ARCHIVED

THANK YOU ALL

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

hey! so, I'll be archiving this blog. sure, it had a short run, however it just. . . doesn't feel right. sure, I'm happy now that I have my fandom reblogs separate from my writing, but it just feels empty. rather than stressing out trying to make this work, I decided to leave this blog be. if you still wish to follow me, you may catch me up at @dolcieri.

I had a fun time will it lasted here, and again, I thank you all for your support <3

[feathered-archive]

your John price sucks (true) cause he sucks my di— (also true)

⌗ 𓂃 move price. my turn.

[feathered-archive]

hoe :D i LOVE your john price !!!!

⌗ 𓂃 awww and I love YOU more !!

[feathered-archive]

hoe your john price sucks :/

you know, anon, I've had this ask for a while, and I just to thank you for how much I laughed when I read this. like, on a normal day I would just ignore or heck delete this, but, as my first ask from a month ago, I shall grant you the honour of being immortalized on my blog. because of you, I embraced being more unhinged with my small drabbles because, yes, I want to. I'm just here having fun.

thank you for the effort, xoxo

[feathered-archive]

꒰ ꫂ ၴႅၴ꒱ㅤjohn 'soap' mactavishㅤxㅤreaderㅤ◞ㅤassuming

it was supposed to be a simple run-in and exit. you enter your door, drop the grocery bags off the table, then dip and report to base.

bring company not for joy but for safety. sergeant soap had been generous enough to offer his presence: a wolfish grin and everything like the charming mohawk-styled bastard that lad was. he was kind enough to keep the facade: of a random folk you met at your gig back in the office, one would reckon.

it was simple. the plan was, at least.

"what time is it...?"

you mumble; your voice low and groggy, eyes fluttering slow and heavy. carefully, your hand rests to rub your eye, the other fumbling over the various shapes and textures scattered on the far-side of your bed.

lifting your phone up to where you can barely glance at the screen, you tap twice on the sleek power button. it was eleven o'clock.

you blinked.

your eyes quickly snapped towards the small, peeking curtain of your bedside window. stars lightly littered the sky alongside the moon's gentle glow.

you blinked again.

it was eleven in the evening.

"fuck."

warm blankets kicked off to the side, you were swift to shoot up and tag the waistband of your pants upward. with ever crease of your now disheveled shirt, the other back of the other hand followed; smoothing down the edges for a more put-together look. even the back of your neck felt very sweaty; now your breathing's like that of some butthurt hellhound and then—

"m'eudail...?"

—your other problem.

soap, your sergeant, (and, to an extent, friend) reluctantly sat up atop of your bed. big, strong arms held your pillow captive, his nose buried deep against the case. you hear him let out a small hum—some groan, eyes half-lidded as sleep irks to reclaim him once more.

"where ye headin'...?" he said, as his body tumbles to the side to make solace in shared warmth. "x'mere.."

you could only shake your head. your tone hushed, in any case that your roommate was already home. "it's the middle of the night, johnny. I still have to escort ya back ou—"

"'had a guid nigh' wit' ya in 'ere."

brows scrunched closer, your shake your head. "we didn't do anything—"

soap—well, johnny groans.

"not ma problem," he drawls out, laying back down onto your bed with not a damn care in the entire continent.

asshole.

"command'll fuckin' wreck me to shreds, mactavish."

"let'em," he said. "let'em know ya got a fine bed wit' tha' pretty face o' yers."

"not helping, sergeant!"

𝜗ৎ

it was then one in the morning when you finally pulled coaxed johnny off your quarters, much to his dismay. you both immediately got ready before your roommate returned from whatever-the-hell-they-were-doing.

that doesn't exclude the fact that the neighboring grandma caught you both, though.

despite her sweet old smile, it wasn't enough to cover the deep concern laced within her words. "o' what are you young lovebirds doing out this late at night?"

you scowl. johnny, on the other hand, laughs.

you are so telling gaz about everything.

"least she's open-minded—"

"quit it."

𝓟. 𝓢. — a repost from an old account because how dare I not have something for johnny in this blog. anyways, have this little thing that is based on real-life experiences <33 I'll be writing more serious stuff in the future, so stay tuned!

