also. Johnny is an accidental cockwarmer. he whines and goads you into letting him fuck you before bed every night because he cannae kip wi'oot fuckin' yer cunt. but it's always a bad decision because after rutting into like an animal, panting and groaning into your ear from being oversensitive and chafed (he'd fucked you three times already), when he does cum, he passes out. instantly. won't budge. won't wake.
and in the morning, when he does stir, well. why waste the opportunity, right? he's already buried inside of you, anyway.
Soap can't handle anything other than accidental cockwarming. he tries to have you keep him in your mouth while he watches a game, but ends up face-fucking you after a minute.
Gaz is a daddydom (without the daddy kink) and no one can convince me otherwise. but it's just about the caretaking. the affection. cradling you in his lap as he leans against the headboard, flipping through reruns of Golden Girls and spoon feeding you desert despite you protest because you're so full already, Gaz, you can't—
but of course you can. because Gaz wouldn't give you more than you can handle, right? he knows what's best for you. so sit pretty on his cock and be good for him, yeah?
(he might also be a lil bit of a mean!dom, too, but it's buried under so many layers of affection that you can barely notice it.)
Gaz, like Price, will keep himself inside of you any chance he gets.
and Simon is just mean. likes fucking you until you're oversensitive and raw and then stays tucked inside of you, tucking a smirk into your nape when you whine and squirm and beg him to just pull out already, it's too much.
he won't, of course. because he likes it when you cry yourself to sleep in a frazzled mess of overstimulation and sensitivity, still wrapped up nice and soft around his cock. likes fucking you through the night, too, while you whimper in your sleep, his come spilling out all over the sheets.
(fucking Simon is a razor's edge of pleasure and pain, and you better get used to the ache, the sting, because he's a big boy with an even bigger appetite and who wouldn't like having their little bird roosting on their lap?)
Simon is shoving you to your knees to keep him warm when the mood strikes him, which is usually whenever is most inconvenient to you.
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Given that your characterization of Price is immaculate (like the rest of your work, but I digress), I was wondering if you have different characterizations regarding the reader. Like, is there a common thread you follow or does it entirely depend on the specific scenario?
Also (this might be a bit personal on my side, so feel free to ignore this), how do you think Price would react to someone who is inexperienced but extremely sure of herself as well? As in, someone who hasn't done anything simply for the fact that she couldn't care less about things of a sexual nature.
Anyways, hope you have an amazing day and much love to you :p
i'm answering your last question first because if i were to make blatant self-insert/oc, it would be kinda similar in mindset lmao so this is mostly self-indulgent (sorry!), but i think it would draw out a lot of his baser, darker impulses (especially his archaic/traditional views on sex—but in a significantly worse way). it would be so easy to twist a general disinterest/apathy, and absorb it into his icky god complex. even though it has absolutely nothing to do why shyness—or purity culture, virginity, sex-shaming—in his head, it will always be about him.
the words grey and demi are meaningless him too tbh; you can give him a full PowerPoint on how sex means nothing to you and the only reason you're not out having it with other people is because it doesn't interest you in the slightest (or certain conditions—a deep connection, an established relationship, etc—were never met), and you just don't get the appeal. at all. but it won't matter. not in the slightest.
he'll always be the one who (forcefully) pried that door open, and sees it as his duty to keep it open.
and it'll change his behaviour too because there is a huge difference between inexperience/shyness and genuine disinterest in sex as a whole, and it'll lessen some of his more possessive tendencies. like, he won't be in a constant state of hoarding what he has.
the dynamic would shift, but you won't be better off for it.
and thanks!!!! i think i have quite a few pre-existing characteristics for my inserts that usually pop up in all my fics, but the rest depends on who i'm writing for.
(this got kinda long when i was answering it, so i put the rest below the cut):
like with Price, i lean towards inserts who are much more submissive (knowingly or unknowingly just depends on the plot) and crave some sense of stability in their lives. they're basically cosplaying independence until Price comes along and either rips the costume off or watches them drop it on the floor. and it is a costume when it comes to him—even if the insert doesn't think it is. they're very needy—but in the sense that something is missing from their lives (stable homelife, affection, discipline), and they're subconsciously using Price to fill that void.
unfortunately for them, he's fully aware of that, too.
