#how to grow mustard

[lunarflare64]

Day 1 of planning a garden: we'll probably have like, 3 different crops and thats it, one raised bed will be plenty

Day 17 of planning a garden: 15 different crops over a year, three raised beds (its gonna be a bit cramped but the budget can only be stretched so far), a greenhouse shelf, multiple potted plants, google how high can cucumber plants grow and should we plant one or two?

[studiopeached]

THREE, TWO, RUN. ft. Peter Dunbar

♡ SUMMARY: After fleeing from your boyfriend, it isn’t long before the two of you reunite, against your will or with it.

♡ CONTENT WARNINGS: pwp, afab, fem!reader, ex-boyfriend!peter x reader, peter being a serial killer, moderate description of gore, NONCON/DUBCON, fingering, oral (fem receiving), big dick peter—not great prep, p in v sex, rough sex, biting/marking kink, fear play, predator/prey dynamics, size kink, bondage

♡ WORD COUNT: 2.4k plot, 1.9k smut. 4.3k total

♡ STREAM NOTE: SMUT BELOW THE SECOND NSFW BANNER. this is a spin off from my @peachedtvs blog called 'Til Death Dont We Part'

♡ MASTERLIST. cumming soon! Main blog @peachedtv

Peter felt you were quite silly, even from when his eyes first laid upon you through the windows of your diner.

So silly, in so many ways.

You were silly in the way you spoke. Expressive, lively, words filled with kindness and rhythm. Words Peter wanted to lock away for only him to hear. Your voice always melted into his mind like honey. Soothing, calming, just like the music he’d hum to silently as he got rid of your recent obstacles. A heavy saw in his hand slashing back and forth, splitting bone into two before stuffing remains of human flesh into a black tarpe—or when he'd bring the nuisances back alive. Screams of pain, terror, and torment vastly contrasting a smooth melody muffled through his earbuds.

Your smile was silly too. Loud, boisterous laughs pairing with it each time as you’d close your eyes tightly, breaths jagged as you’d brace your stomach from the joy. Your smile so mesmerizing Peter wanted nothing more to lock it away behind a key. To melt away in the melody of your laughter, to spread it across his lips and adorn the smile as sweetly as you do.

What was even sillier was how silly you made him feel. On the surface, the twist in his stomach was sweet. An admiration, an appreciation of something so pure. Although,

Peter always fell apart.

Even in the room of his own heart.

Every silly thing had something inside of him twist. A strange twist, a bubbling feeling that had his gut wrench around itself—curling around and laying discomfort deep into his heart, where it stood mockingly. Unable to be buried beneath other thoughts, placed behind distractions, or replaced with another. And this bothered him.

Peter was always in control.

Control of his job, control of his victims, the police, his therapy, the growing police patrols in your city. So why couldn’t he control this?

What were you doing to him?

He thought it was uncomfortable at first. But that strange feeling was quite addicting, stacking tenfolds in intensity ever since the first time he felt it with you.

“Are you okay?”

By now, this memory had occurred over 3 years ago.

The first day you two had met, Peter was not in a good mental space. His family was in ruins, the relationship between he and his mother deteriorating until he had finally decided to storm out of the house and leave for good. Leave his home for good.

With nowhere to go, and a rumbling stomach, Peter decided the best course of action was to first fuel his appetite. Damn Diner was loud, painstakingly so. There was a mess of voices, the clash of plates, cutlery, dragging of chairs against tilted floors, chaos that hummed against a muffled out melody of tunes through the ceiling speakers. Everything was so loud. There was a child in the booth next to his. A mess of ketchup and mustard spraying everywhere, a glob falling onto his cheek as his eyebrows knit together in annoyance. There was a couple in the booth across, arguing over the cries of their child whining for a crumb of their attention. There was yelling from the kitchen, scolding as a worker had done something wrong and sent an order to the incorrect table.

And then, there was you.

Timidly, you rushed over to his table. Clumsy and expressive as you stared down to him with empathy, apologizing profusely as you explained the mess around the diner. And there, all the loudness stopped. Your voice muffled, muffled until it became strikingly clear and the diner around him seem to slow. Peter's eyes traced your face, how you were out of breath, how kindly you looked to him, how you asked if he was okay. And in this world of distain, you were pure.

And there was the first twist.

Peter spent nights going crazy.

Absolutely insane.

When he had first broken into your apartment, his heavy steps drowned out by the moans of your roommate through the paper thin walls, he thought he would melt into the floor when he first inhaled the scent of you room.

It was a soft aroma, something that had his eyes rolling into the back of his skull when he saw you laying peacefully on the bed. Your head was smushed between a folded pillow, covering your ears as your face was scrunched in discomfort.

"Lucy's being so loud tonight, isn't she, Darling?" Peter spoke softly, the back of his hand gracing your cheek as he sat on the edge of your bed. Careful to dip your mattress slowly so as to not wake you. Carefully, his other hand trailed up the curve of your torso, hip to waist, before entangling with your fingers.

Your hand felt right in his.

Soft, smooth, and warm against his cold skin. And there, he knew even fate was in his hands the moment he had yours in his.

When Peter had mustered up the courage to approach you in the park, he felt his heart beating out his chest, his mind going hazy from everything he wanted to do to you—from hearing your voice up close again. It had been nearly a year since you two had first met at the diner, and it seemed as though you had forgotten him completely. Luckily, Peter knew enough about you through his year of...supervision, and was soon able to swipe you off your feet. There, he became yours.

Your boyfriend.

And you, his girlfriend.

Often the two of you shared late nights after your dates. The hum of cicadas drumming into the background as you'd lay into the grass of the park the two of you 'first' met in. Your hands would intertwine together as the other would hold the grass below. In this park, the two of you would often talk about your dreams, aspirations, or talk shit about whatever seemed to bother you in your life at the moment. And Peter always listened.

In other moments, the two of you enjoyed each other's company. A silence paired with the ambience of howling wind, crickets, and a glint in your eye from the reflection of the moonlight and stars twinkling above. And through this silence, your heart spilled.

“I want to be with you forever, Peter." You spoke softly, you eyes still stuck on the starlight above.

A twist, something twisted once more.

For the first time, Peter eyes looked away from you—a blush traveling to his cheeks, a pale red hue over his soft features.

“Forever, then, Darling."

And forever meant forever.

Years together flew by, and you both had your own jobs—despite Peter's insistence for you to stay at home and allow him to care for you. Although, you wanted to work. You wanted to experience the world. But what you didn’t want were the unreasonable hours of overtime your boss had subjected to you. Much to Peter's dismay, many late afternoons he would return to an empty home. Full of furniture, light, decoration, but never with the person he truly wished the presence of. Every evening, you would trail home hours after him. Enervated, dragging your feet along the floorboards as you slumped into his open arms.

“I missed you, Peter.”

Your voice was like honey.

“I missed you more, Darling.” Peter greeted you softly. There it was again. Something twisted. Peter looked down to your visage. Dark eyebags staining your soft skin, a pout dragging your lips, your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you sighed from exhaustion. His gut was twisting stranger than usual. A mix of annoyance for those who have exploited you, an annoyance that made his stomach curl inside.

Peter did not want you to continue working.

Your boss had gone missing for a couple days now.

The company was in disarray, having strangely lost employee after employee ever since you were recruited. The once bustling, lively atmosphere became quiet, dull, and empty. And with the new loss of your employer, there wasn’t an office cubicle you could return to. For the first time in months, you returned home before Peter.

Although, something felt off.

With Peter home, it was always lively. The ambiance of bustling trees against the wind outside, a hum of the dishwasher from the kitchen, a low vibrato of your home's ventilation system, and the comfort of your boyfriend's presence. He was such a soothing soul. Without him, the home felt strange. You felt the presence of another, many, an overbearing amount. As though invisible strings clumped together to weigh you heavier into the floor boards, creaking the dark oak louder than usual.

Without Peter, it felt as though something was calling for you—and curiously, you began to explore. Exploring the home you resided in, as this home empty of your lover didn’t feel like a home anymore. And that lead you to the door that stood at the far end of the first floor. Tucked beside the laundry room, you stood still and seemed confused.

Was there always a lock?

A sturdy lock it was. Heavy metal weighing it flush against the wood, holding the door firmly shut to keep everything in out. There was a strange smell, too. A scent that leaked from beneath the dark oak doorway, filling the air with a musk of cooper and spoiled eggs. Your hand reached for the lock, flinching when built up static pricked your skin. A warning. But you held firm. Giving a cautious, downward tug as the lock went slack. It was open. You pushed the door back slowly, a low creak humming your presence, a flood of a strange meat stinging the view in your eyes.

Firmly, a familiar hand held your shoulder.

The hand of your boyfriend.

You were terrified.

“Darling, what are you doing?”

You couldn’t think.

Not with the view of mangled flesh, the smell of copper and iron so strong your head began to haze strangely. No, you couldn’t think. Even more so with scattered limbs decorating the floor—being the remainder of the morbidly intact heads of your former colleges and employer, of your missing boss. Pieces of them did not fit like a puzzle. Limbs, skin, so much of their bodies were missing.

What was that dinner Peter served these passing evenings?

And it seemed as though fate enjoyed sparking your memory.

This time around, nearly three years later, it was not scatttered corpses, blood, or flies that greeted you. You stood before the door of the fourth apartment complex you were going to apply to. Advertised as a gated community of safety, an exorbitant lot you were willing to hack up the money for to get away from him.

Although, just as three years ago, just as you were able to arrive to the complex, nails dug into your shoulder, holding you in place. A voice low, strange, and terrifyingly familiar. The grip dug into your flesh this time, keeping you from running—just as you did in the home you shared with him. With a door you shouldn’t have opened, and a hand on your shoulder that felt larger than usual.

Your boyfriend's hand.

“I missed you, my Darling.”

You didn't know what was happening.

You scrambled fruitlessly, trying to shove Peter's hand off your shoulder when a burning wet rag was drowned upon your lower face. You kicked, muffled screams and sobs as you dug into the palm that pinched the bridge of your nose, your body growing increasingly more limp. You didn't know what was happening, but by the next moment, it seemed as though you were melting into the floor—the world around you sputtering and glitching as your vision faded out and back in as you fell back onto a large bed.

You couldn't recognize the monster that was before you.

You didn't want to recognize the monster that was before you. Although, a rough, large hand gripped the lower half of your face, covering your mouth and pinning you down into the plush duvet to muffle horrified screams, forcing you to look deep into a being empty of a soul.

Even back then, you always felt Peter’s deep eyes had an errie glint. They seemed dull, strange, and detached from any wonder or interest. All until his gaze would flit upon you. A spark of light dashing his iris, a soft smile spreading his lips. He only looked human when he looked at you.

Peter still kept that smile. A smile that had morphed after his descent into maddness. Sharp teeth and bloodshot eyes that contrasted against sharp blues. He looked terrifying. His forearms were scattered with scars and wounds, peeled back scabs across his skin—likely from the amount of struggling you had done while in his arms. Your name was etched into his skin. Over and over and over, hearts and sharp lines littered as keloids formed in the place of his artwork. His size dwarfed you, a wolf to rabbit. Predator to prey.

“Pe—“

"You remember the time when you'd say it back, don't you, Darling?" He leaned down by your neck, breathing in shakily as though he couldn't believe you were finally here. With him. All to himself. "When you would say you missed me too." His voice was disfigured. A mix of insanity and dark undertone to his speech making your head spin and eyes well with tears. Your entire body was trembling, the skin on your back burning as every nerve in your brain set off sirens that resonated throughout your head. You felt too fearful to even choke out a pathetic sob, wanting to blend into the sheets below you.

Meanwhile, Peter felt himself going crazy. He couldn't help the way his mind ran a mile a minute as he stared down at your dicheviled form. You were always so pretty, absurdly so. Even as the strands of your hair fell misplaced over your face, even as you looked up to him with so much fear, hatred, and terror, his stomach twisted just as it did three years ago. That strange feeling laying addiction down into the lining of his stomach, soothing his body that felt run dry of how you made him feel.

He needed you. Now.

Peter brought a hand to his lips, hastily removing his right glove as he bit the fabric covering the tip of his middle finger, tugging his glove off by his teeth. His free hand pinned you pliantly down into the mattress by the lower half of your face, the other sliding beneath your shirt to tear the fabric off your body. You thrashed, muffled sobs and tears running down your cheeks, wetting the palm of his hand.

Your terror only fueled him further.

His hands groped and fondled every inch of your skin that one could imagine, a long tongue pairing with his touch as Peter licked a long stripe up your neck—sucking deep blotches and bruises of dark blue and purple hues across your neck and chest. Peter marked you as his, bit your flesh like a meal, and ruined your soft skin for his pleasure.

The mattress beneath you was in shambles. Inch deep tears lay by your head as Peter held back the urge to squeeze you blue, from ripping into your flesh, the torn mattress a goreish display of holding back the brutal cuteness aggression Peter got from the sight of you.

His hand slid from your mouth, gripping your neck tightly to restrict precious air from flooding your throat. He wanted you ditzy anyway. Nothing but a lifeless shell of who you were once he was done.

Pilant.

Obidient.

And what better way than halfway choking you out?

Your hands held his wrist desparately, nails scratching into his skin as he only smiled wider in response, stitches appearing on the corners of his mouth to prevent his face from ripping in two from his pure display of euphoria.

You hadn't stopped crying this entire time. Desparate pleas falling on deaf ears as you begged Peter that this was enough, that you'd listen, that you'd stay. And as convincing as it seemed, Peter was not giving you another chance to escape him. Not again.

His hand trailed down until it cupped your clothed cunt. Nothing on your body remaining besides your panties. A gift, perhaps—the best for last. Peter pushed your panties to the side, experimentally swirling the pad of his thumb onto your clit, causing you to wretch out a struggled moan.

"P-Peter—!" He only smiled in response.

"You've always been so sensitive, huh? It seems you haven't changed at all." His thumb pressed harder onto your cunt, rubbing your clit side to side as the palm of his hand pressed firmly down upon your womb. He watched you fall apart with glee, sliding his other hands between your thighs and gently nudging a finger inside of you. You threw your headback into the sheets, grabbing the duvet desperately, your hips trembling as you felt your sanity waste away to the pleasure wracked into your body.

You always fell apart so prettily.

Your hand shakily reached out to Peter, your lips quivering as a second finger curled into your cunt—the heel of his hand hitting the underside of your puffy clit as he kept toying with the bud. It burned, terribly so. Considering how much larger his stature was to yours, how much larger his finger would be to your own, it was a miracle you weren’t ripped in half yet. Although, it sure felt as though you were.

Peter stretched you out relentlessly, scissoring inside of you before curling the pads of his fingers plush against your g-spot. You arched your back desperately, crying out as your hips stuttered in response. And Peter kept prying there. His fingers pounding into your cunt, hitting your g-spot over and over and over until you felt as though you'd die from the overstimulation. As you reached out to Peter, he pulled a length of manila rope from his back pocket—grabbing your wrists before tying your hands together and in front of your chest as through you were praying—and perhaps you were. Praying to Peter to slow down, to be more gentle.

A third finger was nudged deep inside of you, pairing with the speed of his thumb on your clit increasing. His fingers pounded into you feverishly, sounds of your arousal soaking your inner thighs and his forearm—dirtying the sleeve of his pinstriped coat. You couldn't concentrate, no longer resisting against the firm hold his shadows had upon your wrists. No longer holding back your sweet moans.

A burning desire began to pool in your gut.

"Peter, p-please—"

A hand gripped your throat.

"P-Peter, please— I'm gonna cu—m!" He smiled to you. You were always so easy to please.

"Cum then, dear." His fingers sped up their speed inside your cunt, recklessly pounding and curling into you, bruising your g-spot painfully as you sobbed out, clenching your pussy around his cock as you squirt onto him. Peter smiled, leaning down to suck your clit and swirl his tongue around the bud as your mouth opened silently. Your hips struggled away, and yet his shoulders spread your knees firmly, the underside of your thighs thrown over them. Peter continued to bully your pussy past your orgasm, sucking and licking your clit as his fingers continued to curl and pound into you to ride out your high. You were crying endlessly. Begging him to stop, that it was enough. And yet, he didn't pull out his hand until you were merely twitching and whimpering in his bed. Broken.