[feathered-archive]

( ♰. )ㅤCOUTURE ⋮ john price

𝓟.RÉCIS — sometimes, the best punishment is worn with high price tags. or; the sugardaddy! john price au.

ㅤ( 𝓣. ) EXPLICIT; mdni. john price x f! reader. smut [power-play, lingerie, dry humping, grinding, messy make-out session (something something that involves liquor)]. implied age gap. mention of luxury brands.ㅤ ㅤ word count: 2.2k

𝓕.OREWORD — the (un)official part 2 to sugarfever.

He's only here for one thing, but, so am I.

It was a thrilling delight whenever you managed to get under John's skin—and that was rare.

Never was it an issue of patience, but rather control. A steady hand atop the criss-cut dining table, rhythmic taps against the lining of the vintage doily. There's a certain weight in the man's gaze when you find yourself in his peripheral: precise, purposeful, conscious. With every invite to his lavish abode came a tagged check, slivered into your clutch while you were none the wiser. The walls were riddled with awards where memories once found their place, tucked aside to make way for better beginnings. Surely.

For a man of many secrets, it was easy for him to find yours.

One of those being your general dislike for expensive gifts. More so, not the object itself, but the extreme costs the other had spent to deliver the good at your feet.

You felt guilty.

Despite that, your wails go unheard. Every quip and complaint pushed aside for another expensive Vivienne Westwood piece, all from a sly comment you'd uttered as a joke. Before you open your mouth, John would be calling the servicemen in your direction.

"Your bill, Sir Price," the man clad in his stiff uniform would say, serving the note—quite literally—on a silver platter.

John had the audacity to pull you by the waist, anchoring you to his side as you'd feel the gazes of the luxury staff turned scornful. He, in a Burberry wool tux, with his calloused thumb rubbing gentle circles against the fabric. You could almost feel the cold, gold trim from his watch: Omega Seamaster Diver in bronze gold. The one with the velvet trim for a bezel, naturally.

You, adorned in a white cotton and silk poplin ensemble paired with your favourite red bottoms, couldn't help but feel bashful. Which is why, at any given opportunity (as small as they may be) you'd find a way to outsmart him. Even if it's for a moment, a second of that same control that shaped his military expertise.

After all, revenge is best served where the naked eye can't see.

𝜗ৎ

John stilled.

Your self-made updo had begun to loosen, strands falling softly around your face as the faint light from the vanity flickered beneath the warm hush of your empty room. The carved foliage of the headboard cast long shadows, while the bite of the air conditioning traced icy fingers across your exposed skin. On your left held a full glass of whisky; the amber liquid catching the low candlelight as your motion stirs it slowly.

The bright red handset nestles itself along your shoulder, a finger lightly twirling the cord. You pout against the transmitter, tired, throwing an impatient glance at your doorframe. The large, herculean silhouette of man casts a long, surly shadow.

In darkness, you find his eyes. Those same eyes of a flowing river at the dread of night; as it reflects the subtle moonlight at its tides. Not cold, no—you never knew how those same eyes caught flames as it lingers further down your frame. At its edges it cascades downward, settling at your core before it trails back up again.

You hum, curtly holding it by the back of the receiver before placing it back at the beside table. Adjusting your posture, you let your feet find the floor before crossing your legs.

"John," you begin, ignoring the subtle tense of your own shoulders. "You're late."

The man took a deep breath. Ragged. Almost primal. "Jesus Christ…"

Your lips pursed, as if you weren't sat on the sumptuous bed like a mantra. On the beside table was an open bottle of Johnnie Walker. The box unceremoniously on the carpeted floor. With a hum, you lift the glass closer, the strong smoky aroma wafts itself in the air. Your nose scrunched.

Ever her innocency, you cock your head to the side. Eyes squint, almost feigning offence. "Do you not like it?"

He cursed under his breath. He supposed it's with how his own pride was wounded in the process, as he watches you lacking a hint of remorse for your actions. Sickeningly sweet, not even a tantalizing silk robe to cover the utter beguiling sight you've haunted him with.

You were a vice. You'd beckon him, giving John an amicable nod.

Then he took a step forward. Unrestrained, although it remained calculated. He strides across the room, still focused on you. You swore you caught a ghost of a smile beneath that thick, brown beard.

