#outer wear for women

[devineluxclothing]

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[fabindia-store]

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[crushpunky]

drew and actress!reader play the vanity fair game show

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

based off the OBX3 interview + suggested by this ask <3

“I am Madelyn Cline and we are here to test how well we know each other.” Madelyn said into the camera, sitting in the “hot seat”. The rest of her OBX costars sat opposite her in two rows, shoulder to shoulder and grinning ear to ear. Drew sat in the back, along with Rudy, JD, and Austin, where y/n sat in the front with Madison, Carlacia, and Chase. Drew wore a light purple blazer, a color the boys had made sure to tease him for all day, but he didn’t mind. Y/n liked the color on him, so of course he was going to wear it.

“... and we’re the cast of Outer Banks!” Madison and Carlacia said, the rest of the cast joining them and waving at the camera. Madison put her head down with a giggle before composing herself and straightening up once more. Y/n could feel Drew’s fingers combing lightly through her hair, playing with the ends as they waited for the game to begin. She looked back at him, grinning at his long, tousled hair. He smiled back, his fingers continuing to run through her hair as they focused back on the game.

“Ok, first question: which astrological sign do I like the most other than mine?” Madelyn said, the end of her marker resting on her lip as she thought. Quickly, the room burst into shouts and guesses, everyone clamoring to win the very first point of the game. Drew stood from his chair, craning his neck to see what Madelyn’s card read.

“Hey, no cheating!” Y/n pointed at him, a mischievous smirk spreading across his face before he sat back down.

“I’m gonna say Gemini.” Drew said, raising his eyebrows as he glanced into the camera.

“Gemini women. Yes.” Madelyn replied, giving Drew the first point. The rest of the cast booed playfully, Drew patting himself on the back as Madelyn’s turn continued. Once she asked her last question, it was Drew’s turn in the hot seat.

“Y/n has to wait to answer.” JD said, the cast turning to y/n, her mouth falling open.

“That is definitely not in the rules!” Y/n laughed, rolling her eyes.

“Now they are.” Rudy said with a shrug.

“Ok, what is my secret talent? Bonus, where did I learn my talent?” Drew read, looking over the question card at his co-stars until his eyes met y/n’s. She narrowed her eyes, trying to read into what Drew was going to write on the card, after all, he was a man of many talents.

“Sleeping.” Carlacia said.

“You play piano?” Austin guessed.

“See what’s happening is you're just giving me a lot of ideas.” Drew said, taking the cap off of his marker as he prepared to finalize his answer.

“Oh, write it down, I know it.” Y/n said waving her hand for him to write faster. Once he finished, Drew looked at her to answer.

“Juggling.” She answered, Drew flipping the card around to reveal his answer: juggling/insomnia.

“Question two: what’s my favorite food?” Drew grinned, writing his answer down quickly.

“Mama Jodi’s casserole!” The cast said in unison, Drew nodding as he flipped the card around.

“Almost burned down the apartment complex cooking that one time.” Chase pointed out, causing Drew to gasp.

“That was actually y/n’s fault.” Drew said, pointing a finger at y/n who scoffed.

“You were the one that was distracting me!” Y/n shot back, raising her hands in surrender as she thought of the memory. It had been Drew’s birthday and y/n had decided to surprise him with his favorite casserole. However, the two of them had gotten so entranced in an intense game of Mario Kart that she completely forgot about the food in the oven… until the smoke alarm went off.

“Fine, I will take some blame… only a little bit.” Drew cracked a smile as he shuffled onto the next card.

“Last question: who is my celebrity crush?” Drew scowled, biting his lip as he thought.

“Y/n y/ln.” Rudy said quickly. A small smirk spread across Drew’s lips as he hurriedly wrote his answer down, the rest of the cast hooting and hollering as y/n covered her face with her hands and a flush spread to her cheeks.

“Yeah, that’s correct…” Drew said bashfully, scratching his jaw. “I don’t think she likes me though, if I’m being honest.”

“Definitely not.” Madelyn teased, nudging y/n’s arm playfully.

The game continued, each member of the cast having their turn into their hot seat until it was finally y/n’s turn.

“Drew has to wait to answer.” Y/n said, pointing at Drew. His mouth fell open, his competitive nature kicking in as he groaned.

“The rules, Starkey.” Austin said, shaking his shoulder lightly as y/n picked up her first card.

“What is my favorite movie?” Y/n asked, pausing to think of her answer before writing it down.

“La La Land? The Lego Movie? Moulin Rouge?” Chase guessed, attempting to rattle off as many guesses as possible.

“Pitch Perfect!” Madison said with a giggle, to which y/n nodded.

“Yes, very big Pitch Perfect fan.” Y/n responded. The cast had many memories of watching (and performing) the movie during quarantine when all of them were confined to their shared apartment complex.

“Next question: what is my go-to karaoke song?” Y/n raised her eyebrows as she wrote her answer down on the card.

“Something Taylor Swift, yeah?” Madelyn asked.

“Surprisingly, no.” Y/n laughed. Drew and y/n had hosted many karaoke nights in their shared apartment, the entire cast fitting onto their sofa to sing and dance the night away. The two of them had even gone as far as buying a karaoke machine, complete with mics and lights. It was quite a hit.

“Oh my god, I know it—” Rudy said, snapping his fingers as he searched for the right answer.

“Alanis Morisette...” Drew whispered, to which y/n scowled at him.

“You Oughta Know!” Madelyn cheered, stealing Rudy’s answer with a giggle.

“Yep, that’s right… thank you, Drew.” Y/n said, quirking an eyebrow at Drew who just smiled back. Y/n shuffled her cards for a moment, drawing out the final question.

“Oh boy, last one...” Y/n said dramatically, the cast letting out a string of “ooohs” as y/n cleared her throat.

“What’s my on set snack?” Y/n read, quickly scribbling down her answer as her co-stars looked between each other. Drew sat there, a smug grin on his face as he watched their castmates struggle to answer the very simple question.

“I literally had the same snack every single day.” Y/n said, hoping to direct her co-stars in the right direction.

“I never had the same break time as you two, that’s not fair!” Carlacia said, turning to face Drew who simply shrugged.

“The answer was pickles.” Y/n said, turning the card around to reveal her answer.

“What kind? We need specifics.” JD asked, quirking his brow.

“Dill. The ones in the bag.” Drew answered for y/n, who simply nodded.

“And with that, we are the cast of Outer Banks…” Y/n led, gesturing to her friends opposite her.

“Thanks for watching!” The cast said in unison, waving to the camera.

[peekofhistory]

Here's how the layering for women's outfits would go for the Tang Golden Era period (盛唐).

For those who actually wear Hanfu out these days, we usually forgo the petticoat, or add some straps to it and wear it inside the shirt to hide the straps. For the outer skirt (qixiong), a lot of shops are also adding straps to them just to make it easier on everyone. I mentioned before in a post, without the straps you're always at risk of a wardrobe malfunction 😬

I need to buy a pair of lantern pants...those look so comfy. Some people will pair lantern pants with a cute blouse for a more modern twist on the look, easy to move around in and go out for a nice day :D

[andhumanslovedstories]

There's so many horrible things happening in America right now that it has been interesting to see what individual horrors hurt me personally the most. I grew up going to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Musicals, plays, concerts, that weird bust of JFK, playing around on terrace during intermissions, putting on a velvet dress that you're going to ruin dropping a milk dud in your lap and not noticing until it's fully melted, wearing the pinchy shiny shoes that are the training bras of women's formal footwear, operas I didn't like but did love, jazz I didn't understand but still fascinated me, red carpet, big stairs, the absolute nightmare amount of experiences I had as a new driver as I repeatedly got trapped in the Kennedy Center's fucking private DC island or whatever the hell is going on traffic-wise, free performances on small side stages, getting to see an enormous production on the Center's most enormous stage, all of which was accessed by walking through that a long, tall hallway lined with flags of the world that made you feel like a dignitary attending the most important even in the world.

And now Trump's taken it over. He fired its board. He appointed one of his loyalists to run it. I want to throw up.

Sometimes I miss DC so much. I love the Pacific Northwest and expect I'll live here for the rest of my life, but this isn't my hometown. I grew up the edge of the District. I've lost cumulative years of my life stuck in traffic on the inner loop and outer loop. Because of the Smithsonian, it used to be so baffling to me that anyone ever had to pay to get into a museum. I've used the Washington DC zoo as a shortcut to a different part of the city because it's free to enter. You couldn't count the amount of knockoff Spider-man popsicles that I've eaten sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. My reading tastes were molded by Kramer Books in Dupont Circle. I spent afternoons walking around the National Mall, normally just a big empty field until there's an event--book fair, country music program, international cuisine, whatever--at which point for a day or a weekend or a week it becomes a sea of tents and stages. I went to protests outside the Capital and the White House about the war in Iraq. I froze my toes off watching Obama's 2008 presidential inauguration.

It seemed like everyone's family touched the federal government in some way. Everyone's family had moved here because they were military or state department or a political consultant or worked with an NGO or some other reason that meant you had to be here, in the nation's capital. Plenty of people had connections to the federal government that we more hush-hush. Like kids in class straight up going, "I have no idea what my parents do for a living. They're not allowed to tell me." High schoolers regularly, accidentally drove into the CIA parking lot and got escorted out because the premises were that accessible. My family moved here because my dad is a reporter who ended up covering international trade. (Imagine how much his job sucks right now.) He switched beats one summer to cover the White House instead. He got to fly on Air Force One. He got official Air Force One M&Ms. I was SO disappointment my dad didn't work there for Bush to call on him by nickname.

Every day my family got The Washington Post. I read the comics and the kid's page, then the rest of the Style section, then Metro, then news. I learned to read from it. We wrapped our delicate Christmas ornaments with its pages. We used yesterday's papers to clean our windows because they didn't leave streaks. I took journalism in high school. You can't IMAGINE how much and how frequently we talked about Watergate. When Post changed its motto to "Democracy Dies in Darkness" after Trump's election in 2016 that meant something to me. I knew Bezos owned the paper now, but that was still my paper, and the motto spoke to something I fervently believed: if people just knew what was happening, they wouldn't allow it to happen. If you expose a problem, people will naturally agree that it is a problem and that we should do something to fix it. Flash forward to Trump's third fucking campaign, and the newspaper wouldn't endorse a presidential candidate. Chickenshit cowardice. Then they change the motto. "Riveting Storytelling for All of America." Eat shit. You're nothing now.

Politics in America is just telling everyone how much you hate Washington, DC so that they'll elect you so you can move to DC. Well, guys, the city fucking hates you too. Republicans will never give the District actually meaningful political representation because no one in that city would vote for them. It's not just the policies; it's the contempt. No one in the new administration loves the city they schemed and lied and stooped to take over. It's just iconography to them, and all they care about is taking that iconography for themselves. Trump doesn't give a shit about the summer program for the Kennedy Center. He has never seen a show at the Kennedy Center. When he was president, he never attended the annual awards. He's trying to destroy one of the most significant places of my life and I'm genuinely unsure if he has ever stepped for inside of it.

[starsandsuch]

Some Notes On Jyeshta 📝

Let’s chit chat an Jyestha-Sidereal Scorpio. Mercury Nakshatra contained in a Mars ruled rashi. The deity is Indra, their yoni is a male deer. Their symbol is an umbrella.

The following notes apply to people with their Sun, Moon, Ascendant or Atmakaraka planet in Jyestha. Honorable mention to Ketu in Jyestha natives as well.

➢ In terms of physical appearance, they naturally look like they are wearing eyeliner even if they aren’t. Both men and women. They have arched, high-set eyebrows that often extend past the outer corner of their eye.

➢ Jyestha women look good with a smokey eye look, dark eyeliner or kohl on their eyes. For many that’s their signature makeup look.

➢ Their physiognomy reminds me of a vampire. They look great in black. In jewel tones.

