous group has started to thin out. Either the partiers are headed somewhere else, or all have appointments to keep in the morning, because they show no signs of lingering into the early hours. Dick can be grateful for that much, at least. Those types of parties typically end with him dozing on a stranger’s sofa until he has to steer a very drunk Nix into the back of the waiting car at 3am. Dick has suffered through enough late evenings to never want to see another one again — though, time after time, he ends up coming out for Nix.

It seems like a quiet one tonight, though, thank goodness. The music has faded to a lull, someone thrumming out a thoughtful tune on the piano. The rowdiest partiers have taken leave, and all that’s left are Nix’s regular companions— the home’s owner, another Ivy League man Nix knows well, along with several of his mistresses; a few other Nixon Nitration folks Dick vaguely recognizes, and their dates; Nix’s sister Blanche, leaning languidly over the piano in a shimmering silver dress; and Nix, sprawled in a chair, top buttons of his shirt undone and hair disheveled.

He looks utterly debauched, and something about it thrills Dick. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, of course, but Nix in his sanguine element is magnetic. He’s like a panther — sleek and relaxed, dangerous under a veneer of nobility. No matter how much he’s had to drink, Nix’s dark gaze is always piercing; he always seems to know something the rest of the room doesn’t, and sometimes it plays on his lips like a hidden treasure.

He’s smirking like that now, and the smirk’s trained directly on Dick… and he can’t look away. It’s impossible. Even if he wanted to, Nix reels him in with that penetrating gaze. It’s all Dick can do to sit up straighter, pretending he is comfortable in this rakish crowd, the only one sober and the only one out of place.

“Speaking of saints,” Nix says at once — loud enough to cut in on whatever theological ramble his Yale buddy was in the middle of, “here’s one now. Sitting in front of us. Dick, come here. Show these fellows what a true Saint Augustine looks like.”

Dick would rather do anything else… but he’d cross a mountain for Lewis Nixon. Crossing the length of a trashed ballroom is only a bit more challenging. He comes to stand at Nix’s side, clearly uncomfortable, while Nix’s friends take him in as though seeing him for the first time this evening.

“You know I’m not Catholic, Lew,” he tries to quip, to break the tense mood. Nix’s hand catches his, squeezing lightly, and Dick’s own unease only grows.

“Neither am I, but we’re pretending for tonight. Gives all the sinning a bit more zest, you know?”

“Sure.” Dick’s hand comes to rest on the back of Nix’s chair, unconsciously craving something to do. One of the host’s mistresses, with bright red lips and sharp eyes, doesn’t miss it.

“Ohh,” she hums, like the word is a wave she must ride to the shore. “Don't say it, Lewis. This is your handsome date?”

Something about the way she says it has Dick’s shoulders tensing in instinctual alarm. Maybe Nix has had far too much to drink, or can read this crowd too well; he doesn’t even flinch at the implication.

“Afraid so,” he replies, a hand creeping up Dick’s sleeve. “Nice enough to hang around all night, even though he’d rather be back home pouring over...  productivity reports. Employee reviews? Staff... surveys?”

“Something like that,” Dick says.

“Something like that.” Nix’s hand runs up and down Dick’s arm, blatantly fond. It takes everything in Dick’s power not to tense up.

None of the assembled crowd seems bothered by such a display, however. Nix’s friends exchange knowing looks, smirking around lit cigarettes or crystal glasses. One woman languidly kicks her heels onto her date’s laugh, shaking her head. From the piano, Blanche runs a hand over her glossy hair, gaze sharp on her brother and his companion. “He’s out of your league, Lewis,” she chimes. Her smirk is catlike, voice like molasses dripping onto spring grass. At times, she looks dangerously like her brother, and Dick isn’t sure how to handle either of them.

Nix’s grip settles around Dick’s upper arm. “Isn’t that the truth?”

When Dick looks down, Nix is looking up. Something about his whiskey-bright gaze knocks the breath from his lungs. It’s too… soft, too tender. Too intimate for this party, to exist among strangers. Nix’s grip on his bicep is firm, and Dick has no desire to pull away. He doesn’t get the chance to question — not even a flicker of uncertainty, a breathless what's he doing — before Nix gives a tug, and Dick all but tumbles into his lap.

He regains his balance like a newborn colt, to the bubbling laughter of Nix’s audience. His cheeks flare, bright red; Nix’s touches, usually so welcome, now linger on his skin like a hot iron. He’s straddling his best friend’s knees, Nix’s arm wrapped around his to steady him, and it’s all Dick can do not to leap back to his feet to salvage whatever slim slice of dignity remains.

“Nix,” he says, voice low in warning.

“Relax, Dick,” he answers, equally softspoken. “It’s all a game. Don’t you see? None of it really matters.”

It matters to me, he wants to say...  because Nix has never held him without it mattering, has never caressed him without every sensation engraving itself permanently into Dick’s memory. Nix has never… not mattered to him. Some part of Dick, an small yet insidious murmur, wonders when he became insignificant to him.

The way Nix caresses his face is anything but meaningless, though… as is the way his dark gaze lingers on his lips, simmering for so long that Dick can feel its heat. Nix’s thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, and instinctively Dick draws back.

Something hurt flashes in Nix’s eyes. Dick cannot feel guilty. He doesn’t want this — can’t Nix understand that? Not here, not now, not putting on a show for an audience. Not when Nix is whiskey-soaked and careless, so far gone that Dick could get drunk off the taste of him. If this is a game, Dick doesn’t want to play.

“Father isn’t around for you to give a coronary, Lewis.” Blanche’s voice echoes as though from the other side of a tunnel, practically bored. “Save it for the next family dinner, at least.”

Gradually, Nix’s grip on Dick’s waist loosens. His touch pulls away from his face, finding Dick’s hand instead. He raises it to his mouth and lets it linger there — a sweet mockery of a kiss — before releasing Dick entirely. 

Dick pulls away, regaining his posture and his dignity. The eyes of the room are all on him now, as surely as they were on the jazz singer earlier in the night. He can’t take their weight, or their curiosity. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead, he brushes himself down and murmurs an excuse to Nix. “Just going to get some air.”

Nix doesn’t try to stop him.

Stepping out into the cool night is like being released from prison. Dick braces himself against the stone railing of the townhouse’s balcony, gazing at the gravel drive only a few feet below. He could jump it, if he really wanted to — easier that than going back inside and leaving out the front door, wrangling Nix away from his clan. They’re not so far from home — he could walk it, in an hour or so. The fresh air would do his head good. At least in the dark, no one would be able to see him, to wonder and scrutinize…

His mind has gone to a strange place now, and is twisting itself in tangles. Recognizing his own impossible daydream, Dick sighs, slumping forward. A hand finds his hair, rumbling it. For a long moment, he only breathes, focusing on the autumn air filling his lungs and the crickets chirping in the night, to drown out the storm raging inside.

His nerves are too taut not to notice when someone comes up behind him… but the scent of perfume is familiar, so he doesn’t jump. She sidles up alongside him, inhaling softly in the night air; she blows out the same way Nix does, from deep within her chest. When Dick raises his head, Blanche is not focused on him at all, but looking ahead down the driveway.

“Planning your escape?” she asks lightly. Her mulberry lips curl upwards, without the chore of looking at him. “I don’t blame you. That was painful, in there.”

Dick arches an eyebrow. “You felt it too?”

She has a drink in her hand, but the glass is empty. As Blanche’s attention drifts to it, she seized upon the olive, still speared and languishing inside the glass. With delicate, manicured fingers, she plucks it out and scrutinizes the tiny fruit.

