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@outlawoverture
𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗹𝗮𝘄𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 is a 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗧𝗘 roleplay blog ━━ exclusively affiliated with 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗿𝗽𝗴. penned by 𝘀𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗮.
𝗶. 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲𝗮 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝘆𝘁𝗼𝗻 ━━ 28. dancer at black widow. intro. 𝗶𝗶. 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗹𝗮𝗸𝗲 ━━ 30. sons of anarchy member. intro. iii. 𝗴𝗶𝗼𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗮 '𝗴𝗶𝗮' 𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗶𝘀 ━━ 31. vice detective. intro. iv. 𝗲𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗼 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗼𝘆𝗮 ━━ 39. cartel second-in-command. intro. v. 𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗶 𝗹𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 ━━ 39. sons of anarchy member, tail gunner. intro. vi. 𝗮𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗶 ━━ 30. heiress. intro.
✧ 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱 ⸺ open ( @charmingstart ) 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 ⸺ the afterlife
Near the back hallway of The Afterlife, where the bass from the dance floor thudded through the walls and neon bled sickly pink across the scuffed tile, Levi had a guy slammed hard into the vending machine, glass rattling with every shove. One forearm pinned across the man’s chest while his other hand—nicked knuckles, blood bright and tacky—kept a fist twisted in his shirt. His kutte was still on, tail gunner patch visible under the buzzing overhead light, jaw tight and eyes flat with the kind of focus that made people wisely keep their distance. A few onlookers had started to gather at the mouth of the hallway, drawn by the noise, the tension, the promise of trouble.
A couple club girls hovered at the corner, someone shouted for security that wasn’t coming, and from out front the faint wail of sirens started to thread through the music. Levi didn’t let the guy go. He just spat blood to the side, rolled his shoulders once, and growled to no one and everyone, “You picked the wrong fucking place to forget who you owe.”
"well," blue eyes tracked the curvy dancer as she made entry into his private space, "i wasn't exactly expecting a stripogram asking to be let in." for a moment he stared at the back of her shoulders, then her blonde head before he moved to close his front door behind her. "who even sent you?" it could be meant both ways ⸺ perhaps someone on the team thought they were funny, or the powers that be at black widow, a place owned by the cartel, were trying to invade his space in the same way he kept encroaching on theirs.
seeing chelsea in his private space messed with his head a bit. especially in the way she seemed to take him in. not physically, but the way he appeared to live in her perspective. when his gaze clocked the open file the vice detective moved to close it. in fact, riley took it a step further and placed privileged information on the top shelf, out of her reach, of a bookcase in his living room.
"cats have nine lives," he countered, "you're too young to be wearing them all out." by his observation she seemed ... uncomfortable? and riley thought: good. this was a mix of things that tensed his shoulders because he knew the likelihood of it not ending well. for the job, to get what he needed, the las vegas native could pretend to be her friend. but taking in the little top and thigh-hugging skirt? he most definitely couldn't be that for her. that would get him fired and put a huge investigation at risk. "yeah," he shifted his weight and let out a bored sigh, not wanting her to feel welcome because this shouldn't be happening, "you know what bedtime is, right?"
the response about the beer put him into action. they couldn't just continue to stand there staring at each other with the ambiance of the basketball game in the background in his living room. riley approached the sheriff's estranged daughter with a hand out indicating he'd take the six-pack from her. "the beer isn't what got you in," the detective stated plainly right before taking it off her hands and hip and carried it off into his kitchen with the expectation that she'd follow.
after he'd set it on the island riley rested his hands atop the granite and leaned into them. his gaze was sharp on hers and the wheels continued to turn in his head. "an excuse for what?" and of course her drawing attention back to how she'd adorned herself for appearing on his doorstep had brought his attention back to it. at her place of work and where he'd visited many times in attempts to talk to the dancers and staff riley had seen the blonde in much less.
"you're assuming i have set hours." sensing where this was headed he tried to steer it in a different direction, but riley couldn't deny that some part of him was curious. "i don't mind seeing you," an honest bone he threw her. "it's just that you're in my house dressed to leave little to the imagination ... i can only assume what you're after." as cocky as he could be the detective's mind hadn't gone in the carnal direction. his thought was more to the likelihood that chelsea had been sent to absorb information on where the investigation was at.
Chelsea felt the air change the moment he said it.
I can only assume what you’re after.