and the driving force that always attracts them to Price is their father (or lack there of). so in many ways, their relationship with their dad is the catalyst that lets Price in because he always presents himself as this steepled figure: fatherly, attentive, and protective (even if it's just an act); and firm, indomitable, disciplined. i think they had to grow up too fast but Price kinda gives them this opportunity to let go of all of that responsibility (or he'll pry it out of their hands). i definitely see him as nuclear-family/post-war propaganda: just perpetuating this idea of freedom from stress and worry, and the pinnacle of family-centric values, but the price to pay is loss of autonomy.
they're also very malleable. they could go their whole lives saying "I'd never fuck a married man" and that would be completely true—until they meet Price. he has a way of bending their morality until they forget who they were to begin with.
and tbh, i can't see anyone of my inserts picking Price if they had a stable, healthy father figure in their lives.
and Ghost is always paired with someone a little numb to everything. stuck in a functional freeze. a lot of neglect, childhood trauma. they had to grow up too fast as well, but instead of it making them needy, seeking affection and a replacement for the family they never had, they're extremely avoidant in all aspects of their lives.
the core is their mother—who is always this abstract shape that lingers in almost all of their thoughts. there's a lot of loneliness, but it bled over into this false sense of independence. they typically don't have a lot of friends or people close to them. they have a very shallow, isolated routine that never changes. because abandonment is a central theme in their lives, they're extremely reluctant to let people in.
they're not weak, though. at all. they're just stuck in survival mode and don't really know how to escape because no one taught them how. i see them as a lil opossums, yanno. very much a believer of "if i don't move, the predator can't see me." mostly, they just want to make themselves as small as possible—they crave a small, dark crevasse they can just rest in—and so when they meet Ghost, who is this big (almost larger than life) predator, i think they actually find some sense of comfort living in his shadow.
(but like. it's probably the same as saying since mice like small, narrow places, the mouse trapped under the lions paw must have felt some sense of comfort there, too.)
the narrative between them is different, too. inserts with Price are pretty static in the way they seem the world. you rarely get an in-depth description of the world around them—unless they're describing how Price interacts with these things. like, we only know there's an armchair in the room because he sits on it. and in contrast to that, the inserts with Ghost are usually OVERLY descriptive in the world around them. they're very much trying to get lost in their heads. a little too attentive to everything because they're stuck in a flight or fight state of hyperarousal.
I just know Price (probably Ghost too) would go feral at finding out if their (prospective) Missus is a virgin
oh yeah. for Price, it's def about the control. a lil bit of that toxic masculinity bleeding through. traditionalism. i also just think he's a perpetual leader so any opportunity to teach or lead is gonna rile him. especially if he gets the added bonus of teaching you what to like. he's also stupidly possessive so you being a virgin/inexperienced would stroke his ego so much. feed into that god-complex i keep giving him.
and if you weren't, he's either ignoring your entire sexual history or making you recount everything you've ever done and doing it better. and it feels like a punishment the entire time lmao
and Ghost. he'd be so gross about it. probs mocks you a bit, taunts you about "waiting" for him, but he'd preen over the idea of being the one and only. something just for him. all his. my unexplored headcanon is that he's never really had anything of his own before - and even when he was essentially "dead" everything he had was given up because it was too risky to tote it around. but now that he's older, has a stable team to fall back on (and Price keeps insisting on him getting rest instead of throwing himself recklessly into mission after mission), he can finally settle down a bit. have a house that isn't just a bed he barely sleeps in. relationships that aren't entirely transactional.
so the idea of being the "first/only" would feed into that unfettered desperation of an ever-hungry kid who wanted more than what was on his plate.
but he's also super weird so if you had any experience, he'd probably track down every person you ever fucked and engineer situations where they'd walk in/stumble on him fucking you better than they ever could. just totally normal boyfriend behaviour in his head.
in connection to the previous post about simon/price’s dynamics; do kyle and johnny have similar dichotomies w their loves ?
i love the surge in SoapGaz because we really get to see how insane these two really are together lmao but yeah. charm and obsession is kinda how i see them.
both are intense, bold. their attention makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, but not at first. when it first happens, it's a spotlight. red carpet. dizzying. who wouldn't go a little insane having such an intense, gorgeous man lazer all his focus on them? and the way they do it is fan-ish. an unfathomable concept to wrap your head around until you have a man checking every single box you've ever had, raising the bar to an unreachable height as they shower you with unparalleled attention.
but the problem is, you don't see all the red flags because their personalities blind you to it. a little bit like a tsunami. you don't see the wall looming in front of you when the water recedes because you're too busy staring at the pretty seashells they uncovered for you.
with them, it's all charm, manipulation, and an unhinged obsession to the point where they're not content to simply be with you. they need you rooted so deeply to them that you just can't be without them.