“You can’t let him bully you, Dick,” she says after a moment. The scent of wine may be heavy on her breath, but her words are perfectly sober. “He doesn’t mean to, but it’s instinct around these people. They all like to show off, and he’s proud of you.”

Dick’s brows furrow. He’s not some brand new car, or a gold-plated watch. “Why?”

“Because you’re nothing like them.” Blanche’s dark gaze flickers up to him; for the first time tonight, Dick feels entirely seen. Her lips purse, like she’s fighting back a smile, but something in her eyes reminds him of loneliness. “You don’t belong in this set… and that’s nothing against you, darling, only what you know as well as us. My brother prizes you so highly; he’s proud that you’re here, that you’re with him, that you give him your time and agree to accompany him to these parties, even though you’d much rather be doing anything else.”

Dick’s lips purse. Blanche waits a moment, as though expecting him to protest… but he has nothing to say.

“Rich little boys love their toys. You need to remind him that you aren’t one.” Her fingers drum against the rim of her glass; each clink-clink-clink pierces Dick’s nerves like shrapnel wounds.

“He doesn’t mean anything wrong by it,” he protests, because he knows Nix well enough to understand that. 

“Of course not. If he didn’t care about you…” Blanche’s words trail off, along with her gaze. She drifts back out to the driveway, painted lips pursing like she’s considering something far away. After another silent moment, she glances at Dick once more. “Last chance to run.”

Dick smirks. “I’m considering it.”

Blanche sighs into the night, pushing her folded arms off the railing and stepping back. Dick no longer feels inclined to stand out in the darkness, alone. As she steps back into the well-lit hallway, he follows her.

When they reenter the lounge, Nix is holding court, in the middle of an animated story Dick’s heard before. “— of course, I couldn’t have known there was a cat involved, otherwise I’d never have set foot in the apartment. So I sit down on the couch and the damned thing launches at me, yowling like a bat out of hell —“ He cuts off, mid-flail, gaze landing on his sister and companion. “Ah. Was wondering where you too made off to.”

“Nothing untoward,” Blanche drawls, slinking back towards the bar. “I offered, but Dick’s too upstanding.”

Nix locks onto Dick, and again, his gaze is painfully warm. Dick feels the same way, like a furnace is burning under his collar. Uneasily, he lowers himself onto a settee at the far edge of the room, back to the door so he won’t be tempted. So long as he’s in Nix’s sightline, his presence counts… but he doesn’t have to make himself the object of a crowd’s fascination again.

Nix understands, in that easy way of his. His lips curl up in the slightest smile, before he turns back to his audience. “As I was saying…”

His story winds on for a little while longer, before he grows bored with it. By then, the crowd has grown equally bored with its malingering, but still too languid to get up and do something about it. One of the women slips behind the piano and tries to start up a dancing tune, but no one bites. Her song devolves into something slower, more thoughtful. The host pours himself another drink from the bar, and doesn’t offer to serve anyone else; his mistresses chatter in an undertone, lipstick stained crystal glasses sitting beside them. Nix reclines back in his chair, perfectly debauched. His hair is a ruffled mess, bow-tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. The top of his shirt is still open, carelessly displaying his collarbones and a flash of dark hair across his chest. 

You’ll catch a chill, a voice in Dick’s head that sounds too much like his mother chides. He’s seized briefly with the inexplicable, intense urge to cross the room and lean over Nix to close the shirt himself. It passes, of course, and he politely averts his gaze.

Perhaps he’s doing too good of a job not looking at him. “Dick,” Nix finally says, from right behind him. “Ready to go?”

A wave of relief washes over him. He hasn’t wanted anything so badly since his discharge papers. “Let’s go,” he replies, rising to his feet.

They pay polite goodbyes to their host; Blanche waves them off with an eyeroll for Nix and a blown kiss for Dick. Then, finally, they leave through the front door, and slip into the night.

While they drove here themselves, Nix is in no state to command the car. Dick is already prepared to take the wheel, when the valet steps up with keys in hand. “Do you require a ride home, Mr. Nixon?”

Dick’s surprised gaze swivels towards Nix, as if to ask do we? (He’s still so unused to the world of chauffeurs and butlers, and every encounter leaves a foreign, coppery taste in his mouth.) Nix dwells on the offer for a moment with lazy-eyed disinterest, before shrugging and gesturing the valet towards his car. “Why not? Roy likes to be generous. Let him do us a favor for once, huh?”

Dick, who has never personally done Nix’s friend Roy a single favor, just nods.

Nix’s car is sleek and expensive, a top of the line Plymouth Deluxe in glossy black paint and felt seating. Dick has sat in the passenger’s seat enough times that sliding into the back feels like a mistake, something to double back and correct before he manages to embarrass himself. Nix slides in right behind him, not giving him the chance. The scent of car freshener can’t disguise the stuffy air in the back of the car; there’s not much separating the back from the front, but the forward row of seats stretch up, practically creating a barrier to separate both ends of the car in half. Dick hears the driver slide in up front, but in the darkness, it’s hard to see.

“Turn on the radio, will you?” Nix requests as the car stirs to life. Obligingly, the driver turns a few knobs; what threatens to become an awkward silence immediately finds itself drowned out by a staticky love ballad.

“And when I kissed you, darling It was more than just a thrill for me It was the promise, darling Of the things that fate had willed for me…”

The timing is astonishingly poor. Dick slumps back against the seat, all but defeated. At his side, Nix chuckles.

When Dick looks over, it's impossible to catch his eye. The night is too dark, and these roads aren’t well-lit; shrouded by shadows, Nix’s eyes are two black holes, drawing all trace of light into them and holding it hostage. Dick catches a flash of something pearly, which must be the jagged cut of Nix’s smile; the silhouetted shoulders rise up and down, in what isn’t quite laughter.

After a moment, Nix goes still. Dick can’t see, but he knows he’s being watched.

“Well?” Nix finally says. “When are you going to tell me what an idiot I am?”

Dick turns his head, looking out the window nearest to him. “Never occurred to me, Nix.”

“Maybe not to say it, but you were thinking it. Come on, Dick.” A smooth-palmed hand finds his in the darkness. Dick allows it. “I knew I screwed up the moment you pulled away. Knew it as soon as I saw your face, really, but damn me if I know how to stop… come on, that’s what I bring you to these things for. To keep a leash on me.”

Dick thinks Nix’s social circle picked up on that, at least.

He doesn’t realize how tense he’s gone until Nix’s thumb strokes along the back of his knuckles; his hand, Dick realizes, has gone stiff as a corpse’s, gnarled with tension. When he looks down, he’s suddenly ashamed. He tries to pull away, but Nix holds fast.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sudden and sincere.

“You didn’t do anything,” Dick replies. “If I didn’t want to be there —“

“You don’t want to be there. You come to these awful things for me, even though you can’t stand it, and you’re a fish out of water the whole time. I’m being cruel to you. Downright uncharitable! And you know the reason why.”

Dick’s gaze is drawn back to him again. This time, as a flash of light passes through the car, he glimpses Nix’s face — eyes bright with drink, devastatingly earnest, his lips curled downwards and jaw tense. He’s handsome without trying… and cruel, too. More careless than he realizes.

Blanche’s words echo in his ears: rich little boys love their toys.

“It might be a game to you, Nix,” Dick says softly, “but it isn’t to me. Whatever show you were putting on in there… I don’t want to be part of it anymore.”