It landed heavier than she expected. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just… flat. Clinical. Like he’d already filed her away in a drawer labeled useful problem instead of woman standing in his kitchen. And for the first time in a long time, Chelsea Clayton didn’t quite know what to do with that.
Her fingers rose without thinking, tugging her sweater a little higher over her shoulder where it had slipped. The movement was small, almost nervous, followed by the faintest inching of her skirt down her thighs as if she could quietly undo the first impression she’d walked in with. Heat crept into her cheeks, soft and unwelcome, and she hated that he could probably see it. Hated more that she couldn’t charm her way out of it.
She swallowed.
“No one sent me,” she said gently, and the usual sparkle in her tone had dulled to something honest, almost careful. “Not Black Widow. Not your team. Not Cain.” His name was offered without hesitation, like she had nothing to hide there even if she, arguably, did. “I don’t exactly have a handler, Riley. Not even my Dad.”
Her arms folded loosely across her middle—not defensive, just… containing herself. She leaned her hip against the island but didn’t claim it like she normally would’ve. Didn’t drape. Didn’t pose.
“I know what it looks like,” she admitted, eyes flicking briefly to the counter before lifting back to his. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I just… came. Just forget it.”
And that, embarrassingly, was the truth.
Chelsea exhaled through her nose, steadying herself, letting the flirtation bleed out of the room like it had never belonged there to begin with. If this was the lane he needed, she could walk it.
“I heard something tonight,” she continued, tone shifting into something more grounded. “Couple of guys talking too loud after a few drinks. Not regulars. Mentioned a junkyard off County Road 18. Said something about a trade getting moved before sunrise. Sounded rushed and nervous.” Her head tilted slightly. “Didn’t feel like small talk.”
Her head tilted slightly as she searched her memory.
“They kept mentioning street racers. Said the place would look like some late-night car meet if anyone drove by. Engines running, headlights on, music up. A lot of noise to make it look like kids being stupid instead of… something getting traded hands.” Her eyes narrowed just a touch. “That's more the speed of this... right?”
closed starter ✧ chelsea clayton. ( @outlawoverture ) location ✧ black widow.
"Stop moving," Ilona scolded over the top of Chelsea's head, nails raking over her scalp, parting neat sections of the other blonde's hair. Music blasted from the speakers, drowning out the rest of the girls scattered across the room in various states of undress. "French or Dutch? Queue de poisson?" "I heard one of your regulars is getting married," she began, catching Chelsea's eyes in the mirror as she took to braiding her hair. "I could have sworn he was in love with you," she shook her head, clicking her tongue. "You think he's serious about her? I mean, I saw the ring, and that thing's not even a pebble, but still. A ring's a ring, you know." She pondered over her own words for a beat, brows furrowing in concentration as she thought. "I would buy you a ring," she declared with a smile. "I'd make it a big rock. You wouldn't even be able to keep your hand up from the weight." Ilona wiggled in place, thoughts drifting off to precious gems and sparkly things.
Chelsea squirmed anyway, a quiet laugh slipping out as Ilona’s fingers tugged her back into place. “I am still,” she insisted, even as her shoulders wiggled with the music. She was dressed down for once — high-waisted black spandex hugging her legs and a zipped sweatshirt meeting just at her bust, all comfort after spending the last hour bending herself into shapes under stage lights in far less clothing.
Her eyes met Ilona’s in the mirror, grin softening just a touch while she let herself go pliant under the careful parting of her hair. For a second, she wasn’t in the dressing room at Black Widow with bass thudding through the walls — she was ten years old on the edge of her sister Cassidy’s bed, letting nimble hands twist ribbons into her hair before school. The memory settled warm in her chest in a way she didn’t always admit she missed.
She tilted her head slightly to give Ilona better access, smile turning cheeky again. “French,” she decided, lips quirking. “If you’re gonna braid me, do it with flair.” At the mention of the regular, she only huffed a soft laugh. “Mmm... but men fall in love every Thursday, Ilona. It’s practically a hobby.” Her gaze flicked back to the mirror, laughter lines melting into a signature smirk. “But if you’re buying me a ring, make it obnoxious. I wanna blind people when I wave.”
