#looking at vintage french fashion. oh actually

[iknowicanbutwhy]

Corsets are fun! Frills are fun!

[crazymadpassionatelove]

Cool Girl

Notes: None of this would be possible without my dearest darlings @ab4eva and @precious-little-scoundrel! All the hugs and kisses to you both xo

Part 2

-

Here's the thing nobody ever admits about being the other half of a celebrity: it's actually as hard or as easy as you make it. Enter hunky, gifted actor who just happens to be hung like a horse? Well, being his lady isn't hard at all. You just have to know the rules. Number one, you can't hear the noise. Not literally, you can hear it. You must strive to live in such a bubble that none of it matters though. You shop, power walk your gated community, and take cock like it's the only job you have. Truly, it is. Pleasing him is of utmost importance. Be ready to hop a plane at a moment’s notice, or even get fucked on said plane. You're so busy spending your man’s cash snapping up authentic mid-century modern homes before certain celebrities turn them into minimalist gray prisons, raising money for dogs who need prosthetics, and trying your hand at that sourdough bread craze, you really don't even have time to see the Instagram hate being spewed your way 24/7.

Number two, remaining an enigma. Selling energy drinks on social media? Having your man pay off some fast fashion brand to “partner” with you for a collection? Appearing on some campy sitcom as a guest star? Not for you, the thought of it actually makes you recoil. You're too busy doing all the little things and making his once barely furnished house a home. Homemade chocolate chip cookies with the chocolate specially flown in from Belgium on his private plane? Check! Gold vintage jewelry via that cute little flea market in Paris is clanking as you insist on being the ones to change the bedroom sheets. A housekeeper comes once a month, and even she comments coyly about your chemistry. Still, she need not see the soaked sheets from the multiple round of lovemaking the two of you do at all hours of the day and night.

Being seen on the red carpet is not your cup of tea, but it's the equivalent of attending your man's office Christmas party. So you pick out a dress, aka one of the couture houses offers to dress you, and he flies you to Paris for multiple fittings and macarons. Then there's some vintage Van Cleef jewelry that appears on the dining room table one morning, and a fresh new pair of Louboutins is the final piece to the puzzle. Then, looking very demur and shy, you appear on his arm, clinging to it actually. You'll smile at the various television hosts and press. Speak softly, and practically defer to him for all questions. He's the star, you're just a great supporting act. Then, when the night is finally done, you both breathe a sigh of relief and he thanks you for being such a good sport. How about a McDonald's drive thru run, huh? That face, oh that handsome fucking face of his that you've been dying to kiss all night. He just always knows what to say. So that's how you're papped still in your couture gown, he in a wrinkled white button down, his jacket slid around your shoulders, feeding each other French fries and chicken nuggets, splitting a milkshake. How wholesome and Americana honestly.

That night he promises to thank you again. Austin's perfect lips wrap themselves around your puffy clit as two, then three fingers curl, shove, and squelch inside you. “You were such a good girl the whole night, baby.” There's something about being called a good girl that makes you absolutely feral. He brings you to orgasm over and over, you lose count after about 7. He's just getting started though. He hasn't even slipped inside. When he does though, it's rough. The glorious slapping sounds of flesh fill the room as he brings himself to the edge over and over, denying himself a release and giving you an additional, what three or four orgasms? You've left feral behind and have crossed over into absolute animalistic filth as you bury yourself in the goose down pillows and practically shove it in your mouth howling. Letting him have his way as you throb and clench, hot and pink with almost blurred vision as he talks you through it. Peppering the conversation with lots of “that's my girl, my pretty baby cums so damn pretty”. When you think you're in need of a paramedic, he blows inside you something reminiscent of Niagara falls. He knows how much you love a vocal man. You end the night not being able to feel your limbs or do anything beyond closing your eyes with a lazy, bashful grin. He gives you one last slap to the ass then mentions as you drift off, “Could you make some of those brownies of yours for the cast and crew tomorrow?”

The third rule of being the other half to everyone's favorite blue eyed baby boy actor? Less is more. This sort of goes hand in hand with the enigma rule. Those celebrities who traipse around in loud designer clothing and accessories covered in flashy logos? That's not you or your man for that matter. Sure you have handbags that cost more than some people's cars, but they are solid authentic leather bags your guy finds you in far flung corners when he's on location. No one really notices when you're papped and printed in People Magazine. You keep your head down in aviators he takes to wearing, a nice little subtle nod. The bands you each wear on that finger are a solid Welsh gold. Whenever his slightly deranged fans see you, the one thing they can't call you is a golddigger. You drive a jeep or even that old Ford truck he restored himself, no Lamborghinis in your garage.

Part of the less is more shtick though is being able to give a cute little nod to him here and there when appropriate. When he's cast in a certain biopic that alters his career and your lives? You sit tight and let him have his moment, after all, you know all the behind the scenes work that goes into it. The blood, sweat, and tears. There are times when he takes method acting to such a level that it's almost like going to bed with another man. You can't exactly complain though. The slight drawl that appears when he says your name is something he is never able to truly shake and you're glad. When the moment is right though, you post a tongue in cheek Instagram post. Your feed is normally bogged down with pictures of the pets, your baking, and various charities you support. This time though, you post a rare photo of yourself looking like you're a certain sort of American royalty stepped from a time machine. It's a candid shot with you at his feet. Worshiping. Except now it's sort of like you worship two men. It's fairly well received, friends tell you, though there will always be hate. Remember, you can't hear the noise. You certainly can't hear the noise women old enough to be your grandmother are making as they lust over the man who's cock you gag on every night.

Those utterly delectable fingers of his snake inside you, make you hiss and come undone as that tongue in cheek sort of throw back makeup you're sporting runs down your cheeks. “Who's my pretty girl?” He teases you. A good hour later when he finally allows himself his own release he's panting your name into your ear. He settles himself in between your breasts. Didn't his agent once mention the girls on Tumblr call him baby boy? If only they could catch a glimpse of him now. Murmuring against your skin and tracing what feels like hearts on your arms. You scroll Zillow and read out the six-figure price tags on castles in Ireland. How does fucking in a dungeon sound, honey?

Rule number four? Be ready to go to bat for him at any moment, others opinions be damned. Being Austin's other half brings out a protective streak in you. A maternal bodyguard quasi agent of sorts. Always keep your eyes peeled for the photogs, especially when he's indulging in that pesky little smoking habit he doesn't exactly like to advertise. That actual management team of his isn't bad, especially once the Elvis flick is underway and you learn just exactly how bad certain managers can be. Still, nobody has his best interests at heart the way you do. Keep his favorite snacks on hand in your purse, water ready at a moment's notice. Your boy has a tendency to work himself to the bone and you certainly cannot allow him to run himself ragged. Tea with hot honey every night was a must while he immersed himself in Elvis. Be his soft place, let him cry and vent while you run your fingers through those golden locks. Take whatever you can off his plate so he can dedicate himself to his craft.

Some wonder if you've lost yourself in him and his life, but it's the exact opposite. You've found yourself. When that angel boy praises you during press tours and jokes on talk shows about you flying out in the middle of the night to see to it his shirts are starched the way he likes and he eats breakfast, well you just sit there and smile. “I couldn't be me without her.” Those words make you melt and you immediately crave the feeling of his hot cream inside you. Playing Elvis brought out a side of him that never truly leaves once filming wraps. Stressed? Tired? Enamored? Him bending you over while you're brushing your teeth becomes a common occurrence. “That's my baby – take it, take it,” you've gotta talk it all out of him sometimes and that's fine with you. You stand in the wings of the Kelly Ripa show and try in vain to hide your red face when a PA offers you a napkin. “I think you spilled something down your leg,” the young girl offers. Something spilled all right, him inside you with his hands gripping your hair just minutes before he was due on stage.

Everything is just so right, it's only natural that cool girl very quickly becomes cool wife.

-

[answer2jeff]

ready for another lie?

// carmen berzatto x reader

song: Diet Mountain Dew.

pairings: nyc chef!carmen x journalist!reader

mdni!! i'm not responsible for your media consumption.

warnings: smutty smut, VERY DETAILED, fem!reader, oral and fingering (f!recieving), porn with plot, drinking, cursing, kinda subby carmy, praise kink, alludes to piv but it doesn't happen, complete and utter filth, i'm giving the people what they want don't look at me!!!

essentially a prequel, 1 year before the start of season 1 of The Bear.

"Fuck youuuuu! It's Friday, loosen up!" A groggy voice yelled from across the bar, cursing you for declining another drink.

You watched your friends flirt with the bartender over the course of 2 rounds of shots; causing harmless fuckery with the several guys who tried flattering them. You were actually bored for once. It made you sick.

You waited for something, anything else to impress you. You tried convincing yourself you didn't have to leave, that your friends wanted you here, and that nights like these were "good for your soul," but there seemed to be no hope.

"Just two vodka tonics. Oh, and a white Negroni. Uh, yes— yes, thank you." You caught a blonde curl from the stool next to you in the corner of your peripheral vision, and you dared to turn your head. You were met by the sight of an oddly familiar guy—and then it hit you like a semi truck.

The man you wrote your final thesis on "the senses creating art," about. Food & Wines best new chef, as of late.

You'd spent an entire year and a half traveling the world (after finally making a name for yourself as a journalist, and snagging a place in Food & Wines top writers) and interviewing the faces of all forms of modern art, representing one of each of the 5 senses.

Casey French, a fragrance designer as the face of "smell." Christopher Knowles, a fashion designer who specialized in optical wear as the face of "sight."

The list went on, until it ended at Carmen Berzatto, on "taste," just 6 months ago. It was September now, and you almost forgot about the 2 and a half hours you took from your day to sit down and talk to him in that studio. Your heart dropped to your stomach as you felt the pores in your palms release a nervous sweat.

You blinked rapidly, wondering if you were really seeing him— out of all the other Friday nights, when he could've visited all the other bars. But he chose this Friday, at this bar, next to you. You needed to say something.

"I'll take a Negroni too, actually. And you can just close out my tab for tonight." You handed the bartender your card after you anxiously fished it out of your wallet, trying to seem completely oblivious to Carmen's stare. Carmen clenched his teeth, his eyebrows raised in surprise as he kept his gaze focused on you.

"Holy shit! Is that—" A slightly younger man nearly yelped while he inappropriately pointed at you, quickly being shut down by his peer, and being told to "shut the fuck up," but Carmen stayed silent. He was dumbfounded at the sight of you.

"Uh, hi. Funny seeing you here," you croaked, swallowing hard when you realized how much of a horrible excuse of a "hello," that was. Carmen didn't seem to mind, dragging his head out of the clouds and smiling back at you as he received his glass.

"Oh my god, yeah. Wow, I— it's good to see you."

Carmen glanced down at your drink, watching you trace your fingertip around the rim of the short glass. He gazed at your fresh manicure, the beautifully layered rings on your fingers, the diamonds on your wrists, the black dress with a slit that exposed your leg up to your mid-thigh. Carmen always thought you looked nice, only being used to your blazers and gorgeous vintage pants that he was a little jealous of, but this was different.

And as if you weren't already anxious enough, Carmen's "friends" immediately arose from their stools and made their way to an empty table, leaving the two of you alone again. Just looking at him and his clean suit and tie made you nervous, especially with the ink on his hands still visible.

"Good to see you too, Carmen," you smiled, cheeks aching as you tried desperately to hide your excitement. Admittedly, you admired him. That wasn't new. But that feeling in your stomach, that aching, yearning feeling was.

"I don't usually do these things," Carmen mumbled, taking a sip from his glass and licking his lips.

"Me neither. It's kinda— I don't know, icky."

You knew Carmen avoided big gatherings like this, but they were usually tolerable thanks to people who "knew him" enough to let him hang around their groups in silence while they practically screamed at each other. But his free time just never seemed to align with anyone else worth talking to... until tonight.

"Icky. Couldn't have worded it better," Carmen tried not to laugh at your expense, keeping his tongue between his teeth as both of you fought back a smile.

"You get it! God, anyway—how've you been?" You inched closer to him, resting your chin in your palm as your elbows were propped up on the counter. You made sure to keep your stare on him and only him, glancing from his nose, to his lips, and back into his eyes. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it was too late to stop now.

Carmen paused, his mouth gaping open slightly as he thought of what he could possibly say to convey that he could be doing better, without completely ruining the mood. He sucked his teeth as he took a deep breath, his eyes glued to the floor until he finally looked at you again.

"Alright, I guess. Managing. How're you?"

"Managing. But really though. Like, has anything changed?"

Carmen thought about your question, realizing how much he seemed to relax tonight—while simultaneously being the most nervous he'd ever been outside of work in the last year. Was it being out and public after a long week? Was it the fact that he still felt so stupid for not getting your actual number, and instead only having access to your business email which was provided by your agent? Was it the smell of your perfume? Was it just you?

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, I guess some things have changed."

He couldn't help but awe at the way you did your hair and your makeup that night, appreciating the tiny details your jewelry and purse of choice added to the look. He hardly ever thought twice about the attractive women he'd run into; making small talk and watching them get bored with his interests.

But now you were here; his fantasies, his desires were here, right next to him; wearing a dress that flattered your cleavage and cinched you at the waist, black heels that tapped against the footrest of the barstool. It made his head foggy, and he couldn't even wrap his head around the encounter.

After finishing your Negroni's over the course of 3 separate conversations that left you with a cramp in your side and your cheeks hurting from smiling—basically hitting it off like you were actual friends, you decided to pull the classic...

"You wanna get out of here?"

Two successful, somewhat well known adults in their lines of work were allowed to be human, right? They were allowed to share deep belly laughs with someone they didn't originally plan to see outside of a work setting, right?

Wrong. It was unprofessional, inappropriate, unwarranted: everything you promised you'd never be around him.

Carmen knew this.

But he was eye-fucking you in that goddamn interview. His tattooed hands rubbing against his thighs as he sat in front of you in the white light of that studio, his gentle voice contradicting his large, almost intimidating arms—it was all you could think about when you wrote your thesis. And now you were gonna be alone with him.

And despite his worries, despite the nervous sweat beading on his forehead, despite his growing anticipation when he admired your figure like a horny teenager, Carmen agreed. The smirk on your face and your manicured nails in between your pearly white teeth was convincing enough. He knew it was risky, given the fact that you still wrote for Food & Wine every couple of months: being more than capable of ruining his career with one wrong, but so right move.

"Yeah, actually."

Unprofessional, inappropriate, unwarranted.

Fuck it.

Carmen closed his tab, gently helping you down from the barstool by your hand. You held your purse close to you while waving a shy goodbye to your friends, who were drunkenly squealing in excitement for you. Carmen's peers seemed to be out of sight; therefore, out of mind. You felt your cheeks go hot, every part of your body tingling. Neither of you knew where you were going. Just not here, and not with everyone else.

He couldn't even think about the fact that he would be back in the glowing white light of the kitchen that following Monday, and you completely forgot about the paper you had to start by Sunday night. And it was way too late to care about any of that now.

You decided your apartment was best.

"Fuck.." Carmen grunted under his breath, his eyes hooded while he felt his pants tighten against his throbbing length. He spread his legs wider as you palmed him, trying to ease some of his tension. You hovered over him as he lied down, sprawled out on your leather couch. His hands were clawing at anything he could reach; your hair, your thighs, the straps of your dress until he pulled it down to your hips, and finally the clasp of your bra.

His bare chest heaved, red and covered in sweat. His dress shirt, tie, and jacket were somewhere in the mess of your apartment. He was honestly too desperate to care.

"You okay with me takin' this off?" Carmen whispered as he cupped your cheek, keeping his fingers prepared to unclip your bra with your permission. He admired every inch of your flushed face as he waited for answer.

"Mhm," you soothed him as your hand moved up and unbuttoned his pants the second your lips moved onto his. Saliva pooled in your mouths with every kiss, turning into a sloppy mess of tongue and teeth. Carmen struggled, but eventually tossed your bra onto the living room floor, his mouth just centimeters away from yours as he exhaled heavy breaths.

You sat up straight, pulling Carmen up by his shoulders and smashing your lips back into his. He pulled sway to breathe, taking it upon himself to peel the rest of your dress off. His tattooed hands gently caressed your plush thighs, his calloused fingers sliding under the hem of your lace underwear. He practically worshiped you like this, planting open mouthed kisses along your jawline and neck.

Carmen needed to hear you, feel you, taste you.

"I wanna taste you, if–if that's alright," he placed one last kiss of gratitude on collarbone before he looked up at you through lust-blown, half-lid eyes.

Your entire body began to heat up again, and Carmen's words went straight to your needy cunt. You could feel yourself dripping through your panties while you put a hand over your mouth in embarrassment, nodding frantically.

"Please," you begged, a mixture of a moan and a silent cry escaping. Carmen's hands detached from your thighs, your hips writhing up from the loss of contact. Without another word, he nodded his head, letting his hands travel down your hips as he got down on his knees in front of you.

Carmen took a shaky breath, glancing from your pleading eyes and back down to your bottom half. He hesitated, choosing to plant one more line of kisses from your tits down to your navel before giving you one last look for permission. He put his hand between your inner thighs, asking you to spread further. You blinked slowly while he peeled your panties off of you, wondering if he would notice how wet you already were.

Unprofessional, inappropriate, unwarranted.

Carmen licked his lips, admiring the sight of your puffy slit in hesitation. With your body sprawled out in front of him, your pretty face looking down at him...how could he not eat you out right on that leather couch?

"I've got you, baby," Carmen cooed, his eyes wide as he nearly drooled over the glossy puddle in your underwear. He gently placed your calves over his shoulders, his calloused hands scooping the underside of your thighs.

Carmens wet tongue licked a bold stripe from your hole up to your soaked clit, not a drop of your arousal going to waste. You grew impatient, the kitten licks he gave your sensitive bundle of nerves driving you mad.

"C'mon, Carmy, I—" You whined, pleading that he'd pick up the pace. Carmen decided not to hold back, giving your throbbing clit aggressive sucks that he'd later soothe with slow, flat-tongued licks.

You bit down on your hand while the other entangled in his hair to muffle the sinful noises you made. Carmen felt his stomach turn at the sound of his name falling from your gaping mouth.

Carmen took note of how much you loved his tongue diving into your weeping hole, earning whimpers and cries of "please," and "oh, fuck, Carmen." He groaned into your pussy when you caught a grip on his hair, placing his head even deeper between your thighs. He moved his hands from your thighs and up to your waist—forcing your jerky hips down on the couch. He wanted to make sure you didn't miss a single bit of pleasure.

"Can I.. uh, can I try something?" He stammered, picking his head up with his chin shiny with your liquids as his hand crept back down, prying between your folds. Carmen needed to keep every part of him busy so he wouldn't have to focus on the aching bulge, already leaking precum in his boxers. He felt his thighs clench as he fucking whimpered beneath you.

"S–sure.." You nodded frantically again, tossing your head back as Carmen carefully inserted a digit into your core. You whimpered in slight discomfort as he stretched you out, which he immediately reassured softly.

"Shhh... you're alright. Jus–just relax f'me, yeah?"

Carmen waited until you whined again; his fingers started at an agonizingly slow pace until he heard your moans getting a little too quiet for his liking. He picked his pace up, sliding another thick finger into your hole and ramming into your g-spot. He hesitated, afraid to hurt you—but you quickly dismissed his worries when you urged him that you needed more. Carmen aligned his tongue back with your pussy, sucking hard before comforting your desire with lapping at your clit.

"Oh my god, Carmen," you felt that familiar knot in your stomach, your grip in his hair tightening while your moans grew louder and louder. You didn't care if your neighbors could hear you through the thin walls of your apartment. You didn't even think about what this would look like the morning after—because none of it mattered. Not with Carmen's head between your thighs.

Carmen could tell you were close, prioritizing your pleasure before he could even register how badly he wanted to cum into his boxers. He couldn't help but buck his hips forward, begging for friction while every noise you made just inched him closer to his release... but he needed this to last.