➢ They can be very slender and frail, the men especially tend to remind one of a skeleton. Gaunt cheeks, deep set eyes, skinny frame.

➢ Jyestha natives are almost impossible to deceive. They are scrutinizing, critical and intuitive.

➢ Their presence is silent but loud. You can’t help but notice them even if they are quiet. They have an aura that commands respect and also intimidates people around them.

➣ Jyestha natives tend to be extremely aware of how theyre perceived socially at all times. It’s not in a way where they care about people think of them, they just are hyper aware of their social standing. Jyestha celebs will gladly read negative comments, tweets, gossip about themselves just to know what people are saying.

➣ These natives thrive when it comes to competition and strategy. If one has children with Jyeshta placements it’s good to put them in sports, competitions etc. When their competitive energy isn’t channeled well it can be destructive.

➣ Jyesthas tend to be products of their environment, if their environment is harsh you’ll see the fierce, quarrelsome, aggressive parts of them manifest , but if it’s not harsh then you’ll see a more regulated version of them. But either way they have a dominant disposition no matter the circumstance their in.

➣ These people have a lot of energy. They’ll go to sleep late ,wake up early. They’re one to work a lot and have a solid daily routine. This is why they achieve so much bc they never really slow down. (Scorpio naturally have their 6th house in Aries)

➢ Jyestha women can be combative against other women. Especially in older age they can grow to be the “wicked witch” “bitter old hag” archetypes.

➢ They make good villains bc they know how dominant and powerful they are but don’t care if that makes them disliked. They don’t want to be liked, they want to win.

➢ They can’t stand when someone has a achieved something they haven’t. They will go out of their way to always be the top-dog and be the highest achieving person.

➢ Jyestha natives can be incredibly domineering. They don’t have a submissive nature. They can be superficially “submissive” but always have secret motive/agenda to be in the top spot.

➢ I notice that they aren’t very fond of most people in general, they’re not the type to be overly friendly or idolize someone. However I have seen that they favor Magha natives. To some extent Ashlesha as well. Like they’ll hate everyone except that one Magha/Ashlesha person. They have respect for them.

[owlwithanapple]

Eternal Engagement Chapter 03

Cowardice and stubbornness

During breakfast, phone rings in a corner of Wayne manor. There's a call. But Alfred has gone out to buy some food. The phone keeps ringing, thinking that if it's an emergency or something unexpected happens, there's really no other way but for you to answer it.

You follow the direction of the sound, approach it and answer it. Before you can say hello, Damian's voice comes from the phone, "Pennyworth, bring me the suit in my closet, the dark one, remember."

"Huh?! Wait a minute, Damian—" Before you tell him a word, the phone beeps, indicating that it has been hung up.

Alfred hasn't come back yet, Damian's tone seems urgent. You feel nervous outside his bedroom door, feel a desolate breath coming from the door. You wonder if he will be angry that you broke into his room without permission. You shake head and take a deep breath. You are Superman's daughter, what are you afraid of?

Turning the doorknob and opening the door with a click, you can see the neat and orderly bedroom at a glance. The desk is full of business folders related to Wayne Enterprises, each with a lot of information, he has put a lot of effort into it. As expected of the heir of the Wayne family, you don't go near the desk to avoid messing it up.

Opening the closet, you are confused. What the hell are these things? All the neat suits are hung inside, but most of them are dark. What exactly is the dark color he is talking about? Does it mean that the inner wear is dark, the outer wear is dark, or both are dark? What is the style of Damian Wayne's clothes? It's hard to tell the difference. You should reflect on yourself and read more fashion magazines.

You touch each piece with hand and feel the texture is very comfortable, each piece has a light fragrance. You take a suit jacket to smell, a light woody fragrance that is not pungent permeates. It smells so good... Wait! Why did you do something perverted?! You quickly put the suit jacket back to its place, almost forgetting the main purpose.

When you woke up, he had followed Bruce to work. Don't know what his style today, white or dark inner wear, have no idea. If Alfred is here, maybe he will choose the right one with his eyes closed. Ignore it, you choose a dark gray suit jacket, a white shirt and a black tie.

You carefully put them neatly into the clothing bag, zip it up and seal it to prevent damage. Next, you have to change your clothes. Bruce and Damian's dressing style is the image role model of Wayne Enterprises. You took out phone and searched for women's wear, the results showed that you were surprised.

You usually wear casual clothes such as tights, sports jackets, tight jeans and sneakers. You have no experience in this kind of dressing, elegant dresses and exquisite and fashionable shoes. You take a deep breath, you can't lose face of Wayne's family, this time you go all out.

Go back to your bedroom and open the closet immediately. Great, there are a few dresses and high heels that Bruce gave you before. It's the first time to try this kind of style, very nervous for no reason. Jon will be shocked to faint on the spot when he sees it, always saying that his sister doesn't like to dress up.

You dress up simply, wearing a white knee-length dress and black low-heeled retro shoes. Open the drawer to find jewelry to wear, and the first thing you see is the ring box with the engagement ring. Damian always wears it on his finger, but you don't. You think about it and decide to wear it this time.

Arriving at Wayne Enterprises —

You stepped into Wayne Enterprises with clothing bag. The exaggerated outdoor and indoor styles are surrounded by busy office workers. It is a place full of vitality and busyness. You saw the receptionist at the front desk just handling business. She put down her phone and typed on the keyboard.

You gathered courage walked forward with clothing bag. You tapped fingers on her desk. She heard it and cast eyes on you. She stood up with a smiles and said tactfully, "Excuse me, is there anything I can help you with? Or do you have any appointments?"

"I'm here to deliver clothes for Mr. Damian." You pointed at the clothing bag.

She raised eyebrows and cast a suspicious look. "I'm sorry that I can't accommodate strangers. It's usually delivered by Mr. Pennyworth. Please go back."

You understand her position, but know from the phone call just now that Damian is in a hurry. "How about you help me deliver it to him? He is in a hurry."

She bowed politely and shook her head. "I'm so sorry, I can't make an exception."

She sat back and continued to work. You sighed but saw the engagement ring. You were Superman's daughter and Damian Wayne's fiancée. You should be confident instead of shrinking like a puppy.

You tapped to attract her attention again. When she wanted to repeat what she just said, you said without hesitation, "Please tell Damian Wayne that his fiancée is here. The name is Y/N Kent."

She was surprised before could start to say anything, you found a seat by the window and sat down. She was stunned for a moment when saw you were not leaving. She had no choice but to call Damian's office. Unintentionally, your super hearing was awakened again, could hear the voices and conversations in the entire building, including the receptionist who was making a call.

"Sorry to bother you, there is a woman who says she is your fiancée who wants to see you. Her name is Y/N Kent." Damian hung up the phone without replying just after she finished speaking. You trembled and clenched your hands, thinking, is he angry?

A few minutes later, your super hearing disappeared again. You pinched earlobe and sighed, why did your superpowers always exist intermittently. The receptionist kept staring at you with a suspicious. The elevator door opened, and Damian walked out. People around him greeted and bowed politely.

The receptionist pointed at you, immediately stood up from your seat and held the bag tightly, nervousness emerging. Damian looked at you was stunned for a second. Your style of dress was completely different from before. If it weren't for the long dark black hair and sea blue eyes, he almost failed to recognize you.

You walked slowly noticed there were traces of coffee on his suit jacket. No wonder he was so anxious to ask Alfred to deliver it. You nervously handed him the bag in your hand, "This is for you. Alfred is not at home. I delivered it as soon as I received the call, but I don't know if this is the one you want..."

He fixed his eyes on the engagement ring, a sense of satisfaction filled his heart. Then there was your dress. He had never seen you dressed so exquisitely. For a moment, the word he thought of was charming. You tilted head curiously because he kept staring at you without saying anything.

You looked down, wondering if your outfit was weird or didn't meet the requirements. He reached out and gently lifted your chin with his fingers to let you look at him. He smiled proudly, "Be more confident, don't look down."

"Oh...." You murmured, he took the bag from you.

Under everyone's attention, he took your hand and led you to the elevator, which quickly went up to his office floor. He took out the access card scanned the door, which opened automatically. It was the first time you stepped into this place, you couldn't help but look around, feeling very cool. He immediately took off his suit jacket and put it on the chair. There was a little trace of coffee on his white inner wear.

He opened the bag took out the dark grey suit jacket, white shirt and black tie you chose. He looked at you with his emerald eyes and raised his eyebrows said, "Did you choose it?"

You nodded slightly and said awkwardly, "Yes, does it not meet your requirements?"

"I didn't say it, don't always overthink about it. I'll go to the back to change, you wait there." He quickly left the office and walked to the bathroom.

You sat in a comfortable chair and waited, suddenly someone opened the door and it was Bruce who walked in. He said with a very serious expression, "Damian, I handed you the documents - eh? Y/N, why are you here? Why are you dressed like this?"

You immediately stood up, "Uncle Alfred is not at home, I brought Damian a change of clothes."

"Wow, that's thoughtful. If I remember correctly, this dress of yours is-" Bruce stared at the dress on you with a smug smile.

"Shut up, father. Don't say unnecessary words." Damian appeared from behind. He had already changed into the clothes you chose. He was adjusting his tie and sleeves.

All the dresses and shoes in your bedroom closet in Wayne manor were not given by Bruce. They were bought by Damian in various countries during his business trips. He is a tsundere, as Dick said, who is stubborn and takes care of his dignity. You didn't know that Damian picked them for you. You mistakenly thought they were given by Bruce.

"Not bad, quite handsome. You have good taste in matching clothes for your future husband." Bruce leaned over looked Damian up and down chuckled.

Damian put the coffee-stained suit jacket and shirt into the bag zipped it up and sealed it. When you reached out to take it, he unexpectedly held your hand and intertwined your fingers. "Father, she and I are going out to have lunch."

He took the garment bag and pulled you out of his office, leaving Bruce alone in a daze. He couldn't help cover his mouth and laugh. He really couldn't get tired of Damian's stubborn personality. Bruce took out his phone secretly took a picture of the back of the two of you holding hands, then found Clark Kent's chat room to send the photo.

CK: Wow, they are making progress.

LL: Hmph! Damn Damian.

BW: Hahaha, give them some time.

CK: Has the little princess changed at all?

BW: Not yet, I will observe for a few more days.

BW: But... she is starting to gain confidence.

LL: Really?! Great! I was really worried that she would feel inferior because she doesn't have super powers.

CK: I believe in her, it just takes some time.

Cafe near Wayne Enterprises -

He parked the car and got out. When you unbuckled seat belt and were about to get out, he opened the passenger door leaned over extend his hand to you. The sun's rays shone on the earth. His emerald eyes looked so clear when you looked at them closely. His height and broad shoulders were enough to block the sun for you. You felt the hand extended to you. If you hadn't held his hand, you really wouldn't have noticed that his hand was so big and warm.

You two have known each other for so long, playing together. At the beginning, he was shorter than you and Jon, but now he has caught up with Jon in height, you still haven't grown taller. When you stand next to him, you are only as tall as his shoulders. The little Robin at the beginning has transformed from a boy into a man. And you are becoming more inferior because you are entangled in the fact that don't have superpowers. You are trapped in the abyss and not as cheerful optimistic as before.

Wonder Damian willing to see your optimistic side now...

You pouted to show dissatisfaction with his height. He raised eyebrows and put his hands on the car door. "What's that expression on your face? Are you dissatisfied with me?"

"You are too tall. Why are you and Jon so tall? What do you eat?" You tilted head and stared at his face, then moved your eyes to his tie.

He raised eyebrows and smiled, not mocking but happy. It has been a long time since he has seen you with this personality. Finally, he has waited for this moment. The naughty and noisy little girl back then. He stretched out hand and ran his finger across the tip of your nose. "Drink more milk, do more exercise, and reduce inferiority complex."