"when was the last time you checked?" with their height difference, even in her heels, the french blonde had to tilt her head a bit to look up at the outlaw the closer he got to her. she could feel the warmth of his body nearby and almost reached out for colson. "your information might be outdated," lola teased, a gleam in her eyes.
with what was happening, the drug dealer was doing her best to process emotions and feelings that were completely new to her. this man standing before her, amongst the collection of some of her expensive possessions, had professed his love for her and was now wanting to make their living arrangements permanent. this level of want, love, devotion, and protection was as unnerving as it was filling a void she'd had since she was a baby.
it was difficult to maintain a playful edge when she wanted to breakdown and cry, or jump into his arms, or scream over the claustrophobia over the lack of space ⸺ but for now she was being so strong and holding it together. colson had an insane ability to read her, though, and lola wondered if he could see her fragility in this moment.
"well i'm not gonna do it," the blonde tossed back in her accented english, smirk toying on her pouty lips. "so someone's gonna have to clean up this mess. i'm starting to feel like i can't breathe," lola added, but with her the dramatics were very real. as real as the hand that wrapped around her throat for emphasis. "plus," she closed the distance between them and gripped his muscled biker arms, "you're real big and strong. you know i can't lift any of this shit." then she displayed her manicure to her man. "it'd be pretty monstrous of you to insist i ruin this," she said of her perfect fingers.
after a glance back, lola sat on one of the boxes and lifted her designer clad foot to the outlaw. "if they bother you so much take them off."
Colson didn’t answer her question right away. He just looked at her — really looked — head tilted slightly as if he were studying something delicate he didn’t want to break by moving too fast. His jaw flexed once, fingers twitching at his thigh in that quiet, restless rhythm, before his hands came up to settle loosely at her hips. Partially possessive. Not forceful. Just grounding. “Couple minutes ago,” he murmured lowly, eyes warm and knowing as they searched her face. “But you’re right… things change fast around here. Don't go changing your mind on me now.”
He could see it. The bravado, the dramatics, the teasing edge she wore like perfume — and beneath it, the tightness in her chest, the way her breath wasn’t quite landing right. The loft felt smaller now, crowded with her life, her past, her weight of feeling. Colson stepped in closer without thinking, big hands sliding from her hips to her arms where she held onto him, thumbs brushing absent-mindedly over her skin like he was smoothing invisible wrinkles out of the moment. “Hey,” he said softer, quieter, meant only for her. “Breathe, Lo. It’s just boxes. Not walls.”
When she sat and lifted her foot toward him, that crooked smirk returned. He crouched down without a word, large hands wrapping around her ankle carefully, reverently, like she was made of glass instead of silk and fire. His thumbs pressed lightly into the strap of the heel as he worked it loose, eyes flicking up to hers with a teasing glint. “Yeah,” he muttered, slipping the shoe free and setting it aside. “Would be real monstrous of me.” The other followed just as gently. He stayed there a second longer than necessary, hands still warm at her calf, gaze steady and unreadable before he rose back to his full height. “You sit pretty,” he added, voice back to that familiar gravel. “I’ll make us some room to breathe.”
He turned then, grabbing the nearest box and dragging it aside with an easy scrape across the concrete, carving a small clearing in the chaos. After a couple more shifts, he glanced back at her over his shoulder, chin tipping toward the open space he’d made. “C’mon,” he invited, faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Bring those fancy feet over here. I need some company at least.”
no matter how subtle or unreadable the detective had trained herself to be, and cain would admit her attempt was better than most, the cartel boss had missed a thing. rooms slowed when he was in them because the natural world quieted and watched when they sense the apex predator moving through the long grass. it was only the oblivious and ignorant that gambled with their life. everyone else was prepared to act on reflex.
just slightly his head tipped to the side as he regarded the controlled expression on her face. then his gaze moved south, to the chain and the way it settled comfortably between her breasts, to the shield that hung like the ugliest, most taunting pendant. "isn't it?" his counter coiled and curled like heavy, lingering smoke.
"if i wanted your attention," something akin to amusement twitched at the corners of his mouth, cain knew how to mimic the behavior of an average person, "then i'd have it. like now." the message was clear ⸺ their interactions would be on his time, not hers.
then his brow lifted and he stepped closer to her, the brunette's subtly perfume filled his senses and he slow blinked as his line of sight dropped to her lips then eased their way back up to meet her gaze. "we have a pretty strict policy against brass around here. come in here again without a warrant and it on display ... i'll personally throw you out." then, after a beat, letting the threat pulse between them, "or i can always come to yours and impress my presence around there." and cain wasn't meaning the police station.