"You close? Let me take care 'f you," he mumbled, breathing heavily against your pussy while he tried his best to stay still. It sent shockwaves through your body, and you tried desperately not to scream his name.

"So... so close.. Fuck, it's too much," your useless protest was cut short by a loud moan, muffled by the sweaty palm of your hand. Your heart pounded in your head as your walls clenched around Carmen's fingers. You weren't used to anything feeling this good in months.

"C'mon baby, you can handle it. You're alright. You're doing so good. Takin' my fingers so fuckin' good," Carmen's raspy voice comforted you. His tongue finally came back to relieve you, his fingers slowing down so as to not overstimulate you, as much as he wanted to.

"Carmy!" Your eyes screwed shut as your thighs shook. You chased your high, practically grinding into his face as his nose bumped your clit while his fingers remained at work.

—

"Jesus..." You panted, grunting in disappointment when you felt Carmen slide his fingers out of you. He licked them clean while your eyes were screwed shut as you tried to recollect yourself. Carmen planted a kiss on your temple the second he sat back up onto the couch, pulling you into his lap by your waist. You felt his erection against your crotch, his already sticky mess combining with your wetness yet again.

"You okay?" Carmen cupped your cheek, pushing any sweaty strands of hair out of your face. And just when he thought he couldn't have felt more proud of you, he melted into the feeling of your lips against his.

You didn't know if you'd ever see him again, you didn't know if this night would magically become niche hot gossip within your respective groups; all you knew was that you wanted him. His lust blown eyes on you, his hands gripping your waist as he bent you over your kitchen counter and fucked you dumb, the sound of sex echoing through your apartment.

Maybe some other Friday night.

[a-libra-writes]

Quick question, but where would you suggest to start researching? I’ve never really done it before, but I want to, but I’m worried I wouldn’t get a reliable resource and only realize it later. Any suggestions?

So Im gonna guess this is gonna refer to historical events and such (bc I mentioned that), BUT I think it can be applied to most research? This is how I go about it!

First, wikipedia article! Obviously they have the sources that you can dig through, but I use it to skim over the general idea (like if it's a war or a type of fashion), and make notes on what I want to focus on. Earlier I was researching how the Ottoman Empire was split up by France and Britain after WWI, and the interesting/turbulent decades of Syria as an independent state following the fall - that's A LOT of complicated shit to go through. So, from there I make a list of what's most interesting to me.

(This may be tough depending on how broad your subject is! "American Civil War" is really broad so maybe pick a very specific aspect that's interesting you the most. The battles? How a specific part of the US was affected? The history of black Northern soldiers vs Southern soldiers? etc etc)

Narrow it down - from "History of the Ottoman Empire", focus on "Post-WW1 Fall of Ottoman Empire and Creation of Turkey" and then what events, documents and people were important to that? Pick like two from each category. More examples - I love queer history, but maybe I want to focus on Queer terminology from 1920-1960. Narrow it down further - "Queer Slang from the 1920s", "History of Queer Clubs In the 1920s", "History of Queer Clubs in Harlem in the 1920s", "and so forth.

I google and use credited websites; it's great when you find the website of a museum that specializes in that or a special article put out. Sometimes what I need is so specific that I'm digging through any link I can find. Again, that gives me more details, but like you said, is it reliable? And even if these articles or websites can get detailed, it may not be exactly what you want.

So! Depending on how deep you wanna get. I love love love non-fiction and if I'm really passionate about the subject, I look into non-fiction books that audible or my library might have. Audiobooks work best for me personally. Auto-biographies are fantastic as well. And if the book has several revised editions, you can be sure it's regularly updated and accurate (usually), as well as check for reviews on the accuracy of the book and author.

Also, documentaries! I went on a kick about the rise of nursing as a proper profession in France from 1900-1950 - very specific! - and Netflix actually had a French-made documentary with english subtitles about it. So interesting! You can find documentaries online and on Youtube. Sometimes Youtube has really interesting videos, and if you're lucky you can get a deep-dive on your chosen subject... but most of the time it's just a 10~20 minute overview video (avoid the videos that are like, "History of This Complex Historical Event or History of X Country in 1-3 Minutes", just. Trash.) Sometimes I get a video that a museum made; they aren't the best production quality but you can tell they're very passionate.

Oh! And ofc Im focusing on historical things, but I also looove to research fashion for specific decades in the US. That's fun because there's quite a few websites where you can get lots of photos of what every day people wore, what was high fashion, esp if it's after the 1900s! Vintage Dancer is one of my favorite websites for the sheer detail of 1920s fashion, with descriptions and photographs.

By this point you probably have a lot of notes and things to cross-reference! So if you get a feeling that something may not be correct or biased, ideally you'll have multiple sources (docs, videos, books) etc to pull from. Again when I'm very serious about a subject I really prefer non-fiction books because they're (supposed to be) rigorously researched and the authors typically spent years on them. I think Youtube and Wikipedia is like your start, documentaries and specific websites/blogs are the middle, and tons of non-fiction or going out to do your own research (look for local museums, ask librarians, etc) is getting deeeeep in that rabbit hole! It's all so interesting and very very fun and just. Gah. I love how terrible and fascinating history is.

[theolsentimes]

Mary-Kate Olsen's Singular Style

She came to fame as a twin, but the actress's cultish look is entirely her own. Here, with Lauren Hutton, she pays homage to another fashion inspiration, Grey Gardens. Written by Laura Brown, with photography by Peter Lindbergh (Harper's Bazaar, 2007)

VIEW GALLERY

Mary-Kate Olsen may be the only young actress who breezes into her local Starbucks wearing towering, fashion-fierce Balenciaga boots, who arrives at her latest premiere (in Mary-Kate's case, for the new season of Showtime's Weeds, in which she plays a devout Christian with a pot fetish) sporting an oversize cross, and whose favorite band is Led Zeppelin. She may, in fact, be the only young actress who knows who Led Zeppelin is. MK, as she is known to her friends and family, is also a punctual and professional sort. She arrives for a poolside tea in Los Angeles 10 minutes early, ordering a hot chocolate while explaining her fetish for all things sweet — "I'm a candy girl, like Tootsie Rolls and Swedish Fish" — and objecting when the waiter tries to take the sugar bowl away. She is wearing a nautical striped T-shirt (her mom's, from the '70s), tucked into two black Wolford slips rolled down and turned into a tight, Robert-Palmer-video-style mini, and multicolored sparkly Christian Louboutin stilettos. She's just had her hair colored, returning to a sunnier shade after some experiments with both peroxide ("I woke up one morning and was like, I want white-trash hair today") and the dark side (an auburn-haired near-Goth moment last year). She's carrying a large black fringed leather Prada tote — she doesn't do small bags — and her fingers are covered with rings, most notably two vintage coiled gold snakes stacked on top of each other. ("They remind me of twins, sort of double headed.") Altogether, the effect is less her famed "bag-lady chic" than an edgy, body-conscious, and, yes, sexy silhouette. If she weren't 21, she could be 40. And French.

Few people need reminding that Mary-Kate — with her twin sister, Ashley — literally crawled into celebrity aged nine months (courtesy of Full House) and has not been out of the spotlight ever since. She has been a celebrity for more than two decades. Perhaps that's one reason she seems as if she came out of the womb worldly, the textbook old soul. "Yeah," she says with a small shrug. "I get that a lot." With all of that attention and all of the money (her and Ashley's company, Dualstar, has famously become a "billion-dollar business"), Mary-Kate could easily have ended up the type who wears pink terry cloth and carries a variety of small dogs. "Could you imagine?" she says with the politest version of a snort. "No way." She credits her exceptionally close-knit family (she has five siblings) and, interestingly, early stardom with helping her keep her perspective. "I think it helped that I started in front of the camera, so it didn't come as a shock. If I was a teenager and was thrown into the spotlight, I don't know how I would react, to be honest." Though the tabloids are all too keen to brand her a skinny, nervous deer in the headlights, in person Mary-Kate is easy in her skin, confident and surprisingly tactile, curling up in her seat and touching you on the arm to make a point. She laments the generic style of most actresses and cites only men as style inspirations: "Heath Ledger, Johnny Depp. Men, they just dress the way they want, and they don't think about Who Wore It Best." She doesn't much care for Who Wore It Best, noting she avoids those pages by "wearing vintage so often. I just dress the way I feel instead of looking for what's the new handbag." If Mary-Kate and Ashley have their way, more people will be wearing clothes and carrying bags the way they do. They have just shown the fifth collection of their ready-to-wear line, the Row, and recently launched a contemporary label, Elizabeth and James, named after a sister and a brother. The Row's holiday collection (in stores next month) is a slick mix of skinny leather pants, razor-cut blazers, butter-soft, slouchy tees, and a destined-to-be-cultish pullover fur. Lauren Hutton, who stars in the Row's Spring '08 look book, says, "The clothes are extraordinary. A man I was with just loved them. The pieces are just so genius, soft like a baby's skin. Simple minimalist stuff, but really spectacular." Mary-Kate, designer, faces an interesting challenge. She has to marry Dualstar — which has made its fortune selling tween-tastic DVDs and pastel Mary-Kate and Ashley T-shirts at Wal-Mart — with her increasingly edgy and subversive taste. Dualstar executives, some of whom have worked with her since she was a child, often nag her, mom-style, about pulling her hair back "or wearing a color," she says with a laugh. "I had this event recently, and I was like, They're going to be so happy that I'm wearing ... purple. I actually have to think about those things, though, you know, so I don't get trashed." Get trashed sometimes she does. Hutton says, "Once in a while, she'll wear something and I'll think, Oh, baby doll, take another look. But to have the bravery, to take the chance to do that, is pretty wonderful. She is making her own way, which is hardly ever done in Hollywood." Of Mary-Kate's penchant for gigantic Balenciaga heels, Jenji Kohan, the creator of Weeds, says, laughing, "I'd be like, 'It's Tuesday. Do you really want to be wearing those shoes?' But she pulls it off." Designer Giambattista Valli, a friend, says, "She likes to take risks, but because she has such strong personal style, she always manages to make it work. Even if she had nothing on, she'd have style." And MK chic is spreading. "Sometimes I'll look at people or at a magazine and I'll do a double take because I'm like, Oh, my God, that's my outfit, but that's not me," Mary-Kate says. Playing with her wire-rimmed aviators, she jokes wryly that she should have bought shares in Ray-Ban. (She and Chloë Sevigny pretty much brought back white '80s Wayfarers.) She tends to fall in love with a look, then wear it until she's done. "If I put together a good outfit, I'll wear it for three days and then switch it up with a blazer," she says. "I still love my vintage jeans, my tights, and my pants, though." She didn't start wearing heels, in fact, until a couple of years ago: "I kept watching Ashley walk around in them so gracefully, and I'm such a klutz. But I ended up loving heels, and I don't usually take them off." She wears precisely one pair of flat shoes: Chanel's knee-high patent-leather gladiator sandals. This season, it's Balenciaga's fall collection — all of it — that has Mary-Kate obsessed. She is close to designer Nicolas Ghesquière and says, "He is so talented, but he's the nicest, most down-to-earth guy, and that makes everything he does more brilliant. I bought everything, but I haven't got anything yet," she says like a girl impatiently waiting for Christmas. Will she wear the new pieces with her infamous clodhopper boots? "Uh-huh. Wore them the other day, actually." Mary-Kate always goes with her gut, even if some people (back to those tabloids) don't quite get it. "The tabloids say things about me? What do they say?" she asks archly. "People are going to write what they want, and everyone's going to have their own idea of who I am. But I'm not trying to be friends with the people who are reading them, really." After a rough couple of years filled with near-forensic scrutiny of her weight, she'll have you know that she does eat. "This is not going to sound good," she laughs, "but I like making crispy tofu sticks with peanut sauce. I love my sashimi and my salmon and my vegetables." She observes, "Stress plays a big role in how I look day-to-day. I've always been very active — Pilates, yoga. I grew up horseback riding every day for hours. I love dancing. I usually last longer than anyone on the dance floor." A common image of Mary-Kate has her emerging from a coffee joint with an oversize cup. "I always get creamed for having my Starbucks cup," she says, sighing. "But the only time people get photos of me is when I'm getting coffee, when I can't sneak away from the camera." She also resents the pictorial implication that she and Ashley are dilettantes. "They take photos of us going into our offices, and it's 'Mary-Kate and Ashley shopping again.' But I'm going to work for eight hours, and we're working so hard. ..." She trails off. "It just shows how people want to think of you." Mary-Kate is not above celeb watching herself, however. Newly obsessed with Victoria Beckham, she notes she avidly watched Beckham's Coming to America documentary: "She's running around in a bikini and heels, and I'm like, Oh, my God! I do that, too!" How positively Grey Gardens. "I run around my house naked with heels all the time. It's so funny. All my friends will tell you I love running around in kimonos and jewelry or naked with jewelry." More people will be watching Mary-Kate soon, thanks to her role in the Emmy-nominated Weeds. "I am a very good Christian girl," she says with a wink. "She has her moral beliefs — and she happens to smoke pot." Of her newest cast member, Kohan adds, "Mary-Kate is complicated. She's a big celebrity, a huge media icon, but you have to separate the media images from someone who has the same issues, the same desires, as anyone else." Of course, Mary-Kate's image, in all its incarnations — from high fashion to small screen — is her strongest asset. And she has yet to settle on one. "I feel like I've lived 10 different lives already and I'm only 21," she says, almost as a reminder to herself. "But I also feel like I'm entering a new chapter." One thing on which she is clear, though: She doesn't need to be looked at all the time. What would she do for a day if she were invisible? "I would probably go to a restaurant with my friends, who would be able to see me, of course," she adds pragmatically, "and I would sit outside and enjoy a nice lunch with them. Then I would walk down the street." The old soul takes a sip of her little-girl-sweet hot chocolate. "That's what I would do."

[marzipanandminutiae]

1/2 I collect vintage UK girls' comic books, a format with a lot of haunted doll stories. One that's stuck in my mind is about a girl who is restoring a set of dolls where each one embodies a negative personality trait (not seven deadly sins exactly, because 1) they probably wanted to make more than seven episodes, and 2) I imagine a lust themed doll wouldn't be suitable for kids). Was that ever a thing actual Victorian doll makers did, I mean making series of dolls around a theme?

2/2 I liked that story because it was surprisingly subtle and open ended - while the girl's personality seems to change depending on which doll she's working on, nobody else is affected, suggesting it might be normal adolescent mood swings or a superstitious protagonist basically jinxing herself, and nothing supernatural whatsoever. I mean, you don't often see that kind of nuance in media for the 8-12 age bracket!

Interesting story!

I’m not aware of any 19th-century western dolls themed around vices or virtues, personally. Themed series were a thing, but you usually see more concrete themes- 18th century court fashions were trendy for French lady dolls of the 1850s-1890s, for example. The Jumeau company did a series of dolls dressed like historical queens of France in the last few years of the century. Dolls in theatrical costumes from popular productions show up sometimes. Others were series of “character” dolls with faces molded to be more realistic than the highly stylized norm, sometimes with distinct expressions like crying faces or broad grins. 

(that last concept runs the gamut from “cool!” to “OH GOD WHY,” as you might expect)

What you do see a lot of are stories in magazines that teach moral lessons using dolls, whether through doll’s-eye view narratives or stories about how children interact with their dolls. I’ve looked specifically at how my beloved French fashion dolls are discussed in contemporary media, and seen many stories about a Snobby Paris Doll(TM) being taken down a peg. 

Including multiple examples with the moral “don’t be racist,” which is surprising coming from the 1870s. And tempered slightly by the fact that a lot of the stories use cartoonish stereotypes and/or the N-word. One step forward, two steps back. Anyway.

Dolls were also used to teach selflessness- as in one story where a little girl auctions off all her toys to buy a nice present for her Papa, though the buyers secretly resolve to give them all back later. Or to discourage materialism, with loads of “but the old battered doll was really the best!” endings. Or to emphasize the development of maternal instincts, like a certain 1874 smarm-fest about a little girl who promptly locks away her horrid, decadent French lady doll when given a “real baby doll” by her mother and meddling aunt.

The idea of a series of dolls modeled on negative traits being used to counteract said traits isn’t something I’ve encountered, IRL or in children’s literature of the 19th century, However, it’s certainly not out of keeping with other things that were written back then!

[isitgintimeyet]

Just A Friend

And onto the next chapter. Thanks for your support for this story, it means a lot to me.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta.

Hope you enjoy the next chapter

AO3

Previous

Chapter 8: From Dresses to Disco

I don’t have a huge wardrobe but, generally, I can lay hands on an outfit for most situations. For work, if I’m not in scrubs, I tend to wear plain black trousers and a shirt; for relaxing, I have more than enough jeans, leggings and comfy sweaters; for holidays, I have the usual range of shorts, t-shirts and sundresses.

I realise as I flick through the hangers in my wardrobe that what I am missing are outfits in the ‘dinner-dance-purely-platonic-plus-one’ category. And, what’s more, I don’t actually know how formal this thing is going to be.

Jamie was no use at all when I spoke to him about it.

“What sort of thing will your sister be wearing?” I asked as we met for coffee and a bacon sandwich two days ago.

“I dinna ken. A dress?” He hazarded a guess, looking a bit perplexed that I would even ask him.

“Long or short?” I persisted.

“Yes.”

“Well, which? Long or short?”

“Aye, one of them.”

“What are you wearing then... kilt? Black tie? Lounge suit?” This might give me a clue as to the dress code.

“I dare say I’ll be wearing a suit and tie.”

And that was as much assistance as I got from him.

I make the decision to go short. Partly because I don’t want to feel overdressed on Saturday, but mainly because the only long dress I have in my possession was purchased for a university Medics’ ball in 2008. And it’s crinkly satin with a side split and a wide leather belt that went with an over the top diamanté headband around my forehead.

Obviously, I will never wear it again, but I’m loath to part with it anyway. It reminds me of my time at university. Plus, it may come in handy… for a fancy dress party perhaps?

********

Geillis has decided, on the spur of the moment, to ‘jes’ pop ‘round fer a wee glass of wine’. That’s just a cover. What she actually wants is a ‘wee glass of wine’ while supervising my dress selection.

She takes a sip and reclines on my bed, casting a critical eye as I pull a few dresses out of my wardrobe and lay them next to her.  She’s not giving much away as she continues to study them.

“Well?” I stand at the end of the bed and stare at her, waiting for her comments.

“I canna give ye ma answer ‘till I’ve seen them all,” she replies.

“That’s it. That’s all my fancy evening dresses.”

She stares at me in disbelief, before gazing once more at the three dresses displayed on the bed.

“Ye dinna have any more cocktail dresses, then?”

I shake my head. “‘Fraid not. When I go cocktail drinking, I tend to wear something more casual. There’s not a great call for fancy frocks when it’s two for one cocktails at the ‘Slug and Lettuce’.”

She sighs very loudly and grimaces. We’ve had these conversations often enough over the years. She despairs about my lack of interest in fashion. It’s true, I can’t tell a Marc Jacobs from a Marks and Spencer. Well, I possibly could, but you get my drift. I tried to be fashionable back in 2008 and look where it got me— wearing a dress that resembled a sweetie wrapper with a headband that brought me out in a rash.

I sometimes wonder if the real reason that she has asked me to be a bridesmaid has less to do with being best friends and more to do with being able to control what I’m going to wear. I’m joking of course, it’s because we’re best friends— Geillis choosing my dress is just an added perk for her.

“So, I think ye wear this one.” She gets up, moves me to one side and quickly rifles through the wardrobe, giving a cry of triumph as she finds what she’s looking for.

I knew it—I knew she would remember that dress. She was with me when I bought it— a late night Sauvignon Blanc fuelled online purchase. She describes it as my “hello boys” dress. I’ve never worn it and this is not the occasion for its inaugural outing.