"Have you lost yourself in the pleasure, Darling?" Peter was manic. Your pleasure felt like a high he couldn't describe. The way your fingers clenched around him, he felt as though it was a sign. A sign that all your struggling was only to encourage him to fight against you, a sign that you were only pretending to be scared.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Your eyes widened open when you felt the tip of his cock slide between your folds, Peter having removed his clothing now too. You struggled, trying to sit up when his hand once again held your throat warningly, choking you lightly against the mattress—gently enough that you could take slow, shallow breaths.

"Peter, it's not gonna fi—!" Your mouth fell open silently as Peter suddenly shoved the head of his cock inside of you. Your pool of arousal allowing him to slide in with just a minor amount of resistance—minor to his strength at least.

Meanwhile, your eyes blew wide as you whimpered out desperately, struggling against the binds on your wrists as your cunt stretched around him. He was big, painfully so. And you were thankful he decided to slide the remaining of his length in slowly, inch by inch. And yet, even when he was just halfway, you felt as though he was already plush against your cervix.

"Is she resisting, hmm? I guess I can be a little rough, you were always into that, anyways." Before you could understand what Peter meant, he slammed the remaining half of his length deep inside of you as you screamed out, your hands curling tight fists as your nails dug deep crescents into your palms.

Before you knew it, Peter pulled out to the tip, and slammed right back into you. His pace was unwavering. A hand gripped on your neck, the other pressing you into the mattress by a palm against your womb as he split you on his cock. Peter pounded into you, skin against skin as you soaked his cock, splashing your arousal onto his pelvis and lower stomach. He was big, too big. Tears streamed down your face, and Peter only wiped them with his thumb before licking it into his mouth. He wanted to taste your fear.

He wanted to rip you apart.

Your chest heaved as his thumb came down to your clit once more, roughly pressing onto you before swirling it harshly. You arched your back, clawing at the wrist on your throat as you moaned, crying around his cock when the underside of it would press into your g-spot, when the head of it would slam so deep against your cervix you felt he might fuck himself into your womb. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, a hand gripping the torn sheets below you as you cried out when your pussy clentched around him.

"Please, please, can I c-cum—" You sobbed, looking down to where you and Peter where connected, seeing your cunt stretched impossibly wide for your ex-boyfriend's cock.

"Don't you dare."

"Please, Baby."

Fuck.

You drove him fucking crazy.

Peter swore he could’ve cum on the spot from hearing you finally call him baby once more, the name you neglected from him. The only name you should be calling him. Peter laughed.

"You truly know me so well, Darling." Peter's pace increased. His cock pounding into you hard enough to have your tits bouncing and the frame of the bed on the verge of giving out—your cunt clentching onto his fat cock even more.

"You can cum in three seconds." You nodded stupidly, too desparate to think.

Peter pulled back to the tip, slamming back inside.

"Three," His palm pressed into your womb, feeling the buldge of his dick against his hand, his cock dragging against your velvety walls. You swore you were going to die if you couldn't cum soon, Peter's counting teasingly slow as he fucked into you like a fleshlight. Like a pet.

"Two." Your pussy fluttered against him, Peter's fingers swirling your clit viciously.

"One," You whined, sliding your hands to his upper back as you raked down his skin.

"Please, please, please, let me cum." You were going crazy.

"Cum." You threw your head back, near screaming his name like a mantra as you clencthed around him, squirting for the second time that night as his cock continued to pound deep inside of you. Peter let go of your throat, his hands sliding beneath the underside of your thighs to push your knees into your chest—fucking you meanly in a harsh mating press as he refused to slow down. You felt like your soul was going to fall out your body, your pussy spasming as Peter continued to pound into you without any concern to your fresh orgasm and painful overstimulation that burned your walls.

"B-baby, Peter—please, I can'—"

And for the first time since three years ago, and for the first time together—Peter kissed you.

His kiss was soft, gentle, loving. His hips never stilled, continuing to rip orgasm after orgasm out of your poor little pussy. Although, his mouth was soft against yours, eyes closed and hand holding your neck lightly as the tips of his fingers graced your bruised skin. Bruised with the marks of his love, his obsession.

He held your face as kindly, as though you may be gone if he didn't keep you in his arms forever. Peter's tongue slid into your mouth slowly, and you moaned around him—letting him in. Your body missed him so much.

Maybe you still love him, even after it all.

Peter's pace became staggered, his hips slowing until he kept his cock deep inside and came directly into your womb. His load gushed out from the sides of your hole that stretched around him, stuffing you full. Peter allowed your thighs to rest by his hips, laying you back against the mattress as he continued to kiss you. His hands massaged your body, comforting the bites, hickeys, and bruises.

"I love you, Darling."

Peter spoke softly, pulling away from you. Admiring your fucked out state.

"So don't you leave me ever again."

You're watching...

© Studio Peached 2024

[flemingology]

loving every curve ─ leah williamson x reader

in which: you learn to be intimate again with leah after your pregnancy

warnings: smut (18+), fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), dirty talk, language, post-pregnancy insecurities, body dysmorphia

wc: 4.9K

a/n: I was going to queue this for friday but I couldn't wait LOL. hope you all enjoy!

Pregnancy with Leah was a journey that you wouldn't trade for the world. You and your wife had been unsuccessful a couple times with the IVF journey, so when one day you received the good news, the both of you were on top of the world and couldn't wait to meet the little wonder that was going to be growing in your belly.

It was pure bliss, really. Ever since you found out you were pregnant, Leah had stepped into a role that you'd never seen her take up before. She was a very caring person before, but she had stepped that up a notch. It came to a point where you even had to tell her to refrain a little, that you were more than capable of going to work and doing household chores in the first months of your pregnancy – Leah was reluctant to give in, but when she noticed after a few weeks that she wouldn't be able to keep up with the household chores compared with her busy footballing schedule, she gave in.

As the months passed, and you started experiencing the hardships of pregnancy, Leah was the perfect partner. She would be by your side every time you were heaving up your breakfast, wouldn't leave your side if you were feeling weak and would be experiencing blood sugar drops, she would accommodate to all of your cravings – meaning she would sometimes drive to the shop at 3am, eyes still full of sleep, but on a mission to get you pickles and mustard, because that was seemingly what your stomach made you crave that night.

One of the hardest things, though, that you didn't expect, was how wary you were of your body changing. The first couple months nothing visibly changed, not until you started showing. You and Leah loved the little bump in your stomach, a testament to the little life that was growing in your belly. But as the months passed and your stomach started to grow more and more, came the big visible changes on your body. You were well aware that you were going to put on weight and that your body wouldn't look the way it had before you grew pregnant, but you were still in your head about it.

The stretch marks, the bloated feeling, the swollenness – that accompanied with naturally heightened emotions, it wasn't nice. You knew that it was normal and that it was only happening because your body had to accommodate for the child that was growing inside of you, but you couldn't get it out of your head.

Leah reassured you every day that she thought you were beautiful, that you'd never looked this good throughout the 5 years of your relationship. She would tell you about the "pregnancy glow" all the time, and would claim that she'd fallen in love with you over and over again ever since you started to show.

You thought it was going to be better after you'd given birth, but the stretch marks and the loose skin didn't magically disappear – you had certainly hoped it would. You'd stuck to applying cream to your stretch marks throughout your whole pregnancy, so you knew the skin would form back to normal rather sooner than later, but you still found it hard to look at yourself in the mirror. The body you had worked so hard for over the last couple years was no longer there, and as much as you had a lovely little baby boy to show for it, you couldn't help but miss it.

It was Friday night, set date night for Leah and you. It was the first time since the birth of your son that the two of you would be going out for date night, rather than staying in. Amanda had taken him for the night, very excited about the prospect of her grandson staying with her for the first time.

You were in your bedroom, looking through the options in your wardrobe, struggling to pick out what to wear. Truthfully, you didn't know what you would even fit in, at this moment in time. You'd lost some of your pregnancy weight but certainly not all of it, and you weren't sure if you would fit into any of the dresses that you owned. You'd tried a couple, to no avail. You wanted to look good, look good for you and look good for your wife, who had been nothing but exceptional to you the past 9 months and more.

You heard a soft padding of footsteps up the stairs, Leah probably noticed that you had been in there for quite some time. She entered your bedroom and you couldn't help but feel remorseful when you shot her a look. She was clad in a straight black pair of trousers, combined with a white, sleeveless top. A very simple outfit, but she looked amazing. She had her hair down, a welcome change to the ponytail she always had it in.

"Hey baby, you good? Just checking, you've been in here for quite some time now," Leah said softly, body leaning against the doorframe. You shot her a defeated look. "I don't know, Le. Nothing fits me anymore, I don't know what to wear," you vaguely gestured towards your wardrobe. You nearly missed the pitiful look that crossed your girlfriend's face before she made her way over to you, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind, leaning her chin on your shoulder.

"What about that one," Leah proposed, pointing towards a yellow dress that she gifted you for your anniversary last year. "Tried, it's too tight on my thighs," you responded. She hummed, looking elsewhere. "The red one," she questioned, met with another shake of your head. "Nope, felt like it was suffocating me," Leah nodded, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "How about just a pair of jeans and a shirt then, hmm?"

"None of my jeans fit me, Le. Why do you think I've been walking around in sweatpants the past two weeks," you said, a slight hint of annoyance clear in your voice. "Okay, I'm sorry," she said softly, rubbing her hands over your stomach appreciatively. Before long, she turned you around in her grip, looking you into the eye.

"Would you rather stay home instead, chill on the couch and watch a film, that works for me too," Leah proposed. You casted your gaze down. That sounded perfect, but you didn't want to take this away from her and from you both. You knew how excited Leah had been for today, the day accentuated with a red circle on the calendar that hung in your home office. It'd been ages since the both of you spent some quality time outside the house, finally finding a vacant spot that you two wanted to make use of as best as possible.

She took your chin in between her thumb and index finger, slowly pushing your head back up. She placed one of her hands on the side of your face, rubbing your cheek affectionately. You braved a look at her, eyes slightly watery. "Are you sure," you questioned, but before you could express yourself further, Leah was already nodding. "I'm sure. All I want is to be with you, and I want you to be comfortable. We've got plenty of time together to go out for dinner, but if you'd rather stay in tonight, then we're staying in," she said, putting a strand of hair behind your ear. She wiped away a stray tear that had escaped your eye, pressing a soft kiss against the wet trail it had left behind.

"Come on, love, I'll change real quick and then we can get comfortable on the couch, hmm? I'll order us some food and then we can just enjoy a chill evening together, how's that sound," she said, her gaze still holding yours. You nodded, burying your face in the crook of her neck. "Perfect," you mumbled, earning an appreciative chuckle from your blonde lover who was rubbing her hands up and down your back affectionately.

A couple moments later you made your way downstairs, now dressed in a pair of fuzzy sweatpants and one of Leah's old Arsenal hoodies. You threw some of your softest blankets on the couch and made the both of you a cup of tea, that you were placing on the coffee table by the couch just as Leah came down too, having changed into something more forgiving than what she was wearing before.

"Mm, you read my mind," she said as she walked over, grabbing her mug from the table and taking a swig of her tea. "Just how I like it, thank you baby," she pressed a sweet, lingering kiss on your lips before pulling away and ordering some food.

"Pizza sound good?", she asked. "Pizza sounds great."

Your night went on quietly, the two of you cuddled up on the couch watching a show you'd discovered together, eating your pizza and stealing kisses from each other now and then.

When the third episode you watched in a row was coming to an end, Leah shifted her body so you were now laying on top of her instead of between her legs. She looked you in the eye and pushed a strand of hair behind your ears, a soft, loving gaze looking over you. "I love you, baby. So much," she started. "I don't care if we're out eating at a fancy restaurant or ordering pizza and binge watching our show, as long as you're my company, I don't care what we do," she smiled, pressing a soft kiss against the tip of your nose.

"You're the best, Le. Thank you for being so understanding. And thank you for being the best mum our baby boy could've wished for," at this, you could see Leah's eyes growing wet with unshed tears, forever emotionally affected when her son was mentioned. You grabbed her face in both hands and leaned in closer, pressing a firm kiss against her warm lips. She tasted salty, testament of a tear that managed to escape right before you leaned in.

Leah was the one who broke the kiss after a couple moments, you chasing her lips as you couldn't get enough of her. She chuckled before speaking up, "You're amazing. You carried this little human being inside your stomach for 9 months and then gave birth to it, bringing life to our son. I'm so proud of you and I'm way beyond amazed at what you did. You're wonderful, mama," the new nickname caused a tingle in your chest, but it also sent a shot of arousal somewhere deeper, something you didn't expect to happen.

Your breath hitched and you pulled back a little, cheeks flushing slightly red, to which Leah cocked an eyebrow at you. "Oh?", she questioned, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "That was an interesting reaction," she teased further, placing her hands on your thighs that were on each side of her body, now straddling her.

"Shut up," you said, throwing your head back and looking up at the ceiling. "I'll keep that one in mind," she said before pulling you back down to her, clasping her hands together at the back of your neck and pulling you into a heated kiss. Her lips were firm against yours, her tongue swiping across your bottom lip soon enough to ask for permission. You eagerly granted her that, opening your mouth to which you couldn't hold back a soft moan. Leah's tongue explored your mouth, kissing you with a fervor she hadn't for a while.

Truth be told, Leah and you hadn't really done anything like this since the birth of your son. You and your body were still exhausted from the pregnancy and as much as you wanted to be intimate with her, both the tiredness and the insecurity had held you both back. Leah had been patient, she had been incredible and hadn't pushed for anything. She knew you wanted to take things back up on your own accord and that's why she gave you space. But now, with her toned body beneath you, her hands roaming all over your upper body and her tongue licking into your mouth, you couldn't help but feel the arousal building between your legs.

"Le, please," you whimpered, sounding embarrassingly desperate after only a few minutes of kissing and wandering hands. She pulled away, a frown etched onto her face. "What's wrong, baby, are you okay?", she asked, worry laced into her voice. You grunted. "God, yeah, I'm more than okay. I-," you took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes. "I need you."

Leah's eyes widened slightly at your words, the look of surprise quickly changing into something else, a playful glint now appearing in her eyes. "Yeah? You sure?", she asked, more out of politeness than actual concern, her hands already starting to wander up your chest, inching closer towards your breasts.

Leah had always been more of a boob than bum girl, and safe to say she was devastated to learn throughout your pregnancy that any of her touches in that area caused you to wince due to the sensitivity of them.

You nodded sheepishly, closing your eyes when you felt Leah's hands grazing your boobs. Despite still clothed, you could feel goosebumps starting to form across your back, your body clearly affected by the slightest of touches provided by the woman tucked underneath you.

"Let's go upstairs, you might be a bit more comfortable", Leah said as she pulled her hands away from you. You knew she was only being mindful of you and your body, but truth be told – you couldn't care less now. You needed her and you needed her now.

You grumbled in response, leaning your head down into the juncture between Leah's shoulders and neck, starting to roll your hips against hers. You heard how Leah's breath hitched, fingers digging into your hips at the sensation. "Needy, huh?", she teased, to which you sunk your teeth into her neck, pulling a hiss out of your girlfriend before soothing the sing with a languid lick of your tongue.

"God, I missed you," Leah whimpered. "I missed this and I missed you, I missed the feeling of your body on top of me," she continued, her words clearly affecting you as you could feel the arousal between your legs growing. Before long, Leah sat the two of you up straight before sliding from underneath you, throwing her legs over the edge of the couch and getting up. "I was serious when I told you I wanted to go upstairs, baby," she smirked, holding her hands out for you to take, hoisting you up from the couch and leading the two of you upstairs to your bedroom.

As much as the touches were hungry and fleeting downstairs on the couch, the air had changed now. Leah's actions were slow, deliberate, calculated. Like she had planned this out weeks ago, like she knew exactly what she wanted to do to have you unraveling underneath her touch.

She closed the door behind you and was back onto you within a moment, wrapping her arms around your waist and kissing down the nape of your neck, licking a couple stripes from your upper back up until your ear, softly nipping on your earlobe which caused a low moan to fall from your lips.

You moved your arms behind you, steading yourselves by grabbing Leah's thighs. She continued her ministrations, kissing and licking across all your sensitive spots – she hadn't forgotten anything about how to properly please you. She still knew your body like the back of her hand; knew where to kiss, knew where to lick, knew where to touch.