Gia felt it this time — the shift in the air, the way his nearness pressed in without a single touch. It wasn’t fear. Fear was loud and obvious. This was quieter. Colder. A slow awareness that crept up her spine and settled at the base of her skull like instinct whispering you’re too close to something dangerous.
Her pulse didn’t race. It leveled out. Focused.
She noticed his eyes drop. Noted it with clinical precision. Hated that some part of her registered it outside of professional assessment.
For a fraction of a second, her jaw tightened before she smoothed it away, composure sliding back into place like well-worn armor. Around them, the club throbbed with music and chatter, bodies moving under colored lights, but it all blurred into something distant and muffled. The world had narrowed to the space between them. To the weight of his stare. To the way he spoke like this floor, this bar, this entire room already belonged to him. “So, this is you... wanting my attention.” More than just warning a cop wandering into a cartel owned strip club.
Deliberate. Unhurried. Gia lifted her hand to the chain at her throat.
The soft click of metal releasing was almost lost beneath the bass as she unhooked her badge. She never broke eye contact while lowering it to the counter between them. The shield landed with a faint, solid sound against the polished surface, and she pushed it toward him with two fingers — an offering, a boundary, a dare all at once.
“There,” she said, voice quieter now, silk over steel. “No more brass.” Her hand withdrew. She reached for her glass instead, taking a slow sip as if this were the most casual exchange in the world. “Just a customer.”
Her dark eyes held his but there was something new flickering there now — something sharper than professionalism. Something that mirrored the tension he was trying to create.
A faint tilt of her head. “You threatening to show up uninvited at my place,” she asked evenly, “or is that your version of hospitality?”
"Listen here, mister." Alara immediately said, letting out a laugh when she was caught red-handed by none other than her ex-boyfriend. They ended on relatively good terms, which she was thankful for, because with her brother having the role that he has with the mc, and Colson being a member, she knew they'd see each other often, especially when it comes to nights like this. The murders still weighed on her mind, but she was absolutely, embarrassingly distracted when it came to some good music, being surrounded by good people, and eating some damn good food. "Just because you decided to be mister cool nonchalant man and deprive yourself of this deliciousness doesn't give you the right to judge me for how much I'm enjoying this. No, really, just try it. It's not that sweet, which is why it truly hits the spot."
Col snorted softly, shaking his head as he finally reached out and took the offered bite like he’d been peer-pressured into it. “I ain’t judgin’,” he muttered around a half grin. “I’m observin’. Big difference.”
He chewed, thoughtful for a second, then gave a small nod like he hated admitting she was right. “Alright. Yeah. That’s annoyingly good.” His eyes flicked back to hers. “You always did have decent taste in food. Questionable in men, but food? Solid.”
A faint laugh slipped out of him as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Guess I can’t act all mysterious and broody if I’m standin’ here eatin’ dessert with you, huh?” He tipped his head slightly. “Go on. Gloat. You earned it.”
mateo didn’t stop her. he just leaned back against the bar with his arms crossed, watching her like this was something he was going to critique later. one brow lifted as the cap twisted free, trying to hide the amusement on his face.
"practically certified," he repeated, giving a look as if he was saying sure jan. "that’s exactly what i’m worried about."
when the glass slid toward him, he caught it before it could tip, fingers brushing the rim as he gave it a thoughtful sniff. "…okay. i've definitely served worse," he announced, taking a cautious sip, "and i hate that, because now you’re never going to let this go."
he nudged the glass back toward her, "but if this kills me, i’m haunting you. and if it doesn’t, you’re officially banned from behind my bar. union rules," he teased, finally letting a smirk appear.
Chelsea leaned both palms on the bar like she was eager and waiting, blonde hair spilling forward as she watched him taste it with entirely too much anticipation in her eyes. The second he didn’t immediately gag, her grin turned downright victorious. “Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed, reaching to spin the glass back toward herself with a delicate flick of her fingers. “You just validated me for the rest of my life.”
She took a sip from the same spot his lips had touched, slow and shameless, lashes lifting at him over the rim. “Haunt me? Please. I’d redecorate for you. Cute little ghost, floating around, judging my pours.” Her head tilted, gold earrings catching the light as she leaned a little closer over the bar. “And ban me?” she added sweetly, “Mateo, be honest. You’re just scared I’m one good drink away from taking your job. Think Black Widow will miss me when I steal your title?”
