#mayven

[onceinalifctimc]

@perfectdisastcr​ sent: Mayven/Thad (older) “You’re gonna become huge if you keep eating all of Santa’s cookies.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m huge. You better still love me anyways.”

send a holiday themed ask

[mettleborn-a]

continued from x

@manhattanopus​ said:

she   was    admittedly    nervous   .    she    had   gone    her    whole   adult    life    not   knowing    how    to   drive    or    ever   being    really    concerned   with    it    ,    but    she   wasn't    living    in   the    big    city   anymore    &    it   wasn't    practical    to   ride    a    bike   everywhere    .    sam   was    sweet    enough   to    offer    to   teach    her   & she    had    graciously    accepted   ,    but    now   she    was    regretting    it .    MANUAL    ---   are    you    joking   ?         '    okay   ---   got    it .    '          she   said    confidently    but   continued    to    remain   still    .    what   did    he    say   ?    oh    god   ,    he    was   staring    at    her   .         '  show   time    i    guess   .    '           she   mumbled    ,    her   fingers    lacing    around   the    wheel    .    she    did   what    he    told   her    ---    or   so    she thought .   once    her   foot    was    raised   &    she    was   gently    pressing    the   gas    they    got   throw    forward    then   back    along    to   the    sound    of   what    she    assumed   were    the    gears   screaming    for    mercy .    she    braked   ,    cringing    .    she    slowly   turned    to    face   him    .     

'  sorry    .    i    don't   ---    i    have   no    idea    what   the    hell    i'm   doing    .    i    don't    want   to    ruin    your   car    .    '           she    feels   defeated    &    slightly   embarrassed    .           '  maybe    i'll   have    better    luck   with    a    horse   &    buggy    .   '

=======================

As the cab unexpectedly lurches forward before heaving back, Sam is forced to brace himself again the dash.

“Hell, Mayven, this old truck is a bucket of bolts, but its hard as nails too, stalling the engine ain’t gonna damage it none.”

Glancing out the back window, Sam ensures there are no other vehicles heading up the dirt track towards his cabin.

“Ain’t anyone around but you and me and trust me, I ain’t worth gettin’ embarrassed in front of. Now, take a deep breath and try again. Make it to my cabin a little ways down the road and I’ll make you lunch before my shift huh? Can’t say fairer than that.”

With an incentive given, Sam reaches over to turn they key off and then on again, starting up the ignition afresh.

“You ain’t gonna last a December day in Redwood on that cute little push bike of yours Mayven. You want to get around in the winter months here, you gotta be able to drive. Now, try one more time and this time, be more patient raising that unruly foot of yours. We ain’t in any rush okay?”

[seraphscrypt]

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Keeping!!

🍓🍉🍍🥝🍓🍉🍍🥝🍓🍉🍍🥝🍓🍉🍍🥝

Emoji Adopts

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[frontierbound-archive]

@manhattanopus​ asked for a Red Dead Redemption starter:

Slowly riding into town, Samuel made sure to encourage the horse he was due to sell to keep up with Diego. His last bounty had been small time, something to kill the time in truth and while he had intended to bring the Doctor in alive, expecting little trouble, conversation had not gone well and so, much to Samuel’s surprise, a gunfight had quickly ensued. The Doc had been a quick shot, but not a good one, having only managed to slightly graze Samuel’s cheek with his bullet. Conversely, the bounty hunter’s aim had hit the Doctor dead centre in the chest, sending him straight down to the ground. Glancing over the lifeless man now draped over the back of his own horse and gathering a good amount of flies, Samuel paused to wipe some blood from his cheek, hissing as it stung.

After delivering his bounty to the Sheriff and collecting his money, a sum less than he had expected, given the Doctor’s untimely demise, Samuel sold the Doc’s horse to the local stable, gathering enough cash to make his face sting a little less. Deciding it would be best to clean the wound sooner rather than later, he headed over to the local Saloon.

Stepping inside, he made his way through the drunks and gamblers over the bartender but no sooner had he taken a seat than he had cause to leave it, rising to address the commotion taking place behind him. Voices that had begun merely as a grumble and moan were now rising and in the midst of it all, he caught the sounds of a woman, arguing in a tone he recognised.

Drawing his gun from his holster he shoved his chair away before striding over to the back of the room. Pushing several people out of his way, the scene revealed to him was one well known to him - a man was shouting at Mayven, accusing her of theft.

“Now, now…” Samuel quickly intervened, placing a hand on the offended man’s shoulder, resting it heavily and using it to push him back from May. “…’nough of this carry on, if the lady says she don’t have your watch, she don’t have it.”

“She stole it, I know she did, it’s very expensive!” The man bristled, glancing down at the bounty hunter’s gun, clearly considering whether he should draw his own. “If she won’t give it back I’m going straight to the Sheriff’s office!”