Nix is silent for a long moment. The air between them is thick as curdled cream. “I understand,” he finally says. “I… I get it, Dick, christ. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Of course he knows. Doesn’t Nix realize he doesn’t have to put on a show for anyone, just do Dick will stand by his side? Doesn’t he realize the whole reason Dick goes to these parties, time and time again, is for him? Because he’d shatter the entire world and piece it back together, fragment by microscopic fragment, just to make Lewis Nixon happy?

“It’s never been a game to me, Nix,” he says softly.

In the darkness, Nix’s hand finds his again. This time, Dick squeezes tight.

He doesn’t know exactly how they come together, what magnetism pulls them or the way their bodies fit together. His shoulder presses up against Nix’s; his fingers find the threads of Nix’s hair; Nix’s thigh is a solid weight as it drapes over his own, his skin is warm, and suddenly Nix is practically in his lap.

It felt better this way. Dick likes the cover of darkness, is painfully grateful for it, just as he is of the way his hand fits over Nix’s hip. He likes holding him so much more than he likes being held… and something in the sigh Nix breathes against his lips suggests he likes it this way too.

“It’s not a game to me either, Dick,” he murmurs. “You matter too damn much”

The distance between them closes on its own will. Nix tastes like whiskey and coffee and August twilight; his lips are smooth, gliding over Dick’s own as though he’s wet them a dozen times since their conversation began. Their embrace is tender, but the hand gripping Dick’s shoulder is desperate. When Dick sighs against Nix’s lips, he utters a soft noise, almost like a whine. Dick’s fingers run along his scalp, soothing the dissatisfaction away.

“I much prefer this,” Dick mutters. “It suits us both better… privacy.”

“If it suits you,” Nix replies, “that’s all I need to know.”

It’s not perfect, and it’s not quite laid to rest… but they make it home at a reasonable hour, and Dick holds Nix in the privacy of their own home. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

#winnix #my writing #richard winters #lewis nixon #blanche nixon

[panevanbuckley]

56 for Ron/Nix please? ❤

ahsjsk okay umm...this is based after Lew's jump at the start of part 9?? and idk how i feel about it now ngl but i hope it's not too bad! ❤

things you said in the spur of the moment

“For Christ's sake, Lew.” Ron sighs, stepping into the grand room and finding Nix sat alone at the table. He’s hunched over an almost empty bottle, hair mused and jacket thrown over the back of his chair. Despite the godawful state he appears to be in, Ron can't help but be flooded with relief upon finally laying eyes on the man again. News of his jump had spread and Ron would be lying if he said it hadn't caused him a whole load of stress. “I've been looking all over for you. Dick said he hasn't seen you all day.”

Nix waves his hand dismissively above his head, groaning. “Been right here.”

“Clearly,” Ron remarks, walking up to the drunken man. Placing a heavy hand on Lew's shoulder, he picks up the bottle and sniffs at the contents. It's strong. “How many have you had?”

Lew shrugs under his hand.

“Hey,” Ron squeezes at the nape of his neck, bending down to his level. He notes the tired look on Lew's unshaven face, the bags under his eyes, the tight pinch of his lips. “You okay?”

“’m fine.” Lew insists, but his voice is slurred and weak. “Absolutely dandy.”

“I heard what happened.”

Lew scoffs, the sound muffled since he's chosen to bury his face into the crook of his arm. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ron brushes a stray strand of black hair from Lew's face. “I was worried.” That wasn't an easy admission to make.

“Well, I'm fine.” Lew rises his head, glaring up at Ron. His eyes are dark, anger and something else swimming around beneath the surface. “Still fucking alive.”

Ron laughs, for lack of a better reaction, before noticing the flash of pain across Lew's face and clearing his throat. His hand slides from Lew's neck, travelling lightly down his arm until fingers tease at the cuff of the man's sleeve – he moves slow to make sure Lew knows he can stop him at any time.

Lew doesn't stop him, though.

Calloused fingertips find smooth skin, tracing the vein of Lew's inner wrist in a touch so intimate that Ron doesn't dare breathe too loud for fear of ruining everything. “I'm glad you're still alive.” he finally whispers into the quiet of the room, locking eyes with Lew and searching for any hint of discomfort.

Always one to be full of surprises, Lew sniffles, free arm coming up to wipe at his nose. Fingers suddenly latch onto Ron's own wrist, wrapping around in a tight, grounding grip. “Why?”

“I need you.” Ron admits, and it's everything he wishes he could say. I want you. I love you. Stay. Instead of speaking his thoughts aloud, Ron cracks a smile, the weight of the conversation starting to feel not unlike a noose wrapped around his throat. “What, you think I'm just going to knock on Hitler's door without you by my side?”

Lew chuckles, grabbing at the lapels of his jacket then and pulling him down with the strength of a man that wasn't currently drunk out of his mind. Ron goes willingly, allowing Lew to drag him into a searing kiss of teeth and tongue, eyes fluttering closed with the faintest of moans. It's not soft or sweet or gentle, it's a kiss of possession, of desire, of reassurance and passion and longing. They fall into one another, bruising and biting, making up for the time that was lost, reaffirming to one another that they're both still here and are both very much alive.

Lew has a tight grip on Ron's hair, holding him impossibly close, and as he gives a sharp tug Ron makes a low sound in the back of his throat. When they separate, they're both panting and flushed.

Ron hums as he his forehead onto Lew's and blinks down at him with a dazed smile. “I really fucking missed you.” he breathes out into the space between them, guard slipping away by the second. It's Lew's fault; the way he's smiling up at him like he hung the damn stars in the sky, the darkness washed from his eyes as though it'd never been there in the first place.

“Missed you too, Sparky.” Lew teases and the moment is shattered with his low laugh. Ron groans, but instead of pulling away he dips down, closing the gap between them once more.

This time, when their lips met, it's soft and slow. A gentle exploration, tongue sliding past parted lips to taste the whisky he's grown accustomed to purely through Lewis. His hands slide to frame Lew's face, coaxing him into a better angle, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and eliciting a sigh from the man. Ron smiles into the kiss, heart swelling in his chest.

Nipping at Lew's lower lip as he eventually pulls away, Ron can't help but run his fingers through the man's hair and smile. Lew leans into the touch, eyes blinking for just a second too long before a yawn escapes him and he drops his head onto Ron's arm. Ron chuckles, patting Lew's cheek gently. “C'mon, let's get you into bed.”

“Ooh, yes, sir.” Lew smirks, not complaining as Ron guides him out of the chair, wrapping an arm around his middle to keep him upright.

“To sleep.” Ron says. Lew makes a somewhat agreeing sound.

It's not until he's got the man onto bed, albeit only sitting on the edge, that Lew speaks up again. His head sways slightly as he meets Ron's gaze, tongue darting out to wet drying lips. “I love you.” The clarity in his eyes is almost unnerving, considering he was both drunk and half-asleep.

Ron's heart leaps in his chest and he holds his breath for a moment as he lets the words sink in. But then he sighs, remembering to take anything Lew says in this state with a pinch of salt. He presses a lingering kiss to Lew's forehead before stepping back. “Tell me that when you're sober.”

And he does. That very next morning, hungover like hell and looking even worse, Lew sneaks up on Ron when they get a moment alone, chin settling in the crook of Ron's neck like it belongs there as he whispers the words into his ear. He says them again and again and again day after day, as though a dam burst that night and now he can't help himself, and each utterance of his true feelings has Ron blushing and tongue-tied.