"A new one," John says, his voice gruff. A raspy, cigarette-stained cadence with an ashy throat, yet a voice so deep it made your cheeks flush. "Y'out got a new one."

You could almost feel yourself shrink beneath him as he inches closer, his sheer size exceeding beyond the four walls that enclosed you both. Still, you hummed, your eyes darting downward at your own body.

Soft beneath the light, your breasts supported by the balconette, pushing them upward beneath the black floral lace. A full Nelle set, with your poor waspie off to the side. It's adorable how you took pride in your actions even if you were trapped between him and the large, king-sized bed; though you couldn't deny that it wasn't from a stroke of ego. You were stubborn, but the face you focused solely on him with a half-lidded gaze as you took note of his features. Strong, defined, though aged—crotchety from all his years.

You took a small sip. "You told me to buy something nice," you gently intoned. "So I did."

John couldn’t resist the small yet tender laugh, whispering his voice softly for his darling to hear. He rarely ever does that, only saving it for more special moments. Special, a rather generous way of putting it. "You sly little minx."

You looked at him with a puzzled expression, legs close together as you stoop up. Your brows knit, the glass still in your hand. Though while your gaze held a love struck pool of hearts, it stayed strong. Determined. Not once faltering your authority. "It's Agent Provocateur—why? is something wrong?"

"And the whisky?"

With a huff, you feigned hurt. "I get to try new drinks, too."

John’s eyes flick briefly to the bottle on the floor. Blue Label. A statement, not just in taste but in intent. His gaze lingers a moment longer, as if reading into it, watching how the box had been discarded like an afterthought. His jaw ticks.

Then, he looks to your hand.

The cut of crystal trembles slightly between your fingers, catching the light in sharp, golden angles. You know he sees the warmth bleeding through the prism, the way the rich liquid gold clings to the edge with each tilt, each breath riding along the waves of a shaken shot.

Then, a flicker. Not quite admiration. Not quite disdain. Something far more amusing, far more… him.

“You poured it yourself?” he asks, though it's more a rumble than a question. The heat in his voice wraps around you like smoke from a slow-burning cigar. You barely manage a nod before his hand finds your hip—large, warm, and grounding, fingers splayed just above the sheer lace that clings to your skin.

"C’mon, luv,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Give this ol’ bloke a taste.”

You hesitate, then ever slowly lift the glass, holding it between you both. The crystal catches the candlelight once more, casting a gentle mirage of gold against your collarbone, where sweat now kisses the dip of your clavicle. Your fingers tremble, not from the drink, but from him.

John’s hand comes up, steady and certain. His thick fingers wrap around the base of the glass, not to take it. Not yet. He tilts it with practised ease, the rim brushing against your bottom lip.

The cool glass shocks your skin, but you part your mouth for it all the same.

The whisky meets your tongue in a deliberate pour; almost burning. Gently at first, then deeper, settling behind your throat with notes of oak and smoke. You shiver, eyelids fluttering shut as your lips close around the rim, catching the last drop.

You don’t swallow.

John watches you. One hand reaches behind your neck, fingers sliding beneath your hair, calloused palm cradling the curve of your nape. Then, his thumb moves, pressing against your throat with precise pressure. You gasp. The whisky trembling in your mouth as your body tenses under his grip.

“Don’t swallow it al' now,” he commands, that authoritative drawl almost blurs out your view.

The glass slips from your hand, soft thud on the carpeted floor—now long forgotten. You barely have time to register it before John tugs you forward by the neck, tilting your chin up.

Without warning, your lips meet his.

John pushes his knees between your itching legs, grasping your hips before turning you around as he now sat on the bed. You, now on top of his thick thighs, your mouth parting to disperse the sinful liquor spiced with a blend that was distinctively yours.

You couldn't help but gasp, shivering beneath the cold, room as you buried deeper into the warmth of the larger man's body. Almost submerged, basked within the pooling contrast against exposed skin that made your stomach churn.

"Ah.. hah…"

You try to breath, but John's mouth still latched onto yours. Even as he devours the excess, he wanted more. A stoic hand to hold his needy lady, as he fully relishes the lingering sensations from within your walls. Your tongues—oh, a sensitive piece of muscle—engaged in a ridden dance of a rather sloppy drag of taste buds of titillating breaths.