"You are so annoying." You rolled your eyes and moved your eyes to his chest instead of looking directly at him.

"Always." He smiled arrogantly.

You lowered eyes. "Just now, the super hearing appeared again..."

"Really...? Is there anything else abnormal?" He asked, leaning against the car door.

You shook head to indicate no, he sighed silently. He closed the car door walked into the cafe, leaving you alone in the car. A few minutes later, the driver's door opened, he got in the car handed you a bag with cakes in it. He closed the car door and leaned back in his seat with a cup of coffee in his hand, which he put into his mouth and tasted carefully.

"I just contacted Pennyworth, when you return to the manor, go to the batcave immediately. I arranged for him to set up the Meta-Analyzer to test your body." He pinched his nose and fell into deep thought, with a very serious attitude.

"Meta-Analyzer... I didn't have any conclusion at the time." You murmured.

"Maybe there will be changes, or do you not believe in yourself?" He focused his eyes on your face, his tone seemed to hit you but not with bad words.

You opened mouth and closed it again, you were very nervous. Afraid that the conclusion would be the same, but you can't go on like this. As he said, don't be inferior anymore, you are very tired. You showed a firm look and told him, "I believe in myself."

He curled his lips smiled and nodded slightly, "Very well, future Mrs. Wayne."

Late evening -

Damian had just got home from get off work, as soon as he parked his car, Bruce was surprised his son immediately opened the car door and rushed into the manor. He quickly went to the batcave, when arrived, he took off suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves to expose his arms and untied his tie to show his collarbone, and threw it all aside.

"Pennyworth, where is she?" He approached the batcomputer.

"Master Damian, I have handled it as you ordered, she is currently resting in the bedroom." Alfred stood aside and said silently, pouring tea into his cup.

He nodded to show that he understood, cast his eyes on the batcomputer and sat down in the chair immediately, his fingers began to tap the keyboard non-stop, the large screen displayed your test data, and complex chart analysis was displayed at once. Bruce arrived at the batcave and saw Alfred picking up Damian's suit jacket and tie, Damian's eyes were focused on the content displayed on the screen.

After about an hour, he finally sorted out all the analysis and memorized it in his mind. Bruce stood behind him, leaning aside and looking at the big screen. "What's changed?"

"Beyond imagination, it's no longer a mortal's physique. It's the same as Jon's conclusion, the only difference is that her superpowers haven't erupted." Damian leaned back in his chair and sighed silently, tapping the keyboard with his fingers.

Bruce fell into deep thought. "Damian, I've always been curious, are you saying bad things to her to increase her negative emotions in order to force her to use her superpowers?"

Damian, who was drinking tea, trembled in his hands, he didn't answer but chose to remain silent.

"Damian, you can show that you care about her, you don't need to hide it. You are no longer in the League of Assassins now, you can be more-." Bruce gently pressed on his shoulder to try to comfort him.

There was an echo of Damian putting down the cup in the Batcave. He was calm but very nervous inside. He looked at Bruce lowered his eyes with a bitter expression. "Father, I understand your concerns. But what I want to do now is to stimulate her superpowers and rebuild her previous confidence. That's all."

Damian got up from the chair and walked past Bruce. Bruce grabbed his arm to stop him. "Damian, let her step into your life. You want her."

He touched Bruce's hand gently pushed it away. He remained calm and slowly looked at Bruce sighed helplessly. "Father, I'll go to training first."

His footsteps echoed clearly in the batcave, Alfred put his hand on Bruce's shoulder remained silent. Bruce no choice to guide him silently. Maybe one day when Damian is willing to open his heart, things will get better, especially the confusion of both of you.

"Alfred, prepare coffee for me. I need to tell Clark about Y/N's physical changes." He sat down leaned back in the chair. To distract himself from his worries about Damian, his fingers kept tapping the keyboard.

Alfred prepared the coffee put it aside and handed the phone to Bruce. After calling Clark, he told him everything he knew. Clark was of course happy for you when he heard the news, but at the same time, a worry emerged. Although you have superhuman genes, your superpowers are still a mystery.

The Batcave was filled with the sounds of panting and punching. As Bruce was talking to Clark, he noticed through the screen that another surveillance camera was watching Damian in training. His breathing was rapid, movements were a bit messy, and his batarang holding position was not standard. The conversation just now made him uneasy.

"Master Damian is not in good condition today." Alfred stood aside and said frankly.

"Let him be, he is no longer the boy who rushed around." Alfred's frankness was true. Bruce replied calmly continued to discuss your superpowers with Clark, but his eyes would still stay on the big screen.

"Perhaps it was the influence brought by Ms. Talia and the League of Assassins." Alfred's emotionless words made Bruce ponder the past.

Clark was still talking to Bruce on the phone, but distracted and ignored Clark's words. Looking at the big screen with a sharp gaze, a trace of worry surged into his mind. Even if the two were a father and son, he didn't understand Damian thoroughly enough.

"Clark...Did Jon and Y/N have any moments that made you feel helpless?" Bruce revealed the confusion he wanted to express in bitterness.

Clark on the phone fell into silence, thinking for a few seconds to find the right words to guide Bruce "Every moment is helpless. From the time held a little baby in hand until now..."

"Is that so..." Bruce muttered with a sigh of relief.

"But since they choose to be our children, we should accept their growth. Maybe we are helpless, but this is the way to grow up." Clark was confused about this matter, but still maintained an optimistic attitude and expressed his inner thoughts.

"Thanks, Clark. I will learn more about the situation of your little princess, will inform you if there are any problems." Bruce hung up the phone after speaking.

The echo of the fists became clearer, the panting sound was still messy. Pound by pound, the fists hit the dummy with fierce momentum, like a beast gnawing at its prey. Damian kept venting his emotions and releasing confusion, the past in his mind seemed to reappear in his memories.

There was a memory that Damian returned to League Of Assassins, one of his hometowns and birthplaces. He once told his mother Talia about this marriage with you, but he did not get a blessing but Talia's harsh and unpleasant response, "Superman's daughter is your fiancée, well done, son. This is one of the new forces of the future League Of Assassins.

"Mother, what do you mean by this?" He clenched his fists and frowned at her.

"When did you become so stupid, don't you understand? Superman's genes are very strong, an invincible and powerful existence. You marry his daughter, and the new life you two will give birth to in the future will definitely be an indestructible miracle." Talia drew her sword and her delicate fingers touched the line and the tip of the string.

"Giving birth to new life..." He gritted his teeth a trace of anger surged up.

Talia pointed sword at Damian's chest and smiled, but deep in heart she was plotting like a snake. "Your father arranged the only right thing, a wise choice, Superman's daughter and Batman's son. The future League Of Assassins will be stronger, and your grandfather will be glorious."

Damian had a blank expression but was very annoyed. In a rage, he snatched Talia's sword pointed it at her neck. Talia took a step back remained alert. His emotions fluctuated, he swore words to his mother without hesitation, "I don't need her to give birth to any life for me, and this marriage is not for the future of League Of Assassins."

"You are so stupid. You are an assassin. Don't forget you have our blood in body. With such a powerful gene that will merge with you, you don't want to use this opportunity to change the fate of your offspring." Talia said to Damian sarcastically and arrogantly.

"I am also Robin, Batman's sidekick. Even my fiancée has strong genes, it doesn't mean that she needs to become a reproductive tool for the benefit of future generations." After playing with the sword, he threw it on the ground kicked it at Talia's feet, as if he was fearless.

Talia felt that she had said too much and didn't take his feelings into consideration, but in order to make the League of Assassins stronger, she couldn't bear to compromise because of her emotions and Damian was her son. "If I had known this, I shouldn't have let you follow your father. You become weak. If you and your father stood by me, our family would not be broken, we would be strong and indestructible."

"I am the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, the son of you and Bruce Wayne. It is my decision who to follow. And my engagement with her is a matter between the two of us. It is not for anyone else, no one can tell us what to do." Damian retorted her mercilessly.

"Damian al Ghul, you will regret it. She will become our property in the future, and so will you. You two can't escape the fate of the League of Assassins, no matter how invincible you are." Talia glared at him, her words were full of a strong sense of mission and meaningful meaning.

"I will take it as your blessing. Goodbye, mother. I will come again. I hope you don't have anything to do with my life and hers. Damian curled his lips, turned around and walked towards the exit to leave the world full of blood.

Talia stood there watched her son leave, her long dark brown hair fluttering in the wind. She clenched fists and looked at him fiercely, cursing, "Oh my son, Bruce my beloved. You two are as stupid as a little bat hiding in a cave, too weak to be saved."

A stinging feeling brought Damian back to reality from the nightmare memory. You were bandaging the wound on his fist. He did not refuse your touch, but waited quietly for you to treat his bloody fist. You applied a thick layer of cream on his fist and then fixed it with a bandage.

"Thanks. Pennyworth will take care of it, you don't have to do this." The first thing he did was to take back his hand, put the engagement ring on the chain and put it on. Then he stroked his fist with his hand and drew circles on the bandaged part.

You were puzzled by his habit of never taking off his engagement ring, but didn't ask him the reason. You felt a little happy , as if he valued this engagement very much. "Uncle Bruce and Uncle Alfred are busy, I came to the batcave saw you sitting here in a daze..."

"Is that so? Thinking about something, bad memories..." He scratched his head.

You took a towel gently wiped the sweat from his forehead. He shuddered thought you wanted to attack him, because the memory just now made him more alert. But you didn't attack, just wiped his sweat, you murmured "Do you want to tell me? Maybe you will feel better?"

He glanced at you with a thorn in his words "It has nothing to do with you, don't worry about it."

You felt that his attitude indicated that he didn't want to continue the discussion, you nodded slightly to show that you understood. When you were about to leave, he pulled you into his arms, you sat on his lap. He held your waist tightly with both hands, your back leaned against his chest, his face buried on your shoulders. A wave of tension came over you , and his breath on your skin made you feel itchy.

"Damian?? What's wrong with you?" You said with a tremor in your voice.

Recalling what Talia said, he didn't dare to tell you what his mother said. He didn't dare to imagine that he and you had fallen to that state, creating nightmares for him to give birth to life. He didn't need you to give birth to life for him and League Of Assassins, he just wanted you to be happy, but he couldn't say these words "I'm fine, stay like this for a while, okay?"

You glanced at him over your shoulder and nodded silently, holding his arm around your waist with both hands to give him a little comfort "Okay."

— Chapter 3 The End —

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[rafeandonlyrafe]

flashing lights

words: 2.4k

warnings: 18+ only, brief smut, p in v sex, model!reader (a bit of influencer too but primarily a model), soft rafe, marriage, pregnancy

“so thats your new girl?” topper asks, eyes on you as you twirl to the music, long legs on show in the simple black dress.

“yeah, shes here for a month on vacation.” rafes also looking at you, unable to let his gaze stray, in case a man comes up and attempts to dance with you. you may not be an official item yet, considering you only met a couple days ago, but rafe is determined to spend the entire month that you’re here with you, and not let any other men pull your focus away.

“she looks so familiar.” the voice rings out before rafe even realizes that there's other people now sat in the circle of chairs and couches, too wrapped up in you.

the girl, who rafe recognizes from high school, begins to tap on her phone. “wait, shes a model.” “yeah, she told me.” rafe shrugs it off. he could have guessed your profession anyways, with how naturally stunning you are, and your height almost rivaling his, only a few inches shorter.

“no, like really famous model.” the girl turns her phone towards rafe, and he hates having to drag his eyes away from you to look at the screen, pulled open to a google search of your name.

“holy shit!” topper says for rafe, taking the phone from the girl as he clicks the first link to open up your instagram. “she has 20 MILLION followers, rafe.”

rafe glances from the phone to you as you turn to smile at him, still dancing to the music, glad to be free of all the attention and camera flashes. its why you chose the outer banks in the first place, somewhere more tucked away to take a month away from the spotlight.