It takes a while but Ron finally manages to bring himself to return the words and know, without a doubt, that he means them.

also on ao3 prompt list

#asks #prompts #band of brothers #ronnix #ronald speirs #lewis nixon #speirs x nixon #ahhh i both love and hate how this turned out??! #idk it was all based on that one accidental confession by lew okay

[answrs]

Temporal OT3

So remember that temporal displacement chain from a long while ago? Been thinking and instead of the Before and the After, what about the After and the Way After instead?

Give me an unforgiven post-mansion Arthur, struggling to keep it together under an angry Lewis, being suddenly displaced a few years into the future of a happy ot3.

Meanwhile a stable, older, more confident Arthur popping back into the time of the hostile and untrusting halls he still sometimes walks in his nightmares.

(As per trope rules), no one in either time realizes the age discrepancy at first. The shock of yellow hair frantically cowering away from a confused formerly-cuddling Lewis, the younger’s emotional scars fresh (if not physical ones too). His aura is suddenly wild and uncontrolled, fear and hurt whirling around the too-thin blond in his own spiritual/emotional wildfire. He's too mentally and physically exhausted from “keeping himself in check” to notice the differences in Vivi's appearance (the only reference point he'd have just then for a change in time), thinking it nothing above the level of a new cruel mind game, or perhaps another soon-to-be nightmare.

Three hearts break at the eventual realization. Two for never noticing just how far the blond had once fallen, having switched from one exhaustion to another while they were distracted by the new-old addition to their family, and the eventual upward climb of healing too gradual to remember the lowest point. A more literal heart cracking deep, at first in confusion at the near palpable terror, then in memory as the ghost recalls just what, just who's manipulations had put it there.

In the Before it's the others to flinch away in confusion when the man displays some unthinking outward affection to one or the other. He's the one to notice the discrepancies first there, how tired and young Vivi looks, paired with the sharp angles and darker tones of the soft spirit he so fondly knows. He merely sighs away, rocks back with a saddened look, thinking this a memory, an unfortunate dream. He'll wake soon curled up in their soft duvet, his two sentient pillows probably making breakfast in the kitchen and leaving him to sleep, warm smiles and a nuzzle or peck to greet him when he blearily stumbles in. He smiles faintly at the thought.

When he does finally wake, however, he's in the far corner of the dark guest room, only a thin sheet wrapped tight around him on the hard floor. He's alone and cold, not even the small chirp of a concerned or curious deadbeat to greet him.

The younger him had finally managed to flee, diving into a doorway in his blind dash around the space. (it's not the mansion he doesn't know where his room is but he wouldn't be safe even if he did Lewis knows how to find him and he has to get away get away and hide-) In his desperation he'd gouged a ward thick into the wood of the door after locking it, metal digging into the hard surface, his sheer desperation and blood from the splinters in his flesh hand giving the symbol power. While Mystery or Lewis (or just Vivi with her bat, honestly) could technically break down the door and thus the barrier with it, the memory of terror so clear on the young kid’s face gave them pause. (and really, this is a kid they're dealing with, only barely out of his teens, and grown up far too fast in those few years. Their Arthur is closer to his thirties than he is to the age of this near stranger in their home.) so they'd (very reluctantly, mind), left him to cower, unable to sense his aura or even send a deadbeat to watch over him because of the damned mark. They hadn't wanted to terrify him further by breaking his only safety net.

“...guys?”

The voice is quiet, fearful and confused, and the only reason any of them hear it is because the three had camped just outside (or in Vivi's case, on) the door for the night. Lewis just barely stops himself from calling out in reply, frantically shaking their blue-haired leader to wakefulness. She'd been the only one of the three Arthur had been (less) wary of last night, and he'd be hard pressed to ruin their chances before today even started if that was still the case.

“Arthur?” Vivi's worried. Hopeful, yes, but afraid their Arthur is still gone to wherever the horrible memory of him had sent the man.

“Vivi!” the woman's voice had been older, unsure and worried, but unmistakably the voice of his other third. Oh thank the stars. He hurriedly tries to untangle himself from the sheer fabric and stand up as he continues “yeah, it's me. Just gimme a moment and I'll... what the-”

There's a bloody mess covering the door, visible even in the dark of the room, a dripping trail of the liquid shoddily trailing a line all the way to his current resting place (and now that he’s noticed it, he squeaks to see only half-dried splatters all across on the sheet). Through the gore, he can just make out the large, hastily made symbol of a basic barrier, unevenly carved into the locked and barricaded door.

(Well, that would certainly explain the lack of singing housecats in the room, then. They'll have to replace the whole thing, and the stains on the floor would be an absolute bitch to clean up. But more importantly…)

“Vi, is Lewis there?” the ghost in question perks up, quite literally popping up a few inches from his seat on the floor. He calls out a confirmation in Vivi's stead, anxious and jittery, he needs to see the blond now, make sure he's really him, that he's back, he's okay. The deadbeats that had piled around them echo the ghost's restlessness, darting to and fro in the small section of hallway.

“Lew, there's this giant, uh… mess covering the door in here, and I honestly don't know what would happen if I opened it. Think you could take the beats outside for a moment? Don't want you or them to get caught up if there's any rebound.” The symbol is chaotic and erratic enough he's not confident he can properly break and nullify it without Vivi or Mystery’s help. With his luck it'd probably explode if he tried. Still, he can confidently guess how Lewis is feeling right now, since himself and Vivi are probably feeling the same. “I- don't worry, it'll only be a few minutes, max. I just need the magic duo out there to make sure this thing doesn't spontaneously combust or something when we break it down. And then I'm demanding cuddles. In an actual, proper bed. My back is killing me right now…”

He's more shaken up about the experience than he realizes at first, not until all four of them finally reach their room and pile themselves on the bed.

Arthur waves away Lew's human guise over the skeletal look for once, just to run his hands over the soft rounded edges of false fangs on a ghostly skull, reassure himself they aren't the sharp points of (yesterday) days long-since past. A dulled anchor presses against his own heart, and he aches to erase the new deep, jagged break running across it now, one he can feel even through the fabric of his shirt.

He might be curled completely in Lewis's lap, but Vivi has completely enveloped his side. Even Mystery is on the bed, head pushed into Arthur's leg to assure himself the wild aura has truly calmed, that his broken family is sad, but not shattered.

When he isn't absently touching bony plates and heart or robotically petting and smoothing soft ears, Arthur's running his hands across pale skin, mapping every scar and mark he knows from the past six years. A faint cut just below her left eye from a fall when they were 26. Pockmarks on her arm the remains of a bite from a spectral beast soon after they'd started dating. Mystery finally stands and retreats with one last lick when calloused hands reach under the edge of an oversized shirt, intent completely innocent, but much too intimate for a bystander to be welcome. As Arthur finally lists, forehead dipping to touch Vivi's own, he pulls the golden heart close between them. When their lips meet for a long, deep kiss, Lewis is pressed tight enough between them it feels he could pass right into either’s chest, either’s heart with nary a thought. Large, warm arms envelop the two humans as he's surrounded by the sound, feeling of the two heartbeats he cares about more than anything in this world or the next.

#lewvithur #msa ot3 #mystery skulls animated #mystery skulls #mystery skulls animate #it was only a long #answrs does plotshells #but then suddenly #wild answrs used fic #welp. #anyway... #ms #shut up answrs #mine #ot3

[lovingunderratedcharacters]

First Time With The Pacific Guys (Smut)

Anon: I loved your first time with the guys from BoB and would love for you to do one with the guys from The Pacific!

(Another long, smutty post. Please let me know if I missed anyone. I’ll add them to the list.)