John, your mind echoed. Your voice long gone, words no longer uttered. Just mindless, instinctual sounds billowing in your lungs.

Your legs trembled, feeling him chub up beneath the dark fabric of his trousers. A large, noticeable bump, intruding against the thin lining of your hundred pound thong. When yo flinched, it prompted John to sink you deeper against his hard crotch. Rocking his hips upward, just enough to draw out an insatiable moan off your pretty, drooling pout.

"Ah… John—" you pant, as you pull yourself out of the kiss. Your eyes glossed over, the plan in your head almost wavering with every sharp roll he gives your poor clothed cunt. John's eyes trailed over your form once more, tracing the perfect arch of your back as you try to match his pace. Your head tilts back to spare a few merciful seconds, yet still blindsided by the seething pressure coursing through your core.

A fat thumb caresses your exposed backside, his voice—hoarse, with barely-held grunts, permeates the slick, heated atmosphere to reach your lulled out ears. He couldn't help it; you looked so enticing, feeling small under his intimidating stature. To him, you were simply breathtaking, even as you haphazardly buck your soaking entrance that stains his expensive Brioni. Your recklessness was a nag to his work, though never was it unwelcome.

"Thinkin' about pullin' that stunt, huh?" John would whisper. The man leaves out a faux disappointed 'tsk,' with you spilling out breathless apologies in desperate need for more friction. Something. Anything to satiate the swell you have put yourself into. Your soft, murmured mewls ricochets beyond the closed, oak door. And— fuck, you could almost feel tears streaming down your ruined blush.

"S..sir—"

John covers your mouth, drowning out your enveloped moans. It doesn't taking long for John to have you trapped on top of the mattress, nails digging deep into velvet sheets.

He muses, shaking his head. "Look at ye. Usin' my card for this."

His hand tugs at the underside of your bra, feeling the lining of expensive black lace against the white canvas. You could almost hear the distinct sound of an unbuckled belt. Of heavy fabric cascading down to the floor. You whined, trying not to look— Trying not to spare even a glance—

Shedding the final layers off his abdomen left you in a trance. A well on large size, on top of some grateful genetic recombination for his astounding length. If that wasn't enough, the veins looked sculpted, tracing down towards a thick bush of curly brown hair. It leaked a small bead of precum; a sight that was supposed to be familiar to you already.

Not even your mind could fill in the blank of ever coming close, picturing such a big, old cock. Even in your greediest of fantasies.

Which reduced you to an even more of a writhing, whining mess. Begging with all the voice left reverberating in your throat. "J-John— please—"

"Shhh.."

John shushes, his tip rubbing against the soaked lace on your panties.

"Let me 'ear it from 'er, dove," he croons. "Let me 'ear it."

𝓟. 𝓢. — this was written based on something a friend had said and hoooooo boy this got a little too handsy. sadly, I didn't really want to continue it beyond the ending soooo I'm sorry for that.

moth dividers by me. cross divider by chrisssiren. lace fade dividers by cursed-carmine.

[feathered-archive]

⌗ 𓂃 thinking about this god forsaken au again. . . since I may not be able to entertain the bird worms, have a feast (I say as I re-serve you leftovers)

[feathered-archive]

⌗ 𓂃 wait... you know those bridal looks that depict forced wives? ( samuel cirnansck spring 2012, vivienne westwood spring/summer 1997, & maybe alexander mcqueen autumn/winter 1995 to an extent )? because... hm...

[pittsick]

okay i’m gonna say it: fandoms are kinda dying on tumblr, and they’re starving because nobody reblogs anymore.

like… i don’t wanna be that person but be for real?? likes are cute and all but they do nothing for creators. ZERO. NADA. a reblog is literally the oxygen mask keeping this blue hellsite alive. you say you “love” a fic, an edit, a gifset? then BABES… reblog it. boost it. let it breathe.

half the time creators are out here pouring their entire soul, spine, AND three vertebrae into something just for it to get 200 likes and 3 reblogs, two of which are their own. that’s why people stop posting. that’s why fandoms feel empty. content doesn’t magically fall from the sky — it comes from people who feel seen.

and i promise you: reblogging is free. it costs you like 0.2 seconds and suddenly you’re personally responsible for keeping a whole fandom alive. congrats!! so yeah. if you like something? reblog it. scream in the tags. yell. keyboard smash. put sparkles. do whatever. just don’t let creators feel like they’re shouting into a void.

reblogs feed creators. reblogs keep fandoms thriving. reblogs literally save lives (okay maybe not literally but u get it).

support the creators you love !!!!!! or else we’re all gonna be sitting in empty tags like clowns.