I mean, it’s a lovely dress— black with an off the shoulder bardot neckline and very, very form fitting. But totally not the message I want to send to Jamie.

I shake my head. “Nope… no way. Not that one.”

I point instead to a dress lying on the bed, originally bought for a hospital fundraiser last year. It’s very nice and infinitely more suitable— black with sparkly red splodges; a slight v neck and fitted bodice going into a flared skirt. It even has pockets.

Geillis raises her hands in exasperation. “Fine. Have it yer way. But, Claire, do ye no’ want tae mebbe try it?”

I grab the dress from her and stuff it back in the wardrobe, ignoring her last comment. But she doesn’t give up so easily.

“See what could happen, eh?”

I turn to face her. “I know what could happen. He’ll think that I’m after him and that I’ll be it. End of friendship.”

“But mebbe—“

I interrupt her. “No maybe about it. Besides all this is missing the point. I want Jamie in my life as a friend, the same way that you and Mary and Anna are in my life. I don’t want anything more from him. I don’t need any romance. Can you understand that?”

“Aye but—“

She’s still not willing to drop the subject and I’ve had enough. I drain my glass of wine and start to walk out of the bedroom.

“No buts. That’s it. Just drop it, please.” At the doorway, I pause. “Now, do you want another glass?”

She starts to follow me. “Of course. And sorry,Claire, I dinna mean tae annoy ye. It’s jes’—“ she stops herself before saying anymore.

“Ok... Shall we order a takeaway,then?”

As I head into the living room, with Geillis following, I’m pretty sure I can hear her muttering under her breath about taking chances.

***************

Jamie said he would pick me up at seven. I’m clearly still working on Frank time, as I’m ready with fifteen minutes to spare. I perch on the edge of a chair, trying not to crease my dress, smudge my mascara or run my fingers through my hair.

I must admit, I have enjoyed the whole formal dressing up process. It’s not something I do too often— my socialising tends to be of a more relaxed nature. But this makes a welcome change.

With five minutes to spare, the bell rings. I gather up my pashmina and clutch bag and make my way downstairs, my high heeled sandals making a clacking sound against the old floor tiles.

Jamie is waiting outside, next to his old french blue Triumph Stag sports car. Like he said, he’s wearing a suit—dark grey instead of his usual navy blue. Still with a white shirt and a rust coloured paisley tie. His auburn curls nestle against his jacket collar. He looks immaculate.

In a parody of a chauffeur, he touches his forelock, bows and opens the passenger door for me. “M’lady,” he adds with his customary half grin.

“Thank you, Parker,” I reply primly and arrange my skirt under me as he scoots around to the driver side.

I do like this car. It’s old, a bit threadbare in places and smells slightly of damp. But it positively oozes vintage style and glamour. Fortunately the hardtop is on as the clouds are gathering ominously overhead.

“I thought we were getting a taxi. Are you not drinking?” I ask as he starts to drive.

Keeping his eyes on the road, he snorts with laughter. “No’ drinking? What kind of rugby ‘do’ d’ye think this is? No, I’ll leave the car at the club and we can get a taxi, if that’s ok wi’ ye.”

We drive on in silence for a couple of miles. Not an awkward silence, just a we-don’t-really-have-to -make-small-talk kind of silence.

“I’d have thought you’d be wearing a kilt tonight.” I comment.

“Hmm, weel, I do like tae wear it fer special occasions, but, when the rugby lads get together, who kens what can happen. Trousers tend tae be the safer option.”

“You could always wear underpants,” I suggest.

He looks horrified at the suggestion. “Dinna be saying that tae a true Scot, Sassenach.”

“I consider myself suitably chastised.”

“Glad ye realise that.” He smiles and changes the subject totally. “Sae, on our table this evening, there’ll be ma sister Jenny and her husband Ian, and Rupert, ye ken Rupert, and his wife Morag.”

“Oh, so you know Rupert— outside of work, I mean.”

“Aye, we grew up together. And Ian too. Mind, he was a couple of years older than Rupert and me— same age as Jenny—and always used tae follow her around like a wee pup. I’ve only known Morag a couple of years though. She’s nice but verra quiet. She lets Rupert do most of the talking.”

“I liked Rupert.”

“He’s a great bloke. Best decision I made, asking him tae join me at FraserFoods. Ian’s a great bloke too. Ye’ll like him.”

Jamie pulls the car into the rugby club car park,  and switches the engine off. He sits still for a moment, staring through the windscreen. I can hear music coming from the large marquee lit up with lanterns and residing on one of the rugby pitches. Even though it’s early in the evening, there’s plenty of raucous laughter coming from that direction too. No doubt the bar has already seen plenty of action.

“Well?” I elbow him in the ribs.

“Sorry. I was jes’ thinking about how best tae describe Jenny.” He turns and smiles. “She’s the best sister a chap could want and a true friend— once she gets tae know ye. She can be a wee bit, shall we say, prickly, at first. And she thinks she kens what’s best fer me, as only a big sister can. She thinks ma life is no’ complete… no’ wi’out a wife and a couple of bairns.”

“Have you explained that this isn’t a date… that we’re friends?”

“Aye, I’ve told her that,” he gives a little laugh and nods his head towards the marquee.  “Sae she’ll most likely be in there right now scouring the place fer any suitable contenders.”

He gets out of the car and is at the passenger door before I’ve had a chance to unfasten my seatbelt and gather my pashmina around my shoulders.

“M’lady,” resuming the chauffeur role, he opens the door for me.

I clamber out, somewhat ungainly and wait as he locks the car. Even with my highest heels on, I still have to crane my neck to look at him as he stands up straight and adjusts his jacket.

“Shall we?” He gestures the marquee with his hand.

“God, yes. I could do with a gin and tonic. I’m parched.” Plus, I reckon I need a stiff drink or two down my throat before I meet Jenny. She sounds formidable.

“C’mon then.” And he leads the way into the marquee.

[trashyswitch]

Janus and Patton's Vintage Tea Party

Janus set up a vintage tea party and decided to invite Patton since they still needed to get to know each other. The tea party turns out less traditional, and more fun! Like a party's supposed to be.

I hope you enjoy! This was an idea that came in mind when I was listening to vintage music.

For @kennabelee

It was a day that filled the ground with buckets and buckets of rain. The rain just refused to stop, forcing everyone to be stuck inside. Most of the sides were bored. Even Patton was growing bored! And Patton LOVED the rain! The only one that hadn’t been bored for a second and actually loved the rain, was Janus.

Janus had been trying on old fashioned dresses and outfits. But his favorite dress was the long, black dress he was currently wearing with a large hat, a shawl and a pair of high heels. He looked perfect and very formal and prideful! He was even gonna tell the truth: he looked really good! And he even felt like dancing!

Not only that, but Janus invited Patton to come over in his nice attire so they could dance together if they so pleased! And no person in their right passes up an opportunity to dance!

And Patton would never pass up an opportunity like this! Patton was ready at the door with a navy suit, a light blue shirt underneath and a cute little kitten bowtie! Even though he swayed away from the ‘old fashioned’ aspect a little, he most definitely looked cute as a button!

Patton walked to Janus’s room with a bouquet of pretty red lilies. He knocked on the door and was greeted by the gorgeous sight of Janus in his dress. “Good morning Patton, and welcome to my humble abode.” Janus greeted.

Patton giggled. “Thank you!” Patton was welcomed in. “I brought you flowers!” Patton told him, showing him the lilies.

“My goodness they’re very pretty.” Janus reacted genuinely. “Red lilies!”

Patton smiled. “They’re actually called “Janus’s”, if you would believe!” Patton told him. “They’re a hybrid of Asiatic Lilies, and Chimera’s!” Patton explained.

Janus widened his eyes. “Janus’s?” He asked, taking them from him gently. “I was unaware there were flowers named after me.” He admitted. “Thank you so much, Patton. I shall put them into a vase.” Janus said as he grabbed a vase from the china cabinet. “Make yourself at home, my friend. Me casa es su casa.” Janus told him, speaking a little spanish.

Patton smiled and looked around the room. Wow! The room was spectacularly...Victorian era!

“Oh...I didn’t exactly dress Victorian…” Patton admitted.

“Blueberry bun, your outfit suits you perfectly. Putting yourself down however, doesn’t suit you in the slightest.” Janus ordered him calmly.

Patton widened his eyes and blushed a little. “I...thank you.”

Janus picked up a teacup. “Tea? Or coffee?” Janus asked.

“Coffee!” Patton sat down and started gently kicking in his chair.

Janus giggled at this and poured him a cup of coffee. Patton put in the cream and ample amounts of sugar, before drinking it. “Mmmmm! Coffee!” Patton reacted.

Janus chuckled. “Coffee? More like sugar milk.” Janus teased.

“Oh hush, mr. Dark-Roast.” Patton teased with a smirk.

Janus smirked. “I see you brought more than just your giggles to the tea party.” Janus teased.

Patton giggled and nodded. “Of course I did! I brought the whoooole package~” Patton joked.

Janus wheezed and leaned over. He bursted out laughing, completely losing his calm composure, and covered his mouth with his fist.

Patton smiled and drank his coffee, feeling quite proud of himself.

Janus turned on some vintage music and offered Patton his hand. “Care to dance?” Janus asked.

Patton nodded and grabbed it. “Of course!”

Patton and Janus started to dance together, swaying and moving to the 40’s and 50’s music that played in the background. It felt so nice! It wasn’t too soothing that it could put you to sleep, but it wasn’t too quick that slow dancing wasn’t possible. It was just the right tempo. It was the perfect dancing music for a tea party.

Patton was holding onto Janus’s hip with one hand, and holding onto Janus’s hand with the other. Janus’s left hand was intertwined with Patton’s, while his other hand was holding onto Patton’s shoulder. The music was slow with the violin mostly holding the tune while the voice sang its melody.

Suddenly a bunch of jazzy trumpets and saxophones started playing a quick tune!

Janus groaned and mentally cursed at the computer that the music was coming from, while Patton laughed and giggled at the sudden change of pace. Feeling all groovy and ready to swing, Patton started showing off his charleston dance! “Look, Janus! I learned the Charleston just for this dance!” Patton declared.

Janus giggled and joined in. He started doing the duet parts of the Charleston with him, which made it even better! Patton squealed and whooed through the whole thing, expressing all his excitement!

“Not bad, not bad Patton!” Janus reacted.

“Thank you Jay Jay!” Patton replied.

“Don’t call me Jay Jay.” Janus ordered calmly.

“Okay...Jay jay.” Patton teased.

Janus sighed as he lifted Patton up and gave his sides a quick squeeze. “Patton squealed at the squeeze and lifted his knees up to his chest. “HEhehey! That tickles, Jay!” Patton giggled.

Janus squeezed his side again, earning another squeal. “Keep calling me Jay or Jay Jay, and I might just keep tickling you.” Janus warned.

Patton smirked and started poking his side. “You wouldn’t, would you? Would you really, Jay Jay? Huh? Huh? Huh huh huh?” Patton kept going.

Janus finally lifted Patton into his arms and started skittering and squeezing all over his belly and sides. “No, I totally wouldn’t!”

Patton bursted out laughing and squirmed in his arms. “NAHAHAHAHA! JAHAHAHAY- JAHAHAHAN!” Patton laughed.

“Ooooh! You just LOOOVE cruisin’ for a bruisin’, huh?” Janus teased before blowing a raspberry on his neck.

Patton bursted out in fits of cackles as the music started changing to something different.

“Now: Are you done being a wet rag?” Janus asked as he dipped him. “Cause I can do this aaaaall night.” Janus added.

In response to that: Patton poked right near his belly button. “Nope!”

Janus jumped and just about dropped Patton. “oOHOHOHOHO! That was close!” Patton reacted.

Janus narrowed his eyes at Patton as he gave him an evil, playful smirk. He started clawing at Patton’s belly while Patton was still dipped in his arm. Patton bursted out laughing and squirmed around in Janus’s arm. “EEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE! NUUUHUHUHUHUHU!”

“Nooooo what? No more tickle tickle tickles? But why? I think you waaaant them!” Janus teased. “Am I right? Or am I right?” Janus asked.

Patton snorted and covered his mouth. “MM MM! MMMMM-HMHMHMHMHM!” Patton hummed cutely into his hand.

“Ooooh! What’s so delicious? Are you hungry for le chocolat gateau avec le creme chocolat?” Janus asked, speaking french while spinning the curly mustache he lacked.

Patton laughed at his cute little sense of humor and nodded. “Okay!”

Janus lifted the boy up, placed him into a chair and grabbed the cake from the fridge while the music continued to play. “I am very happy to announce that I managed to nail the recipe on the second try.” Janus told him as he placed the cake holder into the middle of the table.

WHOA...the cake made Patton’s mouth water within the first glance! The cake looked delicious! And it had strawberries on top, which added to the light brown color!

‘Mmmmm! Gimme some of that!’ Patton thought.

Janus sawed a clean cut into the cake and lifted it out. Gosh, even the inner spongy cake looked scrumptious! Janus had placed the cake onto its side on the plate, when he looked up and snickered at Patton’s face. His mouth was open, and drooling like a tap from the look of the cake. “Now now…” Janus handed him a napkin. “That’s not very manly of you~” Janus teased.

Patton closed his mouth and took the napkin. “Sorry. It just looks…” Patton’s mouth opened as his eyes dilated like a cat’s eyes. “-Delicious.” Patton said in a mesmerized voice.

Janus giggled and handed him the cake piece and picked up some access cream with his fork. “Open wide~”

Patton nodded and allowed Janus to put the cream into his mouth. Patton hummed and just about melted into a puddle from pure happiness. The taste was even better than it looked! HOW?! How was Janus able to pull this off so well?! Patton hummed and smiled brightly. “That cream is so good!”

Janus smiled proudly. “Thank you! Telling by your reaction, I think I may have a piece of cake myself.” Janus decided. Janus cut himself some chocolate gateau and placed it onto a floral glass dessert plate. Janus grabbed a dessert fork, picked up some cake and cream, and put it into his own mouth.

WHOA...He didn’t expect that much sweetness! It tasted amazing but...It was so rich! Almost sickeningly rich!

But Janus took one look at Patton and just about choked on his cake. “Pahahahat! You have cream everywhere!” Janus reacted.

Patton looked up, revealing his coated chin and jaw. “Huh?”

Janus wheezed at this and handed him a napkin. “Good heavens…”

Patton stuck his crumb-covered tongue out and cleaned his face off. “Heaven is definitely a word to describe this cake!” Patton declared.

Janus smiled and picked up Patton. “Would you describe this as heavenly too?” Janus laid Patton onto the bed and started squeezing and tickling his ribs. “Tickle tickle tickle tickle tickle!”

Patton giggled and snorted as he squirmed in his grip. “HEEhehehHEHEhehehe! AHAHAHA- YEHEHehehehess! Tihihihickles are heheavenlyyyyYYY!” Patton declared.

Janus smiled brightly. “Awwww, that’s so cute!” Janus stopped for a moment. “No wonder everyone loves you. They can’t take their thoughts off your cuteness!” Janus added.

Patton giggled into his own hands. He wrapped his hands around Janus’s neck...he leaned in and…

Blew a BIG raspberry onto his neck! “PAYBACK!”

Janus squealed and tried to back up out of his grip. But Patton only followed him and wrapped his hands around his belly. “I’m gonna do it! IIIIII’m gonna do it!” Patton teased.

“No! NO! Anywhere but there!” Janus begged.

“Too baaaad~” Patton singsonged as he leaned in. He blew a few short little raspberries onto Janus’s belly and took in another deep breath.

“AAAH! Pahahahahahahaha! Wahahait- NO! NOT ANOTHER!” Janus begged.

Patton ignored his pleas and blew about a dozen separate raspberries all over Janus’s belly. “A tickle tickle tickle tickle tickle! Jay Jay!” Patton teased, using the same teasing method that got the tickle fight started in the first place.

“Are you asking to be wrecked?” Janus asked.

Patton looked away with a huge smile on his face. “Mmmmmaaaaaaybe~”

Janus didn’t waste a second. He picked up Patton by his waist, lifted him up, and started squeezing his sides as he was lifted.

Instinctually, Patton started squirming around. But Janus stopped his tickle attack. “I have a challenge for you:” Janus grabbed his waist and started swaying back and forth with Patton’s back against his chest. “If you cover up the fact that I’m tickling you while we’re dancing,” Janus gave his sides a squeeze, making Patton jump before continuing, “Then I’ll give you another piece of chocolate gateau.” Janus offered.

Patton widened his eyes and smiled triumphantly. He was surely up for a challenge! “Bring it on, Janus!”

Janus smiled at this reaction and turned on some more slow dancing vintage music. Patton swayed with Janus, feeling calm and content, yet adrenaline-filled as he knew, Janus could strike at any moment.

As the chorus started, Janus dug his finger into his hip. Patton squealed and doubled over instinctively, but got right back up. For the cake, for the cake, for the cake!

Janus lifted Patton up once, and didn’t tickle him at all. As he danced, Patton would fall into a mesmerizing rhythm. But his focus would be paused by Janus’s surprise squeezes and surprise tickles. There was just no getting into a rhythm with this guy!

Patton would giggle and jump, but he would never squirm around for fear of losing his privilege of cake. He was gonna do anything for that cake. Even suppress his need to laugh loudly.

Janus had the ultimate upper hand. He was the one that could decide when Patton would be tickled and when Patton would be given breaks. It was great for Janus and almost torturous for Patton. But boy, did Patton love the feeling of not knowing! It exhilarated him! Kept him going!

Patton squealed as Janus squeezed his sides one last time. And when the song ended…

Janus dipped Patton and blew a raspberry onto his belly as a grand finale.

Patton bursted out in cackles and finally allowed himself to squirm and wiggle himself about. He had finally made it and this was the last one. He minus well let it all out!

Janus finally stopped and poured Patton a glass of water from a pitcher. Patton slowly got himself up and walked to the table, where Janus placed the glass of water at Patton’s side of the table. “There you go. Drink up Patton.” Janus ordered softly.

Patton nodded and took the glass. “Thank you!”

“And for your participation in the silliness:” Janus handed him a precut piece of chocolate gateau. “Another slice of cake. You are getting utterly spoiled by Ms. Janny over here.” Janus said.

Patton giggled and clapped his hands before taking the cake. “Thank you!” Patton started digging into the cake almost immediately…

Not without giving Janus a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much Janus!” Patton told him. “Welcome to the loved sides!”

Janus smiled. “It’s awful already.” Janus said, smiling to show he was joking around.

Patton chuckled at that. Yes...certainly so awful.

[100layersofdaddyissues]

Angel - Chapter 2

Here is chapter 2 of angel, i hope it satiates you fiends.

Warnings: smut, conspiracy around death, swearing

this was co-written and edited by my main bitch @bonjour-je-mappelle-fuckyou

  It had been days and you’d neither seen nor heard from Maxwell, you were beginning to worry that he had forgotten you in this big apartment, worrying that you had quit your job and left your home just for him to forget that you’d agreed to an arrangement with him, but hey, at least he forgot you in this apartment, and not your old one. He wasn’t asking for rent, Darius had brought you groceries the morning you had gone to your apartment to get the rest of your belongings, you reckon you were good for at least a few weeks before you ran out of food.

             As you pondered how long it would be until someone kicked you out or you starved you heard a short knock on the door, well it looks like you might last a few more weeks than you’d anticipated.

            You opened the door to see Darius standing there, tall and proud, “good morning Miss, I’ve been instructed to take you shopping for some new clothes, it seems Maxwell has anticipated your start at his Lord Industries this coming Monday and I’ve been told to show you the dress code of such a company, though with us both knowing Maxwell like we do I’m sure you could assume.” Ahh so he hadn’t forgotten you, that’s a good sign. 