Merriel “Snafu” Shelton: Rough and spontaneous is hist style. His goal is to make the bed break. He’ll probably go down on you beforehand and during the entire date he’s going to be whispering dirty things in your ear. For the first time, he’s going to do doggie style so that he can be in control while still making you happy.

Eugene Sledge: He’s shy about sex, especially since you’re his first. It takes a while to build up to this moment, and he tries to make it as good for you as possible. He’s incredibly nervous but he probably talked to Snafu earlier and got really bad information, so you have to help him through it. For the first time, he’ll go for missionary, because it’s the easiest and he’s somewhat confident in the position.

Romus “R.V.” Burgin: Lovemaking. That’s it. This man is going to make sure he’s in love with you before he does anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He cares so much for you and does everything in his power to make it an incredibly romantic night. The position he goes for is missionary because it lets him get very close and he loves the way you wrap your arms around him.

Robert Leckie: Drama queen extreme, he will go all out for the first time. There will be flowers. There will be champagne. There will be soft music. There will be strange, nonsensical poetry involved. He’s going to go for spooning position for the first time because he can be close an intimate with you and he can whisper things in your ear the whole time.

Lew “Chuckler” Juergens: He’s very laid back about sex. I mean, he just casually starts kissing you and it slowly turns into a passionate make out session. He makes sure you’re totally comfortable, but disclaimer, he will try to make your first time a marathon. For a position, he’s going to try so many different ones that I really shouldn’t take the time to list it, but rest assured, if you tell him a position you like, he’s going to make sure it happens.

Bill “Hoosier” Smith: He enjoys making you smile, believe it or not. He tries to make you enjoy yourself and feel as ready as possible for all this. He’s not going to pressure you to do anything, but once you start, it’s going to be hot and heavy. He’ll go for jockey so that he can control his thrusts while staying close to you. Also, as an added bonus, he gets to pin you down a bit.

Wilbur “Runner” Conley: Runner’s a dork, so he’ll be really cute about your first time. He’s probably so excited that he accidentally hits your head while tossing you onto the bed, and he spends at least five minutes apologizing before you pull him in for a kiss. For the first time, he’ll do cowgirl so that you can be in control and feel as safe as possible.

Sidney Phillips Jr.: He’s such a sweetheart, and he’ll let you take the reigns for the first time so that you’re comfortable. You’re both fairly new at this so it takes you two a while to get to this point, but when you do, you both feel totally ready. Your first time begins with a cute ‘at home’ date and a makeout session. He goes for reverse doggie because he loves the view and you can have more control over the situation.

Bill Leyden: This man is frustrated and angry, and the two of you probably knew each other long before anything happened, so he’s even more frustrated. When you two finally get together, he’s rough but incredibly passionate. He’s going to make sure you’re legs are shaking by the time your done. His first time position is missionary with your legs lifted over his shoulders so that he can drill into you.

Andrew “Ack-Ack” Haldane: He takes care of you, keeping you loud and happy. He adores listening to your moans and as soon as you moan his name, he comes undone. He wants to make sure you’re enjoying yourself as much as possible. For the first time, he’s going to do the lap dance position so that you’re in control but he can still be partially in control and close to you.

Edward “Hillbilly” Jones: He wants to make sure that everyone knows that he’s the man who’s making you scream, so you’ll have hickey’s all over your neck, chest, and thighs. He’s going to be rough, but not nearly as rough as some of the other guys. First time position will be tight squeeze, so that he can be as close to you as possible while pinning you down.

John Basilone: He is much more submissive than you had first thought, which surprises you the first time. He loves that you get domineering and begins your night together by asking you to be in control. For the first time, he has you do what you want, so whatever your favorite position is, he will preform it happily.

James “J.P.” Morgan: Imagine the anger in this man being let go in the bedroom. He is absolutely the type of man that makes every time feel as incredible as angry sex feels. He starts off with fingering you roughly on the way back to one of your houses. He’ll bend you over whatever’s closest to the door, because he honestly can’t wait.

Manuel “Manny” Rodriguez: Despite his rough social personality, he’s actually very sweet and caring when he’s alone with you. He takes his time, sweet and slow, making you feel so much as he slowly goes down on you. He whispers sweet nothings to you as he slowly makes love to you. For the first time, he will go for missionary, but he will have your wrists pinned down above your head.

#the pacific #the pacific headcannon #the pacific preference #snafu shelton #eugene sledge #romus burgin #robert leckie #chuckler juergens #hoosier smith #runner conley #sidney phillips #bill leyden #ack ack haldane #hillbilly jones #john basilone #jp morgan #manny rodriguez #Smut

[fandomscenariosforyou]

Could you do The Pacific kissing preference? With Leckie's group, Sledge and Snafu, and Basilone, JP, and Manny? Please and thank you!! 😊

Robert Leckie:

Leckie will like to tease you until he sees a faint blush on your cheeks and kisses you very softly. He likes to kiss your cheeks because despite the mess of the war, they still are incredibly soft and pure to him. He’ll nuzzle into your cheek just to see you smile and it’s his way of expressing the smallest bit of affection he likes to when you’re in front of everyone.

Lew ‘Chuckler’ Juergens:

Like I said, Chuckler is a forehead guy. It’s a way of reassuring you whenever you’re down and also showing his love in a sweet way, his hands pushing your hair out of your face and planting his forehead against your own. We all know Chuckler would be such a sap, plus if you have a height difference, it’s easy access for him.

Wilbur ‘Runner’ Conley:

Speaking of dorks!! He loves kissing your nose because he thinks it’s the cutest thing ever. He will do it unexpectedly just to get you to smile or see you scrunch it up. No matter what, he has to kiss your nose before he leaves, then pressing a very soft kiss to your lips.

Bill ‘Hoosier’ Smith:

Oh yes, the boy who claims ‘I hate affection’. Really it’s just because he’s not used to getting attention so he flushes up and it embarrasses him. When you’re around the other guys you’ll pull him in to kiss him just to have him turn away and roll his eyes playfully.

John Basoline:

When he wants a kiss he will not take no for an answer! If you’re working or ignoring him, he just leans over and kisses all over your face over and over again until he hears you fizzle into laughter. His kisses are always full of playfulness and love.

James Paul ‘JP’ Morgan:

His kisses are restless and come a lot when he’s frustrated. He never asks for one or leans in slowly, no it’s all or nothing. Whether you’re talking or working away, he’ll just grab at your arm and pull you into him. It’s spontaneous but exciting every time.

Manuel ‘Manny’ Rodriguez:

His kisses vary but you’re heated or got a certain attitude, his kisses are rough. He gives you a deep star before his lips are slammed onto yours. His hands grasp at your lower back, head moving right in rhythm with yours without giving you a second to hesitate.

Merriell ‘Snafu’ Shelton:

Jealous, cocky little shit. His kisses are anytime, anywhere; no matter where you are. If you are in front of the other boys his kisses get dirtier just to piss them off and hear them groan. If anyone even looks at you for too long, his lips are on yours so quick.

Eugene Sledge:

Shy bean aww. He is very hesitant when he kisses you, he makes sure it’s the right moment. He always does the whole look into your eyes and then at your lips til you both are leaning in. Slow kisses are his forte, just very subtle and sweet. It drives your nuts.

Bonus for my good friendo ;-):

Andrew ‘Ack Ack’ Haldane:

Ack Ack is usually very good with PDA and isn’t very affectionate in front of the guys. But as soon as you’re alone, he looks over at you with a smirk and pulls you into him. “Get over here.” He just can’t get enough of you and loves being able to pull you into him at any given chance.