Gaz slowly, steadily breaks down every wall you've ever had and rebuilds it around the two of you. locking you inside. sealing the exit. and you let him. because why wouldn't you?
Gaz is mature. a rock. he's someone who immediately feels untouchable; a phantom in a dream you can't ever seem to catch. but when you finally get him, it's almost fantastical. he's solid. steady. takes everything single thing you throw at him and tidies it up for you. ailments, illnesses. quirks. nothing seems to phase him. there's not a single thing you could try and leverage against him to see if he'll leave because he has an answer to it all. he doesn't mind going to physiotherapy with you. he reminds you to take your pills. gentles you into submission. peels back the layers slowly and examines every single part of you until nothing is without his fingerprints.
Gaz leaves you yearning. there's nothing else after him. no one else.
(and if you happen to slip away, he makes sure of it. stalks you, the people you date. threatens them with a flash of his canines and eyes that look far more wolfish than they should. isolates you slowly. methodically. narrows your world down to just him and ensures you'll come crawling back.
what else is out there for you when he's the Perfect Man? just ignore the stench coming from the closet.)
Soap is tumultuous. a whirlwind. the sirens wail warning you of a tornado but he's already ripped your house apart by the time you hear it. his attention is undivided. blistering. he's too handsome for his own good. too sweet, too. lures you in with roguish charm and devoted from day one. if you met on a dating app, he's deleting it before the first conversation is over. doesn't need it anymore, he says. he found the one. with Soap, it's the most intense relationship you've ever been in. a nonstop marathon of everything: conversations, future plans, sex. he dotes on you, but doesn't treat you like you're made of glass. showers you in affection, attention. makes you feel wanted in every conceivable way.
without him around, you feel dazed. confused. waking up on the beach after falling asleep under the sun. a little sunburn and sick.
and that's how you stay without him. a sigh of relief, at first. the silence is blissful. but then you hit a wall. you stagnant. he's the human version of a serotonin hit and the moment he leaves, you're left feeling empty. sucked dry.
it just makes sense to go back.
they pull you in, strip you bare. wrap themselves around your neck like a boa constrictor but where Soap takes a bite right away and then breaks you down, Gaz plays the long game of slowly coiling around you until it's too late.
thoughts on what kind of music taste t-141 has?? i can't stop thinking about this and your opinion 👀👀
I have a few! I tried really hard to think about what would be playing on the radio as each of them drove somewhere, and came up with this.
Price: I think he was an OG Alt Kid and did his research on rock which lead him right to the blues. And now his playlist is mostly a mix of blues and rock (garage, blues, alt, psychedelic), bluegrass. Folk. Divorced Dad Rock. 70s Roadtrip. Swamp Rock & Cajun Blues.
some artists you might find on his playlist are:
The Cure. CCR. Lead Belly. Koko Taylor. Agent Orange. Howlin' Wolf. Bobby Bland. Cockney Rejects. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The London Souls. Jimi Hendrix. Muddy Waters. The Psychedelic Furs. Grateful Dead. The Electric Flag. Johnny Cash. Cream. Snooky Pryor. The Rolling Stones. The Doors. Donovan. Sonny Boy Williamson. John the Conqueror. Fleetwood Mac. Pixies. Santana. Derek & the Dominoes. T. Rex. Wilbert Harrison. The Velvet Underground. Cheap Trick. Liverpool Five. The Rivieras. Redbone. Marlena Shaw. Mama's and Papa's. Allman Brothers Band. The Animals.
Gaz: eclectic. I think he dabbles in a little bit of everything. Almost all of his favourite artists are described as "genre defying." He's a lover of music, but tends to lean towards unique vocals, strong lyricism, and modern spins on traditional music.
Ghost: I don't think his taste in music has changed at all since he was in his late teens, early 20s. Metal. Rock. Classic rock. Classical (Vivaldi. Bartók. Sibelius. Prokofiev. Shostakovich. Stravinsky. Verdi). It's not really because of any genre loyalty. I just think he adds those artists and songs under the umbrella of liked music because it's a habit, and something he used to do as a teen assembling mixtapes with Tommy. They probably hung out at local bars and listened to the underground music scene in Manchester.
Mainly because my biggest, unchanging headcanon for him is that he virtually stopped existing when he was 19-20 so everything has just been habitual. (Until he meets you or Soap teaches him the meaning of "we" and teamwork.)