“why are you so surprised, look at her.” rafe states before standing up, tired of letting you dance alone as he joins you on the makeshift dance floor, his hands coming to your waist as you give him a dazzling smile.

-- two years later --

camera lights flash and shouts ring out, but rafe is used to it now.

he smiles and waves, shocked that anyone would care about him, a nobody from north carolina, his only claim to fame is being your boyfriend, for a little over two years now.

rafe walks inside, having enough of the screaming and crowds as he takes in the area, chairs set up along a runway, a large prada sign on the white wall. your prestige has only grown since rafe began to date you, despite coming back to the outer banks several times to take a break and visit him. since rafe began to travel with you, you’ve gone from paris to milan to new york to london, gracing the covers of magazines and walking runways.

he tries to attend every show, taking on a pseudo-management role himself. your favorite part is dressing rafe in the mornings, having received clothing from so many brands, both mens and womens fit. rafe lets you choose, knowing you have the eye for fashion, and he loves to see how happy you get when he wears your outfit.

rafe walks through the seats until he finds the one with his name on it, front row. he sits down, scrolling on his phone as people begin to file in until the room is packed full.

he waits as the show begins, models walking down the runway. they don’t shine to him, not like you do when you step out, your face blank in the typical model expression as you strut down the runway, dressed in all denim with a pair of chunky sunglasses on your nose.

rafe is in awe every time he sees you work, whether its watching your fluid poses during a photoshoot or your long legs stomping down a runway.

he waits with bated breath for your second outfit, changing into a slouchy menswear-esque ensemble, only pulled in at your waist as the fabric swishes around your ankles.

he claps when everyone steps out for the final walk, but he doesn’t cheer for the designer, even if it is prada, as he makes eye contact with you, only ever a brief glance while you're walking the runway, knowing if you look for too long you will become entranced with his handsomeness.

rafe waits for you after the show along with some of the other family members or partners of the models, long after all the celebrities have gone, either to an afterparty or on to a different show.

“hey baby.” rafe smiles when you step out, hair still slicked up in a ponytail, face caked with makeup, but now in a pair of loose jeans and a plain white crop top.

“hi handsome.” you coo, pressing your lips against rafes. “did you like the show?” “i liked you in the show.” rafe says pointedly, making you blush. “are we going to the afterparty?” “nah.” you shake your head. “i have that carolina herrera show in the morning, and i want to spend some time with you.”

“i’ll never argue against spending alone time with you.” rafe says, slotting his arm around your waist as you exit the building, surprised when photographers are still waiting outside. you wave briefly before rushing towards the car, knowing the picture of you and rafe are bound to be spread all over instagram and pinterest before you even make it back to your hotel room.

--

“rafe, i’ve got a question.” you hum, stepping out onto the balcony, eyes looking to the ocean. you’re on a paid for vacation by a makeup brand, simply wanting a couple instagram story posts using their products in a get ready with me. you are supposed to be relaxing the rest of the time, but you crept onto your phone to read the latest email from your agent.

“what is it babe?” rafe asks as he pulls you down onto his lap, scantily dressed in only his swimsuit, not that you have worn much other than a bikini this whole trip.

“what would you think about me doing a lingerie photoshoot?” you haven’t accepted any jobs that would call for you to show off a lot of skin or be paired with a male model since you started dating rafe, lucky to be in a place to reject jobs.

“who is it for?” rafe asks.

“calvin klein. i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t them.” you admit. you find their style of black and white classic photos far more tasteful than traditional lingerie pictures.

“as long as i can be there during the shoot.” rafe says. he’s taken the role of your advocate and protector during photoshoots, easily able to read your face and speak up for you if needed, considering sometimes the models voice gets drowned out.

“of course.” you nod. 

“then absolutely.” rafe pulls you in closer to his body. “i need a new lockscreen anyways.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the laugh that bursts out of you as you turn towards the ocean, watching the waves roll onto the sand.

--

you step out behind the curtain, a tight fitting sports bra contrasting the loose jeans, slung open and zipper undone to show off your underwear as well as the calvin klein jeans.

you look over to rafe, who has his bottom lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes skate down your bare torso.

you most over to the white backdrop as the photographer begins to test the lighting, taking occasional snaps as things are adjusted.

the photoshoot is run just like any other and you’re finished faster than expected considering they’re solo shots and no change in location or background.

you keep the underwear and jeans on, simply throwing on a sweatshirt before getting into the taxi home with rafe, this time to your new york city apartment, having collected various homes and apartments around the world, depending on wherever you were doing business at the time. you consider the outer banks home though, returning every extended break with rafe.

“did you like the shoot?” you ask when you get home, rafe laying on bed while you tug the sweatshirt and jeans off, leaving you in just the calvin klein bra and panties.

“get over here.” rafe says, not caring about your question. he’s been desperate for you since you appeared from behind the curtain, not even trying to hide it as he watched the photoshoot, your eyes occasionally moving to him, giving him reassurance you were still good.

rafe makes you keep the underwear on, simply pulling it to the side once he’s got your back against the mattress to slide his cock deep inside of you. you push the sports bra up to let your breasts free, rafes palm instantly coming to cover your tit as he thrusts into you.

“i think you should do more shoots like that.” rafe says with a moan, cock pulsing inside of you.

--

“its nice to be back home.” you sigh, quickly applying some makeup, mostly just mascara and a glowy primer. 

“agreed.” rafe kisses your shoulder, watching over your shoulder as you finish and then adjust your white dress, having decided to take a couple pictures on the beach for you to post as well as just enjoy a walk on the sand.

“alright, i’m ready.” you hum as you slip on your sandals. you lace your fingers with rafes before stepping out the back door. “you look handsome by the way.”

the suns golden light illuminates his skin. his outfit is simple, closer to what he wore before the fame. a simple white button down, loose fitting and you are sure would look delicious unbuttoned, showing off his muscles.

“thank you baby.” rafe presses a kiss to your cheek, leading you down the beach until you come across a picnic set up. you glance around before realizing its for you.

“oh my god, its just like our first date!” you gush, stepping away from rafe to look at the spread.

“before we eat, i have a question to ask you.” you turn around to realize that rafe is on one knee, a velvet jewelry box in his hand.

“oh, rafe.” you press your hand to your mouth, tears already coming to your eyes as he opens the box, revealing a sparkling diamond ring. “will you marry me?”

--

“how am i supposed to look good next to a literal model?” rafe asks as he looks towards the camera, looking almost nervous for once in his life.

“we’ve taken pictures together before rafe.” you roll your eyes, adjusting your wedding dress. it’s actually four weeks after your wedding, but you wanted to get professional photos done with your new husband and asked one of your photographer friends who was more than willing to let you into their studio if they could post some of the photos on their instagram and website.

“mirror selfies and shit, this is more serious.” rafe says as you tug him over to the backdrop.

“you look so handsome, babe. don’t worry.” you smooth your hands over his shoulders. “just think back to our wedding day, we took so many pictures then.”

“i was too distracted by how excited i was to marry you.” rafe says, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, the oscar de larenta dress you ended up deciding on being off the shoulder. it was a simple dress, but the closer you got you realized how intricate the lace detail is. “you look just like you did on our wedding day though, baby. the makeup artists did a great job.”

“just tanner.” you joke, having gone on your honeymoon already.

you look as the photographer begins to set up their lens, before you turn to whisper to rafe. “you can’t tell?” you question, pressing your hand to your stomach. you know there’s no way you’d already begin to show, considering your baby is no bigger than a seed, but that doesn’t stop you from getting worried about your pregnancy being discovered early.

“not at all.” rafe shakes his head, but can’t hide the smirk that comes to his face, knowing your tummy will soon swell with his child, having made sure of it many times on the honeymoon.

--

“i was thinking about how we could announce the baby.” you tell rafe as you pad into the kitchen. he’s still making the decaf coffee you were absolutely craving, more syrup and milk than coffee.

“how?” he hums, glancing over at you as you lean against the counter, rubbing your stomach, bump now obvious as you’re over 6 months along. you have managed to keep it a secret so far, saying you were taking a break from modeling to focus on your new marriage. there is of course a lot of speculation that you are pregnant, but it is to be expected.

“calvin klein shoot. like before, except i’ve got a big ol’ bump.” you laugh as rafe finishes you coffee off with some whip cream before sliding the mug to you. “and you can be in it too.”

rafe rolls his eyes as you giggle. “come on! the girls love you, you’re so handsome.”

“i’m not a model.” rafe argues back, but he already knows he’s going to agree, he’d do anything for you, his pregnant wife.

“yeah, but you’re hot like a model.” you shrug, taking a sip of coffee.

“i think this is just an excuse to get me shirtless and in underwear.” rafe laughs, pressing a kiss to your upper lip, cleaning off the whip cream that sat on your cupids bow.

“yeah, and what about it?”

--

“you know theres some hormone to make women forget the pain of birth?” you hum to rafe, keeping your voice soft. “because if you remembered then no one would never do it again.”

“really?” rafe whispers, his voice also hushed as to not wake the sleeping newborn cuddled up in his arms, wrapped in a soft hospital banket.

“yeah.” you nod. “but i don’t wanna forget a moment of this.”

“im sure you wont baby.” rafe kisses your head as your tiny daughter squirms in his arms, letting out a yawn in her slumber. “i suppose i need to use a different name for you now that we’ve got an actual baby.”

you giggle, resting your head against rafes shoulder as you look down on your perfect little girl, already an adorable mixture of you and rafe.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @rafecamerongirl @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld

[maximumqueer]

Yamato, Transness, and "Passing"

Now that we're nearly a full arc removed from Wano and Yamato's introduction, I want to talk about the reaction that a subset of the one piece fandom had to his reveal as a trans man/transmasc person, the transphobia behind that reaction, and how the concept of passing plays into that reaction. I'm not going to be arguing that Yamato is a trans man, as I think it is very obvious that he is given how he is referred to in the canon text. This is instead going to be more of a fandom dissection of why (in my personal opinion) so many people refuse to acknowledge Yamato as a man.

When we are first introduced to Yamato, he is dressed in a way that gives him the appearance of a flat chest, and is wearing a mask to hide his face. He looks like a man in a cis-heteronormative way

When Yamato was depicted like this, he was (from what I can tell) mostly referred to with he/him pronouns by the fanbase. This is based on comments underneath his chapter debut and episode debut. There are comments under his episode debut that do use she/her pronouns and refer to him as a woman, but because these episodes have been out for a while, it would make sense that these kinds of comments would be left on his debut after his second design was revealed.

Then, when he removes his mask and outer layer of his outfit, he is depicted like this

After this reveal, more people began to refer to Yamato with she/her pronouns, and refer to him as Kaido's daughter, despite him referring to himself as Kaido's son, as well as the people around him using he/him pronouns exclusively for him. What changed? Well, Yamato went from having a design that looked traditionally masculine to having a more traditionally feminine one. As such people who associate only women with having breasts and more "feminine" features began to insist that Yamato was a tomboy, or a delusional woman, anything but accept that fact that he is a man.

There is a phenomena with trans "acceptance", where a character is accepted as trans only if they look like their gender according to the cis-heteronormative ideal, and questioned and denied if they don't. Kiku, a trans woman who "passes" as a woman did not receive nearly the same level of speculation and denial of her trans identity. (This is not to say that Kiku received no hate or transphobic comments, but that because she looks like a woman to the average cis-het viewer, she was treated as a "real" trans person, whereas Yamato was not).

Yamato has been repeatedly referred to as mentally ill for being a "non-passing" trans man. He has been called bad representation (despite large numbers trans men/transmasc people, myself included, saying that his IS good representation). People have made claims with no canon backing in an attempt to hand wave away his transness because he "looks like a woman", a popular one being that Kaido some how forced Yamato into being a man, despite his backstory telling us the exact opposite.