Jay De L’Eau:

Jay loves kissing your shoulders omg. It’s usually unexpected and when it happens you’re greeted with his big puppy eyes looking up at you. His lips are very soft and planted against your shoulder while they slowly form into a smile.It’s a small intimate place that he knows is a surefire way to make you smile or blush.

#the pacific #the pacific preference #robert leckie #chuckler juergens #runner con #hoosier smith #john basilone #JP Morgan #manny rodriguez #snafu shelton #eugene sledge #ack ack haldane #jay de l'eau

[wzly]

Ritt Momney

by Maya Rubin

Listening to Ritt Momney is like reading a diary. Jack Rutter -- Ritt Momney’s frontman and lyricist -- writes lyrics that fluctuate between deeply personal anecdotes that almost alienate listeners in their specificity (“off to college today / my first school without friends,” he sings on Lew’s Lullaby) to universal, painfully relatable platitudes about loneliness, lovesickness, and the struggle of adolescence, sometimes in the same breath. 

Rutter’s performance reflects this dichotomy. He seems shy and reserved onstage, barely looking at the audience and engaging with them even less. He speaks only when necessary to introduce a song, and even then he seems bashful, almost embarrassed. Yet like his music, when Rutter begins singing, the floodgates seem to open. At Ritt Momney’s show at ONCE Ballroom in Somerville on September 22, Rutter seemed to speak the most to the audience when he wasn’t speaking at all.

Ritt Momney began by playing through most of their recent album, Her and All of My Friends, which came out in July. The live versions of the songs were mostly faithful to the album versions, with a few notable exceptions. The drum line in “Pollution / Disclaimer” was elevated from soft lo-fi to a more danceable beat that made the song even more infectious, and a new arrangement of Probably!, from the band’s first EP, showed off just how far the Ritt Momney has progressed musically (though it also showcased the evolution of Rutter’s songwriting -- the song lacks some of his now-signature emotional intimacy). The heart-wrenching “(If) the Book Doesn’t Sell,” while not radically different from the album version, is also better live -- the emotion Rutter poured into the song, ceasing to play the keyboard as he shouted the closing lyrics, was breathtaking. After Rutter’s performance of (If) the Book Doesn’t Sell, which has lyrics like “And to the parents of the kids with tongues down in their throats… / I'm sure you're giving it your best,” I was shocked to meet his mother at the merch table.  Like Father John Misty, another lonely, heartbroken soul to whose work Rutter’s bears startling similarity despite their age and experience gaps, Rutter seems to adopt a different persona onstage. 

While the new version of Probably! works well, an abridged rendition of their breakout single, Young Adult, falls flat. Ritt Momney’s style has evolved much since the classic rock-influenced Young Adult, and without the vocal harmonies from Rutter’s girlfriend, the new version is far less thrilling. Additionally, though the band’s take on Frank Ocean’s Pink Matter is inventive and shows off their abundant musical chops, it isn’t particularly suited to Rutter’s rapping, which works better when slower and more melodic on tracks like Pollution / Disclaimer. Additionally, Rutter’s emotionality is what makes his songs -- whether about religion, depression, or just being in love -- so addictive, so taking on an equally emotive songwriter like Ocean (who has clearly influenced Rutter) doesn’t allow Ritt Momney to shine in the way they do with their original material. 

Preceded by three openers (the local Boston-based bands Bowling Shoes and Raavi and the Houseplants, as well as the Nashville-based Shane T, who is touring with Ritt Momney) Ritt Momney was easily the highlight of the evening. Rutter’s bedroom pop translated well to the intimate venue, and the other musicians (Noah Hamula, Jonas Torgerson, and Sam Olson, friends of Rutter’s from his native Salt Lake City) played like a well-oiled machine. Ritt Momney’s catchy music and universal themes make them a surefire hit. I’m excited to see how Rutter’s songwriting progresses as he ages and experiences the new challenges of adulthood. In interviews, he has called songwriting his therapy, and though watching someone perform a therapy session can be uncomfortable, the catharsis Rutter clearly derives makes it worth it.

#wzly rittmomney collegeradio

[problematicfavesareproblematic]

I Pity the Grave That Tries to Keep Me From You

Bull Randleman x Reader One-shot

Summary: it’s just fluffy angst about Bull coming back from Market Garden bc I’m a soft squishy sad little tall person who is dealing with some major feels

Warnings: shitty writing (mostly cuz I don’t feel like editing WHOOPSIE), angst, fluff, rushed ending, bleh, idk man it is what it is....

Ya’ll know I listened to Hozier’s Work Song for part of this, I didn’t even try to be subtle about it.

~

~

~

You don’t react when Hoobler tells you about Bull.  

Martin can’t look at you, but you hug him just the same.

I’m sorry he’d blurted after he returned your embrace, voice breaking painfully. I’m so fucking sorry.

But you’d just shook your head from side to side and given him the closest thing to a reassuring smile you could muster.

Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m glad you’re here.

You weren’t sure how many times you’d said those three sentences since D-Day, but it was the only thing you could think of to say to your broken friends telling you through tearful apologies the names of the soldiers you all had loved and lost. As if it was their fault... as if they’d failed in keeping them safe for you.

Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I’m glad you’re here.

Martin had let out one quiet sob against your neck before stepping back and turning and leaving. Everyone let him go. 

You understood- everyone grieved differently. Your grief had to wait a bit longer- you still had things to do.

No one made to stop you when you excused yourself, Webster having the presence of mind to give you a nod when you mumbled something about checking in with Nixon.

You and Bull had always known the risk of one or both of you dying- hell, you’d even discussed the likelihood of one of you dying in front of the other. You’d mentally prepared yourself as much as you could for that inevitability.

Missing, though? Missing wasn’t sitting well with you.

Becoming an intelligence officer hadn’t been a career path you’d stumbled across by mistake- you liked information, found comfort in details and strategy. 

You hated being blindsided, and since you’d been small you’d gone to great lengths to ensure you never entered a situation without being fully aware of any and all potential outcomes that could occur. 

Surprises aren’t always good, my darling. Remember that. 

Your mother’s words had echoed in your head the first time you’d met Bull, when he’d caught you off guard by introducing himself to you in the same manner he had introduced himself to all of the other men in Easy- with solid eye contact, a firm handshake, and a gentle drawl of “Randleman, nice to meet you.” 

The idea that you wouldn’t hear his voice again, in either friendly introduction or intimate devotion, made you feel achingly hollow.

“If you think something as silly as a grave can keep me from coming home to you, you got another thing coming, Little Lady”. 

“That sounds like you’re saying you’re going to haunt me, Den—”

“You should be so lucky….plus, I’d make it fun, so don’t even worry about it.”

You start to walk in earnest towards the officer’s area now, biting the insides of your cheeks in an effort not to cry. 

You had to keep going. 

You’d promised him you would, just as you’d made him promise in kind.

When you finally found Nixon, you instantly frowned at the bruise blossoming on his forehead.

“What happened to you?” you ask, ignoring the man’s glare and walking over to get a closer look. “Looks like you tangoed with Joe Toye’s brass knuckles and lost.”

“Got shot in the helmet.” Nix grumbles at the same time Richard perks up and squints at you while asking “Toye’s got brass knuckles?”.

You wince, both in response to Nix’s injury and your accidental snitching on Joe. “Whoops.”

Lewis’s eyes catch yours and his brow softens. 

You instantly know what he’s about to bring up, and shake your head preemptively.