But just in a second, the vibe hanging between the two of you had flipped completely. Leah manoeuvred the two of you towards the bed, but whilst doing so you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. It wasn't much, and it certainly wasn't long, but it brought the insecurities back from a couple hours ago that Leah had meticulously been working away.

Whereas you had been leaning into your girlfriend's touches and affection, you were now subtly pulling away, not trying to make it too obvious what was happening. You didn't want to get in your head about this. You wanted to enjoy this moment. You needed this, really. But you couldn't keep the thoughts at bay, and they were consuming your brain. You became too aware of your skin under Leah's fingertips, and you held a hand to her chest just before she could push you down onto the mattress.

Leah thought you needed a break for some air, but when you leaned your head down against her chest, she knew this was more than that. You couldn't see, but you knew a concerned frown would be etched onto your girlfriend's face. You felt bad, too. Downstairs, you had seen how excited she got when you told her you needed her – the twinkle in her eye gave everything away. One of your hands fisted Leah's shirt, desperately trying to ground yourself while your thoughts were running rampant around your head.

"Hey, hey, baby are you okay?", Leah tried, slowly coaxing your head away from her chest and pushing it back to eye-level. "Did I do anything wrong, did I hurt you?", you could hear how her voice was filled with concern, clearly thinking she was the one that caused you to want to take a step back.

"No, Le. It's not you," you took a deep breath. "It's me," you looked her in the eyes and continued speaking. "I'm just so self-conscious of my body and I don't know if I want you to see it like this," you took her hand in yours and played with her fingers. "I know you've seen it before, and you've definitely seen it since pregnancy, but not in this situation. And it's just got me in my head," you finished, the feeling of embarrassment not letting you go just yet.

Leah breathed out a sigh of relief before she moved around you, sitting down on the bed and patting her thighs, signaling you to come sit on her lap. You followed her instructions, sitting sideways on her lap, your arms around her neck. She gave you a second to get comfortable before she spoke. "You're beautiful, baby. I know these may be empty words but I promise you that I mean it. Your body is the living proof of the little boy you brought to life – that's an incredible achievement."

She held your gaze, trying to get through to you. "This, right here," she pointed between you and her. "is more than just based on pure bodily attraction. Yes, I still find you incredibly attractive. If anything, I find you more attractive than I did before your pregnancy, but I'm also just so in love with you. And that's not just based on how you look or how you feel beneath me, that's about you. You as a person, as a friend, as a lover and especially as a mother. I want to make love to you because you're you, not because you have a toned abdomen or because you have a bicep bulge." Leah held your face between her hands and pulled you closer to her, pressing a sweet kiss against your forehead. "Now, if you let me, let me show you just how much I love you, please."

You rested your forehead against her and exhaled deeply, affected by Leah's words. You gathered your thoughts and looked up at her, giving her a slight nod. She smiled. "I'll be gentle, I promise," you reciprocated her smile and leaned back in to her, softly pressing your lips against hers.

A couple moments later Leah shifted the two of you so you were now underneath her instead of on your lap, and brought you up the bed so you were resting comfortably against the pillows. "Good?", she questioned, you bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, perfect."

Leah positioned her body on top of you, careful not to rest any weight on you. She placed her thighs on either side of your hips, leaning her head down and starting all over again. She pressed kisses against your cheeks, your nose, your neck, your jawline and eventually started moving down your body. Her hands wandered all over your clothed upper body, causing goosebumps to form over your skin.

"Can I take this off, love?", Leah questioned, looking you in the eye as she was playing with the hem of your hoodie. You slightly nodded, but your girlfriend didn't seem satisfied with the lack of response. "I'm gonna need words, baby," she continued, to which you verbally responded yes. "Good girl," she said quietly under her breath, but you caught it and you felt a jolt of arousal course through your body.

She took off your hoodie, revealing your upper body that was only covered by a bra now. "This too?", she asked, to which you seemed a bit more hesitant. "We can leave it on too, I don't mind," she reassured you, but you knew you'd have to get over it anyway. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You trusted her. She loved you and you knew that. "No, it's fine. Go ahead, please," you said.

Leah put an arm around your back and helped you up, unclasping your bra with the other hand – she couldn't conceal the smug grin growing on her face as she expertly removed your bra with one hand. "Still got it, huh," she teased, followed by you rolling your eyes and laying back against the pillows. "Shut it, Williamson."

Leah let her gaze fall to your chest, and she took a deep breath. "God, you're beautiful," she said, before leaning in closer. She seemed a little hesitant to connect her lips to your nipple, but any insecurity melted away once you tangled one of your hands into her blonde locks and tugged her against you.

A heady moan fell from your lips when Leah's warm mouth enveloped your nipple, the other one being rolled between her thumb and index finger. Her tongue flicked over the sensitive peak and you felt yourself involuntarily bucking into her. "Fuck, Le, that feels so good. I missed you," Leah hummed against you, the vibrations against your chest sending jolts of pleasure down to your core.

She let your nipple go with a pop and turned her attention to the other one, expertly sucking and flicking the nub until she felt she had adequately teased you. She came back up, lowering her body down on the bed as her head now rested on your stomach. "Can I take your sweats off, baby?", she asked, still mindful of getting consent from you for every thing she did. You appreciated it, but you'd come to a point where you just wanted her to get over with it. "Yes, Le, please," you whimpered. In other situations you would probably be embarrassed at how desperate your voice sounded, but you couldn't care less now.

Leah understood the need in your voice, and took both your sweatpants and underwear off in one swift movement. "So gorgeous," Leah mumbled under her breath. She came back up your body and leaned her head against the inside of your thigh, slowly pushing the other one open with her hand. "Still okay?", she asked. "More than okay, Le. Please, I need you. Really need you," you grumbled.

Leah took the hint and wasted no more time in getting down to it, burying her face into your heat and licking a long stripe from your entrance up until your clit. You let out a loud moan at the sensation, core already sensitive from how long it had been since you had been touched like that. "Fuck, Leah, just like that," you managed to get out, hands covering your eyes as you were overwhelmed by how good it felt.

Leah sucked, licked, kissed expertly, making sure not a single part of your pussy was left untouched. She shuffled between your legs and made place for her arm, two of her fingers now teasing your entrance as she was sucking on the sensitive, swollen bud of nerves sitting proudly at the top of your folds.

You could tell she was teasing you, fingers ever so slightly dipping in but pulling out before you could even properly feel it. You bucked your hips into her, trying to get some friction from her fingers. Leah chuckled and before you could register it, she inserted her fingers into you completely, the two of you moaning at the feeling.

"Oh, fuck," your breath hitched in your throat when Leah pulled back out, before pushing her fingers inside again. "Fuck, baby, that's so good. You feel so good inside of me," you continued, before a particularly good thrust of your fingers caused you to let out another wanton moan.

"You're so tight, love. I can tell it's been a while, you feel so good. I love making you feel good and I love seeing the faces you make while I'm fucking you," Leah had always been more on the vocal side during sex and you absolutely loved it, especially in moments like these where you needed a little more reassurance. Leah kept pumping her fingers in and out of you, not letting up by any means when she heard your moans grow higher in pitch.

"You're gonna make me cum, Le, please don't stop," you said, the ever so familiar sensation growing in your stomach. "Tell me you're beautiful," Leah said. Your eyes flew open and a confused frown etched onto your face, trying to process her words while she was still slamming into you with fervor. "I said, tell me you look beautiful. I'm not letting you cum before you tell me you look beautiful," she continued, sounding very determined.

You threw your head back and grunted, trying your hardest to keep your orgasm at bay – not the easiest of tasks with Leah going back to sucking your clit. "Please, Le," you pleaded, wanting nothing more than to release all the tension that was building up in your body.

Leah hummed against you in disapproval before detaching her mouth from your core. "It's easy, darling. Just tell me you're beautiful."

You grumbled, "fuck, I'm beautiful," you said, hoping she would finally let you cum now.

"Again," Leah said, speeding up her thrusts a bit more while looking you in the eyes. "Tell me again. Look me in my eyes and tell me again."

"I'm beautiful," you said again, tears welling up in your eyes with the intensity of pleasure that was coursing through your veins.

"One more time. Tell me one more time and I'll let you cum," Leah mumbled under her breath, before dipping her head back into your core, nuzzling herself deep, licking up and down your slit as she kept fingering you.

"I'm beautiful," you yelled, before you felt Leah give a tight squeeze against your thigh, signaling you that you were allowed to cum. Within seconds the coil in your belly snapped, overwhelming your body with pure pleasure. Your back arched off the bed, Leah trying to keep you in place to help you ride out your high – her fingers still pumping in and out of you, now with less intensity than before. You let out a long, low moan when you came down from your orgasm, your body falling back against the pillows – spent.

You chuckled and looked down at your girlfriend, who was wearing a smug smile as she leaned her face against your inner thigh. "You're insatiable, Le", you said, before she slowly pulled her fingers out of your core, to which you hissed – a feeling of emptiness overcoming your senses. She made sure you were watching her as she sucked her digits off one by one, swallowing every last drop of cum you had left on her fingers.

You threw your head back and groaned, feeling a new spike of arousal go down to your core as you watched her sensually bob her mouth up and down her fingers. She came back up after a while, letting you catch your breath for a little while longer before she spoke.

"You really are beautiful, baby. And I love you so incredibly much. I'm proud of you. Thank you for allowing me to do this," you opened your eyes and caught her gaze just as she finished speaking. You leant in and pressed a passionate kiss against her lips, pouring every single ounce of love and adoration you had for the woman next to you into the kiss. "Thank you for doing this. I needed it more than I thought I did. Thank you for being patient," you finished.

"Glad I could make you feel good, mama," she quipped back, a teasing glint in her eye at the use of a nickname she knew you liked, a revelation she only discovered a couple hours ago.

Before long, she found yourself on top of you again and you went at it for a second round, and a third. And maybe, after a warm shower together, even a fourth.

[luveline]

Maybe KBD Steve being smitten even when he takes the family out to dinner and it’s hectic in the best way possible!

KBD —Steve gets overwhelmed with love at dinner. mom!reader

“I wanna sit with mom.” 

Steve ignores Dove’s whine until she says it again. “I wanna sit with mom!” 

He finds it all too easy to shuffle her back toward his chest, eyes over her shoulder. He’s a little more interested in his fries right now, but he isn’t heartless. “Babe, you’re not sitting with mom. Do you want me to cut up your chicken?” 

“Please?” she asks. 

You’re sitting across the table with Beth. It’s easier when you’re eating out for you to sit with Beth, because, while he tries just as hard, you’re better at getting her to eat her fill. And! Despite what Dove wants, she will not be sitting with you because she wishes she was sitting on you, and your belly is not to be sat on right now. Baby Wren is four months old, and sometimes, somehow, you’re still tender. The human body mystifies. 

“No.” He smiles at her. “But you can sit on my lap forever.” 

She frowns. Looks like she might show off, but ultimately enjoys being smiled at too much. “Will you cut it?” 

Steve grabs her knife and fork and starts to shear the meat off of her half-chicken. Beside him, Avery digs into a serving of mac and cheese with vigour, her spoon scratching the bottom of the bowl. The restaurant is quiet considering the time and day; it’s prime time 6PM on a Saturday, and you’d both expected this family establishment to be full to bursting, but besides two tables by the door and a couple of older women at the bar, it’s quiet. It’s quite nice. 

The girls are less so. 

“Oh, gosh, cheese,” Avery says. 

“It’s too wet,” Beth says. 

“Do the ‘sparagus too, daddy,” Dove says. 

Wren, thankfully, snores in her stroller, the slightest tinge against her collar of waylaid milk. 

“Yum! Beth, do you want some?” 

“I don’t want any.” 

“Bethie, you know, this is just how daddy usually makes them,” you say, stealing one of her French fries, licking salt grains from your fingers. “Except daddy wouldn’t let you have all that salt.” 

“It’s nice,” Beth defends. 

“Exactly. Better eat it before your daddy notices,” you say, all soft and smiley as you lean down and poke her in the side. 

She shies away, but not without a smile of her own. “Mom!” she whispers. 

“What?” Steve asks. 

“Nothing, nothing,” you say. You reach around Beth as Steve had done to Dove and begin to cut the last of her burger into sections. Steve would argue a burger from here is better than anything he could make, but he likes the compliment. 

His own burger grows cold in front of him. Your meal does the same. 

He licks his thumb. “Baby,” he says, tapping your ankle with his shoe, “you need to eat.” 

“I’m trying.” 

“Beth’s a big girl, huh?” he says, giving Beth an encouraging wink. “She doesn’t need you hovering, she wants you to eat your food.” 

“Thanks, mommy,” Beth says. 

“I don’t care what daddy says,” you say, tapping your nose, “I can help you if you need it. Big girl or not.” 

He rolls his eyes playfully and goes back to his own food. Dove eats strands of chicken with her fingers, seemingly pleased, and he pretends she isn’t taking fries off his plate as he relishes in huge bites of big cheeseburger. It’s amazing. Melted cheese, a super fresh slice of tomato, lettuce crisp and not soggy. Steve loves when somebody else makes dinner. 

You finish your food fast, and then you're straight back to Beth. Steve realises quickly that it’s not even that she’s struggling today, you’re just being affectionate. He should’ve realised that before. 

(Maybe too doting considering Beth has been able to feed herself for more than four years, but Steve can’t blame you.)

“I’m glad they didn’t give you a tomato,” you’re saying, fingertips drawing circles into her arms, clearly distracting her from the task at hand. “Remember last time? They gave you tomatoes and mustard even though we told them you don’t like them.” 

“I do like tomatoes,” she says. 

“No, I know, just not on burgers.” You wrap your arm around her and turn your gaze on Avery. “What’s your mac and cheese like, Ave?” 

“So good! You want some?” 

“No, thanks. It looks cheesy.” 

Avery stabs her spoon into her food and pulls it up slowly to showcase the cheese pull. She’s gone a little pink in the face, which isn’t like her, but it’s hot in the restaurant and her food is still steaming. Like you’ve had the same thought, you lift a laminated menu and begin batting fresh air at her. “Babe, you’re red! Are you okay?” 

Jesus, he loves you. Steve really loves you. You’re just adorable, and a great mom, and he loves you. He’s gonna do it. It’s gonna piss you off, but he has to. 

“Okay, alright,” he says, shuffling out of his seat, lifting Dove to place her next to Avery. “This has been a long time coming. I think nobody expected me to wait this long, but.” He neatens his eyebrows with two fingertips and slicks back his hair. “Honey, I love you.” 

“Steve…” you warn. 

“I love you, and I want to be with you, ‘cos you’re beautiful and sweet and weirdly good with kids?” He raises his eyebrows at you. “I don’t know. You’re amazing.” 

He slips his hand behind his back, shrugs off his wedding ring, and gets down on one knee. 

Avery claps and laughs immediately. Dove tips her head to the side trying to make him out. 

“Baby, I can’t imagine my life without you, and I can’t go one more day without being your husband. Would you please, please, do me the honour of becoming my wife?” 

You laugh loud and sudden, then clear your throat. “What do you think, girls?” you ask, leaning back for conference. 

“Say yes!” Avery says. 

“But he really annoyed me earlier tickling my leg,” you say. 

“True.” Avery looks to Beth. “He can learn to be better, right?” 

“I thought you were married already?” Beth asks. 

Avery giggles. You squash a smile against Beth’s hairline as you give her a little kiss. “We are,” you whisper, “he’s just pretending.” 

“This is not pretend!” Steve’s knee hurts, but he perseveres for love. “Please, honey. I love you more than anyone.”

Dove gasps in hurt. 

“Except for my Dove, my Beth, my Avery, and my Wren,” he adds. “Jesus, we have a lot of kids. That was a mouthache.” 

You meet his eyes and smile like you don’t want to smile. You hold out your hand, unperturbed when he gasps in over exaggerated delight and slips the ring on your already ringed finger. 

“Congratulations!” Avery shouts. 

She’s hilarious. “She gets that from me,” he says. 

You usher him off of the floor for a kiss, not dissimilar from the one you gave when he’d actually proposed —your hands on his cheeks, holding him to you as though he might run away before you’re done. Your smile  a palpable thing as he leans in. 