Before he could argue, she planted her hands and hoisted herself up onto the bar top with an easy, dancer’s grace, legs crossing as she settled there like it was the most natural seat in the room. “Better view from up here,” she mused, looking down at him with playful triumph. “You can keep an eye on me while I perfect my craft. Gimme another.”
halfway spent on champagne, the real stuff, high end and imported from her home country, lola rested her small body into the comfort of chelsea's bed. a place she was very familiar with being. large iphone in hand the blonde was scrolling her burner tiktok account the same as her best friend was. both giggling and passing thirst traps back and forth despite being in the same room while the dancer got herself ready to face the big, bad world beyond these walls tonight.
"that one's also a biker!" the french drug dealer kicked a leg up as she hollered out to her friend, referring to the latest video she'd shared via the app that was on her heavy masktok feed. "go to his profile he'd got one's where he's clearly into choking too." another giggle passed her lips and the blonde held out the champagne bottle. "you should slide into his dms, ma chérie."
then a groan sounded from her small frame and lola propped herself up, already ready to devastate tonight's crowd and waiting on chelsea to finish up. "col's still being a little bitch about the mask shit," she complained. "he also doesn't wanna chase me," the blonde sat up with a pout on her lips, "i'm getting kink shamed."
a moment later she was off the bed and approaching her friend's vanity, fingers rummaging through the collection of lip glosses. "here," she'd said, offering a selection to chelsea, "use this one. everyone will try to kiss you tonight." her accented french made it sound more enticing and alluring than it was. "are you ready, mon bébé?"
Chelsea’s laughter came easy, warm and bright as she leaned closer to the mirror, dragging the tip of her liner into a sharper, deadlier wing. “If he’s a biker, he’s already disqualified, hot TikTok or not.” she tossed back, eyes flicking to Lola through the reflection. “I refuse to compete with leather vests and emotional unavailability tonight. I think I need a twist.”
Her phone buzzed again somewhere behind them on the bed and she didn’t even look. Instead, she reached for the gloss Lola offered, lips curving as she swiped it on nice and slow. “Slide into his DMs? Babe, I don’t even slide into saved contacts.” Well, partial lie right there... “Mystery men only. Builds character.” Which, apparently, was Chelsea's newfound kink.
At the mention of Colson, her brows lifted just slightly, a knowing little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He’s not kink shaming you,” she corrected lightly. “He’s terrified you’ll actually find someone who can keep up.” A wink followed it, playful but pointed. “He's going to cave and chase you then choke you and you know it. He can never actually say no to you.”
Chelsea stood then, smoothing her hands down the curve of her dress before turning to face Lola fully, blonde waves cascading over bare shoulders. She leaned in close, bumping her hip against her best friend’s. “Yes. I'm more than ready to go ruin someone’s night and be the reason they can’t sleep tomorrow.”
She grabbed her purse off the dresser, giving Lola a once-over with an approving nod. “I guarantee at least three bad decisions are already on their way to that nightclub. And I might need you to take my phone away from me if we somehow get past five rounds of tequila.”
leo & chelsea @ the black widow / @outlawoverture
working in the same place as your ex was never a fun time. especially when he had to see her walk around in practically nothing, doting on men and women giving her dollar bills. heat coursed through him from his daily standpoint as security at the club, but not really knowing if it's due to anger or desire.
when it came to chelsea, leo found it had always been a mix of both. that passion had made them have a good run, where when it was going good, it was perfect, but when it was going bad, it was horrifying.
kitchenware thrown everywhere, a home turned into a yelling match, which ended in either her having her back against the wall and her legs wrapped around his waist as he pounded into her, or her stomping away.
knowing her schedule against his will, he knew she was just about done with her shift, and so was he. heaving a sigh, he walked towards her, eyebrows lifted. "you got a ride home already?"
Chelsea paused mid-motion as she tugged the oversized hoodie down over her glitter-dusted skin, the soft fabric swallowing up what the stage lights had just put on display. Her eyes lifted to Leo through the mirror first before she turned, slow and deliberate, like she was deciding how much of herself he still got to see. Mascara smudged faintly beneath her lashes, lips still glossed, earrings catching the low light as she tilted her head.