“Lew,” you begin with a heavy sigh, only to be shushed like a child before he spoke over you.

“They don’t know anything for sure yet.” he insisted, and you knew that he knew you saw through his bullshit. 

He sometimes tried to be less pessimistic when he knew you were already way ahead of him in that department, but the two of you knew each other well enough by now for you to see it for what it was- him trying to make you feel better, coddling you to make you feel better.

Lying to make you feel better.

Information is truth, everything else is probably a lie.

Your mother was a bitter cynic, but you’d also never once known her to have her heart broken.

Maybe she’d been on to something.

“Yeah,” you’d offered, quickly brushing past him to look at the map on the table. “Maybe. Anyway, when exactly did Market Garden start going to shit? Do you think we were undermanned? Were our maps wrong? Did they have unexpected weaponry….?”

Distract the sad voice in your head offered as you threw yourself into work, using the churning pain in your belly to fuel your motivation to reclaim the town. 

No one gets to hurt you and get away with it. No one gets to take Bull from you and remain unpunished.

You decided then and there that you were going to make the SS bleed for what they’d done, and you knew that if Bull were there he’d tell you to rein it in.

Got murder in your eyes, darling. What’s got you so cross?

But Bull wasn’t here. And you? You had to get over it.

It’s what he would want.

~

~

You had barely slept that night, throwing yourself into rereading all of the intelligence reports until Dick finally ordered you out of the CP tent.

At first you’d fought him on it, still too afraid of being let alone with your own thoughts. But he’d been firm, literally snatching the paperwork from your trembling hands and hovering over you until you relented.

“I don’t want to see you until morning, is that understood?”

With more patience than you deserved he’d held your coat up and helped you slip into it, making a point to pull your knit hat down over your ears before turning you in the direction of where all the soldiers were sleeping.

Even though Bull had promised to be the one to haunt you, it was you who felt like the ghost.

But, like the obedient soldier you were, you walked to the spot where you and Bull had set up camp with Perconte and Luz. Neither man happened to be there at that moment, which was a small blessing because when you saw Bull’s unattended duffel bag in the same spot he’d left it that morning you’d been unable to stop the sob that slipped past your lips.

Like a child, you’d curled around his rucksack and held it close, your fingers tracing over the airborne patches that denoted it as his. 

Had it truly been this morning that you’d woken up in his embrace, groaning in sleepy protest when he refused to let you out of his arms?

“Jus’ a bit longer,” he’d mumbled, bringing a leg up and over your hip to pin you beside him. “Let the boys start fightin’ without us, we’ll catch up later…”

You wish that had been possible. You wished it could have been that simple.

 ~

~

Tears had leaked out of your eyes as you squeezed them shut and the next time you opened them it was morning. At some point in the night either George or Frank had tossed a wool blanket over you.

For a few glorious moments, you had thought Bull’s furnace-like chest had been what was keeping you warm. The blanket was a kindness, but an unintentionally cruel one.

After rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you’d gotten yourself ready and packed up to head out.

Bull’s duffle bag seemed to be filled with bricks as you hefted it over your shoulder with your own, and with each stride you took it only became heavier. You knew the protocol- take the deceased’s belongings to CP for redistribution and personal effects collection. 

It felt like defeat, as if you were giving up on him.

Defeat and reality were seeming to become one and the same, these days.

Your throat was so tight by the time you made it to CP you were barely able to explain what you were doing to Lewis, your arm trembling as you held out the pack to him.

The moment Nix had taken it from your hands, tears began to spill from your eyes and for once you did nothing to stop them.

Nixon had been about to say something to you when Perconte rushed in breathlessly with a call of your name, almost forgetting to salute Lewis when he saw him.

“Oh! Sir. Uh, Y/N- there’s, um,  something you should see—”

You glared at him, trying and failing to hide the fact that you’d been crying from your friend.

“I’m in the middle of something, Perco. Can it wait?”

In the distance you could hear the sound of truck engines, and a new anxiety began to blossom in your chest at the idea of leaving Bull behind.

“But, Y/N…” he protested, clearly tongue-tied and overexcited.

“Oh my God, what?!”

“It’s Bull!”

Your blood froze in your veins, sucking in a breath that felt too big for your body.

You could feel your heartbeat behind your eyes as your lungs screamed for more air, but your body was refusing to blink or breathe or move…..

“That’s….no. W-what’re you—?”

The sight of a truck driving toward a group of Easy and Dog soldiers came to a halt, and you swore you say a familiar glimmer of sandy curls standing at least a foot above the group.

 No. There’s no fucking way….

With wide eyes you turn back to Lewis, seeing an equally confused look on his face. 

You barely wait for his nod of dismissal before looking to Frank again.

“C’mon, I’ll—”

You don’t wait for him to finish, sprinting away from them with a single-minded focus on reaching the horribly familiar silhouette of the man you[d begun to mourn.

Bull Bull Bull BULL DENVER BULL!?!?

With no care for decorum or professionalism, you shove people aside and rush through the throng until you violently skid to a halt before Johnny and Hoob.

And Dever fucking Randleman.

A silent sob twists your face, vision doubling as more tears well in your eyes.

It was him. It was him.

When your eyes find his, you force yourself to take a breath.

He’s dirty and scraped and a little bloody but he’s alive and he’s here and—

You throw yourself at him, arms latching around his neck and legs locking around his hips as he catches you easily in his arms.

“Oh my God,” you whisper shakily, shaking like a leaf and clutching at him as if he were the last lifeboat in a storming sea. “Oh my GOD, Den—!”

Bull’s got one arm across your backside and the other is pressing your torso to his as if he means to fuse the two of you together, his heartbeat loud and strong and powerful against your chest as he twists his cold face into your neck and just breathes you in.

You know that Martin is trying to talk to you, that someone else is telling you to take it easy but you can barely hear them through the roaring sound of life returning to your body.

When he sighs your name you swear that you’ve never heard a sound so sweet.

As you turn your head to press a kiss to his temple, you open your eyes and blink your tears away.

Of course, once you clear your eyes, you see the mess of blood staining his shoulder.

“Jesus Christ!” you gasp, untangling yourself from him in an instant and trying to get out of his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt, you idiot?!”

Bull allows you to unwrap your legs from his waist but refuses to let you go, the arm that had been under your bottom coming up to hold the back of your head lovingly.

A pained yet playful grin breaks across his lips as he eyes you. “Oh, am I?”

You smile stupidly, sniffling at his ridiculous attempt at nonchalance. 

Using his hold on the back of your neck he ducks down and presses a long, meaningful kiss to your lips. You sigh into it, and just as you cup his face in your hands someone clears their throat and you’re reminded that the two of you have an audience.

When you break apart he makes sure to wrap his good arm around your shoulders, and you wince when you catch the looks of surprise being sent your way by the replacements.

Whoops, that was certainly unprofessional….

Bill Guarnere barks a laugh as you shift uncomfortably, slinging his own bag back over his shoulder.

“Shit, if that’s the hello you give to someone who’s been MIA- I’m definitely getting lost more often!”

Martin rolls his eyes, and enough people laugh that some of the tension is broken. 

You turn back to Bull and try to get him to let him show you his shoulder. But Bull has never been an easy man to physically move, especially when moving is something he doesn’t want to do.

This time is no exception.

“Let me see it,” you huff, only to have him smirk and shake his head. “Denver, I could’ve made it worse, I need to make sure—”

“Nah,” he says with a shrug he immediately regrets doing. “How about you kiss it better after Roe gets a look at it, hmm?”