Soap: like Gaz, his taste is expands across genres but he's more of a Top 40 to Gaz's unending appetite. His choice mostly depends on his mood/the occasion. He has no shame when it comes to music, either. There's no "guilty pleasures" - just what he likes. Pop. Pop Rock. R&B. Soul. Indie. Folk. Rap. Hiphop. Rock. Metal. New Wave. Sea shanties. Traditional folk. If it sounds good to him, he'll listen. He also tends to adopt the music taste of whoever he's interested in - regardless of what genre it is. But he has a special kinda love for late 90s early 2000s R&B, and 80s synthpop/poprock, and a playlist for every occasion.
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Write a book series out of your poly 141 story and it will become a best seller….and I’m not just saying this because I need to hear every single second of how that relationship goes from them finding out reader hasn’t slept with anyone to buying a house for them all to live in
ahhhhh, no best seller needed, i'll tell ya now.
i threw it in half as a joke because a lot of asks/comments i'd gotten about part two to body electric was them all living w Reader/Big Happy Poly Ending lmao but i think it would take a long time to get to that point. like, probs when Price was ready to retire, Gaz was made Captain.
it would probably be a one off thing (to you), but then you're invited over a few weeks later. rinse and repeat. it becomes a monthly thing (as they slowly break their new toy in), then bi-weekly, weekly. i think each of them (barring maybe Price and Soap to a certain extent) would need to acclimate themselves to this new arrangement. but it all works out in the end. of course it does.
and the natural conclusion is either they all end up together, with maybe Ghost and Soap branching off on their own (neither totally sold on the idea of everyone they care about in a single place), or that this arrangement of "sleepovers" continues for eternity.
but you'd likely end up living w Price and Gaz, with Ghoap coming over constantly but both hesitant on making the full commitment to it. i think they'd come around eventually. Soap stays over more and more. Ghost slowly accepts that everyone is kinda here to stay.
how do you think the boys would look after you when you’re sick? i think Soap and Gaz would wind up getting sick because they couldn’t stay away from you
they definitely seem like the type to coddle. as for the rest—
GHOST—
It's short. Succinct. He prefers blunt honesty, and that's what you aim for when, sniffling pathetically, you open up your messages, and type out: Can't make it. Came down with something, and hit SEND.
It goes unanswered.
You pretend, through the hazy spool of your fever, the one that clots inside of your head until you're shivering, teeth chattering, and yearning, that you aren't surprised. That it doesn't prickle somewhere inside of your chest with the distinct flavour of disappointment.
You toss your phone aside, head swimming, and try to get some sleep. You need rest.
You dream of vague touches, and low words dripped in condescension but carrying a tinge of worry. Of care. It's a mess inside the gummy spool of sickness, but it's comforting. The phantom hand on your forehead makes you sigh.
When you wake up hours later, there is a bag from the pharmacy filled with electrolyte water, cold and flu medication, canned soup, and something to reduce your fever. No note. No phone call. No text. The message is clear.
(Next to the bag, is tea in a thermos. No brand. You taste it and know he made it himself.)
—distant, reserved. He sends you a care package, one he delivers himself, but doesn't linger. If you ask him about it, he'll roll his eyes, maybe mutter a fuckin' hell as he walks away from you.
—(if you'd touched the seat across from your bed, you'd find that it was still warm.)
GAZ—
He shows up wearing a mask, and has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Says, as he makes his way inside, that he'll fix you right up. All you can do is baulk when he storms your kitchen, pots clattering loudly together, and tells you to go sit. He has it covered.
(It surprises you a little bit when he does.)
He brings spicy soup that, according to his auntie, is going to clear your sinuses. He fluffs your pillows and drags a blanket over to you. Tucks you in, nice and tight, and turns on Taskmaster for you.
You spend the evening drifting in and out, caught in the throes of a fever nap, but he stays by your side the whole time.
You wake up late at night, startled awake by some ALDI commercial, and find him snoring on your couch, your feet in his lap. The mask is lopsided. His hair is moussed. He left you some medicine and a glass of water on the coffee table.
His phone chimes with the sound of an alarm. When you check the notification, all it says is: MEDICINE. EVERY FOUR HOURS. You turn it off, and a notes app pops up. You don't mean to look, but the sight makes you a little misty-eyed.
how to care for someone who is sick
All the boxes are ticked. Spicy soup. Water. Blankets. Rest. Medicine.
You throw the end of your blanket over him and snuggle into his side.
He wakes up hours later, and you watch trashy reality television together until he carries you to bed.