And the reasoning for all of this speculation is that trans people are held to such high standards in terms of appearance and presentation, even in fictional media. A trans man must have a flat chest, deep voice, facial hair etc. or he isn't actually trans. A trans woman must have breasts, a high voice, a lack of facial hair, etc. or she isn't actually trans. Non-binary people are dismissed entirely. This denies the many different and diverse ways that a person can be trans. Sure, some trans people wish to medically transition, get the "surgery" and go through life as if they were cis. But not all trans people want that. Gender is messy and complicated, its not nearly as black and white a we have been taught to believe. There are many trans people (both binary and non-binary) who will never medically transition. That does not make them less trans, it does not make them delusional. Yet because we have this black and white thinking ingrained in us from childhood, any deviation from the strict boxes of "man" and "woman" are immediately questioned, and that includes gender non-conforming people - both trans and cis.

This type of transphobia is not talked about enough, as the people doing it will so often hide behind the idea that they are protecting "real" trans people, and just want to make sure that they are respected and taken seriously. But, respect for a persons gender identity CANNOT be conditional. It does not matter if they "don't pass". It doesn't matter if they are a good person, a bad person. The second you start dictating who gets to have their gender respected is the second you stop being an ally. And that includes fictional characters like Yamato.

[caladblog]

A BASIC GUIDE TO VICTORIAN CLOTHING, FOR FANDOMS

wherein VICTORIAN CLOTHING is understood to mean "common clothing from the 1830s to the end of the century, in fashion as set by London and followed to a greater or lesser extent in the rest of the British empire"

This is very much meant as a starting point or a cheat sheet, not a comprehensive historical essay, for people who want to know what the Fuck is happening under that morning coat and/or dress the size of a kitchen table. I've also included a little bit on likely materials and colors so you can add some texture to your fics.

Here's the rule of thumb: Victorians loved LAYERS, BUTTONS, and DECORATIVE SHIT. When in doubt, slap several layers of clothing on your guy, button 'em all together, and flourish the hell out of the top layer. Congrats, you have dressed a Victorian.

Read on for details! And check my reblogs for a note on trans characters. A Part 2 on Mending/Laundry is in the works, because it had a much bigger impact on Victorian dress at all levels of society than it does on modern fashion and I think it's worth talking about.

UNDERWEAR FOR MEN:

a warm and comfortable and easily washable undershirt (typically called a vest) with sleeves that went down to the wrist

drawers, also warm and comfortable and easily washable and covering the whole legs, fastened with buttons or ties at the waist and ankles

pair of socks

If you cover your whole body in this base layer made of undyed, unfashionable, who-cares-if-it's-stained fabric, the sweat and dirt of your body stays on this easily-washable layer and spares the outer layers of clothing that would be damaged by hot water and soaps, or at least that was the philosophy.

The most common fabric for this underwear was flannel, as it was cheap and fairly soft. Bands of cotton could be stitched to the inside of the wrists, ankles, waists, and collar if you found the wool itchy. Socks were almost always knitted wool, holes or thin spots mended with darning whether you were poor or rich.

UNDERWEAR FOR WOMEN:

the chemise / shift: a simple, short-sleeved cotton tube that fell to the mid-thigh

other underwear requires a bit of a history lesson, sorry. At the beginning of the century, you wore like 85 petticoats and no bloomers. Then crinolines--a sort of metal cage skirt that held your dress away from your body to obtain the fashionable wide silhouette--were invented in the 1850s. It was great, because they replaced 30lbs of underskirts, but also inconvenient, in that hoops of steel are inherently bouncy. To preserve modesty (and also warmth) women began wearing bloomers, open in the middle and buttoning at the waist and either at or below the knee. These were also made of plain cotton and only occasionally decorated with a bit of lace-- for all your underthings, male or female, you wanted to be able to 1) make a bunch of sets quickly and cheaply so you could change every day without needing to launder as often and 2) use cloth that could be laundered easily.

stockings were longer and more decorative than men's socks, made of wool, cotton, or silk. White was popular at the beginning of the century, but bright colors and patterns became fashionable in the middle, and conservative black stockings dominated the end of the era. Wool fabrics were the most common, warmest, and cheapest; silk stockings were for very wealthy and fashionable women as they required the most care. Near the end of the century stockings were suspended from the corset, but up til that point stockings were held up by garters tied above the knee.

MIDDLE LAYERS FOR MEN:

shirts, with much longer tails than the button-up shirts we're used to, with a buttoned slit that only went about halfway down the chest rather than all the way down the front of the garment. Lots of volume in the sleeve around the armpit, buttoned up at the cuff. At the beginning of the period, rich men's shirts were checked or patterned while working men's shirts were white(ish), but this swapped over the course of the century as colored fabric became cheaper. (It hides stains better.) The gentleman's shirt from midcentury onward was a crisp, bright white.

As a middle layer, parts of it (like the cuffs and front) could be seen in public, but you absolutely could not go out without a waistcoat and jacket. You only removed your jacket and showed your shirtsleeves at the end of the day, amongst your family.

Trousers were held up by braces / suspenders that went over the shoulders, not belts that fastened around the waist, and you did NOT let them show. They were meant to be covered entirely by waistcoats.

MIDDLE LAYERS FOR WOMEN:

As a very carefully tailored and shaped garment that couldn't really be washed, corsets went over the shift. All women wore them, even laborers, even prisoners and people in workhouses as part of their (institution-provided and deliberately demeaning) uniform. They were viewed as necessary armor to support your weak internal organs, and the physically upright posture they created went hand in hand with moral uprightness in the Victorian mind. They could lace up in the front or back, and the boning could be made of steel (cheap and sturdy) or whalebone (springier and therefore a bit more comfortable) or wood (if you are truly broke AF) or even just stiff cord (mostly for young girls, in which they were called stays).

camisoles (also called vests or corset covers) were tailored shirts worn over the corset, and could be either extremely decorative with embroidery and lace or plainer and made for warmth.

then you've got the crinoline, tied at the waist, a skirt made of steel hoops as already described.

then a couple of petticoats, decorated at the hem for fashion, layered for warmth and to hide the crinoline's hoops.

OUTERWEAR FOR MEN:

trousers, made of cotton or wool. The big differences between Victorian trousers and today's are 1) zippers hadn't been invented yet, the flies were buttoned and 2) the modern waist sits around the hipbones, while the Victorian waist was at the bottom of the ribcage.

jackets, made of thick heavily felted wool that was decently wind- and rain-proof. Darker colors in jackets and trousers lasted longer, so light-colored cloth was mostly worn by the young and rich (or those who wanted to look rich) and flashy.

waistcoats were where the fashion REALLY was. As the back was always made of plain cotton not meant to be seen, even poor men could often afford the cost of the fabric needed to make a neat waistcoat. The front could be made of embroidered silk for luxury, wool for added warmth, or printed cotton making full use of the brilliantly-colored (and relatively cheap) dyes that had just been invented. It's a little bit like people today wearing simple suits and shirts paired with wild socks.

OUTERWEAR FOR WOMEN:

and here you finally get to the f*cking dress. I couldn't possibly go into all the variations on dresses in this era, but I can say that bright colors and patterns were common for women of all classes (but were also part of the ever-present anxiety about people acting "above their station", if a maid dressed too fashionably). The design of the sleeves and the decoration of the hems changed regularly with fashion, as did the precise shape of the feminine silhouette, but the bodice was always tight and the skirts were always full. The average woman would spend more money on flourishes--ribbons, lace, other trimmings--than the dress itself, largely because the average level of skill in sewing was so high that they mostly bought the fabric for the dress and cut & sewed it themselves.

ACCESSORIES FOR MEN:

the collar was not an integral part of the shirt! It was detachable and had to be washed, starched, and ironed separately. Laborers didn't wear them, just a loosely-tied cloth around their neck, but a stand-up collar was necessary for anyone working in a business setting whether you're rich or making really terrible clerk's wages. Turned-down collars like the ones on most of our shirts today were informal and for wealthy men at leisure.

a stock or necktie, ideally black silk. Modern neckties weren't around yet, but the century moved slowly towards that and away from cravats.

gloves. Especially when status was a concern, so, men outside the home not engaged in business and servants waiting on their masters. These were tight-fitting, pale in color, and damn near impossible to launder and mend.

ACCESSORIES FOR WOMEN:

a shawl, often. Your lower half would be covered in stockings and plentiful skirts, while your upper half would only have a few layers that were usually made of cotton, so freezing your tits off was unfortunately common.

gloves. Like men's gloves, these were also status symbols worn when visiting your acquaintances or waiting on your masters. The vast vast majority of servants were women, and the rough labor of washing and cleaning fell to them, so these gloves also covered the evidence of that rough work.

HATS/BONNETS:

Everybody wore a hat when out in public. It's just what you did. The type of hat varied based on fashion, occupation, and social standing, but you had SOME kind of thing on your head when you left the house.

SOME SPECIFIC CLOTHES:

Fishermen wore knitted jumpers instead of jackets. Laborers out in the country (muddy when it rained, dusty when it didn't) wore gaiters, which were basically just rectangles or tubes of cheap-ass sacking that tied around the ankle and below the knee to keep the mud / dust off their trousers. Surgeons and people who worked a lot with ink (clerks, stationers) had sleeves, which were tubes of canvas that tied around the wrist and elbow to protect their shirtsleeves. The advantage of sleeves and gaiters is that you can remove them, toss them in a bucket of water, and beat the shit out of them to wash them without worrying about rips or tears OR getting the stains (mud, ink, blood, etc) onto your other clothes.

Maids and other laborers didn't wear crinolines, but they did wear a corset and a couple of petticoats under their dress.

More prosperous laborers might still own a collar / crinoline, but only wear it to church on Sundays or other occasions that called for nice dress.

When at home and not working or entertaining visitors, both men and women would wear slippers that could be super fancy or very simple or your kid's first sewing project, etc etc. Depends on your preference.

Men would sleep in long, loose nightshirts and women would sleep in long, loose nightdresses. Practically speaking there wasn't much difference between these garments; both might be decorated a bit with embroidery or lace. Rich people would have finer fabrics, fashionable people would have more decoration, poor people might just sleep in whatever combination of day clothes is the most comfortable. Fairly straightforward.

TO RECAP

MEN: vest + drawers + socks > shirt > trousers + braces + collar > waistcoat + stock or necktie > jacket + shoes or boots > hat

WOMEN: shift + bloomers (optional) + stockings > corset > camisole > crinoline > petticoats (minimum 2) > dress > shawl > shoes + bonnet

===

SOURCES

How to Be a Victorian, by Ruth Goodman

Inside the Victorian Home, by Judith Flanders

Episode 342 of Antiques Freaks, Historical Costuming for The Terror (2018)-- the first ~8 minutes talk about men's clothes in general, then they go into naval uniforms until minute 15ish.

[giuliettagaltieri]

One of Them

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Lovesick!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Rafe, middle name: SIMP, Cameron, at your service

Warning: None

Word Count: 1196

Ficlet from Lovesick Little Thing

As young men of Outer Banks are to inherit the family names of their fathers, to become the sole proprietor of their multi-million businesses, possibly run for office, to someday become the leaders and catalyst of change, they made sure to become acquainted with each other and to never fail to attend the meeting they hold in a random house they elect every first Friday night of the month.  And there was only one single rule that none of them can ever break.  No girls allowed.

It started with their fear of cooties, and then their fear of hormonal mood swings of budding women, and none of them got over it as they grew older.  It was the leader of the pack, Rafe Cameron, who came up with the stupid idea.  He was so strict with it that he threatened to kick out anyone who tries to bring a chick to these meetings. 

They were to wear formal clothing, completed with ties, polished shoes, and crisp suits like the fine gentlemen that they are.  Anybody who fails to come in the expected outfit shall be refused a seat at the table.