[daryltwdixon]

Live-In Bodyguard

A requested one shot:

hi!! i was wondering if you could write a little story where y/n and daryl were paired to live together when they first arrived at Alexandria and now have been living together for a while. They’re not necessarily friends, and actually don't really like each other and one day daryl is out hunting when y/n spills something on her clothes, leaving her with nothing but one of daryls old t shirts. 🤭🤭🤭🤭 he comes home and catches her in the kitchen where she pulls the tshirt down to cover her underwear and keeps apologizing. Tyyyyy @dixon555

I did take a little bit of creative liberty on the situation in which he catches you in buttttt what can I say :)

Fluffy, protective Daryl

When Rick comes out to meet you and the rest of the group, explaining the rooming situation at the compound you've arrived to, you can tell he seems hesitant before breaking the news to you. 

“Y/N…” he says carefully, his hand rubbing at his growing beard, “you and…” he looks over to Daryl, his eyes searching his chosen brother’s face. 

“No way,” you say, suddenly understanding, “No way, Rick. I can’t live with this guy,” your thumb points over your shoulder.

“Like you’re such a ray of sunshine,” Daryl snaps back at you, “think I wanna share a place with you either?” 

You and Daryl were…I mean, obviously you had lived together the past however long it had been since the group had found you. It had actually been Daryl who found you in an abandoned house, covered in walker guts and dirt after hearing you screaming when there was a whole group coming into the cabin. But since then, you'd been living in close quarters with everyone. As much as you had appreciated him coming after you, the rest of the time you’ve known him he’s always been on you–how you can’t be trusted on your own, always needing protection, never allowing you out of his sight. You had started going crazy that this man would barely speak to you, but insisted on always having eyes on you at all times. 

Rick sighs, looking at the ground, his forefinger and thumb at the bridge of his nose, “Look, y’all need to figure something out, this is just what I was told. The house has two rooms, you won’t be in each other’s way–”

“Great, great. Thanks a lot,” you groan, heading toward the row of houses, “my own live-in bodyguard,”

“Be nice,” you hear Rick saying under his breath to Daryl.

“Always am,” Daryl replies. 

This was going to suck.

—------------

You’re drinking coffee at the small kitchen table in your house at Alexandria, finally starting to feel settled in the place. Daryl was out in the beginning days of your time here, he finally understood that the walls were enough to keep you safely out of harm’s way. You had tried to sneak out a few times, only to find him waiting for you at the exit, ready to stop you. It’s like he could read your damn mind. So, you gave up trying to work around his helicopter protection. You decided to focus on your house, making it a home for you. If Daryl was going to be out hunting most days anyway, you figured you would make it how you wanted it. You found a way to decorate the place, even if it wasn’t the easiest task. The walls had been freshly painted a couple weeks ago when you saw they were a nasty mustard yellow when you had first walked in.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh god,” you had moaned.

Daryl paused, suddenly rushing to you. He came up to your side quickly, scanning the room. You could tell he was on high alert.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” you assured him, “Just…the walls,” 

“The…walls?” he had grunted out

“They’re ugly,” you said to him, simply.

“And you were hoping for…?”

“Maybe a nice blue or something, anything but this awful mustard,” you said, and began walking around to discover the rest of the place. 

Two days later you had found a note stuck to a pail on the kitchen counter, with a large roller brush on top. When you approached it, a small, traitorous smile had crossed your lips.

“For making the walls less ugly” 

You hardly had to guess who the terrible handwriting was from. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You took the whole day to paint, excited for a new project that felt like making the house a home. Setting your lukewarm coffee down on the wooden floor to dip the paintbrush in a fresh coat of paint, you begin your task. You’re lifting the paintbrush up to the wall, gliding it gently along the seams where the corners meet. When you step back to view your work, you trip over your half empty coffee mug you left on the ground, causing you to flail your arms out for support, the paint brush in your hand splattering all over your shirt.

“Ah, shit,” you thought out loud, touching the bits of paint that were wet on your shirt now. There were blue splatters all down the front of your shirt and your sleeves. You sighed, and looked around. You might as well finish before going up to change. 

When all four walls of the downstairs were done, you head up the stairs. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t really had the chance to get out and scavenge for new clothes in Alexandria since you mostly stayed in the house, trying to acclimate the past couple of days. Daryl was out on a hunting trip today–surprise, surprise. He seemed so pent up since arriving. Every little thing pissed him off lately, his temper was so easily brought out of him. Not that he was very forthcoming on the reason he was so annoyed lately. But you would see him roll his eyes, scoff, and just overall pouting as soon as you arrived. You knew Daryl was most comfortable out in the woods–it was his happy place, oddly. As much as anyone else was terrified to be out in the woods alone, he cherished it. He barely talked to you in the past months you’ve known him but you were quietly getting to know him from afar. Or at least as far as he’d let you get from him. He was intriguing as much as he was annoying to you. 

So you’re up stairs, searching to see if any of your dresser drawers happen to have a fresh set of clothes, but it seems you’re out of luck. The drawers are barren, the dusty wooden bottoms seemed to be mocking you now. ‘Told you to get some clothes,’ they tell you as you open and clothes every single one to no avail. ‘Should've left the house for some when you had the chance–now look at you’. You shake your head– anthropomorphizing a dresser is weird. It’s a dresser. It doesn’t speak. But if this one could you know it would be chiding you for being such a recluse the past few days of arriving at the commune. A sudden thought occurs to you– you had seen Daryl walking in with a few things over his arm yesterday when he came in from being out in the woods again. He had grumbled something along the lines of getting called to the main house and being told off for looking like a forest creature with how ratty his clothes were looking. It had made you chuckle to see him embarrassed, holding a pile of crisp clothes that were such a stark contrast against him, but now you were suddenly grateful. Maybe you could take one of them and he wouldn’t even realize it was his, since he probably hadn’t worn any of them. Looking out into the hallway to make sure he hadn’t snuck in and was about to catch you, you quietly walk over to his room. You hold the doorknob in your palm for a long second, talking yourself into going in. It’ll be fine, it’s not weird–it's just Daryl. You close your eyes shut tight and open the door.

The room was pretty barren much like yours, you weren’t sure what you were expecting, really. As you look around you see signs of his presence though– his poncho hangs over the back of the chair at the desk, the keys to the motorcycle on the wooden chest at the bottom of his bed. 

You sneak over quietly to the chest of things, putting his keys to the side and opening it with delicacy. He could walk in here at any minute and find you snooping, and you’d be dead meat. But when you open the chest, none of the new clothes are there. It’s all his old stuff–the ratty sleeveless shirts, the angel wing vest he would wear, a big tee shirt with car or motorcycle oil stains… You stand and deliberate your best course of action. These options are still better than sitting in dry crusted paint all over you all day. They’re not necessarily dirty, since Carol had come over yesterday to take everyone’s things to be washed. Daryl had surprisingly neatly folded them up in the chest when he put them away–or maybe Carol had and he just left them like that. Gingerly, you pick up the large tee shirt with the faded oil stains, giving it a once over before deciding it was good enough. You take it and make your way to the shower, praying Daryl isn’t back til the evening when you could put it back before bed. 

You’re stepping out of the shower, wringing your hair out when you hear the door close out in the living room. Oh, shit. You were stupid enough to leave your paint splattered shirt in your bedroom along with your pants, only bringing in Daryl’s shirt and a pair of underwear to change into after your shower. You curse at yourself inwardly, figuring there was no way out but to face it. Hopefully Daryl would just stay downstairs while you made your way to your room to put your own clothes back on. You throw the tee shirt on, and it surprisingly makes its way past your butt, hiding everything just enough to be decent if he were to accidentally spot you running for it down the hallway. You collect yourself, wringing your hair out one more time before hanging your towel on the door and stepping out. Steam escapes the bathroom as the door swings open, and you’re looking around the door frame, making sure no one is there. You sigh in relief when you see no one on the landing–Daryl is still downstairs then. Or maybe he’s not even here and just had to grab something on his way out again. 

If only you were so lucky. 

You’re on the way to your room, padding over gently to your door, hand on the banister to keep yourself steady, when you catch in the corner of your eye coming up the stairs. You freeze on the top landing, directly in front of the staircase when he catches you trying to creep down the hall. 

His eyes linger on your face for a minute, and you watch his eyes suddenly scanning you from head to toe. You look down at yourself to assess how screwed your situation is– your wet hair is dripping on the shirt, making parts of it damp and see through. Of course where your hair meets your chest, the wetness is the worst, making the shirt cling to you like a second skin. Your eyes dart up to him as you take in your nearly drenched chest, your nipples hardening to the cold air now that they’re wet. His eyes are glued to you, still on your chest until they start to scan down to your bare legs, where the shirt just barely covers you decently. You squeeze your legs together, bringing the shirt past your underwear, a blush blazing across your face and neck. “Daryl, I'm sorry, I just--”

But suddenly he’s climbing up the stairs and grabbing you so quickly that the air escapes your lungs as he holds you against the wall, his lips crashing into yours.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Imagine pretty boy Steve trapped in a mirror for his vanity.

Except he grows as a person so much that his sole purpose becomes boosting self-esteem of everyone looking into the mirror (unless they're being an asshole in which case, bye any semblance of personal worth).

"Looking great, Dustin, go and get them! Oh wait, move your tie slightly to the left, that's it, good job buddy, go go go!"

"Seriously Robin, there's no way your lady isn't all over you the moment you step in that restaurant. Did you wear smudge-proof lipstick? Time to test it."

"No, Nance, it's not weird to ask your ex-boyfriend if you look presentable, I mean, who else is better qualified? Good choice of dress for the interview, you're going to ace it."

"El, it doesn't matter how long your hair is. Yeah, it was so pretty, but it will grow back. But you know what else? You have gorgeous eyes, a wonderful smile and the way you say "mouth-breather" is everything. As long as you have that smile you'll be the prettiest girl around, so don't you dare worry about it."

"Mike, stop looking like someone stepped in your birthday cake, you're a handsome young man and Will is going to love the new haircut. If I'm wrong, feel free to come back and spread mustard all over my frame, but I've yet to be wrong. Yeah, you're a bit of an asshole too, now go and get your boy!"

"Joyce, you're as beautiful as always, but from what I know about Hopper, he'd think you're the most beautiful person alive if you were wearing a potato sack. But this dress is perfect and you look so happy. I wish you all the best on your date!"

"Yeah Jason, looks aren't the issue here...nothing I can do to help you all the ugly stuff on the inside buddy. Sure, smash the mirror if you want - good luck by the way, it's fucking cursed for a reason - but that won't make the truth hurt less, huh?"

And then Eddie accidentally steps in front of him and Steve has never seen anyone so unaware of his own beauty. And Eddie seems to be the only one apart from Robin who realizes how lonely he sometimes gets so he often takes Steve with him no matter where he goes (the big van is handy) and Steve makes sure to shower him with compliments, gradually finding exactly the right doses and right words to make Eddie understand how special he is, how radiant his smile looks, how he's so animated when he talks about things he loves-

And on the day when Eddie looks into the mirror and finally sees himself just as Steve sees him, the mirror cracks and Steve falls out, disoriented and kind of terrified, what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck-?!

But Eddie just smiles at him and hugs him, the first human touch in such a long time it makes Steve tear up. "Finally!" exclaims Eddie and pulls him even closer. "No shame at all Stevie, but that frame was fucking heavy!"

[ayeforscotland]

Seeing that Poppy Watch stuff as an Australian is very bizarre. Poppies are an important token of remembrance for us as well, particularly for the ANZAC soldiers who were killed during the Gallipoli Campaign, which had such a deep impact on Australian and Aotearoan culture entirely because of how it wasted hundreds of thousands of people's lives to achieve absolutely nothing. Seeing people make fun lawn ornaments about it is kinda... hmm. Ghoulish? I'm getting ready for work rn so I'm having trouble getting my thoughts across but it feels bad, man.

You’re right, the poppy particular symbolises sacrifices made in the First World War. Most of the conscripts who were sent to the frontlines were young and scared shitless.

They were ordered to go over the top into a hail of machine gun fire and artillery and mustard gas, by generals who were tens of miles away from where the fighting was taking place.

I felt like when I was growing up that wearing a poppy was the normal thing, but it has become a political symbol.

Irish football players getting hounded because they refuse to wear a poppy. The idea of an Irish person maybe having some doubts of wearing a poppy completely lost on the frothing idiots berating them.

The absolute pantomime every year of people battling over who respects the troops the most is just beyond parody now. Poppy underwear, poppy designs with pepperoni on pizza, ludicrous poppy, flag-shagging garden displays.

It’s not about remembering people who were senselessly sent to their deaths when a certain group of people are climbing over each other to display their fake patriotism.

[snippychicke]

Poppy Seeds -- Part One

As you may have guessed, I fell into a new hyper fixation. Poppy's Playtime of all things. >.<

Inspired by TooManyPsuedonyms work, which in turn was inspired by @semisolidmind fanart/cabin!Au for Playtime Poppy.

I know right now we have no idea who or what Ollie is, but I decided to go with the assumption he is just a kid and not the Prototype as some theorists are assuming. This will likely be debunked in chapter four, but I'm running with it until then.

Dogday/Player!reader (attempting keeping it gender neutral)

Warnings: will touch on the after effects of trauma, but nothing is super explicit. Maybe some unhealthy coping skills (Dogday holding Reader on a pedestal) But otherwise we're giving everyone a happy ending. (Everything is wonderful and nothing hurts)

One: Home

Your hands gripped the steering wheel tight as your old truck climbed up the steep incline. It hadn't liked the rough road on a good day, let alone with Kissy and Dogday in the back trying to drag it down. Now it whined and complained, the wheels occasionally skidding on the gravel. Ollie clutched to Poppy tightly next to you, his sunken eyes wide with fear. Poppy, to her credit, looked confident that everything would be okay.

By the time you reached the cabin nestled high above the valley, it was close to midnight. It was a sizable two story home, complete with a barn, garage, and even a chicken coop. Thick forest surrounded the homestead, assuring complete privacy. A year ago your grandparents had moved into an assisted living community in town, leaving the whole place to you. The rest of the family had not been happy but in your defense you would come out every school break growing up to help them out.

And then, after you left Playtime Co, you had moved in under the guise of getting your life sorted out. Your grandparents never asked why it was taking you a decade to figure it out. Which you were glad, because you didn't know how you would have answered them.

Ollie’s fear eased into wonder as he looked at the flock of sheep you had in the pens up front. You were just thankful they were still there, looking rather healthy despite the fact you had been unexpectedly gone for a week or so.

When you had received the letter and VHS about the old Playtime Co you had interned 10 years ago while in college, you thought you would be gone for a few days at most considering it was a few hours away. You prepped your home as best as you could for being gone that long-- giving extra water and feed to the animals, setting the sprinklers for your garden on a timer-- but had little hopes of your own survival let alone that of your animals after being dragged deep into hell.

You didn’t bother with the detached garage, but pulled up right next to the porch. You were exhausted, and you could only imagine everyone else was as well. The truck seemed all too happy to shut off with a rough sound. You looked over at Ollie, who was still looking at everything in wonder, though Poppy was carefully extracting herself from his grip. “You okay there kiddo?”

He looked back at you, “This is where you live?” he asked instead, voice full of awe. “It looks like it's from a fairytale book!”

It really wasn't, it's a typical farm for this part of the country. Hardly one of the fanciest or beautiful, just simple and sturdy.

“Let's get inside and get settled for the night,” you offer instead of remarking. “I should have the stuff for some sandwiches at least.”

“Sand…witches?” Ollie repeated, sounding confused.

“Meat and bread,” Poppy answered, unbuckling the boy. “Sometimes with ketchup, mustard, mayo, cheese.”

“So, food? I like food!”

Your heart ached. You knew the boy had been raised in the factory, hidden away and protected from the Prototype or hungry ‘toys’. The fact he had was a miracle enough--especially considering how small and thin he was. He had to be ten at the youngest, but barely looked as if he was half that age.

The passenger door opened, which considering how much trouble Kissy had with her hands, was surprising. Yet the pink creature reached in and pulled both Ollie and Poppy out of the truck.

Dogday waited for you as you exited the truck, your legs shaky from the long ride. However, his attention wasn't on you but the dark sky above. It was a new moon, meaning the Milky Way arched overhead with dozens of stars. A glance over to Kissy and the others showed they too were amazed by the stars--you could hear Poppy trying to explain all of it to Ollie quietly.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” You said as you stepped closer to Dogday.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I-I’ve never seen the night sky like this.”

“Well, now you can see it every night,” you said, shouldering his arm lightly. “Best place for meteor showers too.”