Glancing at Mayven, Samuel offered her a side-smile before looking over towards the bartender who subtly gave him a nod, one that confirmed the riled up man was no one of importance.

Drawing back his fist, Samuel struck him straight in the face, the blow so hard and unexpected that it landed him straight down to the floor, where he lay there, clearly dazed.

“Looks like you’ve had too much to drink.” Samuel declared loudly, hoisting the man up over his shoulder. “…and when a man can’t hardly stand on his own, it’s time to leave.”

Walking towards the door, Samuel slipped through it before unceremoniously dumping the man in in the dirt outside. Grabbing his collar, he pulled him up towards him. “Suggest you best leave before you start something you can’t handle.” Releasing him and watching the man flop back into the mud, Samuel dusted himself down and ventured back inside.

Sitting back down, he traded a smile with the bartender, as he gestured for Mayven to join him.

“William, get May a brandy will you, she looks like she needs it.”

[mettleborn-a]

Plotted starter for @manhattanopus​

He likes to watch her paint; scantily clad in the evening heat, stood in front of a canvas with an expression of concentration on her face – his American girl, his artist. Undeniably, Mayven herself is a work of art and Igor has thought so, since the very moment he first laid eyes on her. Though it was a few years ago now, he can still remember it explicitly; the way she looked, they way her smile sparkled in that darkened room; a sparkle the man by her side barely noticed until Igor approached her to dance.

A whirlwind affair, he had plucked her from her boyfriend and planted her here, in the Upper East side of Manhattan, where the real estate prices for a decent apartment with art studio cost the same as a royal palace in other areas of the world, though he deems her happiness worthy of the expense. In truth, the Russian has done this many times now; taken women from his enemies and rivals and set them up in places they can truly live; free to pursue the things they love. His motivation however, is not benevolence, but rather, self-satisfaction, both in terms of smiting his rivals and in terms of finding love for himself, love on his own terms; love that only really resembles love, that requires little of him out with his infrequent visits. Igor is not a man who considers himself marriage-material nor someone anyone should ever consider starting a family with and so these arrangements are the closest Bortsov will allow himself to get to love. It is an arrangement most of the woman in his life enjoy greatly and understand; they all know the terms and accept there are others in his life too.

The same however cannot be said of Mayven, because Mayven was the first and he still thinks of her as such; as something special; as the woman who has remained in his life the longest, who challenges him in ways the others don’t dare and demands far more of him emotionally. In a way he supposes she is the closest thing he has to an actual girlfriend, though it is becoming increasingly clear to him that she would prefer to be his wife.

It is a difficult situation and while there is a part of Bortsov that knows he should be honest with her, there is another, greater part of him that likes the fact she thinks she is the only woman in his life. He is convinced it’s that belief that gives her the confidence to run her mouth at him, to argue and fight with him in ways that makes their sex life all the more fevered, torrid and turbulent. She is a fire and Igor always ends up leaving New York a little burned, though it isn’t long before he’s craving that heat again.

It is late and while his lover paints in a brightly lit corner, Igor is lying on her bed in his underwear, stretching languidly like a cat, as he enjoys a cigarette and a glass of vodka. In truth, his body itself also looks like a canvass; covered in inked symbology - a language to read to those who understand it. The stars on his knees and across his heart are particularly special – they mark him out as Bratva and Vor; a brotherhood of thieves; a boss in the Russian Mafia. This is a truth he chooses not to hide from Mayven; she knows who he is, what he is; the most dangerous man she’s ever allowed into her bed and yet the most protective too.

Placing down his glass, Igor stands, bare feet softly padding across the polished floors as he slowly approaches her. 

“What are you painting, moya dorogaya? (:my darling)

[mettleborn-a]

True Romance Sentence Starters (still accepting)

@manhattanopus​ said:  “ oh  baby ,  you’re  bleeding . ” ( for igor )

“It is nothing...” Igor replies wearily, bowing his head, clearly exhausted. “...just a scratch.”

Whatever he has been doing tonight, it’s clear he doesn’t want to burden her with the brutal knowledge of it. There is a small cut on his lip and another larger one lingering near his bruised eye, but it is nothing compared to the state of his hands, where fresh scars and scraped skin across his knuckles suggest Igor likely punched someone to death tonight. 

Reaching to take her hands, the contrast is stark; her soft slim fingers and manicured nails sitting entirely at odds with his calloused, tattooed fingers that are now violently marred and bloodied. 

“Will you run me bath, Kiska?” (kitten)

[eranuzlockes]

refs

[dust-and-embers]

Yesterday I have said in a deleted post that, had I known how to drive (especially as a teen), I would be interested in street racing events.

And that I am currently 26 without a license.

Now that I think more about “a life that could have been”, I wonder if this interest was influenced by driving simulators like Gran Turismo that were so popular in the earlier 2000s… and my father’s adoration for them.

I am completely sure that is the case.