Imagine the look of surprise when they arrive in Tanneyhill with you sleeping snugly, cuddling with Rafe, who is dressed in linen pants and opened button down shirt, with his bare feet visible for everybody to see!

They all halted their steps.  Eyes wide and questioning as they look at you and then at Rafe and is that a plushie tucked under his arm?

All of them stood by the doorway, some struggling to stick their heads in to see what’s holding everybody up. 

“Is the monthly meeting canceled?”  Somebody asks and Rafe rolls his eyes.

“You guys coming in or what?”  Rafe snaps, making you stir in your sleep but Rafe puts a hand behind your head to let you rest against his arm again.  You hook a leg over his and as soon as you’re knocked out, Rafe turns to the huddled men over the doorway.  If it isn’t for Topper, nobody would have dared to cross the threshold.

It was uncomfortable for them.  There was music playing but they didn’t have the usual Vivaldi and Paganini that boomed around the room.  It was some stupid lullaby that Kelce played, because Rafe would have their heads rolling if they dared to disturb your sleep.

They weren’t used to the usual hushed way of talking but Rafe glared daggers at anyone who wasn’t whispering.  Nobody played billiards or cards in fear that they might get too excited and wake you up.

But like a good host, Rafe let them drink Tanneyhill’s stash of alcohol. 

Problem was he made Topper and Kelce the fucking baristas.  No more than two crystal glasses of the vintage liquor.

When you finally stirred awake, they were relieved, finally they could get the party started.

Or so they thought.

You were suddenly craving fries and sundae.

Rafe had to go. 

Of course, you felt bad, and even insisted that you go alone.  His guests nodded at Rafe, hoping he’ll listen.  As much of an asshole Rafe is, they didn’t feel like partying without him.

But everything you say goes over his head as he gathers his keys and wallet.

You were still talking when he put a hand on the small of your back, you were looking at his guests apologetically and the jackass didn’t even spare them a glance.

“What an asshole.”  Somebody in the crowd murmurs sadly and all of them nod in agreement, the dampened mood worsening.  “I even brought his favorite cigar.”

Kelce glances at Topper and they sigh in unison.  They’ll have to excuse Rafe.  He has been without your attention for a while, he just had to hog you for himself.

“Rafe, that wasn’t so nice.  You are hosting the party, you should stay behind.”  You refuse to get inside his car and he looks at you blankly while he keeps the door open for you.  “I can go to the diner by myself.”

Rafe rolls his eyes and before you can say anything else, he is lifting you up on the passenger seat.  You talk his ear off, lecturing him as he works on fastening your seatbelt for you.

“You will leave a bad impression.”  You fume, cheeks slightly bubbled, and he sighs, bowing his head before glancing at you, his corded arms are gripping the sides of your seat, trapping you in.  The atmosphere suddenly grew thick, making your voice die in your throat.

Gulping, you shut your mouth and averted his gaze.

“You done?”  He spoke lowly.

Not able to find your voice, you just nodded at him, eyes busy studying the gems on your watch.  Rafe nods back and heads over to the driver’s seat.  He looks at you one last time before revving up the car, roaring the engine just the way you hated before speeding off.

You weren’t talking to him and Rafe decides to leave you for now.  But he does place a warm hand over your knee to let you know he’s willing to talk as soon as you are.

The trees are getting pretty boring, so are the enormous mansions in your neighborhood.

“Should we get them burgers?”  You spoke softly, nimble hands playing with the seatbelt.  You eye his pretty hands and reach for it but he had to move the gear shift.  A pout formed on your lips but Rafe places his hand on your bare thigh now.  His grip makes your heart beat uncontrollably.

“If you want, baby.”  He says while he rides his hands upwards. 

His hands were getting dangerously close to your heat that you had to clear your throat.  Rafe grins and lowers his hand back to your midthigh.  He doesn’t make a comment when he hears you breathe out a sigh of relief.

The downturned faces of Rafe’s guests brighten up at the sight of you and the bags and bags and bags of burgers you insisted on carrying just for them. 

Rafe saunters behind you, face passive as he twirls his keys on his finger.  Rafe’s eyes are trailed on the back of your thighs as you pass around the burgers to the now grinning men.

They didn’t like your intrusion at first but you got Rafe wrapped around your finger and they can for sure use that to their advantage.

“Oh man, I’d love to have something sweet after this.”  Somebody sighs as he looks at his burger.  You perk up at that.

“Should I get Rafe to order dessert for all of us?”  You wonder out loud, a chorus of cheers echoes around the room and Kelce taps Rafe’s shoulders in sympathy as the latter groans but fishes his phone out of his pocket anyway.

Topper swings an arm over Rafe’s shoulder.  “Yeah, you definitely should, Y/N.  Tell him to get us those overpriced cookies they sell on the other side of the island.”

Rafe accidentally jabs an elbow on Topper’s rib but as soon as you heard, your eyes lit up and Rafe knew he just had to do it.

“Anything for my girl.”

Lovesick Little Thing • Coming Soon

[peachdues]

SANEMI V. NO-NUT NOVEMBER

･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆ ･˳ . ⋆ .˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆ .˳

In honor of it being Thanksgiving in the US, I thought I would feed you all. Happy Turkey Day, skanks.

CW: MDNI. Explicit sexual content.

Let’s count the ways you’ve tortured him over the last thirty days

You would purposefully wait until he arrived back home at his estate before getting yourself off — in his bed, or in his private bath, so that Sanemi had to watch or feel you working yourself, whimpering his name as you imagined your fingers were his.

You’ve never seen a man wound tighter than Sanemi, coming home after a long night of fighting demons and having to put up with incompetent younger Corps members, who is greeted with the sight of his lover, in his bed, legs spread wide open as she plunges her fingers in and out of her wet and ready core, moaning his name. 

You also were fond of trouncing around his estate wearing little clothing — if any. In fact, you were far more fond of wearing nothing but his haori as you cooked for him. Sanemi thought you wouldn’t be able to resist him sidling up behind you and sliding his hands between its open folds to rest on your bare waist. He thought. 

As it turned out, you were more than happy to swat away his eager hands and resume chopping vegetables. Sanemi managed to hold in his groan of frustration until you bent over to pick up a stray piece of carrot that escaped the pot.

Not to mention it was his BIRTHDAY on the 29th and you wouldn’t so much as let him eat his favorite cake (your pussy) 

“But I’m not the one being pleasured, it’s you,” Sanemi’s voice bordered on a whine as he danced his fingers down the curve of your outer thigh.  You swatted his hand away. “Need I remind you that, on more than one occasion, you’ve had to change your clothes after spending time between my legs?”  Sanemi’s eyes are nearly bulging out of his head as you primly turn away from him, tightening the blanket around your half-nude form. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me —“ “Goodnight, ‘Nemi. Happy Birthday.”

But when the clock hits 12:01 AM December 1?

“If you think you’re walking out of this not pregnant — or that you’re walking out of here at all —,” he said severely, yanking you by the calves until your ass was pressed against his thighs. “Then you’ve got another thing fuckin’ coming.” 

Listen. Sanemi respects the fuck out of women, but you’ve been disrespecting him for the last month. He’s about to get MEAN.

I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Sanemi is going to need to purchase new furniture by the end of it; shit’s getting smashed by you two. The bed, dressers, tables, you name it, you’re getting fucked on it, and it’s getting broken. 

You are being edged to oblivion. If you whine or complain, it only makes the punishment that much worse (so does crying but he actually wants to see those big fat tears). Sanemi breaks up pace consistently to ensure this happens.  Also, he’s gonna cum as much as he wants, but you’re not until he says so.

And when he finally, finally lets you cum, don’t you dare think it’s over — now he’s going to overstimulate you until you’re sobbing (again)

“You think you’re done, sweet girl?” His saccharine coos made your stomach curl because you knew that tone meant he was being anything but sweet. “Like hell you are.” Sanemi flipped the pair of you over, forcing you to lay with your back against his chest, your arms pinned behind you. The hand not restraining you slid to your throat, gripping softly and tilting your head back against him as Sanemi began to thrust sharply up into you.  “I’ve had to watch you cum around everything but me for the last month, darlin’,” his teeth sank down into the soft flesh between your shoulder and neck. The wince you made at the sharp prick of his teeth was quickly chased away with a few soothing licks and caresses from his deceptively soft lips.  “So you’re gonna be my good girl and cum on my cock until I’ve decided you’ve had enough. Understand?” 

It gets to the point where you genuinely cannot tell apart the fluids on your skin — sweat, your cum, his cum, or your tears 

When he’s finally out of stamina (which is like. days later, RIP you), the last few rounds are much slower, and he’s much softer and clingier. Granted, he’s shooting blanks by then because he’s also overstimulated and exhausted, but he thinks he’s made his point clear enough. He’s actually asking you for just one more, and if you’re crying, he’s quick to kiss the tears away and murmur words of encouragement and love

“Fuck, baby,” Sanemi moaned, his feet digging into the plush of his futon as a means of giving himself leverage to push into you, his thighs and hips having long since lost the ability to work with the same vigor they had when he’d first bent you over. “You feel too fucking good to stop.”  You cried out, fists clenching against the painful pleasure your lover continued to bestow upon you. Part of you was desperate for him to stop, to rest, but your body kept betraying you, your legs tightening around his waist to hold him in place.  “S-Sanemi,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the ropey muscles of his shoulders, unable to decide whether to pull him closer or push him away. “No m-more — I c-can’t —“ “One more, sweetheart, just one more.” He cooed, bending his face low to brush kiss after kiss against your lips, swallowing your moans and whimpers. Sanemi braced his weight upon his fists, situated on either side of your hips as he continued to rock into you. His pace now was far at odds with the one he’d maintained over the last day or two, with the scar-speckled Wind Pillar forgoing his vicious, unrelenting speed that had you clinging onto the nearest piece of furniture for dear life in favor of something far softer and more gentle.  “You can do that for me, right?” Sanemi circled his hips. "Just one more, sweet thing, that's all I ask." 

And you give it to him; though there are big, fat tears leaking down your cheeks and though every nerve in your body is screaming for a break, you come apart around him once more. But Sanemi still isn't fully satisfied even though he's a groaning, cursing mess rutting into you, so his thumb works its way between your legs and presses down. Only when a surge of your sticky fluid springs forth and coats his abdomen and groin, does Sanemi finally relax, his own climax rolling into him like a steady wave.

[gremlingottoosilly]

Someone, take Lego away from Konig (yandere!loser!Konig x fem!Reader)

AO3

Konig is keeping you in his basement. Turns out, this is still not the worst part. His interest are. Tags ans Warnings: Dub-con, obsessive behaviour, possessive behavior, yandere loser Konig, size difference, kidnapping, weird fluff.

König can play women’s bodies like fine musical instruments.

After he spent 10 minutes vigorously rubbing your outer labia, you concluded that he was thrown out of musical school on day one.

He flicks your clit occasionally, clearly not considering it something worthy of attention and, obviously, not something that actually brings you pleasure – he fidgets with it mechanically, like it’s a part of his riffle, and you almost want to say that his dismissive approach is kind of hot. He edges you perfectly, always giving away just enough pleasure that it feels nice, but not nearly enough that it brings you to orgasm – and he does so with zero idea of what he is doing, which makes you…almost proud. Of him. Of your angry crazy incel loser kidnapper who thought that bringing you lego flowers would make you suck his cock.

Well, it kinda did. Not the flowers, the whole…kidnapping thing. He did use it to get into your pants – and you aren’t even allowed to wear those now. Only his shirts, maybe a hoodie on a cold day, and a pair of lacy panties that he slips on you every morning he is at home.