Dogday tore his gaze away and looked down at you. “Are you sure we can stay here, angel?”

“Of course. As long as you want, even if it's forever.” Granted, you didn't know where else they would go, especially Dogday and Kissy. But you didn't want to assume anything either, or make them feel trapped.

His hand found yours, so giant compared to yours but soft and warm. “Forever it is then.”

You felt your cheeks warm against the chilly night air as you laughed self-consciously. “Right, you might wanna sleep on that kind of decision, ‘Day.”

Two: Sleep

You woke slowly, feeling warm and cozy. Something soft was surrounding you, with the faintest hint of vanilla. At first you thought maybe you were wrapped up in a thick blanket, but when you opened your eyes to matted brown fur you realized it was Dogday instead, his arms wrapped around you and holding you close as if you were the toy. You could feel him breathe softly, each inhale and exhale caressing your skin softly.

(You didn't want to think about the amalgamation of organic and inorganic parts inside of him. You saw enough when you helped attach his legs to leave you with nightmares.)

For once, Dogday looked relaxed. Dark eyes closed and his smile softened. You couldn’t resist running your fingers along his face. He had been one of the few you had instantly trusted in that hell. One of the few that never even seemed to think about harming you.

Poppy had used you for her own means, not giving you a real choice ever since you released her. Kissy Missy had always been kind but you had soon realized that her partnership with Poppy may have played a part in it. And of course there was Ollie, though it took a while for you to trust the faceless voice on the phone, especially after you learned that the Prototype could mimic voices and Ollie had a very… peculiar way of phrasing things.

Yet Dogday… he had raised his head, and saw you as someone special as soon as his gaze met yours. Begged you to leave him behind and to run when the miniature Critters started to swarm. Actively fought to defend and protect you despite missing the lower half of his body at first.

And ever since, had refused to leave your side. While everyone else did their part, he determinedly stuck with you. Even last night after everyone finished eating and all anyone could think about was sleep. Kissy happily cuddled Poppy and Ollie in her arms as she climbed up the stairs to claim a bedroom. You expected Dogday to follow suit…

“Hey, uh, angel?” Dogday said softly, sounding rather shy. He had stuck around to help you clean up, though all that consisted of was a few plates, cups, and butter knives. Though the number of sandwiches consumed had emptied out all the bread, lunchmeat, cheese, as well as peanut butter and jelly in your pantry.

“Yeah?” You were getting used to the nickname, though you still felt as if it was undeserved the way he said it. As if you truly were an angel from heaven, sent to save.

“... Could I sleep with you?”

His question surprised you, and you almost dropped the cup you had been washing. Thankfully he quickly grabbed it before it could fall very far. “Sleep…with me?”

Granted those last two… days? You weren't sure, but you and him had found safe spots to watch out for each other while the other slept. It was the only time during the whole ‘adventure’ you managed to sleep. Wrapped up in his arms, feeling him breathe, listening to his heartbeat. It reminded you weren't alone anymore.

“I… don't want to be alone,” he continued, drying off the cup and placing it on the shelf. “Even if I know you and the others are nearby, I…”

Your surprise shifted into sympathy and understanding. Kissy, Poppy, and Ollie were together… and now that you thought about it, being alone right now did not fill you with any sort of ease.

“Yeah. I mean, if you don't mind cuddling close. My bed is barely big enough for two normal-sized people, let alone one me and one… well, Dogday.”

His smile widened. “With you? Never.”

Dogday shifted in his sleep, turning his head to nuzzle into your hand before his eyes slowly opened. His smile widened slightly, and you heard more than saw his tail thump against the bed which in turn made you smile wider as well. “Morning,” you greeted softly.

“Good morning, angel,” he said just as softly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Best sleep in a long time,” you admitted with a slight laugh. Trying to sleep in the factory had been a scary experience. Finding small places to hide long enough to close your eyes. Waking and jumping at every little sound. Plagued by endless nightmares.

And you had been there for just a few days, a week at most.

“What about you?” you asked. Him and the others had lived in that hell for a decade. You didn't startle awake from him lashing out at nightmares. Which you had seen him do a few times before at the factory. You had held him in your laps as best you could, reassuring him he was okay as he broke down.

He leaned closer, nuzzling your cheek slightly. “Next to you, how could I not?”

You laughed between his flirty words and his fur tickling your skin. “You're such a flirt!”

Three: Morning After

“It's so bright outside!” Ollie gasped as he looked out the window while you worked on breakfast. Thankfully none of the eggs had spoiled, nor had any milk, meaning you were whipping up a full course of scrambled eggs and pancakes-- as well as cooking the few boxes of frozen sausages you had found in the freezer.

Dogday was currently watching them like a hawk, occasionally licking his lips as he moved them around in the skillet.

“Actually. That's cloudy. See how the sky is gray. Not blue?” Poppy pointed out, also gazing out the window. “On sunny days, it's a bright vibrant blue, and even brighter.”

“Really?” The boy looked up to you to confirm the doll's words, and you nodded your head. To think he had never seen the sky before. To be unable to tell a sunny day from a cloudy one.

“It actually looks like it could rain,” you pointed out. “Maybe we should hold off on a bath until after you have fun in the mud.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “I thought if you get caught in the rain, you'll get sick?”

“Psh, no. At least, not as long as you can dry off and warm up afterwards. It'll also give me time to look through stuff down in the basement. I think there should be some old hand me downs that should fit you.”

“A good bath can do wonders.” Poppy hopped down from the windowsill and into Kissy's hand before the giant monster also gently corralled Ollie to the table where the food was waiting. “It's been such a long time.”

“Er, excuse me for being intrusive…” you set down a towering plate of pancakes before sitting yourself. “But can you guys get wet?”

“We may not be flesh and bone anymore, but we can still enjoy a good shower,” Dogday answered as he set the plate of sausage links in front of you. “Or even a swim.”

“Why is the water white?” Ollie interrupted, looking oddly at the glass of milk Kissy poured in front of him. “I've never seen it that color before.”

“It’s milk,” Poppy answered. “You used to love it when you were a baby and we had access to some.”

Ollie sniffed suspiciously before taking a drink… and then nearly gulping the entire glass in one go. You took the opportunity of everyone chuckling at the boy to split the sausage between the others. Kissy noticed first and clapped excitedly, her mit-like hands muffling the sound.

“Angel,” Dogday sighed, though you weren't sure he was touched or exasperated. Or maybe both.

“Shh, I saw the way you were eyeing them. I can always buy more when I go to town.”

He was silent for a while before taking a bite of the sausage, savoring it unlike Kissy who had all but inhaled hers. Ollie was following Kissy’s example with the banquet of food, while Poppy was benign as dainty as could be, cutting everything into tiny bites, even for her smaller size.

You couldn’t help but savor your own food, feeling rather happy and optimistic about the future.

[mjolnirswriststrap]

Dumb Viking Thor

Thor x maid!Reader, Steve x maid!Reader

Summary: Deep grunts filled the bathroom. Cleaning supplies strewn all over the floor. Your life flashed before your eyes when the stall door jerked open, on your knees scrubbing the toilet is how he found you. “Mr. Odinson.” You say, jumping up.

Warnings: PLEASE CONSUME AT YOUR OWN RISK! Explicit ‼️ 18+ Material, Noncon, Rough Sex, Rape themes, Female receiving pen, Anal, subtle cream pie.

Word Count: 2,039 Masterlist

You meticulously mixed chemicals, being sure not to create mustard gas. Your first week working as a cleaner for Stark Industries left you with zero training. The lead janitor was too occupied with her own doings to teach you how to properly clean certain things. It took you double to time to clean the bathrooms, your coworkers knew it, so when you’d disappear for hours, they never questioned it.

You’d been in the men’s bathroom for almost an hour already. The bristles of the brush scrubbed the tile around the toilet, the sound being the only thing heard in the enclosed space. That and your deep breathing, exhaustion filling you after a long day of work, coupled with the ever growing redness on your sore knees. Your shoulders burned from scrubbing, and you were so focused on just finishing so you could clock out; finally go home.

You never heard anyone enter the bathroom, you were too focused. You only noticed you were no longer alone when the door to the stall gets pushed open. You jump up, not out of fear but by being startled. When you eject yourself from your kneeled position, you spin in place, turning to face whoever stumbled upon you. You’re relieved to see Thor Odinson, standing there with a calculating look.

“Mr. Odinson, forgive me, I will be finished in a second.” You say, assuming he wouldn’t want a woman in the men’s restroom while he uses it. Offering a smile out of curtesy, you hold it for a second too long, even after you don’t see any amusement appear on his face. You clear your throat, quickly returning to scrubbing the stall. One hand held the disinfectant while your other held the brush. You tried rushing, feeling his growing presence behind you.

“Just gotta wipe it down now, sir.” You give him reassurance that you’d be gone in a second. But that second never comes. You move to step around him, reaching for your cleaning cart that held the microfiber cleaning cloths. You’re too focused on hurrying and getting out that you don’t take note of how silent the gods being. How observant he is, watching every move you make.

Your hands were full, you couldn’t defend yourself. In an instant they were empty, the brush clattering to the floor. The spray bottle cracking upon impact, bleach spilling all over the floor in a growing puddle. Your hands were now pressed to the mirror of the sink vanity. Your cheek pressed there too, your eyes searched behind you for Thor, seeing the look on his face finally told you what you needed to know. He wasn’t even here, this is primal, instinctual, animalistic.

“Mr. Odinson, you know this isn’t allowed.” You try to calmly remind him. You were no fool, you knew the strength he held, you knew he was a god. You knew your position, you were nobody, a maid at best. You should be thinking of every reason to be grateful for this, instead you’re gasping for air as he presses it out of you, his body weight leaning on your from behind.

Thor doesn’t respond, he knows what he’s doing, whether or not it’s wrong is up for debate. What else was he supposed to do? He saw a woman on her knees and felt like he needed to do something about it. You’re just a maid, no one would even know, he is the god of thunder and a king, any woman is his if he wishes. He couldn’t even recall how many maids and ladies in waiting on Asgard who carried his bastard children.

To Thor, he was doing the right thing. Using the resources provided to him. And how rude would he be if he disregarded Starks resources. That’s why he doesn’t rip your uniform, he pushes it up around your hips, being sure to pull your tights down in one swift movement.

Your hands stayed planted on the mirror you had shined less than an hour ago. You don’t know why, but you knew better than to fight back, you knew better than to move. In any other position maybe you’d be flattered he’d took an interest in you; but this was…less than personal, it was just him getting his rocks off. You don’t doubt if it had been Rose or Serenity; the same sequence of events would’ve occurred.

You hear the sound of leather and metal clasps rustling behind you, and you close your eyes, numbing yourself for what’s about to happen. You thought you could do it, go limp, deaf, blind to what’s happening to you; the second the thick tip of his cock slid past the barrier your thighs created, you were dropping your hands from the mirror, reaching behind you to brace yourself.

You don’t understand that it’s an impossible feat. You could never brace for the searing pain that blossoms between your legs. You couldn’t even breathe, you were dry, but he didn’t seem to care, pushing past that barrier too. You felt your sensitive skin stretch around him, but when the relentlessness of him trying to shove himself to the hilt comes, you feel yourself tearing.

When you feel the tuft of hair at the base of his cock brush against your ass you know he’s bottomed out. You can’t feel it, after the first tear; your lower body clocked out. Only when his big hands wrap around your love handles, you can feel how gentle his hands are. No matter the pain he was inflicting, it was like he knew his hands would break your bones, bruise your skin.

He’s even has the curtesy to let you have some semblance of adjusting to him. You wanna laugh, but you can’t, the timeline of events only happening in less than two minutes. Your brain isn’t processing and comprehending what’s happening. Your brain was turning into complete mush, you were trying to convince yourself of two things; you didn’t want this, and you desperately wanted it. You were confused.

The confusion only intensifying when he leans down and brushed the hair from your shoulder, whispering behind your ear. “Good little maid.”. That shouldn’t have had the effect that it did, but here you were, pushing your body back slightly at the praise. Like you were doing something right by not protesting. You were good for not fighting back. Deserving because of your meekness.

He groaned when he felt you push back against him, knowing it meant you wanted it, even if you didn’t say it. But in the end, he didn’t really care what you thought, you were doing your job. Your duty.

He doesn’t notice the fog on the mirror from your shallow breaths, or the fact that you’re wet has mixed with blood from being torn. He just starts pumping in and out of you at a rhythmic pace. You wish you could feel it, but your body is still fighting to some degree, refusing to let you or him relish in this moment.

His pace picks up, causing you to raise yourself on your tiptoes, giving him as much access as he needs, making it easier for him to slam back into you every time he torturously pulls out to admire how you swallow him, the pink folds wrapping around him perfectly, like a set of lips, sucking him in.

He had been relatively silent, little grunts and that tiny comment of praise earlier, so it shocks you when he lets out a high pitched whine. “Fuck, stay just like that.” He exclaims, feeling the building tension in his balls come to an eruption. He mercilessly claps his stomach into your ass cheeks, the slapping sound echoing off the walls, and that’s it for you, finally giving up whatever you were holding onto.

Your pussy gushes over him, and you let out a strangled wail, “Please.” You beg, you knew your hole was obliterated, ruined, stretched and full, the only thing that could benefit you now was if you got to cum too. You heard him chuckle behind you. Actually laugh at your plea. As if you had no room to even speak and this was all his doing, for his pleasure.

Tears finally fill your eyes, but not for your situation, it’s over cumming. Your desperation becoming too much, you start rocking on your tiptoes, finding a friction that pleasured you so you could make yourself cum. Thor doesn’t seem to mind, glad you’re finally participating. He’s too close to care truly, the new found tightness of your walls desperately clenching down on him, was rushing him towards his undoing.

You’re no where near close when you hear the bathroom door swing open, cutting through the thick air and letting a cold wind sweep through the tiled room, the tears and sweat on your face drying instantly. You can’t even look who it is, the shame of being caught not finding you.

Thor of course carries no shame for what he’s doing, he does register the person, and their bewildered look, laughing again but not stopping his movement. “What the fuck are you doing?” You hear an angry Brooklyn accent. Your vision wasn’t completely there as you roll your head to face the door, your eyes finding Steve Rogers standing there, his shoulders rising and falling as his breath picks up.

You could just make out the confusion, the disgust, the shame on the Captains face as he looks at the cleaning supplies strewn around the floor, lifting his boot to see that he’d stepped in the spilled bleach. He places it back down and lets out a scoff or a huff, you were too delirious to tell.

“I am taking advantage of what’s been provided. You’re the one being disrespectful.” Thor says with no humor in his voice. He had slowed his movement, standing behind you pressed fully into you. With the captains invasion, your senses are slowly coming back, the feeling returning to your lower body. A burning sensation is slowly building, the tiny rips in your skin drawing attention from your pain receptors.

“Please…” You mutter again, but for a different reason, it was for mercy, mercy that maybe you’d be saved from this by Steve. But as your eyes watch his hand find the door handle, pushing it closed behind him, any ounce of hope you had in Steve was gone. He was slowly turning into that silent shark Thor was when he found you cleaning.

“Move.” Is the only command you hear from Steve before Thors slipping out of you. You could’ve crumbled to the floor the second he released you, but a new set on hands found your hips, raising you back up on your tiptoes. “Shhh, you’re doing such a good job.” Steve praises and you can’t comprehend what he’s doing till he’s pushing into your other hole, filling your ass up. He was much smaller than the inhuman god, but it didn’t take away from the soul wrenching feeling of him ass fucking you.

You were screaming, the pain Steve was inflicting completely different than what Thor had done. He didn’t take long to spill inside of you, if you weren’t in such a vulnerable position, you could’ve laughed at him for how short he lasted, you expected more from him. But he’s probably never done anything like this before, the taboo of it causing him to lose control, the explosion coming from how dirty it made him feel.

When he slid out of you with a grotesque wet sound you almost let out a sigh of relief. Your body meeting the sink as he lets your hips down. The almost sigh is caught in your throat when you hear him say the words “Now you can finish.” to Thor. He buckles up his jeans and leaves the bathroom, not coming to your rescue at all, he didn’t even give you a second glance. You can only hear Thor’s amused hum as he comes back behind you, not relenting on you. If only you cleaned faster, then maybe Rose or Serenity would’ve noticed how long you’ve been cleaning the men’s restroom, maybe they would’ve come to you aid.