A small smile pulled at her mouth — not kind, not cruel, just familiar. “I usually do,” she said, voice easy, almost airy. Her nice and shiny white jeep was locked away in a mechanic shop somewhere this time around. Her fingers dragged through her blonde hair to shake it loose from where it had been pinned up for work. “I didn’t realize you were volunteering for the position.” Her gaze skimmed over him once, measured, unreadable in a way it never used to be. “You off the clock, Leo… or just keeping tabs like old habits die hard?”
There was a beat where the air felt heavier between them, history sitting right there in the room with them — loud fights, slammed doors, things said that never got taken back. Chelsea’s posture shifted almost. Her head tilted slightly. “What’s the catch?”
everything about eliseo seem so styled and slick. in a natural way, not something put on for show to impress someone. charli wouldn't lie and deny that it'd caught her attention and caused some lingering thoughts about the cartel ally ⸺ though, the brunette definitely fought against that. his accent reminded her of her mother and the relatives she had south in mexico and there was warmth in the familiarity of it, and perhaps that's what was also dangerous about this interest and ... intrigue.
"how different?" the biker leaned forward a little, her chest lightly pressed against the edge of the table. "are you saying you're wishing you could be bossier with me?" a smirk began to toy at the edge of her expression again. typically the more nerdy and therefore a bit socially inept, the hacker had little background being smooth with attractive people. usually she fumbled, so there was some pride in holding her ground a bit here.
"well," she leaned back too when he had but not after she felt the slightest flutter at what he'd said, hoping she wasn't misinterpreting his words, "business kind of makes it so, right? in keeping the peace and delicate balance between our organizations i have to play along and be helpful where i can." some heat rose to her cheeks and she felt it under her collar a bit, the message of her company still sinking in. "did you wanna order a drink or get right to it?"
Eliseo’s eyes didn’t leave her when she leaned forward. Not hungrily — deliberately. Observant. The way a man watched a chessboard, not a distraction. He took in the subtle confidence in her posture, the glow of her screens reflecting faintly across her features, the quiet contradiction she embodied: biker grit wrapped around a mind that lived in code and circuitry.
A soft breath of a laugh slipped past his lips. “Bossy?” he echoed, head tilting just slightly, impressed with the quip that spilled over her mouth. “No, hermosa. I prefer willing cooperation. It’s far more interesting.” And this very well seemed like he had her seated at her own free will.
His fingers traced once along the edge of the table, idle but precise. “Different,” he clarified, voice lowering, smooth as aged whiskey, “means I wouldn’t be asking so politely. And you'd still be smiling at me while you resisted.”
There was no challenge in his tone. No pressure. Just a quiet confidence that made the words land heavier than they should.
He leaned back a fraction, studying her again — this woman who could navigate loud clubhouses, patched egos, roaring engines, and still keep half the town unknowingly balanced on whatever lived behind those glowing screens. It intrigued him more than he let on.
At her question, his gaze flicked briefly toward the bar before returning to her. “A drink,” he decided. “We are not in a rush tonight.” His expression softened. “Business keeps the peace,” he agreed. “Is that what is entertaining us?”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Order something you think I’d like. Let’s see how well you really know me.”
closed starter ✧ colson lake. ( @outlawoverture) location ✧ black widow.
''How much do you love my sister?'' The question was random, unprompted, and completely unjustified, seeing as Ilona had never heard anything about Colson that might have suggested otherwise. That didn't stop the blonde from eyeing him suspiciously, her eyes squinted in disdain as she watched him from across the table. The strip club was closed, and only a few of the staff remained for a last drink. Lola had gotten up to pee, which had proved the perfect opportunity for Ilona to question the man who'd taken up most of her sister's time. ''Like, would you donate an organ for her? Would you take a bullet? Would you tattoo her name on your bald head if she asked you to?'' she prodded. Knowing Lola, it was a very real possibility, and Ilona wanted to make sure Colson would give her baby sister nothing less than what she deserved.
Col blinked at her once, caught mid-sip like his brain needed a second to catch up with the interrogation he hadn’t signed up for. His eyes flicked toward the hallway Lola disappeared down, then back to Ilona, one brow slowly creeping up his forehead.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, setting his glass down. “She send you in here like this or you freelancin’?”
He leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely across his chest, mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh. “Yeah. I’d take a bullet. Probably wouldn’t even think about it first.” A break, then breath, “Organ too, if it came to it. Long as she doesn’t need the liver — that thing’s been through enough.” His gaze steadied on Ilona, humor softening into something more honest. “And if she asked me to tattoo her name on my head, I’d do it. I’d complain the whole time, but I’d still sit in the damn chair.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “And hey—what the fuck? I'm not bald.”
On a sidewalk around town.
OPEN TO ALL: @charmingstart
Flat on his back. Still as he could be. The scene unfolded far too quickly for Braden's liking. He should have had enough common sense to not try the tricks he could have managed when he was a teenager while on a skateboard. It was a recipe for a disaster even if he was just trying to relearn to impress his son. It was a new fixation every day with the young boy, and the newest trend now was skateboarding. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. I just need a minute." He exhaled heavily not all confident in the being fine part, simply just trying to muster up the strength to stand up again after the wipe out he had moments ago when he tried to land a kick flip. His balance and timing was off which propelled him backwards straight to his ass.
Alessia had only meant to pass through the park, heels in hand now instead of on her feet, enjoying the late afternoon air against her skin. The sharp clatter of a skateboard against pavement pulled her attention first, then the sight of a grown man flat on his back staring up at the sky like he’d personally offended it.
She stepped closer, espresso-brown hair slipping over her shoulder as she looked down at him with mild concern and a hint of amusement she didn’t quite hide. “I am not a doctor,” she said gently, accent warm and lilting, “but I am fairly certain the ground usually wins these arguments.” Her head tilted slightly. “Are you sure you only need a minute… or do you need help sitting up before your pride gets more injured than you are?”
WHERE: The Afterlife WITH: OPEN ( @charmingstart )
“Word of advice?” Hakan began, turning on the barstool just enough to angle himself more towards the patron perched next to him, “Never get married.” Placing his phone facedown on the bartop, he carded a hand through his salt and pepper curls and blew out a long sigh, signaling that whatever text he’d just read from his estranged wife clearly hadn’t been a pleasant one. But then again, the one he’d sent her first hadn’t been either. It was just a vicious cycle that went on and on, though he didn’t harbor any ill will towards her despite that. In fact, if they’d never been married, Hakan suspected the two of them might have been good friends. Sidelining that thought, he turned his attention back towards his newfound company, “What’re you drinking? Next round is on me,” he offered, raising a hand to signal for the bartender, “May your luck be far better than mine.”
Levi let out a low huff that almost passed for a laugh, knuckles wrapped around his glass that contained nothing close to satisfying his thirst like it owed him money. “Yeah?” he muttered, eyes flicking sideways toward Hakan without fully turning his head. “That your big wisdom drop for the night?”
His jaw worked like he was chewing on the thought more than anything else. “Funny thing is,” he added, voice gravelly and worn-in, “I got an ex-wife that’d probably buy you a beer for sayin’ that.” A crooked smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “But hell… if I hadn’t married her, I’d’ve missed out on the parts that didn’t suck too. So guess we’re both idiots in our own special way.” He lifted a hand toward the bartender before they could pour anything. “Nah. I'm good. Trying to stay away from that bottom shelf shit lately.”
WHERE: Riders' Rest, after hours WITH: OPEN ( @charmingstart )
Rio could count on one hand the number of days he’d been working at Riders’ Rest. Factor in a second hand and he could count how long he’d been out of prison. Numbers felt so concrete and yet somehow, it was all so relative, considering how quickly he’d been catapulted into closing shifts at the diner. Rio didn’t mind though– the solitude gave him a moment to think, to reflect in ways the busy work day could never afford him. More than that though, the diner gave him something to put on paper– just enough to satisfy his parole officer and keep him on this side of iron bars. Still, it wasn’t enough, but he didn’t linger on that as he poured himself a fresh brewed cup of coffee and settled into one of the vacant booths, a cigarette already poised and ready for lighting. And then– Silence. Just the click of a lighter and the faint crackle at the end of his Marlboro burning to life. Rio inhaled a long, steadying drag, one hand loosely clenched and the other tucked around his cup of coffee. It was then that he heard the light jostling of the bell just inside the entryway of the diner, signaling the arrival of a newcomer even after hours. Who’d forgotten to put the “closed” sign on the door? Oh– right…him.