—no getting rid of him. He wants to make sure you're taken care of. It doesn't surprise you at all, when, a few days later he rings you up, and says he's sick. He's a surprisingly adept caretaker.
SOAP—
The last thing you remember is texting Soap about something—sick, can't make it—before the medication and the sickness dragged you under.
You wake up, sticky and wet from the cold sweat of a fever—edging, somehow, on the equilibrium of being both incredibly hot to the point of panting from the inferno blazing through your veins, and absolutely freezing, near hypothermic with goosebumps, and chattering teeth. Nothing sticks in the oil-slick lining of your head. It doesn't make sense. You're dizzy and disoriented. The room spins. You kick the covers off of your burning legs, but pull the comfort tighter around your torso where an arctic chill has settled in the pit of your stomach.
You try to move, but you're chained down. Locked. Trapped. You nearly panic, but a noise cuts through the wave of terror—
"Stop wigglin' so much," it's slurred into your shoulder, humid breath ghosting over your sweat-slicked neck. "M'tryin' t'sleep…"
His mohawk tickles your nose, his scent thick in your throat. Soap pulls you closer, tucking you deeper into his embrace, and murmurs soothingly until you settle. Until the wave of nausea passes, and the throbbing in your skull is abated by the warm milk and honey smell of him that floods you.
Clumsily, he reaches for a bottle of water he tucked beneath his pillow, eyes lidded and groggy with sleep.
"Drink," he urges, pressing it into your hands.
"I can't drink right now, I'll be sick—"
"Y'need water," he rasps, rubbing his cheek over yours. "Need to drink so you don't get dehydrated."
You huff. "I'll need to sit up for that."
The prospect of moving makes him grumble softly. His arm tightens around you, refusing to let go.
Then he stills.
The curve of his smile on your skin spells trouble. You're already shaking your head before he pops up, smirking. The sleep fades from his eyes in an instant. "I know a way—"
"You'll get sick," you warn, but he's already twisting the cap off, and spilling the water into his mouth
It bulges his cheeks. He looks ridiculous, and you scoff.
"There is no way—"
His lips seal over yours. Water runs down your chin when he pushes it inside the melting cavern of your mouth.
He doesn't need to slip his tongue inside, but he does it, anyway. Nips your lips when he pulls back, eyes glazing over as he watches you sputter and gasp.
His hand settles on your throat. "Swallow it. Got the whole bottle to get through."
His eyes trail over your wet cheeks, darkening when your throat bobs under his hand.
"Good girl," he breathes, and brings the nozzle up to his mouth again. His hand leaves your neck, and slips under the covers. There is a promise in the tips of his fingers when they glide over your molten skin. "We'll work on sweatin' your fever out next, bonnie. You're burnin' up."
—Soap's definition of caretaking is coddling you. He's a firm believer in sweating it out.
—it doesn't surprise you when he sends you several articles about how sex is good for colds, and you only feel slightly bad when his voice cracks a week later.
PRICE—
For a man who lives off of Maduro and scotch, his immune system is surprisingly resilient.
("It's the cigars," he husks, leaking smoke from his pores. "Keeps me in top shape."
You know better than to argue. It's never a battle you'll ever win.)
You, however, do not survive on miracle tobacco and malt.
Price doesn't answer the text you send—sick, can't make it to dinner tonight—but nine times out of ten, he usually doesn't. It doesn't surprise you, and you're not worried. He has other things to do—reports, interviews with new cadets, and planning recon missions for men in precarious situations. You turn your phone over on the coffee table, prop your heels on the edge, pull a blanket over your legs, and turn on the trashiest reality television you can stand.
A cup of tea sits by your ankle. You'd taken some medicine, and expect to be napping in a fugue state for the rest of the day.
It's just a tickle, really. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing that needs immediate attention. You're used to dealing with it alone.
Somewhere between Gemma blinking at the camera in confusion, you fall into a fitful sleep. Plagued by fever demons that ravage your body until you're drenched in sweat, and moaning in discomfort. Everything feels wrong—
A worn, rough hand settles on your brow. Words clipped, gravel thick.
Just gotta let it work itself out, love.
Your stomach churns. You whimper. Arms slide under your knees, bracketed around your back. Flying. Weightless. You sniffle into a warm neck that smells of smoke, and hickory.
Adrift in the sea. The waves lap at your body. You cling to the thing keeping you upright amid the waves that try to drag you under.
It sets you down on a lush shore, sand billowing around you until you're tucked inside a cocoon of sun seared warmth.
It pulls away.