[paper-mario-wiki]

How invested are you in hip-hop outside of the Drake/Kendrick beef?

i'd say more than the average person but less than someone who's all about it, ya know?

to give an example using that beef as reference, i knew that Drake has always been regarded as green despite his self-proclaimed street cred, and i sorta understood why it was a big deal that DJ Mustard was on Not Like Us, but i was unaware of the incident where one of T.I.'s friends pissed on Drake's leg.

growing up my oldest brother really loved music by wu-tang clan, ludacris, purple ribbons all-stars, sugar hill gang, three 6 mafia, and a few others, so i developed an ear for it young while i listened to it in his car! hip hop still comprises at least a good 30% of the space on my most-listened tracks, although i'm not personally invested in the game to any great extent.

i have written and posted a few verses before tho! very goofy for-fun stuff but i enjoyed it nonetheless.

[thejoyofseax]

Why We Can't Have Medieval Food

I noted in a previous post that I'd "expand on my thinking on efforts to reproduce period food and how we’re just never going to know if we have it right or not." Well, now I have 2am sleep?-never-heard-of-it insomnia, so let's go.

At the fundamental level, this is the idea that you can't step in the same river twice. You can put your foot down at the same point in space, and it'll go into water, but that's different water, and the bed of the river has inevitably changed, even a little, from the last time you did so.

Our ingredients have changed. This is not just because we can't get the fat from fat-tailed sheep in Ireland, or silphium at all anywhere, although both of those are true. But the aubergine you buy today is markedly different to the aubergine that was available even 40 years ago. You no longer need to salt aubergine slices and draw out the bitter fluids, which was necessary for pretty much all of the thing's existence before (except in those cultures that liked the bitter taste). The bitterness has been bred out of them. And the old bitter aubergine is gone. Possibly there are a few plants of it preserved in some archive garden, or a seed bank, or something, but I can't get to those.

We don't really have a good idea of the plant called worts in medieval English recipes. I mean, we know (or we're fairly sure) it was brassica oleracea. But that one species has cultivars as distinct as cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, kale, Brussels sprouts, collard greens, Savoy cabbage, kohlrabi, and gai lan (list swiped from Wikipedia). And even within "cabbage" or "kale", you have literally dozens of varieties. If you plant the seeds from a brassica, unless you've been moderately careful with pollination, you won't get the same plant as the seeds are from. You can crossbreed brassicas just by planting them near each other and letting them flower. And of course there is no way to determine what varietal any medieval village had, a very high likelihood that it was different to the village next door, and an exceedingly high chance that that varietal no longer exists. Further, it only ever existed for a few tens of years - before it went on cross-breeding into something different. So our access to medieval worts (or indeed, cabbage, kale, etc) is just non-existant.

Some other species within the brassica genus are as varied. Brassica rapa includes oilseed rape, field mustard, turnip, Chinese cabbage, and pak choi.

We have an off-chance, as it happens, of getting almost the same kind of apple as some medieval varieties, because apples can only be reproduced for orchard use by grafting, which is essentially cloning. Identification through paintings, DNA analysis, and archaeobotany sometimes let us pin down exactly which apple was there. But the conditions under which we grow those apples are probably not the same as the medieval orchard. Were they thinned? When were they harvested? How were they stored? And apples are pretty much the best case.

Medieval wheat was practically a different plant. It was far pickier about where it would grow, and frequently produced 2-4 grains per stalk. A really good year had 6-8. In modern conditions, any wheat variety with less than 30 grains per stalk would be considered a flop.

Meats are worse. Selective breeding in the last century has absolutely and completely changed every single species of livestock, and if you follow that back another five centuries, some of them would be almost unrecognisable. Even our heritage breeds are mostly only about 200 years old.

Cheese, well. Cheese is dependent on very specific bacteria, and there are plenty of conditions where the resulting cheese is different depending on whether it was stored at the back or front of the cave. Yogurts, quarks, skyrs, etc, are also live cultures, and almost certainly vary massively. (I have a theory about British cheese here, too, which I'll expand on in a future post)

So, even before you go near the different cooking conditions (wood, burnables like camel and cow dung, smoke, the material and condition of cooking pots), we just can't say with any reliability that the food we're making now is anything like medieval people produced from the same recipe. We can't even say that with much reliability over a century.

Under very controlled conditions, you could make an argument for very specific dishes. If you track down a wild mountain sheep in Afghanistan, and use water from a local spring, and salt from some local salt mine, then you can make a case that you can produce something fairly close to the original ma wa milh, the water-and-salt stew that forms the most basic dish in Arabic cookery. But once you start introducing domestic livestock, vegetables, or even water from newer wells, you're now adrift.

It is possible that some dishes taste exactly the same, by coincidence. But we can't determine that. We can't compare the taste of a dish from five years ago, let alone five hundred, because we're only just getting to a state where we can "record" a taste accurately. Otherwise it's memory and chance.

We've got to be at peace with this. We can put in the best efforts we can, and produce things that are, in spirit, like the medieval dishes we're reading about. But that's as good as it gets.

[niki-phoria]

love me like you do / 现在开始发酵的幸福

pairing: inumaki toge x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff word count: 761

notes: first inumaki post in months we are so back, brief mention of bruises/past injuries but nothing serious, not proofread, pls forgive any mistakes !! title from wayv - 浪漫发酵 (up from here)

the sun is overwhelmingly bright when your eyes flutter open. golden rays shine across the world, slowly but surely forcing the darkness away. INUMAKI TOGE lays beside you, deep in a peaceful sleep. his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm as quiet snores occasionally escape his lips. 

you smile softly at the sight. messy strands of blonde hair lay sprawled across the pillows. they stick up at odd angles that toge will be embarrassed about later, but for now, you relish in the tranquility of the morning. 

toge stirs slightly when your lips brush against his skin. he instinctively twitches at the contact; his eyebrows furrow and he squints before he relaxes once again.

you smile softly at the sight. it was rare to see him so carefree. the burden of cursed speech was heavy. the fear of accidentally cursing someone who didn’t deserve it only slipped away during the deep recesses of night when toge finally allowed himself to fall into the safety of slumber. it had taken weeks for him to grow comfortable enough to lay beside you, too paranoid of mumbling a command in his sleep.

you push the thought aside as you shift, cautiously leaning down to press yet another kiss against his face. this one lands against his cheek. the ghost of acne scars litter his smooth skin, only just barely hidden by the hem of his uniform. 

careful not to disturb him, you lean in again and again. your lips brush against his temple. the bridge of his nose. the edge of his jawline, just beneath his ear. the junction between his neck and shoulder blade.

it only takes a few more kisses before toge slowly blinks awake, squinting at you through tired eyes. his face scrunches at the sudden light, making you chuckle softly. “good morning,” you whisper. 

he hums quietly, stretching out his body before he rolls onto his side. stray strands of hair threaten to block toge’s vision before he reaches up, carelessly pushing his bangs back. “good morning,” he signs. 

your gaze lingers on his hands longer than necessary. small calluses and scattered scars decorate his skin. his knuckles are a collage of purple and red hues - a consequence of leaving shoko’s office too early. toge had, thankfully, stayed long enough to allow her to heal the injuries on the rest of his body. the only sign of hurt that remains is his slight wince when yuuji playfully hits his back a little too hard.

your staring is interrupted when toge shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around your waist. goosebumps arise against your skin when his hand slips just beneath the fabric of your t-shirt, resting comfortably against your side. his fingernails gently scrape against your skin as he traces miscellaneous shapes against your hip. 

“mustard leaf?” he asks. 

you frown softly. “shoko said to take it easy for a while,” you murmur. toge’s eyes flutter closed for a moment when you tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “that includes only speaking when necessary.” 

reluctantly, he pulls his hand away. “you’re staring,” toge signs. his violet eyes hold your gaze with curiosity, studying how your features seem to glow in the sunlight. 

you chuckle softly, taking the opportunity to shuffle even closer to him until your legs intertwine beneath the bed sheets. “you’re handsome,” you whisper, so quietly that the words are nearly inaudible over the noise of his own racing heartbeat. 

toge was no stranger to being put on display. with his curse marks branding his skin so brazenly they were almost impossible to notice, but your hands held him with purpose. you touched him like he was something fragile; like he was someone deserving of the utmost care. blood rushes to his face, staining his ears a painfully obvious shade of pink.

he’s sure you can feel the heat radiating from his cheeks when you smirk playfully. relaxing your hand, you trail your fingertips along the edge of his jawline. “do i make you nervous?” you tease. 

“fish flakes,” he grumbles in reply. his voice is deeper in the morning. the words scratch against his sore throat. his body protests loudly, sending a fresh wave of pain through his mouth, but it’s all worth it when you laugh quietly in return. 

“whatever you say, toge,” you softly smile. he doesn’t have time to think of a retort before you’re leaning in, pressing a feather-light kiss against the apple of his cheek. shivers race down his spine in waves, his flushed cheeks impossible to hide.

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if you liked this fic, please comment, reblog, or leave feedback !! and if you want to support me, check out my jjk masterlist <33

[vandaliatraveler]

Spring in the Cheat River Canyon.

From top: lowbush blueberry (Vaccinium pallidum); the pendulous green flowers of striped maple (Acer pensylvanicum); sweet white violet (Viola blanda), which loves cool, moist forests; wild strawberry (Fragaria virginiana), which has been hybridized with a South American species to produce commercial strawberries; marsh blue violet (Viola cucullata), an elegant, gregarious violet found growing in seeps and along streambanks; smooth Solomon's seal (Polygonatum biflorum); great white trillium (Trillium grandiflorum); a West Virginia white (Pieris virginiensis) sipping nectar from a sweet white violet; and broadleaf toothwort (Cardamine diphylla), the larval host plant for the West Virginia white.

Note: this hauntingly beautiful butterfly, a flitting ghost in Appalachia's April forests, is in serious decline because it confuses invasive garlic mustard for its host plant, Cardamine. Garlic mustard is toxic to its larvae. Another example of how an invasive species can wreak havoc on the vital lifecycles of our native ecosystems.

[mionemymind]

Never Enough

Summary: The aftermath of Wanda cheating on Y/n.

A/n: Felt inspired after watching a bomb ass movie :) Gif credits to the wonderful @dreamlonelywolf

Warnings: Cheating with Vision, Cursing, Pure Angst, No Happy Ending, No Part Two

Word Count: 471

Masterlist

“What can I do to fix this? Please - I know I messed up. Please let me fix this.” It was a pathetic sight to see Wanda beg Y/n as the two quietly argued in the parking lot. Many onlookers were nearby. Y/n already felt embarrassed enough by her wife. She didn’t need the judgment of others. 

But as more people passed, it felt like everyone within a mile vicinity knew. They all knew that Wanda cheated. Everyone did besides her.

“Don’t act like you want to fix this now, Wanda. You got caught - again. Grow the fuck up.” Y/n shoved her bag at the back seat and slammed the door shut. 

Wanda stepped in front of Y/n, using her body to block the driver’s side door. She instinctively reached out to grab Y/n’s hand. “Don’t.”

Y/n backed up slightly, hands away from Wanda’s reach. “I want you out of my fucking life, Wanda. Don’t fucking text me, call me, or reach out. I’m getting a fucking divorce and that’s the last you’ll ever see of me.”

“Please - just let me talk-“

“Talk about what?! How you keep going back to him?! How this is the third fucking time you’ve got caught?! How nothing I will ever do make you fully love me?!” Getting into Wanda’s face, the red head could feel the anger dripping out of Y/n. The vein in her neck could practically burst at how mad she was. 

“If that’s what you want to hear so fucking badly, then save it. I’m tired of all the lies. You want him? Have at it. I could care less anymore.” Taking off her ring, Y/n shoved it into Wanda’s hand causing the girl to stumble back in shock. 

Using this opportunity, Y/n got into her car and locked the door immediately. Wanda tried a couple times to get it opened but failed. She tapped on the window, trying her best to get Y/n’s attention.

“I love you,” Wanda whispered, but the blank stare that Y/n held terrified Wanda. This was the point of no return. This was the last time she’ll ever see Y/n. And that scared her.

“I’m staying at Emma’s. I won’t bother getting my shit. You can have it.” Wanda’s jaw clenched at the mention of the blonde. Someone she knew had such a strong love for Y/n. Wanda scoffed and shook her head.

“Fine - go to her like you always do.” Finally looking Wanda in the eye, Y/n showed no emotion, having gone completely numb at the memory of Vision fucking Wanda.

“Don’t patronize me, Wanda. I don’t need two people to feel complete. But clearly you do.” Not waiting for her response, Y/n drove off forever out of Wanda’s life. 

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@msmothermaximoff @ielliesitchyeyereposts

[p-h-a-n-t-a]

I tend to fixate on evan as a character at times because his whole shtick is that hes mysterious and has issues tm, but also because i have also been the haunted (literally spoke to ghosts as a child) ass white kid (white) suffering from food insecurity (yall ever have a mustard sandwich, its bread heels with mustard on them. Thats how i learned to like mustard.) So i relate to him quite a bit.

But, i cant help but be deeply curious about the other misfits and their lives, struggles, and their mysteries.

I frequently work with kids like Jammer (ive been christened with a nickname by middleschoolers. Its Shawty DooBop. Im glad its that and not "that mean ass librarian") and I wonder what his life is like on a day to day basis. Did he pick his sister up from her after school program? How long has he been writing? A lot of kids I know, no matter how much they like the sports they play, were originally put into them by parents hoping they could be something great, but what would he want to be if he wanted to be something different? Did he ever read the maximum ride series? Does he actually like dragon ball Z or is it more of a cultural osmosis thing?

K is deeply relatable to me on a number of levels (nonbinary tumblrina) but also deeply alien. Do they talk to their family at all? Do they feel remorse for cyber bullying people over steven universe? Do they get mad at themself when they have to remember people cant just be tropes, they also have to be people? Even themself? When will they go to therapy????

Sam black, britain, butler my beloved. Fellow child of divorce, how much did that influence your comunication? How long has being an influencer been her focus? Does she actually want to inluence, or does she just want friends? She struggled in school, did anyone ever try to help? Would it have been better or worse to be on an iep plan? Does she still talk to her family much now that shes famous, is it out of love, or out of that family wanting her support and her energy? How has T2 stayed a teacup pig? Those usually grow into potbelly pigs of some sort. Does she feel like her magic has actually hampered her ability to connect with others because she is so easily liked? What were the sailor moon forums like, what happened after your pink pal stopped liking pink?

Also to the magic mommy of all time, what was Bombini's life like? A 600+ year old wizard who seems to have lost everything dear to him and is upholding the memory of people long lost built on foundations that were crumbling from the start. Dudes middle name is kyle. He seems like a paralell to our sad ass white boy, if they had decided to uphold the nature of magic and the old ways, would evan have become like him? A shuffling, sad, impossibly old steward? Also whats happening on tadershacourt. Whos the shadow man with Khan.

God i have so many questions, im deeply glad misfits and magic got a season 2 but i do think it has just given me more to be insane about. I managed this with only 4 eps and a holiday special, im gonna explode. Truely the tumblr coded series of all time.

[spaceorphan18]

Awards Show :: A Klaine Fic

Summary:

Famous Klaine AU

Kurt and Blaine are both nominated for a major theater award. They attend the show, while trying to navigate when and how to reveal a major secret.

Rated T: for mild language, small amount of drinking, and mild sexy times.

A/N:

for Klaine Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2024 - for @jayne89 <3 Thanks for to @snarkyhag for the beta! Ao3 Link Found Here Hope you guys like it! Thanks for reading!!

*****

Kurt Hummel exits the backseat of his car and takes his first step onto the red carpet.  The scene is pure pandemonium.  The red carpet is lined with reporters and cameras, actors and celebrities, and ropes that hold off thousands of screaming fans.  Every time he steps foot into one of these hooplas, he has half a mind to get back into the car and sneak in the back way.  Unlike most of his colleagues in the theater world, he’s never been a huge fan of these events.  Sure, he’ll discuss the gossip and the fashion until the cows come home, but having to live it is always a different story.  

He nervously plays with his phone as he makes his first few steps down the carpet.  He shouldn’t have it with him, he knows, but it’s a strange source of comfort.  It’s something to do with his hands, which might otherwise be stuffed into the pockets of his very expensive suit.  

