Holding the gun up to the thiefs head, you assess the situation you’re in. Kill this dude, you’ll probably get arrested. Don’t kill this dude, he’ll probably kill you.
Just then, the sound of motorbikes fills your ears, your concentration shaking just for a second, but that’s enough time for the man in front of you to punch you in the face, and run towards the exit of your shop.
“Fuck!” You curse loudly, holding your cheek, the skin stinging from the harsh blow. You look up, just in time to see the prick trying to yank open the back door, his actions not being quick enough as five or six men load into the store, guns in their hands.
Two of them go up to the dude, dragging him backwards by his jumper. You watch from behind the till as this all goes on, your cheek throbbing and your brain as confused as ever, but you stay silent, not wanting to piss off these very angry looking bikers.
As the assailant gets removed from the shop by a couple of the leather clad men, one of them rushes over to you, his icy blue eyes full of concern. If you weren’t so sore right now, you probably would’ve rolled your eyes at the whole damsel in distress look you’ve probably got going on.
“Shit, are you okay?” He asks, you giving him a deadpan look as you move your hand away, looking down and noticing the blood staining your palm. You look bag up to the worried, though undeniably attractive male, his eyes widening as he looks at your cheek.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” You reassure him, trying to reel in your sarcasm and take more of a pissed off approach instead. If only you hadn’t agreed to take on the extra shift, you’d be happy and at home, probably nursing a beer rather than your cheek.
The man stares at you, a small smirk slithering onto his lips as he takes a good look at your face, shamelessly checking you out. He nods at the guys behind him, them obviously understanding his silent order as they disperse with a nod, leaving the two of you alone.
“Sorry about the inconvenience,” the unknown man starts, as he picks up your gun off the floor, “it’s a shame we didn’t get here before that scumbag laid a hand on your pretty little face.”
Now it’s your turn to smirk, your cheek stinging as you do so, a small hiss leaving your lips. The man places your gun on the counter, moving around the small till to stand close to you, gently grabbing your chin and tilting your head toward the light.
“At least you stopped him from running off, I guess. I’m sure I’ll be fine, I can handle myself.” His eyes flicker from your new found injury to your eyes, his fingers softly resting on your face.
“Oh, I’m sure you can, baby. I’m Tig by the way, just so you know what to call your saviour.” He flirts, a laugh escaping your mouth as he steps back from you, you taking the time to slip past him and pick up a display the man from earlier had knocked over.
You turn back to the man, watching him as he rests against the wall assertively, his whole aura oozing confidence. Probably a whore, you think, smiling to yourself.
“My hero.” You tease, placing your hand above your heart. You put out your hand, offering the man an olive branch. “I’m (Y/N), just so you know who you’ll be thinking about tonight.”
A/N - random little Tig imagine!!! I’d love to write more Trager, he’s just so cheeky lmao
figured i’d take a swing at my beloved cowboy husbands. so this is apparently happening. here’s the start of something, at least. (also heads up, cw: for a racial slur, period-appropriate as it may be.)
A gentleman has the tendency, Goodnight thinks, to underestimate his opponent based on a number of factors: fashion, color, accoutrement. To name a few.
Or, he considers, such is true of men who fancy themselves gentlemen. Or of men who place themselves above their station in life.
Or, he ultimately decides, of the men strewn about the floorboards of this so-called fine establishment, bloodying up the wood and sawdust.
[From Left to Right: Lucifer!Cas, Past Cas (double-breasted trench coat), Misha, Present Cas (potato sack coat), and Endverse!Cas]
I’m not finished yet, but this is the project I’m doing to use art therapy to muster enough courage to go to the GISHBUS’s event on Saturday near SDCC16. One of my markers exploded when I was on the final touches (the rust part near the window in the center). Thank God it was in a fixable place, because if it were anywhere else, my hours on this project would’ve gone down the drain. I’m leaving the rest of the small details for tomorrow…
Lord, give me strength to go to the event without having a full-on panic attack.
Imagine you take a shower in Happy’s dorm, so when he hugs you, you smell like a man, and he gets jealous.
Working at TM was so fun you sometimes forgot it was supposed to be your job. You were a mechanic at your hometown, and currently, apart from Gemma on the office the only woman working there.
Born and raised in Charming, growing up a tomboy, you loved riding your bikes around with Opie and Jax, going to Gemma’s Sunday dinner and getting your title along with everyone else. Two months after you graduated, Clay called you, asking you to work for him at TM. You immediately said yes.
Later on, you met your old man, Happy Lowman. Both of you clicked right away, you being attracted due to all of his mistery and lovely persona, him being dragged towards you by how you still let your tomboy show and how you didn’t needed a knight in shinning armor to come at your rescue. You’ve been together as a couple for 3 years and were currently engaged.
That afternoon was a particular hot one, making you put down the top of your grey suit, showing your white tank top now stained with oil and dirt from the bike you were working on, along with Chibs. You got up, taking off your gloves and lighting up a cigarette for your break. Chibs was coming back from the bar, holding two beers on his hand, handing you one when he got to the picnic table. You nodded and smiled at him, toasting to a good life and sipped on your beer. Happy was on the run along with Jax and Bobby, and he promised to be back at night for you guys date night. Tonight you were going to Little Annie’s Steak House, down at main street. You’ve been begging Happy to take you there since the night of the inauguration and tonight was the night.
“Don’t worry, lass.” The Scotsman said, drinking from his beer and smirking, teasing you. “I’m sure Hap loves an oily and dirty babe on the spot.” You frowned when you noticed he was right. Happy was going to be at TM soon and you couldn’t show up at the Steak house looking the way you were.