You have a system – and König does his best to maintain it. You are getting fed at the same time, to make sure that your pretty little self is not malnourished, you are getting roughly clean clothes — most of it belongs to him, of course, like it’s not embarrassing to wear, and sometimes he even asks how your day was. Sometimes you look him deep in the eyes and say that you didn’t move from your usual spot the whole day because, well, you are kidnapped. Sometimes you are trying to be funny and make some silly jokes — and then he either gets too comfortable laughing and then trying to get his hand all the way down the depths of your inner thighs, or he gets angry.

König knows that a petty flower like you doesn’t want to be in captivity for so long, but there really isn’t much both of you can do about it.

He brings you different lego sets from time to time, trying to find out what you like the most. He doesn’t quite understand that, working in a Lego shop, you were utterly sick of most of the boxes lying around. He tried to gauge the reaction out of you, but you’re either ignoring him, crying or begging him to let you go…and he can’t exactly have that. He, kinda, can, of course, but it would mean sliding off your brain so you would never tell anyone about your experiences, or getting into a showdown with the police – and knowing that he hopped you through the border illegally to be his captive wife, wouldn’t really give him any brownie points. He is fucked, utterly and completely, if you’re ever going to be free without falling madly in love with him…

Which is why König is trying to make you love him. Thoroughly, utterly, and spending copious amounts of time with his tongue buried between your folds in the meantime.

Like now.

— You like it, ja? When I move like this…

He was spending too much time caressing and fondling your thighs – but you must admit that having his lips travel across your skin and sending goosebumps right into your core wasn’t so bad…he touched you a bit awkwardly, just a tad bit shy – like he wasn’t so sure how to approach a soft, female body instead of a cold rifle he was probably used to…he knows that he can’t just treat you like another one of his guns but, by god, if he doesn’t adore the way you look at him. All scared and nervous as he pushes his lips upwards, as he covers your soft skin with bite marks – you were so sure that he will be too nervous to even touch you, but you know better now…this guy doesn’t care that he is your captor. He only wants you to accept him, and if giving you gifts didn’t work out…

You needed to be a bit more diligent about the whole accepting his kindness thing. Maybe he would have been satisfied with a handjob – but now he wants to put his hands on you and do his job.

— Too…too much, Ko…

— Call me “sir”.

There is steel in his voice, and you stiff slightly. This is new – he was never like this before, even though you kinda got that he was in some sort of military. He was way too bulky and had too much money to be a regular gun nerd, so you settled for some special forces or elite war crime unit…then again, you weren’t in Germany anymore. Guy would have to get another citizenship to get into a more serious “I fucking hate my fellow man” forces.

He flicks his tongue over your clit and you remember what you’re here for. To get fucked. Because you are fucked. Not right now in physical sense, but you will be in a few minutes, and you’ve been mentally fucked for a few another hours and-

— Sir, ple…too much, re…really…

König fuckijng adores you.

He loves your trembling voice, your trembling hands, your trembling everything. The way you squint your eyes as he finds all of your special spots – it took him some time but ladies are just like riffles – come undone if you press on a few parts. You look perfect under him, and he couldn’t have you any other way even if he wanted to…god, you’re too fucking perfect for your own good. So, so pretty, it’s insane how he didn’t fuck you the first night you’ve been in his basement. Perhaps, he was trying to be a gentleman – fuck this, now. If he knew how sweet you would sound, he’d abandon any rotten chivalry on day one.

König didn’t have a lot of experience – a few sex workers here and there, some in the more exotic destinations while the others were, embarrassingly enough, from his hometown. It was a sense of domesticity, that he isn’t a fucking loser who can’t get a lady in his bed without wavering either his gun or hit wallet – but he has you now, and you don’t really care about his money or his guns…unless he counts your obvious activity. Which he doesn’t. Good golly, you’re too fucking pretty to count that.

He flicks his tongue over your clit and dips lower, deeper, sucking the sweet nectar straight from the source. You’re embarrassingly wet even as you try to push his head away – he would handcuff you, but he likes your little resistance attempts too much. He moans every time you tug on his hair and, with time, you should finally understand that everything you do only makes him want you more. Maybe, you do – but you keep doing this because you’re such a good girl who wants nothing more but to please her dearest…not exactly husband, but he can work on this. He has friends in places. Same ones who used to get him out of detentions when his quiet kid violent tendencies weren’t quite quiet enough.

He is moaning as he eats you out – the sound reverberates from your walls and makes you clench around his tongue, your brain already getting fried from pleasure. You never wanted to get off from your captor’s tongue buried so deep between your legs, but you surely enjoy it now…

You try to pry his head from you when he gets a bit too eager, when it feels like his nose is smashing your clit and you can only moan some mindless bullshit.

— You want to talk about lego instead?

He presses his head on your thighs, his cheek angled against the soft skin. He has a bit of a stubble that burns the soft skin, but the look in his eyes is far too eager. He is not bullshitting – and this is the most terrifying he is ever been. You try to imagine another three-hour lecture Star Wars and the history of lego sets combined with his awkward attempts to fuck you in between turning his affection spam from one thing to the other. The picture is vivid in your mind. You can almost hear it.

You consider your options. It is a hard decision for you.

— You know, they weren’t able to sell the sets to girls up until…

You grab a fistful of his hair and push his face all the way down your dripping pussy.

It looks like the only sure way of making your captor shut up is literally forcing him to fuck you…there were many such cases – you embarrassingly easily fall to his charms, even though he has the aura and charisma of a serial killer who got a freshly baked orphan for his lunch and then tried to talk you into destroying a small country’s economy.

König eats you out with the vigor of a starving man, and there isn’t a place he would love to be more than here and now, listening to your heavenly moans. This is the best motivational song he heard so far – and as he pushes his big, flat tongue deeper into the gummy walls of your clenching pussy, he thinks about recording your sounds and then listening to them in the gym. Could probably break the poor lifting pole with the strength of his fists.

He brought you to an orgasm – not easily, he had to lick the reaction out of you, your heat coming down to both of you like a wave. You feel tired immediately, knowing just how much energy you just wasted listening to his blabber between your legs – but you honestly can’t be arsed to react right now.

König lifts his body up so he can kiss you – you taste yourself on him and, admittedly, it’s a lovely way to make him shut up. You still tremble as you get down from your high, your legs finally giving up, even though you were already laying on that shabby mattress. You shift slightly so he won’t crush you under the weight of his body. A Lego piece pocks at your side, making you wince.

You hate this fucking place.

— What’s wrong, Liebling?

He nuzzles your neck like a needy dog, pressing light kisses all over your skin. He is marking it, too – you can’t keep comparing him to a dog, but this is exactly what he is. Simply a war hound that you have to tame in order to get a somewhat normal life while still belonging in his basement. You thought you knew how to play this game – then he pushed you on your tummy and fucked you because, apparently, you were too good at playing him. Even now, he acts more like a lover – if only you could see past his homicidal tendencies…

But you can’t.

But he doesn’t care anyway.

— I…

You bite your lips, trying to come up with a lie that wouldn’t make him fuck you. König thought you looked beautiful like this, all holed up in your thoughts. So, so pretty, he couldn’t help himself – he needed you, as much as he kinda hated playing the psychological game and trying to understand what you’re thinking. Ladies are too mysterious for him, after all.

— I want to sleep in a normal bed.

Oh.

Well, he…didn’t expect this.

He was ready to combat your desire to run away or to be let go willingly. He was ready to put you on your knees and make you beg for him to not let you go - after all, you did belong to him in all of his right. He didn’t…didn’t expect you to want something so simple. Something that he can do. God, you’d look fucking divine on his bed instead of the tiny basement he put you in. He can already imagine you on your tummy, face buried in his pillows as he pounds into your soft ass and explains every superhero poster he has in his room. He will show you all of his figures and knives and guns, and you’ll finally see just how amazing he is and how interesting his hobbies are – and you’re bound to finally love him the way he deserves.

You stare at him, blankly. He kinda loves when you look like that – sometimes he imagines you being a mindless little bimbo who can’t think of anything besides his dick, and it helps him get off when you’re too sleepy to play along with him. He tried to bring you more sets, something childish, something meant for girls – but you tossed away the rose bouquet and you didn’t even spare a second glance at some fandom set that he thought you’d like. God, you’re difficult. Women are difficult. Why can’t you be as straight as a riffle?

— Normal bed, Katzen? You don’t like it here?

He puts a hand on your shoulder, his fingers too big to rest on your body carefully – he easily reaches for your neck and he knows that you’d go out like a light with the smallest squeeze. You’re adorable and soft like this, and he can’t wait to finally try choking with you.

König imagines your pretty, soft body all helpless under him – maybe you’d claw at his hands and beg him to stop, maybe you’d enjoy it, drenching the small mattress with your juices. Maybe you’d push your hips towards his, desperately searching for release. You can be a nasty, dirty girl, he knows this all too well – mostly because he did go through your phone and searched for your browser history. Who knew that a simple lego store cashier could have so many kidnapping and overpowering fantasies. Who knew that you could be so wet just because some military-obsessed loser wanted to shove his cock into you and wasn’t nice enough to ask first.

— I…I don’t like the basement.

Smart girl. You know how to be sot and obedient when you have to. Too bad, this behavior also made you all the more desirable for König – compared to the rowdy recruits and dumb enemies, your quiet voice is everything he needs to not go crazy. His hand plays with your neck, squeezing it slightly, playfully. He can feel your pulse quickening every time he does this and he is sure that if he’d drop his hand between your legs again, your pulsating pussy would be wet enough to indicate a second orgasm.

Shit.

He goes too far again.

— You don’t like the basement? Why?

You stare at him, blankly. He seriously thought there is nothing wrong with the basement – it’s small, yes, but probably just about the size of a studio apartment you were able to afford while working in Berlin, of all places. You have a mattress, a loving boyfriend, you have all the food and snacks you want, your pussy is filled with cum and your mind should be filled with endless love and adoration for the coolest guy in the world who just so happens to be in love with you, so…

He looks at your face again. Ja, you don’t like the basement. You’re a surface girl after all.

— You really want me to answer that? It’s the basement.

He snorts, still dragging the conversation.

— I spend most of my childhood in the basement. It was nice.

— I could tell.

— What?

— Nothing. Let me out, please.

He sighs with deeply settled tiredness. He thought you’d be nicer about it, too – but he knows what ladies want, he is a ladies' man at heart. He doesn’t have one, of course, not unless this charcoal-black shrapnel-filled thing deep in his chest could be considered one, but he tried his best to be good for you. You deserve something nice, something good. He wants to kiss you all over and he will do it on his own bed, while trying to talk you into watching some old nerdy TV show with him. Maybe you’d agree to play with some Lego after this and it could be considered a really nice and thorough foreplay.

— I can’t.

— Let me sleep on a normal bed, then.

Well, this, he can do.

Carefully unlocking your shackles and immediately catching your legs so you won’t kick him in an attempt to escape, König picks you up like a kitten. It’s scary, almost, how easy it is for him to just manhandle you into the position he wants. He is a big boy, admittingly, so it really doesn’t matter how big or how small you are. He can abuse you easily, and this is why you’re trying to keep him gentle. Using all of your womanly charms even if this guy would get off just from you calling his name.

He covers your eyes so you won’t see anything – not like you’re interested in the amount of weirdly specific movie posters on the walls or an alarming amount of firearms. He knows he is not the most charming person out there with the most interesting hobbies, but you will learn to appreciate all of his anime figures, or else you’re going to suffer the fate of a recruit who dares to ask his late thirties colonel of who the fuck Ayanami Rei is. Rumors are held that this guy was never seen in the army again.

He only puts the hand away from your face when you are sitting on the soft bed. You stare at the navy sheets – fucking obviously – and, surprisingly, a bed frame. Then your gaze travels a bit further, to the walls and…

God.

Oh fuck.

You almost want to cry from how much of a loser your kidnapper is. He is a threatening mercenary, a fucking colonel in military uniform who holds you at gunpoint occasionally. You stare at the anime posters. You contemplate your options.

— Can I go back to the basement?