He hears sudden clicks, and he knows already that there are cameras pointed in his direction.  He should be used to it.  In some ways he is used to it.  But it never fails to surprise him that there are people who actually want photos of him. He’s gone for a simpler look this year -- a gorgeous teal jacket and pants, paired with a royal purple shirt, with a silver pin for an accent.  The whole thing is textured, and the cut is flattering and appealing, and much more toned down than the eccentric design he wore the previous year.  

He takes a deep breath and moves forward.  He hears his name being called from multiple directions.  Some are the event guides, ushering him to go.  Some are the photographers, dying to get that first shot of him arriving.  But a majority of the screaming is coming from the fans.  He doesn’t love the crowds.  He doesn’t. But he does try his best -- for them.  

He gives a smile, and a wave, and inches closer to the ropes where they’re all standing.  They’ve come all this way, and have probably stood outside for mere glimpses of the celebrities for hours.  It’s insane - but there was a time when he may have done the same, just for a brief interaction with someone he admired.  

Before going to the fans, however, he takes a quick moment to scan the carpet ahead of him.  There are plenty of people he recognizes, plenty of people he’s worked with before, a few big names that make him seem like a small fish in a big pond, and a few faces he doesn’t recognize at all.  But one in particular stands out.  Standing in his bright, mustard yellow suit is Blaine Anderson.  

Kurt takes a moment to watch Blaine as he easily moves along the crowd; chatting, signing autographs, laughing and whatever the fans are telling him.  He positively glows in the energy.  He always has.  Kurt shakes his head, fondly.  He loves his job, but feels more at peace when an audience is quietly sitting and watching him on stage.  When he has the ability to turn it all off, and connect with the character and the story and come alive as a different person.  Being him has always been difficult.  But Blaine has no such difficulty.  It’s admirable, really.  And he adores Blaine for it.  

He then sneaks a quick second to check out Blaine’s ass, nice and round and on display whenever Blaine reaches his arms out to sign another autograph.  Kurt bites his bottom lip, thinking about earlier that morning, when he had seen that ass up close and person.  He grins, thinking about it; thinking about how despite their growing celebrity status, some things remain just between the two of them.  

For a quick second, Blaine turns his head behind him and, as if a magnet were drawn between them, notices Kurt.  He beams, wiggles his eyebrows for a second, and then goes back to the fans.  Tonight is not about him and Blaine.  Tonight is about the show.  They both know that.  Which is why they keep what they have together on the down low.  But it doesn’t stop them from stealing a moment or two.  

Kurt turns back to his side of the carpet, ready to address the legions of people waiting on the other side of the rope. As he approaches, their yells become deafening, and most of what they’re screaming is incomprehensible.  The only thing he really can make out is his name.  

He smiles brighter, trying his best to appear as kind as possible, as he takes a marker and begins to scribble his name on a Playbill.  Most of the fans are respectful.  And while overwhelmed, shower him with compliments -- everything ranging from ‘I loved your performance, it moved me so much’ to ‘can I have your babies?’.  He always has to chuckle at the range he finds.  

There’s always at least one person, however, who gives him pause.  “Hey, did you and Blaine Anderson break up?” It's a young woman with a nose ring attempting to take a photo of him with her phone -- who seems less interested in him than whatever gossip she’s going to share online.  “Cause, like, y’all haven’t spoken to each other in weeks.  Online, I mean.  Like, y’all are done, aren’t you?” 

He lets out a sigh, tries his best not to look back at Blaine. He knows that with celebrity comes lack of privacy.  He’s been bracing for it.  But what he has with Blaine is special, and he’ll protect that the best he can.  Kurt moves on to answer another fan, who has a question about a wig he wore in a previous production, ignoring the girl with the nose ring. 

***

The interviewer is a tall, platinum blonde woman with a too dark tan and a bright, shimmering gold dress that clashes with her skin.  Kurt has talked with her before - as she works for one of those websites that streams all its content on YouTube or some specialized streaming service.  He can’t remember which one, and the ‘M’ on her microphone doesn’t help any, but since he’s being shuffled to every journalist out here, he just goes with the flow.  

“Kuuuuuurt,” her high-pitched voice cries.  “Kurt Hummel everyone.” She says it to her audience in the camera, wherever that might be.  Kurt gives a friendly smile and waves to the people watching on the other side of the screen.  He may not like this part of the job, but he tries to always give his best to the fans.  “How excited are you to be here?” The woman, whose name if he remembers correctly is Karlee, asks.  

“It’s a pleasure.  And surreal. Always surreal,” he replies, truthfully.  

“Before we get too much further, we have to get your bestie over here,” she says, unexpectedly.  

Kurt isn’t quite sure what she’s talking about until she waves a hand (one that’s holding a cue card in it) over to someone behind him.  “Blaine Anderson, get on over here.” 

Oh.  Oh . 

Blaine comes up right next to him, all friendly smiles and charm and doesn’t give Kurt one ounce of attention.  He does, however, slightly push his elbow into Kurt’s arm.  Kurt pushes back.  He almost gives a laugh, but retrains.  

“Karlee, what a delight, honey, you look wonderful,” Blaine coos, taking her hand, and giving her cheek a kiss.  

Fucking Blaine, always being so suave.  Kurt bites his bottom lip, amused at how easily Blaine does it.  Blaine is definitely playing it up with the playful banter, but he also is well aware that it keeps the attention off of Kurt.  Just as Kurt likes it.  They do make a great team.  

“Look at the two of you, matching tonight.”  

Kurt and Blaine turn towards each other, both pretending to be shocked.  

I told you they’d notice -- Kurt says with his eyes and a grin, thinking about the hours-long conversation they had about what to wear. 

Blaine gives a casual shrug, but Kurt can read him like a book.  Who cares? We’re hot and they love it.  

We’re supposed to be low profile, Blaine. 

We’re theater actors, Kurt, nothing about us is low profile.  

They probably shouldn’t be doing their secret exchange, not when they’re supposed to be paying attention to Kaylee, not while everyone is watching, but Blaine has such beautiful honey-gold eyes… the shield Kurt always has up, especially in public, is dented just a little when those eyes shine so brightly on him.  

After a few moments of fashion talk, Kaylee hits them with something completely different.  “So, the two of you met a decade ago now on the stage during the original run of Show Choir! -- which ended up being such a surprising hit and thrust you both into the limelight.  I hear now there are talks of a movie version -- any chance you’ll be involved.” 

“No,” Kurt says, maybe too quickly and too sharply.  He owes that show everything.  And yet he never wants to relive any of it ever again.  Blaine eyes him and knows… 

As always, Blaine manages to be much more diplomatic in response.  “I think I can speak for Kurt when I say -- we will always cherish what that show was for us.  It got us both on our feet.  It taught us everything we know now. But it’s time to let a new generation take the reins.  And, I mean, we’re both pushing thirty now.  No one wants to see thirty-year-olds playing high school students. Even on stage.”  

“Of course, we’ll cheer on whatever new cast takes it on,” Kurt adds, hopeful that it sounds encouraging enough for the soundbite it’ll inevitably become.  

Kaylee throws her head back in laughter as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.  “Well, it’ll be exciting to watch for sure.  So, the two of you are both nominated tonight for your phenomenal roles in such different productions.  Kurt, you’re nominated for your devastating turn where you play an American Civil War soldier figuring out his sexuality.  While Blaine, you have a haunting turn as a ghost in what everyone has been calling an epic space opera on stage.  Your roles are so different and yet have hit audiences so hard.  How do you feel about that?” 

“It’s cliche, I know, but as everyone says, it is an honor to be nominated,” Kurt says. “And I think that everyone nominated tonight deserves to be here.  I think it speaks to the writing and production and power of the stage that we are allowed to have such characters to play.  And I think it speaks to the power of storytelling that you can have such a variety of characters and yet be so moved by them.  I think we both feel really, really lucky that there are so many good shows being produced right now.”  

“I think Kurt’s said it beautifully,” Blaine adds.  “I can’t possibly top that.” 

“One last question -- any fun plans to celebrate tonight?” 

Kurt gives her an odd look, then for a split second, gives Blaine a panicked look. 

She knows? 

She’s talking about celebrating winning an award, Kurt… 

Well, I did win this morning… 

They share knowing looks.  

“I’m sure there’s plenty of trouble we can get ourselves into,” Blaine says with a sly grin.  

****

Kurt throws back his second shot and slams the glass on the bar.  Nothing like having something in you to calm the nerves.  He knows his limits, and when the bartender asks if he’d like another, he shakes his head and nudges the glass away.  Normally, he settles for a nice cocktail at these things, but his anxiety has been climbing all evening.  It’s not that he thinks he’s going to win - he’s aware of all the betting pools and the articles, his chances are very slim considering who he’s up against.  It’s the fact that the spotlight is so firmly on him.  It’s the fact that there are much better places he’d rather be.  

He should go mingle; should go say hi to the dozens of people he knows, and attempt to make a connection with those he doesn’t.  But he’s not as cut out for this one might think.  The first time he went to one of these things it had been awe-inspiring.  Surreal.  Kind of amazing.  Now that he’s been to them enough times, the shine has somewhat worn off, and it feels like another part he has to perform.  

“Drink too many of those, and you’ll be slurring your way through your presenting duties.”  Blaine comes to his side, leaning against the bar with a charming grin on his face.  

“Is it over yet?” Kurt laments. 

“This is the fun part, Kurt.”  

“You are having fun, I am surviving,” Kurt says.  He contemplates another glass, and looks over to the bartender, signaling him over.  Blaine puts a hand over his, and shakes the bartender off, knowing better.  Kurt lets out a heavy sigh.  “Do you think we should have come together?” 

Blaine gives him an odd look.  “It was your idea not to.” 

“I know.” 

“You wish we had?” 

Kurt contemplates.  It’s such a loaded question.  One that they’ve both mulled over countless number of times.  Weighed pros and cons.  Sought outside help.  There are no easy answers to such questions.  “You’re the one thing I don’t want to share with the rest of the world,” Kurt says.  He doesn’t meet Blaine’s eye, but keeps it firmly on the bar.  “And yet, I’m bursting on the inside to do just that.”  

Blaine’s face softens, and he squeezes Kurt’s hand.  “That’s sweet, Kurt.  You already know how I feel about it.”

“I do…” He does.  Kurt looks over to Blaine to see his shining eyes looking adoringly at him.  There are hundreds of people in the room and yet it’s just the two of them, an allowed moment of privacy among the crowd. “You know, the fans think we broke up.” 

Blaine tilts his head at him, shaking it.  “Since when have you ever cared what they think?” 

“I don’t,” a smirk crosses Kurt’s face.  “I just thought it was funny.”  

“Social media detectives will be the death of us all.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to like some of my cat videos and Liza Minnelli memes,” Kurt jokes.  

“We should get Tina to work with you on your social media presence,” Blaine says, as if they hadn’t argued about this a thousand times.  

“And she should really lay off yours,” Kurt counters.  “I mean, the noodle incident…” 

Blaine rolls his eyes and ignores him.  “Maybe it is time to talk about being more public.  As a couple.” 

Kurt winces.  “We are not letting Tina…” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Blaine says.  He’s serious, very serious.  “Maybe it’s finally time, all things considered.” 

“Or… we could release an official statement and let it be?” Kurt says.  They’ve managed to be just the two of them for so long.  He doesn’t want that to change.  “I don’t want to be featured on the cover of People magazine.”

“Being featured on the cover of People magazine isn’t so bad you know,” Blaine says.  His charm returns as they both think of the framed cover in Blaine’s bathroom.  

Kurt lets out a playful, annoyed groan.  “Any chance you have to bring up how officially sexy you are…” 

“It wouldn’t hurt you to indulge me every once in a while.” 

“I already suck your dick, Blaine, you don’t need me to kiss your ass, too.”  

Blaine lets out a hearty laugh.  “I have it on good authority that you are actually very good at kissing my ass.”  

Kurt gives him a sharp glance.  “Fuck you.”  

Blaine gives him a dark look, as if challenging him to do just that.  Kurt wishes he could lean over and kiss him.  Fuck all the people and the cameras and the undoubted mess it would create.  He wants to kiss Blaine so badly, and has enough alcohol in him that it might be worth it.  

Blaine’s sober enough for the both of them.  “C’mon, we have a ceremony to attend.”  

****

Kurt bounces on the balls of his feet.  He and Blaine are waiting backstage, just the two of them, as the ceremony rolls on beyond the curtain.  He can hear the presenters for the award for musical score doing their bit.  There’s audience laughter, and some applause, and someone said something that struck a chord.  He suddenly doesn’t feel all that well.  

Blaine looks at him, concerned.  “Are you nervous?” 

“No.” 

“You’re nervous.” A sweet grin climbs on Blaine’s face, as he judges his shoulder against Kurt’s.  

Kurt holds himself tightly.  “Do you know how many people will be out there watching us?” 

“We’re delivering an award, Kurt.  It’s not like we’re performing,” Blaine says.  He almost sounds disappointed about it.  “It’s not like anyone is going to be paying any attention to us.  All we have to do is make sure we get the name right.”  

“We have to do witty banter,” Kurt argues.  “They’ll all be paying attention.  What if they really don’t like what we’re wearing? What if they miss that we have amazing on stage chemistry? My god, what if they don’t find us funny?” 

Blaine shakes his head dismissively.  “I’ve never known you to not be funny.” 

Kurt holds up one finger.  “I have a sophisticated, dry wit that not everyone gets.”  

“You do remember that this witty banter was pre-written and all we have to do is say the lines, right?” Blaine says.  “I can’t believe you’re nervous.  You’ve performed on stage naked before.”  

“Yeah, for like five people,” Kurt hisses.  “There are at least five million people watching this.”  

Blaine narrows his eyes, looking troubled.  “You’re really having an issue with this.” 

Kurt bites his bottom lip.  He is, and he doesn’t like it.  It’s not really because of the sheer amount of people.  He doesn’t mind performing in front of them.  It’s not like he’s never been in front of large crowds before.  It’s the fact that it’s he and Blaine.  Together.  With everyone having their eyes on them. Everyone watching every interaction they’ll make, and how it’ll be scrutinized and torn apart and he wishes that not every public interaction they have needs to be put under a microscope.  He wishes they didn’t have to endure that type of pressure.  

He breathes heavily.  “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”  

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have done all those shots.” Blaine actually gets him to laugh.  

He looks at Blaine in wonder, always wondering how he lets it all roll off his back.  “How is it nothing phases you?” 

“Things phase me.”

“Really?” 

Blaine tilts his head at him.  “You have seen me at my worst, Kurt, you know that.  They just aren’t the same things as you.  It evens us out.  It’s why we work.”  Blaine comes in close, rubbing Kurt’s arms.  “Going on stage with out an audience - that’s something that phases me.  Jesse St. James’s dog, which might actually be a demon in a dog costume, phases me.  And seeing you like this.  I don’t like seeing you like this.”  

A warmth spreads through Kurt’s chest.  Suddenly, his fears begin to melt away.  He loves this man.  He loves him so deeply.  Kurt has tried so hard never to care what other people think of him, he isn’t sure why it bothers him so much now.  Only that Blaine means the world to him, and he wants nothing more to protect that.  Wants to protect the person who makes him feel grounded and loved and safe.  

“I’ll be okay,” Kurt says, though he turns his head away.  

Blaine knows him better than that.  He says nothing, but watches him carefully.  

A production assistant rounds the corner, shouting that they have two minutes to get into place.  

Kurt stands up, straightens, puts his more professional face on.  He can do this.  They can do this.  

“You ready to see who’s going to win best costuming?” Blaine asks.  He sneaks a hand down to Kurt’s giving it a squeeze before they start heading out.  

“I really hope it’s April Rhodes.” 

“Kurt, she’s not nominated in this category.”  

“I know, but did you see what she was wearing? It’s this insane fuchsia, ‘80s inspired dress, which I think you could totally pull off something like that if you wanted to go outside your comfort zone and try.”  

The color drains from Blaine’s face.  “Oh god no, Kurt.  No.”  

****

Their category is close to the end of the night.  The hosting portion of the evening flew by in a blur, and Kurt hardly remembers being on stage nearly an hour before.  He’s been sitting, bouncing a knee anxiously, during the rest of the ceremony.  

He had been asked if he wanted to bring a plus one.  He had turned it down, not sure who he should ask.  His dad and stepmom would have come, but Carole’s sister is in the hospital and they just wouldn’t be able to make it out to New York.  All the rest of his friends and colleagues seemed to have found dates or family members that would attend.  