As you open your mouth to reply there is a cry from above that it’s time to get moving, the reminder that there are more pressing matters to attend to shaking you from your anxious worrying.

Because it’s Bull, he hollers for his men to get on the truck as if he had been with them the whole time. 

“I need to go get your stuff, our stuff from CP….”

Bull shakes his head before you’ve finished talking.

“Perco’s got it,” he says with a nod in the man’s direction. “Don’tcha buddy.”

Without waiting for a reply, Bull pulls you along with him towards the trucks, refusing to let you leave his side despite your insistence that Roe needed to take care of him.

Getting into the truck, you help unbutton his shirt so Doc can start cleaning the ragged wound on his shoulder.

Bull brings your knuckles to his lips as the truck begins to move, eyes never leaving your face as he answers Gene’s rapid-fire questions about what had happened in the time Bull had been separated from the group.

“...you lost some blood, how’d you manage not to pass out?”

With a wink in your direction Bull chuckles.

“Considered it, Doc. But then I remembered my missus here was waitn’ and thought better of it.”

You shake your head admonishingly at his explanation.

“You’re really something else, you know that Bull?”

In a move that surprised both you and the Doc, Bull used his grip on your hand to pull you so you were straddling his lap.

“Course I do, Little Lady. I’m yours.”

Well, goddamn.

“Damn right, now shut up and stop flirting.”

The smile he gave you only widened at the command.

“We’ll see, darlin’. We’ll see.”

~ ~ ~ (is it trash? Yes. But is it garbage? Also yes. Love you all and thanks for reading the feels)

taglist: @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain​ @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​

#band of brothers imagines #band of brothers x reader #bull randleman x reader #denver randleman x reader #bull randleman imagines

[sherlocked-avenger]

House Call: A Textile Artist at Home on Hampstead Heath

I recently spent an afternoon with weaver, sculptor, and textile artist Amy Revier at her two-bedroom flat on the woodland borders of the Hampstead Heath. (Revier, a Texas native, is having something of a moment; her garments are sold at Hostem in London and she’s been profiled in T Magazine and elsewhere.)

“When we found the flat, it was very sterile and cold but with great bones,” she says of her apartment, which she shares with her partner Clayton Littlejohn, a philosophy lecturer at King’s College London. “Despite the constraints of renting, we are very pleased with the results of our attempts to add love and warmth to the space. We painted the walls in shades based on our location within the Hampstead Heath (we have resident owls and hear geese landing on the pond behind the communal gardens), so we experimented with natural colors that feel still and soft—gray-green, soft white, peony, and plum-brown.”

The flat is furnished in vintage and flea market finds: “On a sunny Saturday, if I have no obligations, I’ll drive down to the Sussex Coast to hunt for treasures,” she says, “I’ll start in Petworth and work my way through to Lewes, then back to London with a car full of gems.” Join us for a tour of the premises:

Photography by Rory Gardiner for Remodelista.

Above: Revier’s flat is on the ground floor of an Art Deco building on the Highgate side of Hampstead Heath. “I love having this flat to cook in, drink in, and to brighten the mind and spirit with all the fascinating people we have living nearby,” she says.

Above: Revier is originally from Austin, Texas, and graduated from Southern Methodist University with a BFA in sculpture and art history. A Fulbright scholarship took her to Iceland for two years and from there, she came to London. “Only when I moved to London did I begin to connect the dots of performance, the body, and ideas of cocooning and hibernation to my longtime fascination with clothing,” she says. “Approaching it from a sculptural and art historical background allowed me to think broadly about how clothing can be transformative, and to deeply attach myself to the ritual and performance of building each piece.”

Above: “The safari chair was the first piece of furniture I bought after moving to London,” Revier says. “I found it in a wonderful shop called The Peanut Vendor, which is crammed with classic pieces.” The artwork on the wall over the dining room table is by Revier’s good friend artist Jane Bustin.

Above: Revier’s bookshelves are filled with her collection of travel books. “We got the idea for wrapping Clayton’s contemporary academic logic and philosophy books—paperbacks with garishly colored covers—in kraft paper from Virginia Woolf, who wrapped the books in her Sussex house in marbled paper.”

Above: Revier’s loom occupies the second bedroom and is visible from the living area. She compares her garment designs to “shelters or cocoons—voluminous skins with minds of their own—in which you move with the world.”

Above: Revier’s loom is a Swedish Glimakra Standard, which is a large countermarch floor loom. “This is perhaps the most traditional and classic loom around,” she says. “I found this one by chance in Wales and chose it because it is an older model from the 1960s, with original wood spacers and ceramic weights. It’s wonderful to work with, your body naturally dances with it as you weave.”

Above: The communal gardens of the apartment building come right up to the windows of the ground floor flat.

Above: “I love these glazed pitchers, especially the deep blue color of this one displayed on the windowsill,” Revier says. “Everything in our house has been sourced this way. I love to treasure hunt and have been doing it since I was a kid in Texas, which is full of antique shops.”

Above: Arrayed on a bookshelf from Keith Fawkes Books: Welsh blankets from Jen Jones, a quilt and blanket collector, and a pair of terracotta bowls, “a birthday present from Clayton,” Revier says. “They’re from the Peanut Vendor and I fill them with my favorite potpourri from Santa Maria Novella.”

Above: Revier’s solution to the lack of task lighting in the kitchen? A table lamp. The kitchen walls are painted London Clay by Farrow & Ball.

Above: “Entertaining at home is more important to me as a result of living in London,” Revier says. “Meeting someone at a cafe is a different experience than to having them over to your home. I love to entertain because there is a certain kind of looseness that comes with it.”

Above: “My parents are great entertainers and cooks and I’ve followed in their footsteps,” Revier says. “We love to gather together for loud, hearty, happy meals. There are more possibilities in coming to know a person in a different way, seeing their body language relax and become more intimate. Many of my favorite memories come these meals. “

Above: For dessert, Revier favors a Brown Butter Apple Tart. “I’m an inveterate collector and my cutlery is a mix of vintage finds from Rye in East Sussex and from my grandfather’s ranch,” Revier says. “My grandfather was a hog farmer; he had an agreement with a handful of restaurants in Dallas to collect their food waste as food for his hogs. Everything, including an errant fork or spoon, would go into the slop bin, and after forty years, he amassed a nice collection of silver cutlery.”

Above: In her bedroom, Revier pulls together textiles from her favorite haunt, The Cloth House in London. “While I don’t weave the textiles for our soft furnishings, I have sourced and made most of them, including the curtains in our bedroom and the sofa cushions in our living room,” she says.

Above: “A favorite source for bed linens is LA-based Matteo, which makes beautiful quilts and duvet covers. My latest purchase is a result of a recent stay at The New Road Residence, where I discovered Once Milano bedding—absolute heaven.”

Above: Revier addresses the decor of her bathroom with the same amount of attention as the rest of her flat. “I look at the bathroom as a space to unwind. I often take soaks in the bath to ease tension from my muscles from weaving and read in the tub by candlelight.”

N.B.: Revier’s garments are available to view and purchase through Hostem.

For more textiles, see:

Material Girl: Eleanor Pritchard Has a Way with Wool

Embrace the Bright: A Textile Shop Owner at Home in Brooklyn

Hudson Valley Hues: At Home with an Inventive Textile Designer

Christine also writes Fabulous Fabsters, celebrating women who are FAB (Fifty and Beyond) and sharing their stories; head on over to read more.

from garage2 http://ift.tt/2iUxNf3 via great info

#garage2