 “Darius please, if you keep calling me miss, I'll start calling you sir and I don’t think either of us would prefer that. Y/N is a fine name and I think I would like to hear it more often. And yes, I’m sure I could assume the dress code Max ‘requires’ though I’m sure most of my clothes would suit that.”

            Darius let a short puff of air out of his nose, what you had come to know as him laughing apparently. “while that is true miss- ahh sorry Y/N, the man is loaded and quite frankly a scoundrel, let’s go load up for the sake of it, I’m sure you would appreciate a new pair of boots, the ones I met you didn’t see you have any arch support.” He had a slight smirk on his face as he spoke to you. 

 “Darius that’s scandalous, also leave my Docs out of this, they might as well be vintage, my mother bought them in the UK in the 60s” you said looking down at your cherry red docs, which had obviously seen way more than they should have. 

 “Ahh so they’re definitely provided no support, your poor feet, we must amend this. Come on, get dressed in the next ten minutes or I’m going to drag you out of this door by those frayed laces.” 

 While it sounded harsh, the tone of his voice and the expression accompanied let you know that he was joking with you, he could be quite cheeky as you’d noticed the first night you met him, although he acted quite different in front of Max, in fact he didn’t act like anything in front of Max, he was silent, if you couldn’t see him you’d assume the car drove itself. The demeanor change between them concerned you slightly. 

 “Alright no need to get violent, I’ll be just a sec.”

             When Darius told you that you’d be going shopping you’d assumed you’d be going to a mall, so it confused you completely when you drove past the mall you’d shopped at so many times, only for him to drive into the rich side of town, the streets were lined with high end fashion stores and boutique cafes, and oh look at that, more illegible French on restaurant windows.

             Walking around this part of town in a miniskirt and a boxy blouse felt wrong, you really didn’t fit in here. Darius led the way, practically pulling you into stores, seemingly knowing every sales assistant in each shop, it made you slightly insecure, how many times had Darius brought someone like you to go shopping, you weren’t used to being one of many. Most of the men you previously had arrangements with had only been involved with you, and the occasional wife, (yes they know don’t look at yourself with such disdain), it didn’t sit well with you that you might be sharing Max’s affections.

             You tried on dress after skirt after blouse after horrible blazers with those horrible shoulder pads. God you missed the trends of the 70s. You really didn’t know what you were looking for, thankfully Darius had been leading the expedition, telling the assistants which clothes you would be requiring. Each time they took the item to the checkout you felt a sense of guilt, it was really starting to pile up, finally after a particularly hideous ensemble consisting of cheetah print, neon green and you guessed, shoulder pads, Darius called time, deciding that you had both racked up quite the amount on Max’s card, (though you really don’t think you could take any of the credit, or blame.)

             “Y/N I don’t mean to intrude but you’ve been uncharacteristically quiet through the last few stores, is there something wrong?” honestly you didn’t know if there is although you couldn’t deny your silence was out of place. “yeah of course I’m fine, I just get overwhelmed when shopping, that’s all, it's no big deal, it was nice that you knew everyone.” You paused for only a moment contemplating whether you should ask your next question but before you could even stop yourself our mouth was spewing out the words, “how did you know everyone by the way?”

             “Before I was Mr. Lord’s driver, I was a driver to Mrs. Lord. No, no it's not what you think. Maxwell and marriage aren’t two words that go in the same sentence. Mrs. Lord was his mother. She was quite the shopper and not the talker. So, while she was trying on clothes, I made friends with the clerks. It made both our times much more pleasant around her Highness.” somehow and for some reason it eased you to know that it was Maxwell’s mother that made the connection and not a line of women preceding you. 

             “What is Mrs. Lord like?'' Maybe the person who raised Max is an indication as to who he is now. 

 “Was, actually, she died when Maxwell was 17, along with her father, it was terrible really, their private jet went down over the triangle, it's such a shame, Max really needed his parents around that time, after that the house help and I remained the only thing close to family he had, he shut off and down, became ruthless and cold, he used to be such a bright and kind young man, I saw the life leave his eyes the day he found out that it had left his parents. I'm sorry Miss I’ve probably already said too much, I’m not really sure I should be speaking with you about this, it's not that I don't trust you but Maxwell is very private, if I hadn’t have been there to see it I would never know, he has never spoken about his parents, to anyone.” 

             Somehow what Darius said about Max and his parents really stuck with you, even after you’d gotten back to the apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about how horrible it must have been to grow up without parents, especially through such important years like his 20s, they’d miss every milestone he has in his adult life and he’ll miss having his parents there for them. You didn't have much time to think on it, you'd only been home about 30 minutes before the phone starting ringing on the nightstand next to you, you picked up the receiver to hear a breathy voice on the other side, “angel, I’m gonna need you to open the door,” and then the call was dropped.

             Maxwell. You rushed to the door, when you swung it open you noticed a slightly disheveled Maxwell staring at you with darkness clouding his eyes, “you know you could have just kno-” but you were cut off when he pushed the door closed and slammed you against it, his lips smacking straight into yours in a fit of heat and passion, you weren’t sure where this was going but you weren’t going to complain, “just shut up, I’m pissed and I wanna fuck you. Now. go to the bedroom, make sure you’re naked, face down. Do you understand?” you just nodded, looking up at him with what he assumed to be excitement, you basically sprinted to the bedroom, quickly undressed and headed his note to be face down. As you anxiously anticipated what he was going to do to you, all thoughts of his parents had been replaced with possibility. 

             “God you're such a good girl for me aren't you” he was standing at the door staring at you, eyes raking over your naked body. You heard his footsteps get closer to the bed and then suddenly you were hit with a sharp smack to your ass, “god this ass is fucking incredible, I can’t wait to see how it looks in all those new clothes you bought, wanna give me a private show of them?” “yes, sir I’d love to” your voice was high and almost pathetic sounding, Max had done nothing more than briefly spank your ass and suddenly you're already so out of breath. “Not now angel, you’re going to let me fuck you good, and then you’re going to show me how well you can walk afterwards.” 

             You heard him undo his belt and then clothing hit the floor, the bed dipped either side of your thighs and suddenly both his hands were on our hips and he was pulling up to him in one swift lift, “god this pussy, is fucking beautiful, and you’re already so wet, is this what I do to you? You like being manhandled like this doll?” you just whimpered at him praying he would touch you. “Come on angel with your words, tell me how this is affecting you.” you could hear the devil's patented smirk on his face as he spoke, knowing how riled up he was getting you. “Yes sir, I love it, I love when you throw me around, you're making me so needy sir please I love it please do more” you could barely pause to take a  breath you felt so needy and so pathetic that he was affecting you in this way but after the last night you spent together you thought you were right to be. 

             “There's no time to play around tonight angel, I need you now.” His voice was harsh and low, it made you cower away from him, but his grip on our hips was strong and tight and he wasn't letting you go anywhere, he spanked you, one, two, three more times, “are you ready angel” you could tell he was impatient and so were you. “Yes, dear god yes please, please just fuck me.” and with your words, he slammed into you, his hips hitting your ass with the force of a freight train. For someone who sounded so desperate he was going admirably slow, every thrust into your pussy was forceful almost calculated, as he rammed into you. You felt frustrated at his pace, like he was holding back and that is not what you needed right now, you needed him to fuck you, rough, hard, fast. Now. “Please, Max don’t make me beg for it please just fuck me, use me, I need you to go faster, be rough with me please.” 

             “My pretty girl so whiny,” he quickened his pace, pistoning into you sending your brain into a frenzy, your legs already turning to jelly, “is this how you want it princess? Me fucking you like a little whore? Hmm?” his words were almost enough to drive you over the edge already, you had barely even started, and you felt like you were already close. “Please Max it’s so good fuck so good sir I love it when you use me.” 

             Max pulled out of you, and before you even had time to protest he had flipped you over, he shoved three fingers deep inside you, looking down on like he was ready to eat you whole. “You filthy little girl, you're ready to cum, aren't you? I've barely even gotten started and you're ready to finish? No that's not how this is going to work. Let's see how many times you can cum for me, let's see how many orgasms I can pull out of this beautiful cunt.” his words were as vulgar as the way he was fucking you with his fingers, if you both hadn’t been breathing so hard you’d be able to hear how wet you were, every thrust sending like heaven to his ears. He removed his fingers and lined himself up once again, no time for teasing he thrust back into you, resetting the fast pace he had previously set. “Tell me how rough you want it doll, tell me what you want from me.”

             Your mind swirled with the possibilities, all you could choke out was, “choke me, and smack me, I’m your whore please please please just use me.” immediately one hand flew to your throat, grasping it tightly but not enough to cut off your air supply. He kept ramming into you and you could feel yourself starting to get close as you moaned so loudly “Sir please, please, I’m so close, please let me cum” “do it doll, come all over my dick I want to feel your pussy cry for me.” and with his words you did just that, the hand around your throat tightened as you fell into sick bliss, your brain was experiencing an orgasm 100 times better than it ever had and you couldn't tell whether it was the lack of oxygen or Max’s dick that was making you feel higher than any drug could take you. As you came down, Max was still fucking you, slower than before but not as excruciating as originally.

             “I think if we had any neighbours up here you would have just earned us a noise complaint.” he smirked down at you. Yu were still dazed, pathetically smiling up at him when a harsh smack hit your face waking you up. “Already so fucked out baby how cute,” he knew just how to get you going, his lips were back on yours as he kept fucking into, drilling his cock deeper and deeper. You were whining and moaning not caring at this point if half of the city heard you, you were getting the fuck of a life time and as you screamed out Maxwell’s name you’d hoped everyone would hear how well the most important man in the city was fucking you. 

             “You ready for one more baby doll coz I’m getting close and I don’t wanna leave you behind.” he didn’t give you time to respond when his thumb flew to your clit rubbing it in circles almost as fervently as he was fucking you, and just as Max had planned you started to feel like you were on the edge again. 

             “Max please I’m close again.” you warned him, he sped up, quickening his pace even more somehow, “not without me doll you hold it until I say you can come you understand me?” you whined out a breathy yes, hoping you could head his orders, it felt like an eternity before he finally whispered, “Cum” in your ear and you did just that. Both you and Max were a moaning screaming jumble of limbs as you milked his cock dry and he pounded into you savouring the sweet release. He fell on top of you, both sweating profusely as you laughed out. “I don't know if you'll be getting that fashion show, I don't know if I can't even stand on these legs let alone walk. 

             He laughed as well, it was a nice laugh, you quite liked it. 

Max got up, helping you to the bathroom and sitting you in the shower, he told you to sit and wait for the water to warm but you told him it was no problem, your hot water got cut off a few times at your old apartment so cold showers were almost the norm for you. As you sat in the shower trying to regain what little focus you had, you had expected the door to close and for Maxwell to leave, but when you finally emerged from the shower you saw him sitting on your bed, well his bed.

             “Have a drink or you'll get dehydrated.” he said, pointing at the glass of water on the nightstand. You never expected Max to be so caring after sex, you’d fallen asleep after the last time, so you guessed he just didn’t care about aftercare. 

             “I think if you keep this up, I may be paralysed, my legs don’t work properly, if you want me to make it to work.” 

             “Yeah, I think I would rather see you at work on Monday, might fuck you on my desk to make up for lost time this weekend. How does that sound, angel?” God did that sound good, you wanted him to absolutely rail you if you were being honest, you had no concern as to whether anyone would hear you or not. 

             You woke up in the early hours of that Saturday morning, alone once again in bed, your legs felt like jelly and they were almost torture to walk on. You trudged your way into the kitchen, hoping to find something you could eat, when you saw Maxwell sitting on the counter, not on a chair at the counter, on the counter with his legs dangling like a little kid. “Good morning Maxwell.” your voice made him jump a little, clearly not expecting to see you there, he didn't move from his position on the counter though. You walked towards the emptying fridge and picked out an apple, placing yourself between his legs has you took a bite, “good morning to you too angel, we have got to get that fridge stocked up.” he must have seen how little you had in there, you'd spent so much on clothes and yet you spent less than 50 on groceries, where were your priorities?

             “Oh no it's okay, I’ll just buy some next week after I get paid. It's no big deal. I'm used to not having a lot to eat. I'll be fine.” you were telling the truth; you never had a lot of money to buy food after utilities and rent. “Well, be that as it may angel, I’m not letting you starve until then, you can just take one of my cards, we have a specific arrangement here and I know I got you a job at my company but I’d like to know you're living up to your own tastes and requirements, I have plenty of money to burn and this is an offer I will not let you refuse, do you understand me? 

“Yes sir, I understand.” 

                         “Don't you dare get me all riled up right now I don't think you could handle another round, or three.” he was right. You couldn't. But god did you want to. “Do you have any plans today or tomorrow?” he asked you, you weren't sure why, but now that you thought about it you did have plans. 

“Yes, actually I do. I've got lunch with my friend jade today and then we're going to see that new movie, Footloose. I think it's called, anyway, Kevin Bacon is in it and he's totally rocking so I don't care what it's about.” you couldn't be sure but you thought you saw Max tense up a little at your comment on Kevin bacon. Eh, who knows what goes on in that man's head. Who cares? 

           Meeting Jade that afternoon seemed to be a lot harder than it should have been, Max did not let you leave the bed until you were at least three orgasms deep and your voice was hoarse. “Maybe next time we can do it on that kitchen counter.” he says to you after he finally catches his breath. “Max! People eat there!” you were shocked at his remarks but honestly you thought it kind of hot. “Yeah and I want to eat there too.” his smirk was so heavy on his voice your pussy actually quivered at the thought of Max eating you out on the kitchen counter. 

           “Well I need to get dressed and meet my friend, so you better let me get up, or do I need another orgasm to get permission for that?” Max just laughed and waved you off, silently telling you to go get ready. 

Jade had been one of your closest friends since you moved to the big city you now called home. She was sassy and brilliant, an amazingly talented person, you were honestly jealous of her at times, she was an incredible writer and she was almost done film school, she was killing it and you felt like you were lagging behind in life, but that doesn't mean you couldn't be happy for her, (and gather potential black mail so she would put you in one of her movies when she becomes a big amazing director.) 

           “Hi, why haven't you called me in a week and a half?’ “well hello to you too Jade, and it's none of your business but it happens to do with a shared interest of ours.” you hadn't realized that you haven't spoken to her in that long, you can't believe it had only and yet already been a week and a half since you met Max.

“You’re fucking Maxwell Lord, aren’t you?” she deadpanned. You couldn't tell if she was psychic or just pulling a fake out, but alas you put her mind to rest with a (slightly) shouted. “HOW DID YOU KNOW?” okay, fake out, you put your foot in it now. “Yes, but oh my god you can't say anything to anyone okay?” your voice was much quieter now with a lot more stress laced in it. “Oh my god I have to tell everyone. OW! Okay I won’t tell anyone but hold fuck how?” and so you told her. You told her about the bar with the sticky floor, the sex you had in his apartment that night, his car, Darius, the fact that he didn’t want him living at your house so he gave you one of his to live in, the sex you had this morning and the job he gave you. 

“So, you're telling me you gave this guy such a good blow job he made you head of accounting? Your power of sex never ceases to amaze me. Hey when you’re rich can you buy me a house please I’m dying in that apartment, if my brother doesn’t find his own place soon I may actually fucking kill him, and you’re going to have to help me hide the body and I know you don’t like hiding bodies but this is my murder to-” “oh my god shut up, first of all, you say that like he’s gonna give me enough money to buy myself a house let alone you.” you cut her off, it was true, you didn't really anticipate him giving you that much and if Halo’s paycheck was anything to go by you won't have enough to buy yourself a house on that salary, you'll barely be able to afford rent when Maxwell, inevitably, tells you to move out. 

“Oh please I give it a month, two tops, before he's in love with you and asking you to move into his big fancy apartment on the other side of town.” you did like the sound of the big fancy apartment, but neither you nor Max seemed like the type to want a relationship out of your arrangement. “no, this is just sex and money.” you weren't sure if you were telling her or yourself, but you said it with enough conviction that she seemed to believe it. 

“Okay but if you do end up dating the bachelor boy be careful, from what I hear he's bad news and not just business wise. Rumour is that he killed his fiancée a couple years back, they got into a car crash in England and no one has seen her since. He said she lived and left him, but who goes to England and just leaves?” 

You weren't sure how, but you'd never heard that rumour before, sure you'd only moved here 3 years ago but you'd think something like that would be hot news around town for ages. “I’m sure that’s just a rumour Jade he really doesn't seem like the type to be involved in something like murdering his fiancée.” 

“I'm just looking out for you, I could be wrong, but if he tries to take you to England, I'm kidnapping you first. Deal?”

“Deal.”

to be continued...

tags: @mandoalorian-mainblog​ @mrschiltoncat​

[tales-of-spring]

morning siren | Chapter  1: The Bakery

Pairing / Ship: Steve Rogers x neutral reader

Featuring: Steve Rogers

Words: 1710

Category: Writing Challenge, Fic, Vanilla, Soft Fluff

Warning: Startled reader, baker!reader, being alone in a shop, reader POV, fluffy tension, blushing messes

Summary: You open up shop on a early Saturday morning, but you’re not prepared for who walks in..

Author’s Note: This is my first entry for @finleyjayne​‘s Rainbow Writing Challenge! I chose the prompt ‘’Apples and Oranges’’ paired with Steve Rogers, enjoy! Part two will follow soon, I promise! Divider credit; @finleyjayne​

You woke up by the sound of your alarm going off. You hastily roll over, grab your phone and disable it, then proceed to roll back so you were facing the window. It was five am on a Saturday morning but the sun was already softly dancing through your blinds. You smiled because you felt today was gonna be a great day. You had to be at the bakery in about an hour so you got up, put on your bathrobe and proceeded to go to your kitchen to make yourself some breakfast. 

You ended up at your breakfast table with a bowl of cereal and a hot cup of tea. You were slowly eating the morning cornflakes while turning the pages of the newspaper that was laid out on the table. Nothing unusual or strange has happened according to it, so you continued with your routine as calmly as ever. You showered, got dressed and packed your bag for your shift. You, as usual, went out the door at 6 am, just in time for the bus to take you to the bakery. 

The bakery was called ‘’The Mad Batter’’ and it was a cute and warm place tucked away on a busy street corner. Flowers grew outside, people could sit outside and still smell the scent of the kitchen, the inside was cozy but not in a suffocating kind of way. You have worked there for yours and through hard work and loyalty, you rose through the ranks all the way up till executive manager, while still maintaining the baking work on your own wishes. Baking was your life and you couldn’t imagine a world without it. 

You waved goodbye to the bus driver, stepped off of the bus and proceeded to cross the street. Traffic was almost non existent at this hour, which wasn't unusual. You unlocked the backdoor and stepped into the building, the scent of yesterday’s baking still lingered in the air; French orange tart with whipped cream, cinnamon buns and cherry pie. It was heavenly to you. Everything in this place was.. old and familiar to you. Comforting, you liked it that way. You smiled as you got ready to bake. The store wouldn’t be ‘’officially’’ open until eleven, which means you had a few hours to yourself which you always spend singing and baking. 

You followed your usual routine of turning on the shop lights, even though no one was there, you didn’t like working in a bright kitchen and looking out to a dark and grin shop plus, it didn’t look approachable from the street. You then proceeded to switch out yesterday’s meal plan for today’s which consisted of apple pie, raspberry and white chocolate cookies, blueberry muffins and coconut treats. 

You decided to put on some music, a vintage playlist one of your friends recommended to you. You recognized some songs, others you didn’t. But no matter, you sang along and swayed your hips to the beat of the music anyway. You decided to start baking the apple pie, and would later continue with the muffins. The recipe was already ready for you on your station so all you had to do was gather the ingredients. 