“We’re closed,” he mumbled around his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke off to the side before continuing, “Unless you’re here for shit coffee and stale biscuits,” Rio supplied, never bothering to turn and look at who might have joined him. Was it friend or foe? Could he even discern the difference now that so much time had passed? Come what may.
The bell gave a delicate jingle as she stepped inside, the sound almost too polite for the heavy quiet of the diner. Alessia paused just past the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim parking lot to the warmer glow within, heels clicking softly against the tile as she took in the near-empty space. Espresso brown hair spilled over one shoulder in a sleek curtain, the gold anklet at her heel catching the light with each measured step forward.
She didn’t answer him right away. Instead, she slid into the booth across from his, long legs crossing neatly as if this were any café back home and not some roadside stop in a town she’d only known for four days. “Then perhaps I am lucky,” she said smoothly, accent curling around her words like smoke, calm and unbothered, forcing the English. “I have had nothing but airplane food and wrong turns since I arrived. Stale biscuits sound… honest.”
renata lifted the plastic cup to her lips and took a sip. the water that hit her tongue was lacklustre but after a few drinks, she wanted to keep her wits about her. the last thing she needed was to crawl out of a member's bed after walking away from that life a little over a year ago. "looks like someone lost their minds and finally gave you a kutte." the side of her finger ran along her lower lip, both to hide the smirk and collect the liquid that rested there. "did you get everyone drunk before the vote?" as uncomfortable as she was here, she'd come to know the clubhouse from the time spent so she wasn't like her regular self of jumping down the throat for peering in her direction.
Col’s gaze slid her way slow, lazy, like he’d clocked her the second she walked in but decided to make a show of pretending he hadn’t. One brow lifted just slightly, mouth twitching at the corner like he was fighting off a grin he wasn’t interested in hiding all the way. He was in a good mood that night. Feeling amused, humorous even.
“Yeah,” he drawled, fingers hooking into the front pockets of his jeans as he rocked back on his heels. “Still waitin’ for ’em to realize they made a mistake.” His eyes dipped to the cup in her hand, then back up to her face. “Didn’t have to get anyone drunk. Think they just got tired of me hangin’ around like a stray they couldn’t get rid of.”
His head tipped a little to the side, studying her with quiet amusement. “You look like you’re regrettin’ comin’ within fifty feet of this place already.” A beat. “You’re safe y'know? I'll make sure they're all on their best behavior. Scouts honor.”
The whole bar scene wasn't in Braden's agenda most days. It wasn't this night either, well at least for the drinking part. He didn't feel right letting his priorities slip and ask his Mother or sister to babysit his 7 year old, while he had his own time to himself. Being a parent was a full time job. He was here merely to pick up some wings. They were decent and that's what he sought fit for dinner. Wings and Mac and cheese, which he would cook quickly once he got home. He kind of gravitated towards the end of the bar, the crowd at this end seemed far more relaxed then the drunken bikers rallying around without a care in sight. "I promise I am not here to disturb your peace. Just waiting on my pick up order for wings." There probably wasn't a need for an explanation but it seemed like the right form of etiquette. Probably the last thing a woman wanted to do while having a drink by herself was to be bothered by the potential of some random dude trying to hit on her. "This side seemed a little bit more tame. I am almost positive in the next five minutes that guy in the green shirt is going to take a shot out of his boot. Or at least that's what I heard the remnants of."
Gia’s eyes lifted to him over the rim of her glass, dark and assessing out of habit more than intent. For a beat, she studied him the way she studied everyone—posture, tone, hands, what wasn’t being said. Then the edge softened just slightly, the corner of her mouth curving like she couldn’t quite help it.
“Wings are a solid alibi,” she said, voice smooth with a thread of dry humor. “Most honest reason I’ve heard for standing at this bar tonight.”
Her gaze flicked toward the guy in the green shirt, then back to Braden, a brow arching. “You’re giving him too much credit. He’s absolutely doing it in under three.”
She shifted on the stool, crossing one leg over the other, posture easing in a way that didn’t happen often for strangers. There was still a cop’s awareness in her eyes, but it wasn’t pointed at him anymore. “You picked the calm end,” Gia added, softer now, almost amused. “This is where people hide when they don’t feel like being part of whatever this place turns into after midnight.”