Blaine had asked if they wanted to go together.  Kurt had said no.  

They hadn’t talked it through enough.  Hadn’t consulted their teams. Hadn’t worked it out with Tina -- god, Tina would have a fucking field day showing off their relationship.  It had seemed like too much of a hassle.  And at the time, Kurt hadn’t felt ready.  

And then this morning happened.  It still feels like a hazy dream -- wrapped up in bed together, not even awake enough to get the coffee.  The way Blaine held him so comfortably in his arms.  Every morning should be like this one.  Every morning should be absolutely perfect.  

He can see Blaine’s eyes - so perfectly bright and loving.  

Marry me.  

What? 

Be my husband, Kurt. 

He had always expected it at some point.  Kurt knew almost the day they met that their lives would be intertwined.  But he had always expected Blaine had bigger plans.  He’s not sure what he had expected.  It’s not like Blaine was going to hire every large ensemble in New York to sing on the stage where they met as rose petals fluttered down from the sky.  That’s just insane. 

But off the cuff? Unplanned? They hadn’t even had sex that morning (yet).  They hadn’t even had coffee.  

And Blaine just asks him.  Takes his breath away without even trying.  

How could he possibly have said no? 

He could be sitting next to his fiance right now.  Instead, he’s sitting next to an elderly woman, the mother of a nominated set designer.  The other side is the aisle.  Up a few rows and over a few seats is Blaine, smiling happily as the actress on stage reads through the list of names.  

He’s not nervous for himself.  All the articles he read (more than he should have) listed him near the bottom of possibilities.  And that is fine.  As Blaine often says, they’re both still young, and have plenty of time to do more amazing things in their careers.  Kurt did not write up a list of people to thank, nor tried to memorize any speeches.  He didn’t let himself get too caught up in the idea of winning.  

But Blaine has a real chance.  He’s been a buzz in the community.  Everyone wants to work with him.  He’s had more job offers than he can even handle lately.  And he looks so adoringly hopeful as they wait for the actress to open the envelope.  

“And the winner is…” she says.  Kurt holds his breath.  “Jonathan Bailey as Oscar Pennington in Penny For Your Thoughts .” 

Kurt lets out a sigh that feels like relief.  He smiles kindly and claps, unsurprised that the frontrunner of the race actually won.  He looks over to Blaine and despite the grin plastered on his face, Kurt knows him enough to see disappointment there as well.  

After a moment, when Blaine knows there aren’t any cameras on him, he throws a look back to Kurt.  Kurt gives a kind shrug.  

Hey, at least we have each other. 

A genuine grin crosses Blaine’s face.  We do.  

*****

The rest of the ceremony passes by without much incident.  During one of the performances, the mics cut out but the entire cast belted out their song anyway and the winner of best writing for a show thanked their writing partner but not their famous wife which will be slightly scandalous in the morning but other than that, there aren’t any upsets or unpredictabilities, which makes for a rather boring time.  

Just as it’s ending, Kurt gets a text from Blaine : Wait for me . 

It’s like herding cattle to get out, but eventually Kurt is able to, and waits off in a corridor for Blaine.  Blaine, of course, is the social butterfly, and has to talk with everyone as he makes his way out.  Kurt could join him.  Maybe he should join him.  But he stands on the sidelines and waits.  Waits until Blaine finally catches his eye, and there’s a certain type of thrill that comes when Blaine’s entire face lights up.  It’s a face that’s saved solely for Kurt, and there’s always a tiny pang of relief when it’s there.  

“So, get this,” Blaine says as he walks over.  There’s a giddiness all over his face. “So, I managed to run into Jonathan Bailey, as one does. We chatted for a little bit and he said we should come to his afterparty.  I mean, he said to me, but told me to bring whoever I liked.  You are never going to believe who’s else is going to show up, I--”

“I promised Rachel and Jesse we’d attend their party,” Kurt replies quickly.  There’s something about a major party, with lots of famous people, lots of people in general, that gives Kurt pause.  

Blaine gives him a bewildered look.  “Kurt, they throw the same, boring party every year.  They didn’t even come tonight.”

“Well, to be fair, Rachel asked me, but she never mentioned you, so technically, you’re free to do as you like.” It comes off a little more dismissive than he intends it.  They never did talk about after the show, but the plan had always been Rachel and Jesse’s.  

Blaine gives him a somewhat confused stare.  

“What?” Kurt asks.  

Blaine takes him a little further down the corridor, so they aren’t seen as people continue to file out of the theater.  “Why are you being like this?” 

“Being like what?” 

“You don’t care about Rachel and Jesse’s party - nor would they notice if you’re even there.”

“Oh, Rachel will notice…” 

Blaine clenches his jaw but holds back on whatever he’s thinking.  “Okay, why don’t we stop by Rach and Jesse’s for a second, then head over to the other party.  Kurt, it might be a good opportunity to make some good new connections.” 

Kurt considers, but he doesn’t love the idea.  “Maybe…” 

“Would you rather just go home?”

He is tired.  It has been a long day, and his bed does feel enticing.  Besides, there’s all the rest of it to consider.  Does he have the energy for it? “You should go.  I don’t want to ruin your night.” 

“Kurt, you never ruin my night,” Blaine says.  He reaches for Kurt’s hand, and gives it a squeeze, only to drop it quickly, as a couple of men in tuxes turn down the corridor and walk past.  “What is this about? Are you upset about how the night went? Hit your limit with people? Or… is it me?”  

The look of devastation on Blaine’s face breaks his heart.  It’s not Blaine.  It’s never been Blaine.  “No, of course not.  I don’t know, Blaine, I just don’t want to argue with you.” 

“We can’t argue if you won’t talk to me.” 

Kurt takes a moment as Blaine waits for some kind of explanation.  “When I’m with you - I don’t want to think about being with you.  I just want to be with you.”  

Blaine narrows his eyes, confused.  “I don’t know that I follow.” 

“I just want us, together , and if we go to that party…” 

“Everyone will know that we’re together?” 

“That’s not what I mean.”  

“Kurt, we’re getting married,” Blaine says. He looks as tired as Kurt feels.  “We have to figure this out at some point unless… this isn’t something you really want.”  

“You are always what I want,” Kurt responds quickly, to assuage Blaine’s fears.  

Blaine lets out a little sigh and crosses his arms.  “Kurt… I really doubt this one celebrity party is going to be an issue.  Even if someone does see us.  Or notices.  Or we let ourselves be ourselves.  Who cares, Kurt? When have you ever let anyone else dictate how you live your life?”  

Blaine is right.  When has he ever let anyone tell him what to do? But it’s about more than just him.  It’s about them .  “I can’t lose you,” Kurt says quietly.  

“What?” It’s not what Blaine expects to hear.  

“I can’t lose you.” Kurt looks up and into Blaine’s eyes.  “You are etched into my very soul and I don’t know if I can function anymore without you in it.  And the idea that some outside factor might come along and take you from me…”  

Blaine softens.  “I’m not going anywhere, you know that.  And when things get fucked up, as they always seem to get fucked up, I’ll be right there with you - saying ‘fuck you’ to the world.  We’re a team, remember?  But, if you just want to go to Rach’s or just go home, that’s what we’ll do, okay?” 

“No,” Kurt says.  Just the idea of this party makes him nervous, but Blaine doesn’t.  He’s right.  It’s about time they start taking the world by storm.  “No, you’re right.  I think we should go to this party.  Rachel’s going to want to play tacky karaoke games anyway.”  

Blaine lets out a laugh, then reaches out for Kurt’s hands and takes them.  “Are you sure?”  

Kurt does something then that surprises even himself.  He leans in and gives Blaine a hard kiss.  Because he can.  Because Blaine is going to be his husband.  Because he wants to spend the rest of his life kissing his husband.  And maybe it doesn’t matter who sees it anymore.  “Yeah, I’m sure.”  

Blaine’s eyes twinkle.  “...okay.” 

“So, who is it that’s going to be at this party? Is it one of the Bridgerton cast? Please tell me it’s one of the Bridgrton cast…”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

***

When Kurt finds Blaine, he’s seated on a lounge chair at the back of the club, scrolling through his phone.  Kurt gives a smirk, and takes another sip from his champagne glass as he walks over.  Blaine doesn’t look up.  Kurt slides onto his lap anyway.  Blaine smirks as he finishes reading whatever is on his phone, then opens his arms to cradle Kurt.  Kurt lays head on Blaine’s shoulder, and giggles into his champagne.  

The club is hopping, there are a ton of famous people everywhere.  Some people he knows personally.  Most people he doesn’t.  Kurt doesn’t really care.  There’s so much going on that he and Blaine can be in their own secluded little bubble, and no one will really notice. 

“Hey you,” Blaine says, leaning his head against Kurt’s.  

“Hey.” 

“Did you get a chance to talk to-”

“...Yeah.” 

“Yeah? Good?” 

“So good,” Kurt coos. He snuggles closer into Blaine.  “I can’t wait to tell Rach.  She’s been blowing up my phone, by the way.  I’m ignoring her for now, but you know she’s going to be a beast when she sees us next.  And I know what you’re thinking - you’re right, we should have stopped by and we didn’t stop by and god this means we’re going to have to attend one of her murder mystery dinners and good lord there isn’t enough alcohol to get me through one of those things…” he stops short when he notices Blaine’s a bit dazed and not really listening.  “You’re being quiet.”  

Blaine waits a beat and tries to shake it off.  “Just thinking.”  

Kurt brushes a stray hair off Blaine’s forehead.  “About what?  Are you feeling it -- that you, that we lost?”  

“Maybe a little,” Blaine says.  He looks tired more than disappointed though.  “It’s fine, though.  Next time, and I know there will be a next time, it’ll happen.  And then next time, I’ll be able to thank my husband.”  He gives Kurt’s nose a little bop.  “You.”  

“Mmm, I like that,” Kurt hums.  He brushes his nose against Blaine’s.  “I get to marry you.”  

“You do.” 

“And move in with you.”  

This gets a smile out of Blaine.  “Kurt, we practically live together now.  Your apartment is more like a storage space.”  

“Oohh, we should keep it,” Kurt says.  “It’ll be like a secret hideaway.”  

Blaine adoringly shakes his head at him.  Yes, he’s had maybe too much to drink, but it’s still endearing to Blaine.  “Or, a giant closet to keep all of your clothes.”

“That is a smart idea,” Kurt says.  “A very smart idea.  It’s a good thing I’m keeping you.”  

Blaine looks down at their hands. He takes the champagne glass from Kurt, finishes it, then places it on the table next to him.  Then takes Kurt’s hand and laces his fingers with Kurt’s.  “You know, Kurt, I think you may be right.  There’s a part of me that’s not ready to give this up.  Or share it.”  

“See…” Kurt snuggles, again, against Blaine’s shoulder.  Feeling slightly vindicated.  But then a heaviness falls between them.  “Do you think things are going to be different tomorrow?” 

“Yes.” 

The happy little bubble they were in begins to evaporate.  “We should probably call Tina then.”  

“Well, if we’re going to do this, might as well do it right,” Blaine agrees. 

Kurt gives him a little, suggestive smirk.  “Yeah… do it right.”  

Kurt looks deeply into his eyes.  It’s scary how much he feels for this man.  It’s everything. 

Blaine leans forward and kisses him.  It’s hard and sure and reaffirming.  It doesn’t matter that they’re in public, in a place where everyone has a cellphone out.  It doesn’t matter that there are always repercussions to their actions.  He just wants to be with Blaine and Blaine wants to be with him.  For always.  

“Hey, Blaine?” Kurt says, dazed as they break apart.  

“Yeah?” 

“I wanna go home now.”  

***

Back home, they’re making out on the bed.  They’re both half undressed, clothes haphazardly thrown around the room.  Kurt’s on his back as Blaine hovers over him.  The kisses are slow and measured and easy.  Normally kissing has a means to an end.  But Kurt’s happy to be in the moment, to just enjoy Blaine’s touch.  He’s in no hurry to chase other, more driving feelings.  

“Mmmm, Blaine?”  

Blaine gives him an extra long kiss before responding.  “Yes?” 

Kurt grins.  “I think I may have had too much to drink.”  

Blaine stops, then rolls off him and onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow.  “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” 

Kurt stays on his back, staring at the ceiling.  “I dunno if we can fool around tonight.”  

“That’s fine,” Blaine says gently.  “We have tomorrow completely open to fool around.”  

Kurt lets out an amused laugh and turns his head towards Blaine, singing a little.  “Mmm, I love that idea.” 

Blaine is about to say something else when his phone lets out a little ping.  He reaches behind him and grabs it to investigate.  “Oh, it’s Tina answering our message.  She said she’s happy to meet us tomorrow, just to let her know what time.”  

“Make it Tuesday,” Kurt says, wiggling his eyebrows.  “I am very booked tomorrow.”  

Blaine lets out an easy laugh, and texts back Tina.  There’s another ping.  “Tina is fine with that.”  He’s about to set his phone back down when another notification comes through. “Oh, and she sent us a notice.  We made a best dressed list.”  

Kurt whips the phone out of Blaine’s hand.  “Hell yeah, we did.”  He scrolls through the article.  He’s a bit too tired to read what they’re saying, but there’s a photo of them on the red carpet, doing the interview, looking very classy and best dressed indeed.  He starts to scroll through, looking at the other celebrities.  

“Ooooh, it’s April Rhodes.  See, I told you what she was wearing is to die for.  You could totally--”

“No,” Blaine says firmly, knowing exactly what Kurt’s thinking.  

“Yes,” Kurt whines a little.  “What if I promise to give you a blowjob underneath it…” 

“Tempting, but still a hard no, Kurt.��  

There’s another ping from the phone.  Kurt gets irrationally annoyed by it.  “What does Tina want now? If she doesn’t stop, I’m going to make her watch our sex tape.”  

Blaine gives him a look.  There isn’t a sex tape (yet) but he’d still punish Tina with it if there was.  Blaine takes his phone back.  “You know, she’d probably enjoy that.”  

Kurt grumbles.  “True.”  

“No, hey, it’s Rachel,” Blaine sits up a little.  “Oh no.  There’s some buzz online. Some people saw us getting into the car together.”  

“Well, that’s annoying.” Kurt takes the phone again and reads through the website Rachel sent.  It’s nothing more than speculation and gossip, but the invasion of it feels more personal than it should.  He isn’t about to let it ruin his good evening.  “You know what? I have an idea. We control our own narrative.”  He opens the camera app.  “Okay, kiss me.” 

Blaine looks at him in shock.  “What?”  

“Kiss me.  Anywhere.  We’re taking a photo.”  

Blaine’s eyes open wide.  He understands exactly what Kurt’s doing.  It’s insane.  It’s crazy.  It’s a bit ridiculous.  And he thinks in that moment, Blaine loves him just a little bit more.  Blaine scooches closer, and kisses Kurt’s cheek.  Kurt makes a cute face and snaps the photo.  

It’s not really the best photo they’ve ever taken, but it’s cute.  It’s candid.  It’s very them.  

“Are you okay if I do this?” Kurt asks.  

He probably should be more sober before doing this.  But he knows he won’t regret it in the morning.  Blaine, a very sober Blaine, gives him a nod.  Kurt feels a swell of pride as he opens up Blaine’s Instagram app.  He uploads the photo and adds a simple caption : still won tonight.   

He looks at Blaine and takes a deep breath before he hits upload.  A shiver runs through him.  He can’t believe he just did that.  But my god did it feel good.  

“You are amazing, Kurt Hummel,” Blaine says.  He comes in close, giving Kurt a real kiss this time.  “You always continue to surprise me.” 

“Well, I just have to show you that you aren’t the only impulsive one in this relationship,” Kurt says, throwing the phone to the end of the bed.  He turns completely, giving Blaine a harder kiss.  God, does he love this man.  He will always love this man, no matter what happens.  

“The internet is going to roar tonight,” Blaine says.  He caresses Kurt’s cheek, cups his chin and draws in for another kiss.  “You know that, right?” 

Kurt looks deeply into Blaine’s eyes, and sees forever.  They are a team.  They’re in this together.  And no matter what tough road lies before them, at the end of the day, they’ve got each other.  Kurt pulls Blaine close, and lovingly looks at the man who takes his breath away.  

“Let them.”