A few minutes in and you were working in the dough, kneading it on the flowered counter with your hands. God, you could already imagine how the kitchen will smell once the pie would be baking in the oven. Once the dough was done you started on the pie filling; mixing the diced up apples, cinnamon, sugar, raisins and salt in a bowl until it became a nice filling that would stick together. The hardest part about the pie, for you, was to make the top layer. You had to measure up and cute six long strokes of dough and carefully place and fold them over and under one another to create the classic apple pie look. You did this with great patience, using your experienced fingers to complete the job. The pie was done and ready to be put into the oven. You snapped out of your focused mindset and finished the last step. 

🎶’’Put your head on my shoulder..’’🎶 Hey, you knew this song. You heard it when you had put on the same playlist while you were cleaning your apartment and since then you loved it. So naturally, you started to sing a long. Swaying your hips while cleaning up your station.  🎶’’Whisper in my ear, baby..’’🎶 You were so caught up daydreaming and used to the quiet, lonesome, usual morning routine that you didn’t notice the front door of the shop opening, making the little bell ring, followed by a set of footsteps. Still, you kept on singing.  🎶’’Words I want to hear..’’🎶 The tall man was wearing a blue blouse tucked in his beige pants with a brown-ish leather jacket and classy shoes. His motorcycle was parked out front. For a second, he looked around confused. The shop was open, the light was on, but no one was there? He searched for an employee but stopped once he was right in front of the kitchen door, which was open, the counter blocking him from going in but he could still hear what was happening. That voice.. that beautiful voice.. 🎶’’Tell me, tell me that you love me too..’’🎶 You had finished cleaning and decided to go out to the front to see if there needed to be any work done. You threw the cleaning cloth in the sink and made your way to the front of the store, your voice still hanging onto the words you were singing. The second you walked in, you gasped and stopped in your tracks. Oh my god, there was a customer here and you were just out and about, singing and doing your thing? How embarrassing, you felt your cheeks flush red and you began to apologize to the customer, the man. ‘’I-I’m very sorry sir, usually no one comes in until 11 and I was so caught up in my routine that I-..’’ 

You broke off your apology the moment your eyes had a good look at who you were really talking to. This man was cute, as you would put it. Tall, with dirty blonde hair and gorgeous eyes. You could tell his frame was broad and muscular. The redness on your cheeks intensified. The man was smiling, one of those sexy half cooked smiles, damnit. He shook his head and told you it was okay ‘’It happens to the best of us, it’s really no problem.’’ You smiled and felt yourself staring at him, almost daydreaming. The both of you were actually, until you snapped out of it.

‘’Uh- uhm, can I- can I get you anything?’’ 

The man snapped out of the trance as well and fidgeted his wallet out of the pocket of his pants. ‘’Uhm, yeah, what’s your uh, your specialty?’’ You two were an awkward, blushing mess. You had to think for a second, usually you were quite sharp when talking to customers. ‘’Oh we uhm-’’ You walked over to the edge of the counter to point out what you were referring to. ‘’We still have yesterday’s which is a French orange tart with whipped cream, and the uhm, today’s apple pie is in the oven was we speak.’’ You chuckled nervously and put your hands in your back pocket. The man had a strange effect on you, but you liked it.  

He doubted for a few seconds, licking his lips, his eyes darting back and forth across the counter. God, was he really this sexy naturally or is he just trying to tease you? You swallowed, trying to ignore your attraction to him. You got curious for his name and tried to carefully examine his face, questioning if you have ever seen it somewhere; tv, movies, the news. Nothing came to mind though. 

‘’I can also- uhm, put down your name and reserve a piece of apple pie for you if you’d like.’’ His eyebrows jumped up in surprise and seemed to think about it for a moment. ‘’Uh- yes. Yeah, that would be great, thanks.’’ He chuckled to himself. ‘’In the mean time I think I’ll just get two of those..’’ He knelt down a little to see the cookies that were laying inside the glass counter. ‘’Chocolate chip cookies, please.’’ You nodded confirmingly and wrapped the cookies up for him, putting it on the counter. You felt your heart beating in your chest but you remained calm, you couldn’t wait to know his name. 

‘’That’ll be 2,50 please.’’ You opened the old fashioned register and immediately proceeded to grab a notepad and a pen, multitasking was a thing you had learned to do over the years. The man handed you a five dollar bill and said you could keep the change, to which you shyly looked at the ground and thanked him. He gaze lingered over you for just a moment when he thanked you for your service and turned around. 

‘’Wait, sir!’’ The dingus had forgotten to give you his name. ‘’I need your name for the- the apple pie.’’ He cut himself off from leaving the shop and walked back, almost an equal blushing mess as you were. ‘’Of course, my apologies, it’s uh..’’ There he did it again, licking his lips and looking up to you from the ground. ‘’My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers.’’ You wrote the name down with a note to hold back a piece of apple pie for him. ‘’I’ll come back later today for the piece, okay?’’ You nodded and put down the notepad, leaning on the counter. You didn’t give him your name, should you? He was already walking towards the door. He would come back anyway, maybe you could give it then. But what if he forgets? Oh what the hell-

‘’Steve.’’ He stopped again, turning halfway so he faced you. ‘’I’m Y/N.’’ Steve smiled at you and nodded. ‘’Gotcha, so you’re not just a pretty face?’’ You chuckled nervously and fidgeted with your apron, looking down at the ground. But when you looked up to answer back, Steve had already left the shop. You bit your lip and couldn't wait for when he returned. 

[elysicndrcvm]

━♡ guess the 23 YEAR OLD FEBRUARY baby just arrived to dallyeog! it makes sense, because CHU EUNHA is just as BEDAZZLING as the month of FEBRUARY. wait, why do they remind me of JACOB BAE? beyond that, they seemed JOYOUS and SAVVY upon first glance. i heard someone say they’re sort of DELICATE and QUIXOTIC though. i hope they get acquainted here in COMPLEX 1 / APARTMENT 0215 / FLOOR 3 ; HE seem(s) to have a lot going on with HIS job as a PATISSERIE OWNER/NUTRITIONAL SCIENCE STUDENT. ( ez, 21, she/they, gmt. )

     well hey there !! im ez but you fellow dallyeogers can call me ezzy, i have been in dallyeog before so some may remember me as having someone v different to my new bb i bring u now, i joined before with miss tam carmen !! anygays i return with this lil angel who i am all ‘ i say that’s my baby and i’m proud ’ over already even tho i literally came up with him like two days ago. you can find his pinboard here ( which btw i fuckeN love like he’s so aesthetic to me u go king ) and i made him a lil playlist which u can vibe to here. you can learn more about him under the cut but he’s a super soft-hearted gentle dove of a muse and quite...simple for me ?? sdhdh that’s not the right wording but U GET IT djjflg he isn’t super full of angst or trauma he’s just kinda viBIN livin his best life so that’s fun !! but ye without further ado: 

so as u kno from his app he owns a patisserie, it’s his lil babey and he is very dedicated to his craft and makin sure all his ideas for the place and the baked goods he sells are like rlly quirky and avant-garde. like he is so passionate about it u dont even KNOW, he tries to make sure most of the stuff on his menu is something like fun and new u wouldn’t get at just any old patisserie or cafe and that it’s super varied and also kinda aesthetic af? the place is very like trendy. it’s called patisserie d’elysian cause ya know he’s an extra biTCHH and proud.

he has three pupperino’s. all as adorable as each other, snickerdoodle is his golden lab and often ppl shorten it down to snickers, butterscotch is his dapple daschund pup, shortens the name to scotchie often. toulouse is his fancy toy poodle boi, shortens the name down as toto. if u are on the shortened name basis with his pups then u can consider urself one of his close pals. 

he’s actually adopted by his aunt but she raised him like she was his mother so that is what he considers her, she’s on his mother’s side but they are half-siblings. in terms of first name reasoning as well she just liked eunha as a name and didn’t even think about how it is traditionally for a female, she liked that it meant gift from heaven so it stuck. his father is still around, he’s just quite elderly so it felt like a better living situation for him to be raised primarily by his auntie. unfortunately his mother has passed on but no tragic story, she just went peacefully in old age. 

he dyes his hair quite often, it’s currently like a really pastel blue with black streaks consistently throughout like lil ones so it looks super cool. but he’s also had it be a more electric blue, lilac, and a duck egg kinda faded silvery blue. it’s naturally dark brunette. has brown eyes kind of a hazel hue. 

his style is kinda androgynous ig?? he just lives for soft retro fashion, lots of color in his wardrobe but also lots of tapered short and t-shirt fits frequented, sweater vests, rolled up jeans, high skater boi socks, soft jumpers with shirts, shirts in bright colours or satiny texture worn over plain white t-shirts, cardigans, pastel denim jackets, jeans with printed patterns on like clouds, flowers etc, favors yellow and blues. sometimes does eye makeup, occasionally wears heels bc he’s a baddie or super heeled boots/chunky shoes. 

obsessed with music, can play violin and guitar. he’s a big mitski and rina sawayama fanatic, likes anything that sounds peaceful or calming or has like a good fun vibe to it. also likes the trademark gay icons like carly rae jepsen, lorde, etc. he’s not ashamed. obsessed with mamma mia movies. but also likes rap which is rlly funny cause its like the bad bitch female rappers only and like he’ll listen to it while arranging his sock drawer or making his bed or something ajdjdj it’s like hype anthems for being a baddie and a hoe and he’s just doing his night sleepy routine adkfkf. 

showers, blankets, music, baked goods especially bagels are his happy places. 

very much a sensitive lil romanticist, falls in ‘love’ like five times a day, he just likes to giggle and smile around pretty people and admire the artwork hnghdh, he’s like yeARNS though ya know?? like he’s all i will flirt by making prolonged eye contact, i made you a playlist, this song makes me think of you etc. it’s either memes as flirting with him or elaborate love letters u never know what ur gonna get akdkd. 

awful sense of humour, loves his friends more than anything on earth except his pups, would fully live in a huge house of just like his pups and all his closest buds for all eternity. likes fruits way too much, enjoys puns about fruits way too much. milkshakes, sushi, orange hues and bus rides are some of his absolute favorite simple pleasures of life. clouds, flowers, salt lamps, the sunrise over the sea, skateboarding, fresh soda, teddy bears, busy street markets, parasols, fish tanks with exotic fish, sorbet, bike riding, polaroids, record players, rain at night against floor to ceiling windows with a fresh steaming pot of tea on the desk beside it and warm fresh sheets from the laundry on his bed, ponds, skateboarding. all little joys in life that give him like the biggest pleasure dopamine hit in the world. 

his cousin actually owns a florists so he has flowers just littering his apartment like a lot and it just looks like he has ten million suitors from the late eighteenth century attempting to court him but no all these flowers are from him to him or worse from his aunt djfjg she sends him some for valentines every valentines, pls help him, pls send him flowers. 

studies nutritional science and he fucken hates it. do not ask him shit cause he doesn’t KNOW OKAY? he doesn’t understand it either. he took it because he needed something to go alongside the passion for baking that was a real ‘qualification’/job so that is the only reason he’s doing it. no point doing a baking degree after all when he’s already a baker with a business, he’s super young still he gotta keep his prospects open. so YAH. he’d rather be doing culinary arts but eh. nutritional science sounded better and more logic based. the real miracle is he still gets top grades all the time even tho he spends his life like wtf am i even doing is this even legit akdkdk. school is the worst thing in the world for him watch his mood instantly deflate the second its brought up. 

despite being a quixotic, he’s a lil afraid of intimacy. like oh god does he love it, those small touches and acts of affection u kno? the subtle things that normally go unnoticed, eye contact, brushing of hands, linking of little fingers, rubbing a thumb, kissing eyelids or foreheads or palms or shoulders in little gentle pecks, back massages and rubs or finger tracing patterns absent-minded, shoulder massages, laying your head on someone’s shoulder or on their lap, knocking knees together, exchanging a small glance only the two of you get before bursting into laughter, smiling into kisses, napping together, having blankets placed over you warm and fresh, or towels put ready like it, someone making you something they know you like a lot. that’s his sHIT. but like he’s terrified still, someone skimming their fingers on his skin makes his breath hitch like he’s a scandalized and alarmingly aroused victorian woman sjdjd. he’s literally still a virgin, he hasn’t even had his first kiss okay my baby is delicate be gentle with him akdkd but he still LIKES PASSION AIGHT kfkf. 

real soft spoken, honey tinted voice like i shit u not this boy talks like he’s an angel sent from heavens above to guide you to the paradisaical garden of eden or some shit akdkd. ur gonna fall in love with eunha’s voice before u even fall in love with any other part of him like his adorable beaming smile or stunning eyes akdkf. 

has dance parties around his room when getting ready in the morning, listens to bella’s lullaby unironically yes from twilight yes u heard right, bit of a himbo streak sometimes in his obliviousness djfjf. quite silently subtly funny actually much like jacob himself. 

he is gay, afraid of driving, cannot do math, blanks out often and he is valid for all of those things. has a collection of cartoon and disney animal movie dvds. has a dream notebook. always has blue painted nails in some kinda shade. 

does not enjoy turning in assignments bc he is scared he’ll fail, avoids looking at his grades for weeks after they’re released and hates knowing that they’re out. 

cannot dance, dances often. collects vintage stuff esp clothes and mostly sweaters. likes midnight trips to corner stores and fields where he can just lay and look at the stars. makes friends rlly easily but has super bad performance anxiety. cannot ever have a messy room like even the tiniest bit messy. even like clothes being stacked on a chair instead of away. 

bakes peanut butter, banana and choc chip muffins (they r called monkey bites normally) whenever he’s super stressed. if u want to cheer him up when he’s anxious or stressed then u should give him french lavender honey, chia seeds and caramelized pear on toast/bagel. it is his comfort food. he fancii when he needs a pick me up. treat urself and all that. 

[fortheloveoffanfic]

The Arrangement

John Wick x Reader (A/n- I have no idea where this is going, but its definitely going. Also, just for some supplemental texture--> John’s townhouse   Y/n’s apartment)

The Arrangement 

Warnings- NSFW/SMUT, dom/sub, vaginal fingering, semi public sex, some angst, John being kind of an asshole.

Sweet Surrender

John leaned back in the dark leather chair positioned behind his mahogany desk, his elbows propped on the upholstered arm rests and his fingers touching at the tips. Besides work, there was a lot of his mind, most of it having to do with Y/n. They weren't his usual thoughts of her though, these were troubling. Something had changed with her and lately, he had been starting to sense that she was unhappy. Y/n hadn’t out-rightly said so, but it was in the little things; she’d stopped offering him details on the life she lived outside of their shared moments and all in all, she wasn’t her typical light, carefree self. 

In the beginning, it was Y/n’s bubbly personality that had attracted him, enthralling him. Before, he’d usually find his women via other means, there had only been a few others and they were all nice enough, good at following orders and fun in bed. But nonetheless, Y/n was certainly his favorite, upon meeting her, John could easily tell that she was a natural submissive and wasn’t thoughtless like those gone by. She didn’t take her role in his life lightly either, and John cared for her in a way that he hadn’t for anyone one else. Which was why it stung to think that he wasn’t doing right by her, their arrangement was supposed to bring them both pleasure, but if he wasn’t doing that for her, then half the purpose was lost. He wondered what had caused her discontent, up until then, he figured that he had been good to Y/n, he took care of her needs; sexual, financial and otherwise, he tried to listen when she needed an ear and always respected her boundaries. 

He’d have to bring it up soon, John wasn’t afraid of addressing it, besides, it was nearing the eleventh month of their first contract, they’d have to discuss whether or not they wanted to renew it or not. Usually, John never renewed them, by the end of the year, he'd often find himself yearning for a fresh face, letting his latest attraction go like dust on wind, but that year it was different and he couldn’t see himself growing tired of Y/n in the foreseeable future. John knew what he wanted, the final decision would have to be Y/n’s. 

“Mr. Wick?” his secretary poked her little brunette head into his office, interrupting his tumultuous thoughts. With a hum and annoyance expertly kept at bay, he glanced up, meeting a pair of clear green eyes. Abigail was just a few years older than Y/n and had been his secretary for going on three years. He could never tell what her angle was though, with all the tight shirts and short skirts, sure she was pretty enough, but it was the kind of beauty John could see himself getting bored of quickly. She didn’t really have much of a defining personality either, very two dimensional and he suspected that she didn’t have much more depth than she offered at face value. She was nothing like Y/n who was intelligent and exciting. “Your one o’clock is here,” even after she delivered her message, Abigail stayed there, still holding the door open.

With a quiet sigh, John sat up straighter, slowly moving to stand, “Is that all Abigail?” He didn’t even spare a minute to look at her, though, he could feel her eyes on him. When she offered a meek yes, finally turning to walk away, he called her back, just remembering something, “Did you finish the draft I asked you to work on?”

After a moment of hesitation, and shuffling her feet childishly, “No, Mr. Wick, I haven’t-”

“How the fuck am I supposed to start the deposition on Monday without it?” He snarled, glaring at her; John absolutely hated excuses, especially when he could tell they were going to be baseless.   Alarmed, Abigail jumped, her face going pale and her eyes glassy. Apologizing profusely, she cast her gaze to the shiny marble floor, but John was too irritated to care. He’d have fired her right on the spot, but he needed someone working his receptionist’s station and for that draft to be finished by the end of the day. So, he’d spare her, for now. “Just….get it done by five,” he’d wanted to leave by four thirty to get ready for dinner later that evening, but he’d spare Abigail the half hour, “And get the hell out of my office.” Without another world, Abigail scurried out and John  finished gathering his materials, almost ready to head to the elevator when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was a text from Y/n, and despite himself, he smiled, she never ceased to brighten his day a little. She had sent a picture of the dress she’d purchased for the night, per his request; a short, dusty mauve, chiffon one with a cowl neck and thin straps at the shoulders. Directly below that picture was another of strappy nude stilettos with thin five inch heels, John adored seeing her in high heels, especially those pencil thin, dangerous looking ones. The attachments were followed up by a simple question, “Are these okay?”

John moistened his lips, already able to picture how the outfit would look on Y/n, definitely good enough for him to want to keep her in the bedroom. She had a wonderful sense of style and normally looked good in anything. Usually, John preferred to be there when she shopped, ensuring that she wasn’t worrying about prices and that things like lingerie were suited to his tastes, but in the event that he was unavailable, John had found that she was fine on her own. “Those are perfect,” he sent the text, locking his phone and heading out of his office to the conference room.

John detested Y/n’s apartment. It was small, no, small would be an understatement, it was tiny and if he’d had his way when they were first checking places out for her, John would have seen that she’d gotten something bigger. But, he was deep in lust and Y/n hadn’t been happy with any of the other that the real estate agent took them to. In fact, it had taken almost a month for her to find that place in New York City and, when they had gone to see it, Y/n had instantly fallen in love with the quaint, cool-toned, vintage styled apartment with beige and mellow blue walls, light hardwood floors and white wooden doors that were intentionally made to look faded and unfinished. The decorator that John had hired kept with the natural vintage theme too, adding an old fashioned farm sink, a charming mix of stained marble and tiles on the kitchen counter, homely rugs and even a 1950’s refrigerator solely for aesthetic purposes. Thankfully, the running fridge was integrated and actually from their century. 

As time passed, Y/n had also ensured that her love for houseplants were reflected in her decor too. She had one in every room, always watered and tended to, some growing cheerful flowers while others just maintained a healthy greenness.

Before Y/n had moved in, John had been sure to ask her well over three times if she was sure about her decision, and each time she’d assured him that she was. Y/n had eventually explained that if she lived in something bigger she wouldn’t have a clue on what to do with the extra space, it was just her and Theo anyway.

John stood at Y/n’s door for a minute, searching for her key on his bunch, casually looking up and down the hall. Thankfully, the neighborhood and by extension, the building, was a nice one. Upon finding the right key, John slipped it into the lock, turning twice. As he entered Y/n’s apartment, John called out to her, though, before she could answer, he felt a gentle rubbing on his leg; Theo.