“Oh shit.” You bit your thumb nail and chugged down the rest of your beer. “Happy’s dorm is open, right?”
“Of course not.” Chib scoffed. “You really think your old man would leave his room open?” You sighed, running your hands on your face, only smearing the oil around your cheeks. “Gemma must have the key, though. She’s at the office.” You smiled and kissed the grey hair man scarred cheek.
“Thank you!” you said, running around to the office to get the keys of Happy’s room.
Once you were there, you got rid of your grey suit, white tank top and heavy work black boots, leaving you in the white lace lingerie you loved so much. You folded your clothes and placed them on the sink, closing the bathroom door and letting the warm water pour out. You loved how the shower smelled so manly. Aftershave, plain soap, and cologne. Just like Happy. You worked on yourself, getting you all bubbly, and most important clean.
After a relaxing hot shower, you stepped out in your panties, not bothering to wear a bra. You slipped on your baggy olive green pants and got into your converse, one of Happy’s old SAMCRO white t-shirt over you and you were almost ready to go. Standing in front of the mirror, you started to work on your hair, styling for it to look cute. Adding a light make up and you were ready to go, but stepped back with a smile as you saw your old man walk into his room with a bloody white t-shirt.
You were used to this by now. You’ve became an expert in removing blood off clothes but Happy always managed to make you worry. You stared at him.
“Nah, little girl. Never.” He said removing his shirt and throwing it away into the bin. You bit your lips at the sight of his eight pack and those crazy v lines that drived you crazy. You walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his torso, looking up at him, delighted with the view. He smirked down at you, licking hips lips. “Hey, you.”
“Hey yourself.” You said pressing hard against him. He grabbed your ass cheeks, lifting you up, you taking the hint and wrapping your legs around his waist. He pinned you against the wall, kissing around your neck and, open mouth kisses, his ears being filled with your sharp breaths. “Hap…” you groaned, your nipples already poking out of the white shirt. You sucked in a breath when he got off you, obviously stopping and looking at you, eyebrows furrowed. You looked back at him, confusing in your eyes as he put you down
“What’s wrong?” You asked, your hands going to his cheek, only to be pulled down by him. “Hap!”
“Where is he?” He said lifting his eyebrow and grabbing his gun out of his waist. He started to pace around the room, lifting everything, turning all the things upside down. “Where the fuck is he?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” you said following him around the room. “You really think i would cheat on you?” catching the hint you leaned against the wall you were making out 5 minutes ago. “On your fucking clubhouse?”
“You smell like a fucking men.” He said. “I want to know who he is, where he is and if he has any last words.” Happy stated as he looked around the room and out of the window. You rolled your eyes, a smirk on your face. “Now what’s so fucking funny? Lover boy’s gonna suffer a painful and slow death.”
“Crazy old man” You said pointing at your clothes on the ground. “I took a shower in your bathroom, idiot.” You said, shaking your head. “I smell like a man, because i took a bath and i used all your shit, paranoid freak.”
Realization hitted Happy Lowman like a ton of bricks. He scrunched up his nose and put the gun back in his waist, looking at you with a calm face now, as you smirked at him, arms crossed.
“Okay, i freaked out.” He admitted. You nodded and smiled at him, finding it cute how he was so worried about loosing you. You licked your lips out of habit and walked over to him, pulling him down until your lips were in front of each other.
“I would be an idiot if i cheated on you, old man.” He nodded, smirking down at you again, running his hands inside your t-shirt.
“I’m an idiot for believing you would” He said, pecking your lips, slowly deepening the kiss. “On my defense…” he said in between hot kisses. “I love you too much, the mere thought of another man laying hands on you drives me fucking insane…”
“That’s a good thing.” You said grabbing both of his hands and pulling him towards you. “You’re only one laying hands on me.” You smirked lusty at him as you got rid of the shirt on your body. He licked his lips, nodding, loving the view.
A goat is a worrying thing if you’re used to sheep, because a goat is a sheep with *brains*. But Tiffany had met goats before, because a few people in the village kept them for their milk, which was very nourishing. And she knew that with goats you had to use persykology. If you got excited, and shouted, and hit them (hurting your hand, because it’s like slapping a sack full of coat hangers) then they had Won and sniggered at you in goat language, which is almost all sniggering anyway.
‘Oh dear, what have we here?’ said Knock, without even
bothering to look.
'It’s a sack, sarge,’ said Coates. 'Something heavy in it, too.’
'Oh dear me,’ said Knock, still staring at Vimes. 'Open it up, lad. Gently. We don’t want anything to get damaged, eh?’
There was a rustle of hessian, and then:
'Er… it’s half a brick,’ Ned reported.
'A half brick, sir.’
'I'in saving up for a house,’ said Vimes.
“Carlos III, niño”, Jean Ranc, ca. 1724, Museo del Prado, Madrid.
This portrait of Carlos de Borbón y Farnesio (future King Charles III of Spain) is part of a duo made by the French painter Jean Ranc. He’s portrayed at a short age (perhaps 6 or 7 years old) in the garments of an elegant prince showing insignias of his high position in a palace interior with refined furniture and accessories (somebody said parrots?)
And let’s learn something more, since this is a Spanish monarch, let’s talk Spanish: he’s wearing a heavily embroidered casaca, white camisa, lace chorrera, volantes for the cuffs, calzón (not visible), medias and calzado de tacón.
Well, now you can name all these garment in English and Spanish.