[feathered-archive]

꒰ ꫂ ၴႅၴ꒱ㅤkyle 'gaz' garrickㅤxㅤf! readerㅤ◞ㅤchivalry

you and kyle have this thing. this small, weird little habit that started off as a funny afterthought.

some talks, tiny talks, clanks of glass on glass with the pool of deep ombre contrasting with sharp, bubbly fuzz. whatever preceded drunken hour, who knows; a bogue posh accent drawls out of your lips. your eyes heavy, as hushed giggles push your lungs with every shallow huff.

your fingers glide through water droplets, wiping off the condensation. "my sir kyle, how are you so..."

sir.

you called him sir. a grave mistake to refer to the wrong rank.

kyle raises a brow. shocked? quite frankly. amused? definitely. the man shifts, pulling his chair as to properly face you.

"it's sergeant," he corrects. "need'a explain yerself, sweetie bird?"

you giggle.

"my fair sir kyle—" you continued, head raised slightly "—you amuse me."

that's when it clicked.

it's not about honorifics, just whatever the heck your mind had conjured up. probably all the knights stories, same ones you'd rant to him whenever you're both free. the latter could only bite his bottom lip. his hand rests against your frizzled hair, his finger gently twirling around the loose strand.

"lightweight," he wheezes. his touch flows downwards, the hardened hand lightly passing soft, pillowy skin. kyle's thumb settles at the corner of your lip, wiping away the little bead of mixer that seeped through. he almost laughs.

"my lady's a lightweight."

you could say it ends there. the unsavory aftermath (who are you kidding, it was the best) was another topic, but since that night, it stuck. o more was it a one-night start.

it was morning. you were ready: wearing your favourite outfit, bag ready, and perfectly read to start your morning. chin up, shoulders back, soon as you reach for the door—

ahem.

you flinched, warm hands encircling yours. you look up, only to be met with wide, brown eyes and a furrowed brow. before you ask, he's already grabbing the strap of your bag. and your keys.

"allow me," he says, pulling your hand off the doorknob. "my lady."

you could only sigh, shaking your head. "oh my lord kyle.."

too late, the immaculate incarnate of chivalry has guided you out your shared abode, door opening swag and everything.

𝓟. 𝓢. — "I have a thing with a man named kyle," yes you do have a thing with a man named kyle.

[feathered-archive]

it was a day off.

a 'buzz' from the bell. a man outside.

the gentleman, at least, was respectful. despite the attire, he bowed his head low as he handed you a large black box wrapped in a golden ribbon. though perhaps it was something in his voice. too meek, too heavy with guilt. or perhaps it was the way your hands still rested on the board.

not shaking.

nor clenched.

just perfectly, unmistakably, coldly still.

your eyes were no better, casting a downward gaze on the box in your hands. thought after thought circled your mind: what if this was all lie? what if he's just missing? surely he's only missing. undoubtedly so, he could be. this would've earned a laugh from those rascals your eccentric husband would always call his enemies. that could be it.

though the small sound the soldier made from clearing his throat was quick to ground you back to what was real. what had happened; not what's supposed to. no. if it weren't for the embroidered spade coasted off to the lower-left edge, you would've believed so.

a sigh escapes your lips. your shoulders lax, your eyes darted back to the man—some poor soldier boy far too young for this line of work. you can only ever look back at the man in the eye, as any lower you'd be confronted with the uniform of your beloved's company.

one which you would meticulously clean yourself before his next departure; though, this soldier's was more ragged. more crooked, dirtier in some patches.

you nod your head. your nose sniffling.

"thank you," you whisper, your voice all but audible.

barely.

"commander phillip graves was killed in action."

those were the exact words that, sadly, greeted your ears from the other side of the barred garden gate.