Chuckling, he bent, scooping up the grey Scottish fold. John held the cat to his chest, absently running his fingers affectionately on his soft head, “Where’s your mom?” He asked, already walking towards the living room, earning himself a meow.

“Oh,” Y/n was just hurrying out from the other side of the living room, barefoot and still in her silk lilac robe, though her hair and make up was already done, “John,” her eyes went wide and she looked down in embarrassment, clearly alarmed, “I’m so sorry, I must have heard the time wrong.”

“You didn’t,” he reassured sternly, “I’m early, don’t worry about it,” he waved off her worry, still holding Theo in his arms. John had never been a cat person, but Y/n’s four year old rescue had taken a liking to him upon their first meeting and John at some point, the furry fella had grown on him. 

“Thank you,” she smiled lightly and John offered a faint smile of his own in return, “Theo!” Y/n scolded just realizing that he was in John’s arms, “You’re gonna get cat hair all over John.”

“It’s okay, he just wants a little attention,” John sat himself on her olive colored living room sofa, the length of his legs exaggerated by how low it was, “Go finish getting ready,” he urged and after a brisk nod of compliance, Y/n  hurried off again.

John’s hand was low on Y/n’s back as they followed the hostess to their party’s table in the high end French restaurant. Their table was near an elaborate indoor fountain, beneath a glittering chandelier and as they approached, Y/n could see that a middle aged couple was already seated with a round of drinks. Putting on her best smile, she waited for John to introduce her before offering her hand, “Ellis, Lauren, this is my girlfriend, Y/n.” Her breath hitched excitedly at the word, even if that was the way John always introduced her, it wasn’t like he went around telling people that he had an, by all intents and purposes, a paid for fuck doll. Still, it was enough to feed her hope that one day, maybe in the distant future, he could actually see her as that, as his girlfriend, that the word wouldn’t just be a cover. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” after a moment of bewilderment and obvious hesitation, they took turns shaking her delicate hand, and Y/n did her best to maintain her trained smile; she was used to dealing with snobs anyway.

Even as they introduced themselves; Lauren and Ellis Capeldai, Y/n could see they were judging her; a girl her age, with a nearly middle aged, rich, powerful man? In their minds, Y/n could only be one thing. But alas, she was used to it, and if John had taught her anything, it was that opinions didn’t matter, they were consenting adults, and whatever they did with their personal lives was no one’s but their business.

John pulled out her chair and just as Y/n sat, John did too, immediately engaging conversation with Ellis. They glazed over small talk for a couple minutes, before getting into the specifics of a case; the Capeldais’ owned a private clinic in the city and had recently had a malpractice suit brought against them. Quietly, from her position next to John, she tried to keep up with their conversation, though, she only knew that much when it came to legal and medical jargon; an English degree could only take you that far in certain directions. In fact, the only thing she could deduce was that someone’s relative had died and that John was positive that he could prove that it wasn’t anyone’s fault but the dead patient’s. 

Eventually, it came to the point where the more they spoke, the less Y/n wanted to hear. There was a dirty side to John’s job, or maybe it was just John himself, though Y/n could never bring herself to see him like that, so she blamed it on the trade instead. He was always willing to go the extra mile, or twenty, for his clients, just to make sure that they won, even going those miles meant getting his hands dirty. It was rare for Y/n to see that side of him, the side that he showed clients, that was ruthless and capable of anything in the name of victory and though John’s power and confidence enthralled her, it also scared her.

If he was like that, what else could he be?

Slowly, Y/n retreated into herself, no longer paying any mind to how their conversation unfolded. Working on autopilot, she steered her gaze to the plate before her, using her fork to shift around what was left of her entree, punctuating her movements with the occasional sip of Pinot Noir. Y/n sunk into her own little world until John’s grip held firm on her exposed thigh, his warm breath fanning her ear as he leaned in to whisper, “It’s rude to play with you food darling.” His gravely drawl sent shivers up his spine, “You don’t want to ruin our night by being punished, do you?”

Hastily, Y/n shifted her dilated gaze to meet John’s whiskey pools, the new rosiness in her cheeks brightening her sparsely applied blush, evident to those that sat across from them, “No sir,” she cast her head down out of instinct, “I’m sorry.”

Surely, the Capeldais’ were spectating with intrigue, though, thankfully not hearing a word of John and Y/n’s exchange. “It’s okay,” his rough fingers inched higher, sneaking beneath the hem of Y/n’s dress, “But don’t do it again,” he warned, covering his tracks with a peck on her cheek.

Even when John redirected his attention to his food, his hand still lingered on her upper thigh, slowly working its way further up, his feather light touch ticklish and reflecting in the pooling moisture in her panties. “So Y/n, dear,” Lauren turned to Y/n, her distaste masked under a stiff smile, “What do you do when you’re not being wined and dined by Mr. Wick?” There was malice in her words, Lauren had apparently decided that Y/n was nothing but a gold digger or something of the sort. 

For a moment, Y/n glanced towards John, who cleared his throat loudly, thankfully, opting to answer for her, “Y/n works at a bank, you probably know it; Fraser Holdings,” John gave her leg a reassuring squeeze, and by then, his fingers were close enough to brush her crotch, “It’s where we met actually, I had some business there and she caught my eye.” John was a master of controlling narrative Y/n knew that every word of his explanation was chosen carefully, with the intention of carrying an air of vagueness. Y/n wasn’t ashamed of her job as a secretary, it paid the bills, at least, it used to, and she knew that John probably wasn’t either, but some people just weren’t worth the whole truth. 

“Oh,” Lauren's stiff, condescending smile was apparently permanently plastered to her no doubt Botox infused face, and her nosiness was proving to be relentless, “And how long have you two been dating?” At the question, the graying Mr. Capadali looked up, he too was intrigued by the question.

Just as the query hit the ear, John’s stocky index brushed her lace clad folds. Caught off guard, Y/n jumped, her eyes going wide and breathing an alarmed gasp, her knee made painful contact with the bottom of the table as she crossed her legs, only serving to squeeze John’s hand in place. Again, she looked to him, but that time, he indicated for her to take the question, a slight smirk tugging at his lips, his trimmed scruff hiding it almost perfectly. “Um…” her words wavered as he rubbed gently, just barely grazing her nub with his pointer, the lace of her panties adding extra, effective friction. “We’ve been together for about a year.”

A slight tugging on Y/n’s thigh was enough of an instruction for her to uncross her legs, parting them slightly. Under the security of the pristine white tablecloth, John pushed aside the crotch of her panties, rubbing Y/n’s cilt slowly with the ‘v’ of his index and middle fingers. Once again startled, she glanced his way, but he merely offered. Her swollen bud throbbed beneath his expert touch and Y/n had to hide the moan that threatened to escape her matted-burgundy painted lips with a lengthy drag of her wine. Her breath shuddered as she set the glass down, quickly looking to John, who'd already rekindled conversation with the older couple, seemingly unaffected by her plight.

Her eyes stayed trained on his side profile though her attention waned; John's handsome features blurring as her orbs glazed over with desire. By then, it wasn't hard to identify the distinct pink hue standing out on her otherwise flushed cheeks and the absence of focus was blatant. The more prolonged John's ministrations became, the closer Y/n got to her tipping point. Just out of the corner of her faulty vision, Y/n could see when John carelessly let the fabric napkin fall over his hardened crotch, the creases and haphazardness of the eggshell material masking his hard on. 

Another hitch of her breath came when one of John’s fingers slid further into her drenched heat, her posture, maybe thankfully, not allowing him access to her entrance. Though, John had a solution for everything, no mind how harsh or abrupt it may be, “Well, Ellis, Lauren,” he cleared his throat, pretending to check his watch. A waiter had just cleared their plates and had promised to be back soon with a desert menu, “I think we’ve covered a lot tonight, but Y/n and I have an early start tomorrow,” for the first time in a while, he removed his fingers, dragging them along her inner thigh, messily spreading her slickness. Now hot, bothered and still in the middle of a packed restaurant, Y/n could quickly feel herself growing frustrated at the loss of contact, ready to grab her clutch off its resting place on the table as John signaled a waiter, handing over a business card and requesting that the final bill be sent to his office. Y/n doubted that it was something the establishment regularly did, but there wasn’t a soul willing to deny John Wick. Besides, if he said he was going to pay, there wasn’t a bit of doubt that he wouldn’t. John was a man of his word. 

After they’d bid their companions goodnight and safe travels, John led Y/n out of the restaurant, holding onto her into her light petite coat as the valet brought around his navy Maserati, the dark coat shining even in their dimmed surroundings. John, as Y/n had learnt, was quite the car enthusiast and he’d collected quite a few over the years, enough to supply a small dealership, with almost everything from prized, classic muscle cars and widely adored classics to flashy sports cars and of course, some more sophisticated ones. 

After they’d gotten in, John had tossed her coat to the back seat and then peeled away from the curb, navigating the car onto the busy street, easily weaving through the thinning traffic. Stealing a glace, Y/n found that John’s expression wasn’t readily readable, though, when, not too long after they’d left, he turned into a deserted, poorly lit, damp alleyway between a shady Chinese restaurant and a low grade department store, she got a pretty clear idea of he wanted. “Do you know how fucking sexy you look in that dress babygirl?” His question strained and mumbled as John undid his seat belt and used the lever beneath his seat to push it back a little. Excitement had Y/n breathing heavily, and she didn’t think to answer his question. “Didn’t I ask you something?” He probed roughly, undoing the belt, button and zipper on his black slacks.

“I don’t know,” she breathed, blushing and blinking quickly, her stomach fluttered when John reached over to undo her seat belt, easily manhandling her over the console and into his lap.

“Well let me show you,” he grunted, grabbing her hand and shoving into his undone pants, over his erection, gasping quietly at the distinct firmness overtaking his member, “See what you do to me? This is all you baby,” he whispered harshly, catching her ear lobe between his teeth. 

The alluring aroma of fine wine and musky cologne clouded her senses and Y/n’s breath hitch, the sound quiet, and pitched. “Sir,” she moaned, eyes wide and pupils lust blown as her hand lingered in John’s pants long after he’d stopped applying pressure. 

John trailed feverish kisses down the column of her neck, high on the scent of her perfume, occasionally alternating between lapping his tongue over her vein and nibbling her skin. He was definitely going to leave marks, claiming her as his own. As his mouth ravaged her throat, John fiddled with the thin straps of her dress, letting them slip carelessly down the curve of her shoulders, eventually urging her arms out of them and pushing the top down, exposing her breasts, pushed together enticingly by a simple, cream colored strapless bra. “I want you to ride my cock,” John’s fingers slid up her body, thumbs brushing the smooth, stain covered padding over her nipples, before easily undoing the front clasp and freeing her full, voluptuous breasts, “Now,” he growled, pushing aside the crotch of her flimsy thong, his digits brushing the lips of her swollen, soaked pussy.

With anxious hands, Y/n helped John shove his pants down to the area right above his knees, “Come on,” he slouched further into the leather stead in an instant, John’s hands were up her dress, holding her hips in place as she eased down on him. Feeling how he bottomed out inside her, stretching her tightness so wide it burned, Y/n’s head lolled back, squeezing her eyes shut as her loud moan bounced off the windows. “Move, now,” he managed through his clenched jaw after he’d given Y/n a minute to adjust. 

Desperate, filthy mewls swirled in the heavy air around them, joining John’s languid grunts as his hips rose to meet hers. Each time Y/n came down on him, her bouncing erratic and harsh, her core slapped his balls, rendering loud, wet, perverted sounds. “Sir,” her breathy cries were the only interruptions of her heady noises.

"Fuck," John hissed, just before taking one of her breasts in his mouth, his tongue swirling around her pebbled nipple and one hand sliding up her back, pressing her chest to his face, "Faster," he urged.

Y/n's eager hands slid up John's chest, the material of his grey button up smooth under her palm, his carnal heat seeping through. She settled them beneath the lapels of his tailored, black blazer, bunching the fabric up in her fingers as she quickened her pace with renewed vigor. 

The tinted windows around them fogged over and the purring of the engine fell on deaf ears. John could feel her nails digging into his skin, even through his shirt and the throbbing veins running up his shaft offered Y/n an irresistible friction. Every time she came up, only to sink back down on him, John’s swollen tip reaching her end, Y/n could feel herself drawing closer to the edge. “Please,” she whimpered, pleading for John to permit her release.

John’s hips  jerked upwards to slam into Y/n’s center, the remaining hand caught under her dress now aggressively squeezing and kneading her ass. The other violently grabbed a fistful of her head, rearing her head further back so John could ravish her neck without resistance, “Do it,” he commanded between skin pulling bites, “I want to feel your cunt squeezing my cock. You’re my little bitch and I need to feel you cum.”

Before long, Y/n was shuddering; her legs straddling John stiffening and her pussy convulsing as warm juices gushed from her center. Her gasps were broken and her breaths ragged as Y/n’s eyes rolled back and her hold on John’s now wrinkled shirt loosened. With a slackened jaw, the rest of her body went limp and John was the one still moving, though, his thrusts rigid. 

The feeling of Y/n milking his cock entwined by the ecstasy that always accompanied being buried deep inside her was pleasurably unmatched and soon, John was following her to release, “Fuck Y/n,” he sputtered, slowing his movement as he spurted bursts of hot seed inside of her, their products mixing as it seeped out, coating Y/n’s thighs and dripping onto his.

It took awhile for their breaths to slow and for any sense of coherence to make its way back into the stilling running car, and even after; they lingered, John’s now flaccid cock still cocooned in her settled center. When he finally guided her off him, John used tissues from the glove compartment to clean Y/n up as she still sat in his lap, and she let him readjust her dress, forgoing her bra, instead just pulling the straps over her arms. When he set her back in the passenger seat, Y/n winced, though she wasn’t half as sore as she’d usually be after sessions with John, when he had more room and time to work with. In fact, hot, spontaneous moments like that one were rare, which arguably only made them more enjoyable.

Except, that night, as Y/n silently watched John clean himself up, his expression stoic, as it typically was, she couldn’t help but feel a little dirty, and not just in a physical way. That dinner hadn’t been her best one with him, she didn’t particularly enjoy seeing him as the villain, willing to desecrate the name of a dead man. Logically, she knew that it was the job, and someone had to do it, but being that good at it? It took guts and a certain kind of coldness that frightened her. 

And then, of course, there was the typical issue of their otherwise unattached status. Because, as scary as John was when he was in his element, she still found herself falling deeper and deeper in love with him, which wasn’t exactly ideal, considering the more she fell, the more it hurt when she remembered that she was just his sub. It was confusing, but mostly it hurt.

The drive back to Y/n’s place was without conversation, though, when John parked on the curb and Y/n had gathered her stuff, namely her purse with generous bits of her bra sticking out the top and her coat draped over it, John grabbed her leg before she could get out, “Do you have vacation days?”

“Yes,” she nodded firmly, intrigued though not daring to say anything further.

“How many?” John’s eyes were void of anything telling and he wasn’t going to give her more without Y/n’s compliance.

“A month.”

“Good,” John reclaimed his hand, immediately fishing his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and his fingers going to dance on the unlocked, brightened screen. He didn’t look at her again, leaving her bewildered as he came out and jogged to her side, opening the door for her. John helped her out of the car, and with a hand low on her back, he walked to the front double doors of the building, holding one side open but making no move to go in himself. “I want you to take two weeks,” he said, putting his cell away, “I’m taking you to a summer home in North Carolina. Abigail will book a jet for Sunday afternoon, call your boss and tell him you won’t be in on Monday,” and before Y/n could protest that she actually needed to give H.R. a month’s notice, John intervened, “If he gives you any trouble, let me know and I'll talk to him, okay?” By ‘talk to him’, it was quite possible that he meant bullying her boss into giving her the time off without consequence.

“Yes,” her lips quivered in surprise, and Y/n nodded again, “Okay.”

“Okay,” John repeated, stiffly reaching across to peck the side of her lips, “I’ll send you the flight details, and I’ll taking you shopping tomorrow afternoon,” when Y/n agreed, they exchanged pleasant good-nights and John finally let Y/n go, secretly hoping that their trip would do them both some good in terms of their upcoming discussion. 

******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana   @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx​  @danceoftwowolves​

[mortuarybees]

oh I just sent you an ask and then realized that you answered my question in a previous ask, so ignore me. (Though I do have another question about them getting married or at least choosing to be committed to each other forever). Thank you for this AU though!

THIS GOT LONG I’M SORRY. The chef suggests that this be paired with Mitski’s cover of Let’s Get Married, which actually invented the institution of marriage.

It looks like this:

It’s a balmy Sunday in April, 2014, and Aziraphale’s hands are clasped before him, forehead pressed to his knuckles. He’s nervous; he shouldn’t be, he knows, but he is. The pew is hard and uncomfortable, unforgiving–Crowley would laugh at that, and even as he smiles, the thought makes his stomach clench.

The service ended a while ago, but he likes to remain, reading through the echoing chatter until everyone has gone and he can have a word alone with Her. Praying in a room full of others feels obscene and vulnerable, like leaving the front door open for the neighbors to peak in.

Please, please, please, he thinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, praying, knows that if today is the day, he needs to go home before Crowley gets irritable and worried, but he wants to feel certain, the way Crowley had been.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale likes gold. Loves gold; he grew up in an ancient and wealthy family, with so much money they’re casual about it, crystals dripping from chandeliers and fine tableware so old it belongs in a museum, and he won’t admit it–not now, especially–but he misses the elegance, the luxuries, misses a wardrobe full of Harris tweed and Burberry and Liberty’s. He likes gold, he would want gold, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but give him what he wants.)

It’s been a long time, Aziraphale thinks. He’s getting older–I’m getting older–he only gets one life. He’s the restless kind, what if he says no?

He asked first, he reminds himself, and then counters it by pointing out that last time, it didn’t mean much, to him. No, that isn’t fair, it meant something, but it wasn’t binding.

He doesn’t need to bind himself to you, he tells himself. He’s committed in every way he can. He’s never been the restless sort when it comes to us.

I’m overthinking this, he thinks, bemused, and as if God agrees with him, he hears the door behind him open, and Crowley’s relieved voice boom, echoing in the empty church and certainly disturbing the bad-humored priest, “Christ, there you are. I thought maybe the Rapture came and the rest of London was too godless to notice.”

Thank you, he prays. Amen. He turns around and smiles. “Crowley, dear. Would you like to sit?”

“Best not,” Crowley says, stopping at the end of the pew Aziraphale occupies. “Surprised I haven’t burst into flames yet, don’t want to push my luck getting comfortable.” He looks around and points at a painting of Saint Sebastian, posed in a rather un-agonized manner. “That why you come here all the time? An excuse to gawk at younger men?”

“Crowley,” he scolds, getting to his feet. He ducks his head to hide his smile and puts his hands in his pockets, toying with the small velvet box inside. “Please, dear, keep from blaspheming inside the church. Besides, you’re far better looking.”

“Damn right,” Crowley huffs, and he takes his arm possessively when he exits the pew, pulling tight against his side. He looks beautiful in the mid-morning light, hazy and soft, hair loose around his face, the stained glass painting colors on his pale face when he squints up at it as they leave. The face of John is mirrored perfectly in the lenses of his dark glasses for just a moment, and Aziraphale wishes he’d ever really tried his hand at art, just to immortalize in rich oil paint the rainbow of light on his face, the Beloved Disciple in his eyes, the swipes of glitter across his cheekbones, the black lace top under his leather jacket, pierced a million times over with all manner of pins over the years; he thinks if he wasn’t at peace before, this picture does it.

“You’re beautiful, darling,” he murmurs when it’s ended, when Crowley tilts his chin down, curls his lip against whatever blasphemy he was certainly thinking and it’s just him again. Just them, and God as far away as She always feels.