Your hand snaps out. "Please, don't leave me—"
Gritty hisses whisper in your ear. "Shush, shush. M'not goin' anywhere, but you need water and some medicine. Stay here, love. I'll be right back."
You find comfort in the raw, rasping tone. Pitched low, and brassbound. You nod, head carving out a piece of bliss in the sand beneath your head.
It's a blur, really. You remember the weight of a hand holding your head in a plinth, water slipping down your aching throat. A hand brushing back the sweat-slicked hair on your forehead. Dry lips pressed to your crown, susurrus murmurs leaking out into your skin.
You wake up hours later. The island fades into shades of familiarity. There is a weight in your palm. You blink the dredges of fever away, the gossamer of sick that sounds like the waves crashing on the distant shore.
Price. He's sat in an armchair pushed as close to your bed as it'll allow. Your fingers threaded through his. The other hand falls on his lap, resting over a manila folder.
His head dips, chin tucked into his chest. Soft, brassy snores fill your bedroom.
On the table beside you sits two glasses of scotch, a bottle of water, an ashtray, and medicine.
You smell something robust and meaty wafting into the room. On your dresser is a bag of takeaway from the Vietnamese restaurant you were supposed to go to. The heady scent of Pho fills the air.
Your fingers squeeze his, a gentle pulse. Warmth blooms in your chest. The heat is enough to rival your fever.
He stayed.
(He snorts awake a few moments later, and makes you sip the scotch between mouthfuls of the electrolyte water. Good for you, he says. Drink it up, now.
Once you've drunk as much as you could, he hands you the pho, and watches you sip the broth.)
—firm, like everything he does. No room for arguments: he's taking care of you whether you like it or not.
—he keeps you tucked to his chest, and turns on your favourite movies, making snarky comments from the corner of his mouth that make you laugh. You feel instantly better with him by your side.
omg i just saw a tag on one of your recent posts saying you could talk all day about how the cod boys smell and i’m begging you PLEASE do!! i’m a huge fan of perfumes and one of my favorite things to do for characters is to compile scents that i think would fit them the best. i’m super curious what your thoughts are and i would love to hear more!
thank you so much for this!! i had a lot of fun with it! 🖤
Ghost: dead leaves, pine, cedar, fall air, laurel, balsam, smoke, clove bud, black patchouli, mushroom caps, dampened black soil. he smells like a thick, dense Pacific Northwest forest after a heavy rainfall or a piece of driftwood washed up on the shore — Roja Parfums APEX or Tom Ford Costa Azzurra
Soap: amber, violet, magnolia, guaiac wood, pink pepper, earl grey tea, steamed milk, vanilla, grass, clover, sun-warmed cornfields, muguet, honeysuckle, acacia, ozone, meadow air, tree moss, oakmoss, fir balsam, lavender, and cumarin (which smells like freshly harvested hay). he smells like a field in the zenith of summer, maybe freshly cut grass; something sweet and rich — Dolce&Gabbana Intenso or Viktor & Rolf Spice Bomb
Price: tobacco, agarwood, whiskey, resins, white musk, leather, vetiver, sandalwood, amber, suede, mysore sandalwood, vanilla husk, chamois accord, Alaskan cedarwood, tobacco leaf, black oak, cardamom, saffron threads, miel blanc. he smells like a pub that's always empty or an antique store; thick with smoke, and heavy with leather and tobacco — Tobacco Oud, Ombrè, or Tobacco Vanile by Tom Ford
Gaz: orange, Italian lemon zest, green apple, tonka beans, amber, woody vanilla, tuberose, iris, tiaré, paperwhite narcissus, night-blooming jasmine. he smells like the coast in the spring; sage and sea salt — Versace Eros or Frederic Malle Musc Ravageur
Alejandro: spicy (almost cola-clove-y), resinous, premium myrrh accord, frankincense, oud, myrrh, bergamot, neroli, patchouli. he smells a little bit like being on the balcony of a nightclub: fresh air cut with the thick tang of spice and smoke wafting through the open doors or the ocean on a humid summer night after a rainshower soaked the sand — Giorgio Armani Acqua di Gio or Ralph Lauren Polo Earth
Rodolfo: strong coffee, streusel coffee cake, nutmeg, brown sugar, toasted almonds, cardamom, ambergris, cashmere wood, vanilla, saffron. he smells like a cafe in the morning, sweet and robust; or a bookstore —Byredo Vanille Antique or Maison Francis Kurkdjian Baccarat Rouge 540