“I was kidding, angel,” he says, thumb stroking a reassuring line down his coat sleeve. “Ogle some guy all–” he gestures, quite theatrically– “shot up with arrows if you like. He’s dead, I’m not. I win.”

(It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and Crowley and Aziraphale arrived in London six months prior, alone and uncertain, refugees on a foreign shore. They both grew up in rural villages–wildly different experiences; Aziraphale’s family had an estate and he attended some posh boarding school on the moors, Crowley slept on a bus bench on more than one occasion–and the city is new and frightening and exciting. It seemed like the place for two young queer men to go, newly anointed adults forging a life together.

Aziraphale likes it, Crowley knows he does, he likes the museums, he likes the beautiful old buildings and the British Library, he likes taking walks in the park, and he likes having a home of their own, a home with Crowley. He tells him everyday, a comment here or there with a soft smile. But he’s wounded and mourning; he misses his family, and his new way of life is a bit of a shock. He won’t admit that it hurts, just sniffs and insists he knew it was coming, but Crowley knows him better that that. He loves London, but he can’t help but see the life he’s lost in every crevice of the life he’s found.

Crowley doesn’t believe in divine providence, but if he did, this would be the surest evidence of it: on his way home to their shithole of a flat with his first paycheck in his pocket, he passes the window of an antiques store, and sees it in the window. It catches the afternoon light perfectly and shines gold against the black velvet display; it’s a clunky old-fashioned sort of ring, with angel wings forming the band. Crowley has been thinking hard about this for years now, and it’s absolutely perfect.)

The sunlight outside comes weakly through the clouds, pale but just bright enough to avoid dreariness. Crowley relaxes once they step from the church steps and onto the sidewalk; his first boyfriend broke up with him with a vague and plausibly-deniable note in a cheap bible left on Crowley’s front porch when he returned home from a summer church camp, and Aziraphale thinks he’s always been afraid in the back of his mind that Aziraphale is going to come home from church someday and do the same thing, though he’s never said as much.

“I brought the rolled oats for the ducks,” Crowley says. “Figured we ought to stop in, since we missed last week. Otherwise they might mutiny.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, and that had been his plan, but it’s all becoming so terribly real and sudden, isn’t it? He could wait just a little longer–

No, he can’t. They’ve waited long enough.

(It looks like this:

Crowley, ever-charming, talks the proprietor of the antiques shop into setting the ring aside for him. She’s suspicious of him, with his sibilant S and the pins on his leather jacket, but he’s wearing his work uniform, a perfectly respectable red polo shirt and black slacks, and he gives her a down payment and a long and terribly touching story about his college sweetheart that’s mostly true, apart from the gender of the lover in question.

The truth is, there are some things which can be easily done without, and some things that can’t. Aziraphale prefers fancy vintages from significant years and miraculous rains in the French countryside, but a £5 bottle from Sainsbury’s won’t ruin New Years. They can buy store brand cereal, the eggs discounted because one of them has been cracked, they can throw Aziraphale’s fancy embroidered throw over the pullout and hang richly dyed moth-eaten curtains from the theater department’s dumpster and pretend it’s the Hotel d’Alsace. But there are some things that must be done right, some things that cannot be done without, and he’s convinced that this is one of them. He could as easily propose with a plastic ring from the coin machine at their favorite bar, but Aziraphale is going to love this ring; even if he says no, pats Crowley on the cheek and says, “How romantic of you dear boy, but that’s not really what’s done, is it?” he’s still going to love it.

He’s secretive and vague about the extra hours and side gigs he takes on to make the payments. Aziraphale notices, he knows he does, he knows him too well not to, and he’s curious and a little alarmed, but he felt bad enough lying about where part of his first paycheck went without having to do it again every month when he stops in to make a payment on the ring.

It takes six months, but she finally hands it over, along with a comment about how she’s thought about it and she thinks it’s really rather noble, what he’s doing, and he best keep to it, best not break this poor girl’s heart, she’s read about people like him, giving it a go with nice girls for a couple years and then skipping out, sticking them with kids and a broken life. He rolls his eyes and says he’ll pass the message along to his boyfriend after he proposes, and saunters out, a skip in his step. It’s perfect; he’ll still wear it every day and admire it on his hand the way Crowley admires it now in the sun, and even if he says no–well, that would be a fine consolation prize.)

There is a bench they’ve been coming to for fifteen years now, so habitually the ducks flock to them when they arrive, flicking oats into the water. Crowley is catching him up on the fight he missed while he was out (the walls are thin and the neighbors provide endless entertainment with their incessant and bafflingly banal bickering; it’s a proper extended universe, their family disputes, and the mother-in-law is visiting, so it’s been an exciting weekend), and Aziraphale is trying to listen, he really is, even though he insists eavesdropping and gossiping aren’t especially neighborly–“oh, come off it, angel, you know they’ve got their ears pressed to the wall when we fight, not to mention when we–” “Crowley!”–but he cant focus on anything but the weight in his pocket.

He’s been putting money away for a year now, ever since legislation to legalize it was introduced last July. He’d known it would take some time to pass, but if they were willing to propose it, it would be soon.

“Alright, what’ve you got squirreled away, huh?” Crowley demands, the dozenth time in a few short minutes his hand has gone to his pocket to ensure it’s still there. “I’m hungry. Was so worried you’d gone off and joined some cultish offshoot I couldn’t eat. Well, a more cultish offshoot. Is the Catholic church an offshoot? Suppose it must be, not like Jesus named a pope–”

“It’s not food, dear,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “And he did, he gave Saint Peter the keys to Heaven and he was bishop of Rome. Blasphemous old serpent.”

“I’m sure they all say that,” Crowley says, waving a hand. He eyes him curiously, flicking a rolled oat so it hits a duck in the head. “What is it then?”

Aziraphale’s heart thuds chaotically in his chest. “Crowley, dearest,” he says, turning to face him. He takes his hand in his, desperate for the anchor, the reassurance. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Crowley says, looking alarmed. “Are you alright?”

“You love me,” Aziraphale repeats, both wishing desperately he could see Crowley’s eyes, search them, and desperately glad that he can’t. Crowley’s bare eyes are so terribly expressive, the sight of them so intimate, he couldn’t bear it.

“‘Course I do,” he says, with conviction. “More than anything. What’s this about?”

“Crowley, my love,” he says hoarsely, and he kneels on one knee, still clinging to his hand.

(It looks like this:

It’s October in 2000, and it’s been raining like the coming of the second flood for days. Crowley stands at the window, biting his lip and scowling at it, sick of it and about to start refreshing himself on the principles of chaos magic in a bid to end it.

“Crowley, dear, you’re making me nervous,” Aziraphale grumbles from the sofa. He loves a nice rainy day, loves curling up against Crowley with a cup of tea and a book or one of those awful television shows with the flouncy costumes and overwrought acting, but even he is growing tired of being stuck inside all day and getting soaked to the bone on his way to work. “Come sit down, would you?”

“I’m busy,” Crowley mutters.

“You don’t look busy,” Aziraphale says. “It looks like you think you can scowl the rain into submission.”

“Works on the plants,” Crowley tells him, and he knows Aziraphale is rolling his eyes without having to look. He’s half a mind to do away with his idea all together, just do it right here in their cramped little studio, when quite suddenly, the rain lets up to a light mist. He stares at it, jaw slack, for several long moments. When it doesn’t start pick up again, he shouts, “Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” Aziraphale frowns. “In this?”

“It’s just misting and we haven’t gone out properly in days,” Crowley says eagerly. “C'mon, get dressed, I want to go to the park.” He won’t have time to get dressed properly, doesn’t want to risk the return of the storm–which is a crying shame, he had such an outfit planned–but he yanks the pants he knows make his ass look the best out of their dresser and a deep purple blouse with lace around the cuffs Aziraphale once said made him look very royal, stripping out of his pajamas and hopping into them as quickly as he can.

“The park?” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Well, I suppose I would rather fancy a stroll, stretch my legs–”

“Excellent!” Crowley throws him a horrible pair of houndstooth slacks and the first button down he sees. “Get dressed.”

“Crowley–”

“Dressed!”

“These don’t even match!”

“I don’t care! Get dressed!” He darts to their vanity, staring wild-eyed at his reflection. Eyeliner is smudged raccoon-like around his eyes, but his sunglasses will cover that. He picks up a brush and yanks it violently through his hair. His eyes dart to Aziraphale, taking his sweet time picking out a new button down. “Dressed! Dressed, c'mon!”

“I’m getting there,” he mutters, waving lazily at him. “What do you think, green or white, dear?”

“You look best in blue,” Crowley tells him. He pulls his hair back, then lets it fall again, then pulls the front back and secures it a few pins and a comb he knows Aziraphale likes. He spins around to see Aziraphale quite leisurely buttoning up his shirt. “If you don’t hurry, I’m leaving without you.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but his fingers quicken, and he sits down to tie his oxfords. Crowley hurries to join him, shoving his feet in his boots and lacing them up as quickly as he can. The moment they’re both done, he yanks him up, hauling him to the door, shrugging his leather jacket on and tossing Aziraphale his blazer. “Wait, I’ve got to get my bag–”

“You don’t need your bag,” Crowley insists, and reaches into his pocket to make sure the ring is there.

Aziraphale frets the whole way to the park about how it’s bound to start pouring again any moment, and Crowley rushed him so much he forgot to bring an umbrella, they’re going to get drenched, they forgot bread for the ducks–unaware as they were that one ought not feed a duck bread, for its own sake–and St. James’ Park is positively sodden and it’ll take ages for his wool socks to dry out. Crowley doesn’t care; he links their arms and slogs bravely on to their usual spot, grateful that the heavy rain has cleared it out. The only other people around are a mother and child, some ways off, enjoying the brief respite.

“Angel, I’ve got something to ask you,” he says urgently, and he wrenches his sunglasses off–wait, he forgot, the eyeliner–he slides them back on, then takes them off again; he knows how Aziraphale likes to see his eyes.

“Yes?” Aziraphale looks confused and alarmed, he doesn’t like surprises or irregular reactions. He jumps to the worst every time, starts overthinking every twitch of Crowley’s face, and Crowley loves him, the anxious prat.

“I love you,” he says. “Do you love me?”

“I love you more than words can say, darling, what’s going on?” His eyes search Crowley’s face, his brow furrowed.

“Do you–” he swallows hard. They’ve never talked about this, not really. “You don’t think this is–y'know, a sin, right?” It feels so awkward in his mouth, his tone not weighty enough. The truth is, he’s never really seen what all the fuss was about, why so many other queer people struggled so much to reconcile their lives with the Church. The Church rejected him, so he rejected the Church, and he hasn’t looked back. But it means something to Aziraphale. He doesn’t know if he struggles with it still, but it means something to him. It means a lot to him.

“Oh, Crowley, dear,” he says, his eyes clearing. He touches his cheek, so gently Crowley could scream. “Of course not. This could never be a sin, I’ve been reading–”

Crowley can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Of course you have,” he says, beaming at him. “Of course you have. What have you been reading, angel?”

“Well, Montefiore’s ‘Jesus, the Revelation of God’ points out that Christ’s early life–”

“Flaming homosexual, Jesus was, then?” Crowley asks, unable to smother his unhinged grin, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s so giddy about, but it seems like he can’t help but smile back, a little uncertainly.

“There was John, of course, the Beloved Disciple, and there’s a rather interesting idea about the Wedding at Cana, which is of course in some ideas thought of as a symbolic marriage of Christ to the church, and some–there’s this beautiful German print, of Jesus and John at the wedding, I’ll have to show you–some have suggested that it’s also a more literal marriage between Jesus and John–”

“Christ, angel, you’ll marry me, won’t you?” Crowley breathes, and he kneels.

Aziraphale blinks at him, brow furrowed, his mind clearly trying to catch up to this sudden switch in the topic of conversation. It’s always hard to interrupt one of his rambling little speeches, he gets so invested in them, but Crowley will just have to make it up to him later, let him lecture above him well into the night about apocryphal writings and stained glass and this print or that; right now, he just need to be engaged to this ridiculous man. “Er, what?”

“Marry me,” he says. He had a whole proposal planned, but he’s forgotten it, and it was stupid, anyway. “Marry me, I–” he fumbles in his pocket, pulls the ring out of the little felt bag the proprietor put it in and holds it up like an offering. “I have a ring. Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

“Are you–” Aziraphale’s eyes are getting wide, his breath coming fast. “Crowley, you’re not joking about this, are you?”

“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” Crowley snaps. “Look, see, I got a ring and everything. Do you like it?”

“Crowley–” Aziraphale gasps, a wet and rough sound. “I–I suppose it would be legal, technically, but I–Crowley, you know how I feel about, about–what do you mean–”

“It’s not legal, I know, but neither is buggery, technically, just can’t be prosecuted, but that’s never stopped us,” he says. He knows, he knows how Aziraphale feels about playing to his assigned gender, even when it’s convenient. “Look, it’s not like Jesus and John had a marriage license, is it?”

And Aziraphale starts crying.)

“Angel,” Crowley says, staring down at him. “The hell are you doing?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale releases his hand to pull the small velvet box out of his pocket, opens it carefully, precisely, and holds it out to him. “Crowley, my dearest, will you marry me?”

“We’re already married, angel,” Crowley whispers, and as if unconsciously, his thumb strokes the tattoo on his left ring finger.

“Well, certainly,” he says. “But it’s legal now, and I know that what the state has to say doesn’t matter much, but you know–well, you remember how it can be, without something legal. Something on paper,. And you don’t have a ring.”

“I have better than a ring,” Crowley says, but his eyes are glittering, fixed on the little black ring in the box, a band of silver around it.

Aziraphale swallows hard. “Crowley, I would really quite like to marry you, officially, dear, if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll–I swear to somebody, angel, you’re the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” he swears. “Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot, I–what the fuck does the ring say, Aziraphale?”

He smiles, can’t help but be pleased that he’s noticed. On the inside, in his own hand writing, is You Make Me Live, Dearest, in deference to the song Crowley has, on many occasions, blasted so loud their neighbors have pounded on the wall, practically shouting the lyrics at Aziraphale, hauling him, laughing, into terrible dancing that usually ends up knocking something over. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, and sings very quietly, and off-key, voice wavering (he hasn’t sang since his second puberty; he had a lovely voice, before, he was in a choir, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it since), “Oh, you make me live, whenever this world is cruel to me–”

Crowley grabs him by his lapels and hauls him up into a hungry kiss, passersby be damned.

(It looks like this:

Aziraphale is crying, his face in his hands, and Crowley is frozen on his knees, all his giddy joy slowly leaving him, a hollow humiliation replacing it.

“Angel,” he says, hating how his voice cracks. “Angel, I’m sorry, you don’t have to say yes–you can keep the ring, I want you to have the ring–I won’t–I won’t leave, if you say no–unless you want me to, obviously–” Shit, shit, shit, he didn’t fuck up that bad, did he–

Aziraphale drops his hands, startled, and stares at him. “Why on earth would I want that?” he asks, and he goes to his knees on the wet concrete, pulling the ridiculous handkerchief that matches his ridiculous bow tie from his breast pocket, dabs at his eyes, wipes his nose, and puts it in his pocket with a deep breath. “I never–I never thought this would be possible, the way I wanted it,” he says at last. “I never even–considered it, really, I wished, perhaps, but I never–” he stops, and he stares at Crowley with such warmth and love it settles him, a little. He’s not going to turn him out, and that’s really all that matters.

“I just thought, I know you wouldn’t want to do it…officially, so it might not be legal, but maybe–you and me, we could say some vows,” he says. “If you wanted. If you don’t, that’s fine,” and his voice, the goddamn traitor, cracks again on the word.

“Oh, dear, I haven’t said yes, have I?” Aziraphale says, and he smiles, a watery thing, puts his hand on Crowley’s wrist. “Yes, darling, I’d love nothing more than to marry you, I really wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, and a smile begins to form. “Oh. That’s–great, then.”

“You ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and he throws his arms around him, pressing a soft kiss to his neck. He can feel his lashes flutter against the soft skin there, the slide of warm tears, his breath ghosting across the fine hairs, and he shivers.

“Hey,” he says, nudging him. “Hey. Did you see the ring?”

Aziraphale laughs, leaning back onto his haunches, and wipes at his eyes. “The ring?”

“Yeah, the ring,” Crowley says, waving it about. He thinks it looks even more impressive in the washed-out grey light, shining like a second sun.

“Crowley,” he whispers, seeming to really truly notice it for the first time. “Where–where did you get this?” His hands hover around it, reverent, as if he’s afraid to touch it.

“An antiques shop,” he says proudly. “Give me your hand.”

“How did you afford it?” he asks wonderingly, and he lets Crowley take his hand in his, slide it onto his finger, smiles at his little sigh of relief when it fits.

“Saved up,” he says. “That’s, er. What I’ve been doing, going out.”

“I was curious,” Aziraphale says, and his eyes well up again. “Oh, darling, all this time, you’ve been working?”

“Wanted you to have the best,” he says. “Look, see, they’re angel wings.” He runs a finger around the band, beaming at it. “You like it?”

“Crowley, my dear, I love it more than I can say,” he says fervently, and he puts a hand on his cheek again, leans in to give him a chaste, brief kiss. “Let’s go home,” he suggests. “I’ll thank you properly.”

Crowley leaps to his feet, bringing Aziraphale with him, and they don’t quite run to the bus stop, but it’s a very close thing, giggling like drunk teenagers sneaking out late, laughter peeling through the park when Crowley’s poorly laced boots send them tumbling, arms linked, into the grass.)

It looks like this:

It’s 2000, and it’s 2014, and they run home from the bus stop in a sudden downpour of rain, having forgotten umbrellas, absent-minded and distracted by more important things. A leather jacket is shed onto the floor, a tweed coat thrown in the vague direction of a coat rack; Crowley throws Aziraphale’s suspenders off his shoulders with pleased gusto, a tie, belt, shirts, hit the floor with abandon, sunglasses are placed very delicately somewhere safe. Crowley pulls at Aziraphale’s binder insistently, in 2000, yanks his white undershirt over his head in 2014; oxfords and combat boots are tossed and hit the walls and floor; they stumble over their pants as they try to take them off without stopping, without taking their hands off each other for even a moment, and the old bed creaks when they tumble onto it. The headboard cracks against the wall, knocks the crucifix loose, and the thud is followed by shaking laughter overtaken by gasps, and cries, and fervent declarations, hands clasped, mouths sliding inelegantly together. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you; and they’re both thinking with desperate and delighted devotion, my husband, my husband, my husband.

[wholesome-revelry]

fic: “Long-Term,” Aziraphale/Crowley, outsider POV | 1.6K, G

(Nominally a sequel to this)

Officiating weddings has got to be one of Dr. Blackwell’s favorite parts of ministry, and although she’s probably not supposed to have preferences, if she looks deep into her jaded lesbian heart with any degree of honesty, queer weddings are by far the best. 

Take, for instance, the couple she’s consulting with this afternoon, for their upcoming October ceremony. Seemingly mismatched in every respect. The plump, fair-haired one looks like a parody of an absent-minded professor, as sketched by someone who didn’t bother to do much actual research; his clothes are so outdated it teeters on costume. He’s wearing a bowtie, and not in that reinvented hipster way. This is a bowtie unacquainted with the cycles of fashion, a bowtie that has never heard the word irony. 

His partner is a rangy, black-clad ginger in snakeskin boots. He has the look of a hungover rocker about him, and would somehow, even without the sunglasses he has fully committed to wearing indoors on a cloudy afternoon. He’s sprawled almost defiantly in his chair and keeps throwing dubious glances around Dr. Blackwell’s office, as though expecting a lightning bolt to strike him down for merely daring to be within spitting distance of a church. 

Everything about his posture screams ‘Extremely complicated feelings about religion ahoy!’

Ex-Catholic, Dr. Blackwell thinks sagely. 

Something funny about their names, too. Their names are--

They’re--

(She knows they both gave her their names, but as she looks at their faces, there is a curiously name-shaped hole where the sounds should go. Every time she approaches the edges of this thought, it ripples and changes shapes, and whispers, ‘Don’t worry now, it’s really of no consequence, is it?’ 

Dr. Blackwell didn’t get a degree in Unitarian Universalist theology by looking away from paradoxes. ‘Curiosity is earthly and holy and wonderful,’ she tries to tell the thought, pushing forward, ‘even to question truly is an answer--’ 

‘Ah yes,’ the thought says after her third attempt, ‘very nice, but in this particular case--’ and the absence where their names should be yawns, stretches, and swallows down all of her related concerns with a shrug.)

She blinks. She watches as Bowtie casually takes Sunglasses’ hand, as Sunglasses responds with a look so gooey and sweet and private that she feels a bit weird for intruding. How, she thinks, the fuck did you two meet?

The only thing they seem to have in common, beyond their feelings for each other, is a certain aura of personal disaster. Still, let she whose outfit doesn’t heavily feature Birkenstocks and cat hair throw the first stone. So to speak. 

“So,” says Dr. Blackwell, “anything in particular I should know first? Any thoughts, or concerns?”

“The hymns,” says Bowtie, “or. Uh. The songs, I suppose?” He coughs. “Any chance we could stick with ones that don’t, you know, prominently feature--?” He pointedly casts his eyes towards the ceiling and almost seems to mutter, “No point in asking for trouble.”

“Oh, of course,” she says, shaking off the flash of weirdness like an errant cobweb. “We have plenty of non-denominational hymns.”

“About what,” Sunglasses says with a slight sneer. “Tax forms? Penguins? Automotive repair?”

Oof. Definitely an ex-Catholic, she thinks. You can smell the baggage from here.

“Mostly about the inherent holiness in doing good, or the beauty of nature?” says Dr. Blackwell. “Sometimes, someone will sort of retrofit a classical melody to Transcendentalist poetry, but those tend not to scan so well, in my opinion.”

Somehow, without any eye contact, Sunglasses manages to give her a wary look.

“You can borrow a hymnal if you’d like,” she continues. “We tend to edit out the G-word anyway. Makes the atheists and the agnostics a bit jumpy, me included.” Bowtie starts.

“You don’t,” says Sunglasses, “believe in--?”

“Not really,” says Dr. Blackwell. “Suppose I’ll allow for the possibility, but in my mind, the existence of some divine Heavenly will is just not as important as other questions. Like ��How do I do what’s right for the planet and everything on it?’”

“How do I avert the apocalypse,” Sunglasses murmurs.

“Exactly,” she says with a laugh, “although I’d settle for doing something about Brexit.” 

Neither of them laugh, and after an awkward pause, she adds,

“As far as music goes, for the ceremony. If you’ve got a song that really resonates with you, no matter what it is, let me know and we can work that in.”

“No Queen,” says Sunglasses immediately. 

It feels like there should be a story here, but Bowtie only turns to him and says, “What was that band you liked? Velveteen--”

“We’re not playing Velvet Underground at our wedding,” Sunglasses says.

“Same thing goes for readings, too,” says Dr. Blackwell. “If there’s a text that holds special meaning--”

“Hm,” says Bowtie, “yes, about that--” He reaches to his side and heaves an antique leather briefcase onto her desk. “May I?” 

“Of course.”

Bowtie fiddles with the latch, which clicks open to reveal a mountain of papers: wine-stained cocktail napkins and looseleaf notebook pages, parchment-looking stuff, and everything in between. It’s a veritable avalanche of love poems, as well as quotations from various plays and books, all laboriously hand-copied in the same tidy penmanship.

“Angel,” says Sunglasses slowly. “What is this.”

Pink-cheeked, Bowtie flutters his hands. “Just--some things I’d been setting aside!”

“For how long,” Sunglasses says, leaning forward. He sounds delighted but also deeply confused.

“So sorry,” Bowtie tells Dr. Blackwell, “I really should’ve organized these better! Even a rudimentary system--”

“It’s fine,” she says, blankly. She really hopes it isn’t going to be her job to narrow down the options. There are literally hundreds.

“How long,” Sunglasses repeats.

“You know how long!” hisses Bowtie.

Sunglasses plucks a sheet off the pile, rubs it between his thumb and finger. “They stopped making paper like this in the nineteenth century,” he says, sounding strangely triumphant about it.

Dr. Blackwell furrows her forehead, where a number of facts are colliding uncomfortably inside, like how some of these specimens are clearly very new, some are so old she’d be uncomfortable touching them with her bare hands, and the handwriting on every one of them is identical.

“Oh!” she says with sudden bright clarity. “Are you two vintage paper enthusiasts?”

“Yes,” says Bowtie. “Love it, love the stuff, simply cannot get enough.” And then, to Sunglasses, with a pointed look in Dr. Blackwell’s direction, “We’ll talk about it later.”

Maybe they met at a convention, she thinks. That’s nice.

“How about you pick out your top five first?” she suggests. “Or ten.” She glances down at the mound of text. “Also, we might need to get some volunteer readers for some of these, because my French isn’t exactly up to par. Or my--is that Middle English?”

“Haha, how did that get in there, couldn’t even begin to guess,” Bowtie babbles. He has to brace most of his weight on the briefcase lid to wrench it closed again. Sunglasses watches with interest, chin resting in his hands. “Yes, I will, I will absolutely weed some of these out, not to worry--”

The rest of the conversation is standard, for the most part. It’s going to be a relatively small ceremony, no child ring bearers and thankfully no animal ones either. (They have a whiff of eccentricity that had made Dr. Blackwell nervous one of them might suddenly produce a cat on a leash, insisting it was trained. In her experience, granting your beloved calico or tabby custodianship of the rings was a quick recipe for a ringless, catless wedding.) Only a shared stricken look at the possibility of involving any parents in the proceedings. 

This, sadly, is also quite standard with older queer couples.

“Between you and me,” says Dr. Blackwell, “and I know this isn’t very ministerial of me. But if the people who raised you don’t support what you have together, which is clearly a wonderful and beautiful and life-affirming thing, I say to Hell with ‘em, you know?”

Bowtie chuckles unsteadily. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“How long have you two been together?” she asks.

Bowtie and Sunglasses stare at each other. There is a long beat of silence. This is normally, she thinks, not a very hard question.

“How long have we been together?” says Sunglasses at last. The shades may hide his eyes but every molecule of his being is oriented at his fiance. “Hm?”

“Six thousand--” Bowtie starts, resolute.

“What,” says Dr. Blackwell.

“Days!” Bowtie finishes. “Six thousand days!”

“So,” she does some fast mental math, “about sixteen years, then?”

“Yes,” says Bowtie decisively.

“That’s great,” says Dr. Blackwell. “I’ve been with my wife for almost six years, I hope we’re still this much in love a decade from now.” There’s just something so reassuring about meeting older queer couples, she thinks. Bowtie and Sunglasses must be at least forty. Maybe fifty? 

(It’s odd; they’re clearly solid, clearly sitting in front of her, but every time she tries to clue into any specific detail about either of them, her mind sort of skitters away from it--

Her head hurts.)

“Guessing you want a short service,” she says, rubbing at her forehead. “I’ll just write out a few remarks for you two to look over first, if that’s alright? I can email something to you by the end of the week.”

“Sounds perfect!” says Bowtie.

They shake hands. She watches them leave, watches Sunglasses mutter something in Bowtie’s ear that makes him smile on the way out the door.

Pair of oddballs, but in a nice way, she thinks. You can’t always tell, as a minster, which couples are going to make it in the long run, but she hopes this all works out for them. Maybe it will. They’ve already stood the test of time, it seems.

Sixteen years--they’ve been together since early 2000. 

Imagine, she thinks. Just imagine.

[mythykl]

if naruto characters were your desk neighbours~

i lowkey miss the chaos in school, and not the actual school,, also recently rewatched the final battle between sasuke and naruto- this nostalgia overloaded. ya

Sasuke

popular- yet pretty unapproachable and an introvert,, you can clearly see why

kinda emo hair, kinda emo vibe, kinda emo clothes, just- wears all black

got piercings just last week and you totally find it cool-

 tho he seems content, he has an vibe of restlessness- always fiddling with pen and makin’ shit on his desk fall- that’s how you guys started talkinn’

well, long story shor- you joked- he gave a soul piercing look- attempted to joke for some reason- it was a bad dad joke- he simply decided to act as if nothing happened- you blurted out another joke at that and started laughing historically-

end of the day? you guys stayed late after school hours- as he showed you pics of his cats- nice.

pays attention in class- like a hawk. has pretty messy notes- and draws in his texts

Sakura

saku- no it’s the class rep we’re talkin’ about-

she came off as kinda phony and arrogant at first but she’d super sweet-

and a good cook-

and real scholar- except in sports-

amazing artist

and brings you chocolates everyday, but you ain’t complainin-

is secretly a hAIKYUU!! FAN and you suspect that she has a tumblr blog dedicated to them- i mean lmao-

ya book rec buddy~

hmmmmss~ a LOT

vintage and beanies- le vibe-

Naruto

though he won’t bother you and let go of his rEPUTATION of being loud af this year- but, holy crap you were wrong-

comes in late- legit everyday and acts like nothing happened,, yet emits energy like a fuckin sUN

hella funny and has the coolest fashion sense.

never pays attention in class- and asks you what’s going on and stuff

if given an opportunity- you would have a whole ass picnic in the back of the classroom

but,, you guys are strictly been told to sit on the first desks- cuz odc-

 cheats off your answers- and you’re not a snitch or anything bUT YOU”RE SO CLOSE-

lowkey scared of empty classrooms and hallways, 

Shikamaru

sLEEPS ALOT- thus, making it embarasing for you when sensei spots him and ask you to wake him tf up~

always asking for pen and pencil- has almost lost five erasers since the last three months

since this fucker never has anything with him- you decided to present him supplies for Christmas

doesn’t understand a shit in literature and social science lectures~ but fuckin’ aces at physics and math

many people call ya friendship weird cuz’ he’s more outgoing w you than w anyone else- liitle do they know thaT YOU GUYS BONDED OVER THE MUTUAL HATRED FOR SCHOOL SYSTEM- and mainly,, exchanging homework and test answers

just recently, he shared his playlist- and it’s fuckin’ good.

never takes notes- 

Ino

new hairstyles every fucking day,, i mean are we even surprised??

you wanna know the real vsco girl?? that’s her-

texts you while in class- more like sends you weird and funny shit she comes across on twitter

hence- aLWAYS ACTIVE-

AND TYPES SUPER FAST-

don’t know how but you guys just naturally started talking-

the epitome of foolishness was achieved by you guys in a french lecture when she was tryna say something to you- leaned too much- thus, ended up falling down along with her chair and desk-

and you guys just started crackin’-

which earned you both detention instead of asking her if she’s hurt but. nvm.

she would even throw cranes at you while teacher’s speaking

you guys have opened up about your kinks already- chill-

Hinata 

doesn’t seem like that- but she’s a cosplays

-and makes tik toks

and always listens to lo-fi and also reads lotta manga

she’s shy and speaks the most valid and deep shit ever shit lmao- just randomly throwing realizations at you like a shuttle cock lol

has all tHE SUPPLIES- and expensive ass highlighters and notebooks- 

rich. rich. rich.

pianist as well- you many a times see her hand doing the weird movements as if she’s playing keys- something that she does unconsciously-

being desk partners for a while earned you a selfie with her- she’s kinda camera shy when it comes to close ups-

Kiba

many say he’s loud, but he’s pretty quiet in class

has a three dogs- and has akamaru’s baby pic as his lockscreen- and it’S THE CUTEST THING ever~

k pop- ya

he tExTS LiKE tHiS aNd iT’S fUcKiNG aNNoYiNg

him and choji once deadass ate ramen in class and teacher didn’t gIVE TWO SHITS- oh okay-

when finals are almost here him and naruto are usually at your place- studying

your house? no- that’s the haNGOUT SPOT skjskjskj

has videos of you caught in the moments when ya brain just went sayonara~ which includes you zoning out in lectures-

he films you on snapchat and kinda bullies you:(

breakin’ the 573 streaks if he-

seems as if he exists merely for your entertainment well ofc it’s not so

btw,, i totally would love to have kiba as my bff~ just sayin

i would love to write imagines for minato, kushina, kakashi as well under this title lmso- lemme know. cool.

TOODLES.

[hansoheeglobal]

English translation; Han Sohee interview on Dazed Korea May 2020 Issue (credit the scanned article goes to @cubfcoftee)

Usually, the more popular the drama is, the more viewers see the characters in the drama being reflected in reality. In that sense, do you realize the popularity of "Yeo Da-kyung" in "The World of The Married"?

Yes! (Laughs) These days, I've already been getting a lot of bad words from my acquaintances, regardless of family or friends. Two days ago, I got a message from a friend saying, "You're really bad."

How did you interpret Da-kyung as an actress?

When I read the script, I felt sorry for Da-kyung. A young woman in her early 20s abandoned her family, her gaze, and her pride, I wondered why she was doing this. In order to express the character, I had to understand Da-kyung enough, so I was worried about how to do. In my view, Da-kyung is a character who threw both body and mind in love with 'Tae-oh', so I decided to look at that part only. For 'Da-kyung', the keyword love is in front of a married man, and for people, the word married couple exists before love. I think this is the difference between Da-kyung in my view and Da-kyung that viewers see.

What's the point of the future story?

Tae-oh is cursing, and so far it's only the beginning? (laughs) Focus on Da-kyung and Sun-woo" relationship, but at the same time pay attention to the story of the people around them. Yes, as couples of different ages, such as Lim Je-hyuk, Hyun-seo, and In-gyu, get involved in the incident, the episode unfolds in an omnibus style. There will be a lot of things happening one day.

"I want to act a real love relationship this time, not a dramatic love. Stories that date their peers, resolve conflicts, and end happily. And I hope my character gets loved next time."

Da-kyung's fashion is also getting popular.

At first, I thought Dagyung should dress nicely because she is a rich-house daughter. Thinking about it again, I thought, "Yeo Da-kyung: The daughter of a rich family is the eye of the beholder, and Da-kyung's poem line is my house (=the rich house) that was born and grew naturally, so I don't need to shine like the daughter of a rich family for the first reason." Dakyung's fashion will all change with time.

Dagyung is a Pilates instructor.Do you actually enjoy pilates?

No, I don't have a lot of muscles, so I've been doing weight training. Before I started filming, I learned Pilates at the director's recommendation, and it was so different from the exercise I've been doing. Something similar is that it feels like holding up like a core exercise, a plank. I didn't think static exercise was right, but once I tried it, it was effective for Jasmine's orthodontics. I'm going to try to do it a little more.

What kind of character do you want to play?

Instead of dramatic love, I want to play a real love affair next time. It is a story about people of their age who date, solve conflicts with each other, and end happily. And next time, I want to be act as that character.

Is there anything else you'd like to challenge besides acting?

I used to study art. I want to learn more from my discharge because art is something that I have to be with in my life. But I don't think I can do art at the same time.You have to do one right before you can catch two rabbits. I think it's time to focus more on acting, and art is not light to me, so I want to study in France when I have time to turn my eyes to it.

I was surprised that your skin was so good while watching the monitor. Do you have any special methods?

Sleep? For me, sleep is better than exercise or diet. I'm going to sleep at least 7 hours. When I'm on the location, I'll sleep as soon as I get in the car. In fact, if you can't sleep, you get dark circles and pigments, and you'll be able to control your tired skin. I'm trying to make a habit of drinking water. I didn't even drink a cup of coffee.

Your hometown is Ulsan. I'm curious about the Seoul adaptation period.

I have a friend who is studying abroad, and when I came to Seoul, she was the only one I knew. My friend lives in Hongdae and I live in Gangnam, so I was always alone when I was eating or drinking coffee. The street is a little too far to see often. So I have been staying in the studio with my friend, not my house, ever since some time ago. And I got to know a lot of people through Arba Teu, and now I'm happy to have that kind of relationship.

Don't you usually use dialect?

Now I have free dialects and standard language, sometimes without even realizing it. There are times when they come. It's not a dialect, but it's a unique accent Haejun Sun Bae, who plays Taeoh, is from Gyeongsang-do, so he naturally speaks in dialect once or twice in the scene.

You must have tried hard to change your dialect while acting.

It was natural. Fortunately, I think the environment helped a lot. My grandmother is from Wonju. She doesn't speak in dialect at all, so I didn't speak in dialect when I was young. After coming up to the first page, I naturally adapted to it by making many friends in Seoul. I still use dialect when I meet my friends from Gyeongsang-do. Depending on who you talk to, it becomes similar to the other person's tone.

I heard you were popular with your friend when you were in school.

I'm an exaggeration. (laughs) I didn't have a commonly called "boyfriend." attend a girls' high school I transferred to an arts high school, so I didn't know what to do in a space with boy friends. If you've been to a girls' high school, you'll know how fun it is. Seven unique moods. I don't like extreme color and I'm interested in people, so I've been friends with O.J. I've received a few letters from my friends saying that I want to be close to them. I think it was misrepresented that I was popular among women. (laughs).

You're working as Han Sohee. What is Lee So-hee's personality like?

There is no boundary or difference between Han So-hee and Lee So-hee. It's still strange to call her Han So-hee. I like people. It's not like I listen to other people's stories and say, "Whoa!" I just like to sit face to face and watch.I thought, "How would a photographer like?" and "How would he like to be?" I tried to approach him as a person when I didn't do it when I was working.

You think a mind that likes and observes people will be the foundation for the job of an actor/actress.

That's right. Since the character is human, I think it's helpful to get to know many different sides of people naturally.

What do you usually do when you're alone?

I ride a bicycle because the weather is so nice these days. I can't go to the fitness center because of Corona 19, so instead, I ride my bike for a walk. I like to be active, but when I want to pick it up, I just stay at home for a week. There's something extreme about it, but it's all at home. Suddenly, I was like, "Oh! I can't be like this." If you think you need to move like a human being, you can go out alone.

When I saw at your Instagram, I thought, 'Han So-hee has her own taste like a woman in her twenties these days.' I'm curious about Han So-hee's daily life, hobbies and tastes.

I usually watch movies, especially French movies. I recently watched all of director Xavier Dolan's movies again. I like the feeling of seeing and listening to different cultures and languages. If you keep looking at the characters in the movie, you can feel their eyes, hands, and feet. In short, everyday fashion is manuscript! Among them, I like to wear dresses that have a vintage or retro vibe in the design that reveals the necline. I like styling that matches rough boots that contradict the feminine dress of flower pattern. I rarely dress up these days, so I only wear Crocs.(Laughing) I rarely put on basic makeup and apply it on my lips to add more vitality. My skin is thin enough to show veins, so I rarely do base makeup because the more I put on makeup, the more my skin gets damaged.

It's a cat named Butler?

It's my second brother. At first, I brought him with the thought of having a child, but now he's a sister who lives with Eun. His name is Marsh, and he's soft like a marshmallow. So I called him Marsh. He's like a real brother. He's good at opening doors. Jump and lower the lever grip and open the door. Sometimes when I get sick of cat toilets, I go into the bathroom and do my chores, and I'm often surprised at night. But he's a quiet kid who's never been bitten.

How was the photo shoot today?

Since I was filming a drama, I was stuck in Da-kyung for a while, but I felt like I was out of it today. It was a pictorial, so I knew I had to strike a chic pose, but it was fun because I was able to move freely, slanted and tilted. I like this better than the pose that you put on in a cool way.

Which pictorial would you like to take with Dazed for the second time?

I want to take pictures outdoors. with a languid feeling in the sun

So sorry there are a lot of mistranslation. I hope you all still get it.