If god is real, he is a fucking anime girl from the poster in your kidnapper’s bedroom.

[peekofhistory]

What are, in your opinion, the most iconic hanfu for men and women from each dynasty?

Hi! I'm so sorry this reply is delayed, I had to do a quick trip abroad and didn't have my laptop with me, also wanted to spend some time finding photo examples for this :D

OK! Here we go!

Qin/Han Dynasties (Pic 1, 2): Quju (wrap-around) and Zhiju (straight-edged) are what I think of for this period. Both men and women wore these robes.

Weijin/ North-South dynasty (Pic 3, 4): This is hard...xD Too many styles to pic from OTL I do LOVE the drastic long sleeves of this period, the robes get split from one long robe to the top/bottom separated Ruqun style. Men and women shared most fashions during this period too. For women, the hair styles start evolving in complexity, a lot of gold hair pieces (no flowers yet). The clothing starts looking more "flowy" compared to the heavy, serious robes of Qin/Han.

Tang Dynasty (Pic 5-8): Tang was a period of dramatic economic growth, it was also when the Silk Road flourished so there were merchants coming to trade and do business. It's difficult to pick one "iconic" style, but for women I usually think of dresses that tie around the bus with either a form-fitted, thin shirt underneath, or a larger-sleeved robe worn over top (pic 8). This bust-tie style wasn't seen before this period. OR, a form-fitted top, maybe with a little vest over top, and a waist-tie skirt (pic 7) (this is a good style to go on outings, easy movement).

There was also a particular group of ladies who wore these long, dramatic head pieces that almost formed a giant halo around their head (pic 6). I'll talk about them in a later post too.

For men, the round-collared robes became popular, with these bumpy looking "hats" (the vertical portion and the portion wrapped around the head are actually separate pieces so it's not really a hat, I'll explain more in later posts).

Song Dynastyn (Pic 9-12): In my mind, Song's style was a lot more gentle and soft compared to the lavish, bright colours of Tang. Song was a dynasty that focused on the arts, Song dynasty's emperors were all very artistic (they tended to lean away from focusing on military defense which, unfortunately, led to the dynasty's downfall).

So I think of soft colours during this dynasty, simpler hair styles. A wrap-around top with a waist-tie skirt, topped with a loose outer robe (pic 9). For men, Song dynasty is famous for men wearing flowers in their hair or adorning their hats (pic 10, 12). The work hat also developed these giant, loooooooong sticks from the side (pic 11) which is great for social distancing xDD

Ming Dynasty (Pic 13-15): The biggest change to Ming dynasty's hanfu is we go from soft, flowy silks to thicker brocades, this makes the clothing look "stiff" and allows for clear-cut shapes using pleating (if you've ever worn a Ma Main Qun (horse-face skirt...wtf are these translations O.O) you know what I mean.

The collars for the tops also develop these high-rise styles (although they can be criss-crossed styles or round-collared too). I absolutely HATE these high-rise collars because my neck is short and anything wrapped around it makes me itchy (I can't even button the buttons, my neck is too chonk). Whenever I buy one of these robes I have to move the buttons down so I can flip the collar down otherwise I can't wear them T__T

So I usually think of a short or long "Ao" (top) paired with a Ma Mian Qun for women (pic 13, 15). The Ma Mian Qun (horse-face skirt) is recognizable by the pleating, it shot into into the spotlight in China in July 2022 when a lot of Chinese Hanfu-hobbyists noticed Dior had a skirt that was constructed the same way, only the length was shorter. It was a whole big controversy with people accusing Dior of copying the style without giving credit, so now most people in China know of this skirt (I'll post a pic below of Dior's version). It's not uncommon to see people wear it paired with a cute, modern-top in China

For men, one of the most iconic clothes for men in this dynasty is the "flying fish robe" (pic 14). These were worn by imperial guards and named for the pattern of the brocade. Because the guards need easy movement, the robes cut off around the calf, and the sleeves are tightened using arm cuffs.

So, there's my "iconoic" hanfu for every dynasty. That was hard T__T I wanted to pic so many xD Oh, and here's Dior's skirt:

Left is Dior's, right is a Ma Mian Qun. Ma Mian Qun's pleating style is quite unique, I don't have one on hand to take photos but here's a video of someone twirling in one and you can kind of see the pleating. Some people speculate maybe Dior saw these skirts on Taobao or something, thought the design looked nice and took it without realizing the historical significance of the outfit. I don't know the details, I only heard about the controversy very briefly (back then I hadn't really dived into Hanfu yet).

[ellswritings]

A Gift for the Victor

CM Punk (Phil Brooks) x Reader

TW: Lots of flirty tension, no smut but it gets pretty intense at the end, mild choking, swapping saliva, foul language, lmk if I missed anything.

Y/S/N- Your Stage Name

Y/H/T- Your Hometown

Y/W- Your weight

Tags: @reebs-luvs-rhodes-and-wrestling

(I’m literally weak for this man. I was debating making a smutty part 2. Let me know if that’s something you’re all interested in 🫶🫶)

✧･ﾟ:*ᴵ’ᵐ ᵇᵉᵃᵘ ᵗᶦᶠᵘˡ (ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)*:･ﾟ✧*

WrestleMania Forty.

One of, if not the biggest night of Y/N L/N’s career. She’s facing Iyo Sky to win the Women’s Championship. She had been fighting for this all year. Fight after fight, promo after promo, injury after injury, and she’s finally here. The entire trajectory of her career comes down to this moment. Comes down to the outcome of tonight.

She wasn’t as nervous as she thought she’d be. She worked hard to get here. Took on opponents that most people thought would crush her, but she persevered. Paul Levesque saw something in her. He still does and always will. She’s a fighter, she’s charismatic, the people love her. Over the past few years it’s been a battle between her and Cody Rhodes on who’s the most loveable face. Perhaps down the road there will be a different story lined up for her, but that’s for the future.

Right now, she has a match to win.

It’s Night Two and she’s going on right after Seth Rollins just lost his match to Drew McIntyre. The Scotsman got a bit too cocky for his own good though, the special commentator, CM Punk, beating the crap out of the heavyweight before Damian Priest came out to cash in his Money in the Bank. He stole the title from Drew, leaving everyone in awe.

However, Y/N couldn’t help but admire the way that Punk completely destroyed Drew after what the man did to him at the Royal Rumble. She and Punk have always had an interesting relationship. Flirty comments exchanged here and there, holding each other’s gaze for too long, teasing touches. It was all a part of their charm, their story.

She also really enjoyed getting under his skin, and he felt the same. Whenever they could mess with each other, in or out of the ring, they would.

Phil especially loved walking up behind her before she would go out for a match, whispering something in her ear to make her squirm, and then sauntering off like nothing happened.

Y/N was thrilled when she found out he would also be commentating on her match. They figured it would be best for press since they have such a close relationship, and their chemistry is off the charts.

She would never tell him of her excitement though. It would simply go to his head and give him a bigger ego than he already has. A small smirk covers her lips as she wraps her hands with white masking tape, putting a black X on each one. She knows this will get quite the reaction from him and the audience. Luckily, her cropped leather jacket covers them so it’ll remain a surprise until she takes it off before the match.

Paul Levesque had been nice enough to allow her new gear for this big match. He said it was time for her to get a bit of an upgrade. She wears a black, form-fitting sleeveless top, made from a breathable, flexible material that allows her to move with ease. The top has a high neckline but features cutouts along the sides, hinting at her toned physique without being overly revealing. Across the chest, her logo is subtly embossed in dark metallic silver, catching the light just right when she moves.

Her matching black shorts are a hybrid between tactical gear and athletic wear—snug but flexible, sitting comfortably on her hips with an angled, asymmetrical belt design. The fabric is reinforced with leather-like paneling along the outer thighs, giving her a sleek, armored look without restricting her agility. Subtle silver and deep crimson accents line the seams, adding just a hint of color while keeping the overall aesthetic dark and dangerous.

She wears sturdy knee-high boots with reinforced soles for impact protection. A few silver buckles line the sides of her boots, adding to the dangerous, almost mercenary-like vibe of her gear.

Her jacket—which is probably her favorite aspect of the new outfit—is a lightweight, cropped leather piece with spiked shoulder accents, a deep crimson lining, and her name stitched in jagged, metallic lettering across the back.

She felt dangerous. It really is true when they say dress for what you expect the outcome to be. And as far as Y/N’ concerned, she’s dressed to win.

She cracks her neck as Iyo Sky makes her entrance, the music blaring throughout the arena. She jumps up and down, warming up her body as she gets ready to take what’s rightfully hers. A small smile graces her face as Joe Anoa’i walks up to her briefly, patting her on the back with a small ‘good luck.’

She doesn’t let him leave without hugging him first. He’s still trying to remain in character like the professional he is, but he can’t help but soften under her arms. He’s watched her grow into the star she is, sometimes being the one to train her, so he couldn’t be more proud of how far she’s come.

“C’mon, don’t get all soft,” he tells her, placing his hands on her shoulders. He looks her dead in the eye, “Let’s see that angry face.”

Y/N laughs, “Joe–”

“Nuh uh,” he shakes his head. “Your ass better start mean muggin’ me right now or I ain’t gonna let you go out there.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, feeling silly as she does as he asks. She scrunches her face up the way Josh and Jon showed her she should and Joe nods his head. “There we go. Now you’re ready.”

As if on cue, her entrance music booms through the arena. Roman pushes her forward and she sends him a playful glare before walking out to meet the cheers and screams of her adoring fans. She immediately falls back into character, smirking at the attention. She revels in it, raising her arms up laterally as she spins in a slow circle. Her hips sway to the beat as she struts up to the ring, but not before stopping to interact with a few fans along the way.

She chuckles lowly, patting the face of one of her many overzealous fanboys. She can see the blush form on his cheeks as she walks away with a flirty wink before finishing her journey to the ring. Everyone in the arena screams the lyrics to her song out, making the moment even more special as she climbs up to the second rope, blowing a kiss out to each and every one of them.

She jumped down from her position and walked towards the center of the ring as Alicia Taylor found her place between Y/N and Iyo. The latter had the women’s championship draped over her shoulder, tapping the center plate with a small smirk. It wasn’t cocky, no, it was a challenge. A dare of some sort.

The stadium lights dimmed as Alicia raised the microphone up to her mouth “The following contest is scheduled for one fall…”

The audience screamed in unison.

“…and it is for the WWE Women’s Championship!”

Y/N shook out her hands as Alicia turned to her.

“Introducing first, the challenger… from Y/H/T, weighing in at Y/W, she is ‘The Untouchable’ Y/N L/N!”

The crowd erupted, the sheer volume vibrating through the air. Y/N exhaled slowly through her nose, soaking it in, smirking as she raised her arms and flexed her fingers, her body already buzzing with adrenaline.

The camera cut to the commentary desk, where Michael Cole, Pat McAfee, and CM Punk sat, all watching intently.

“Listen to this ovation for Y/N L/N!” Cole said over the noise.

“Philadelphia is in love with this woman,” Pat added. “I mean, can you blame them? Look at her—she was built for this moment.”

Beside him, Punk leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah, Yeah,” he drawled out. “She might think she’s all that, but let’s see if she can actually get the job done.”

Y/N’s head turned sharply toward the commentary table, locking eyes with him. Her smirk deepened, a silent, wordless challenge of her own. Punk just raised an eyebrow, as if amused.

Alicia’s voice rang out again.

“And her opponent… from Tokyo, Japan, weighing in at 114 pounds, she is the WWE Women’s Champion… IYO SKY!”

Y/N started bouncing up and down once again as she put herself in the correct headspace for this match. It helped immensely hearing the scattered boos in the crowd that came after Iyo’s name.

Every ounce of training, every second of pain and sacrifice had led to this, and she wasn’t about to waste it. As she reached the steel steps, she grabbed the edges of her custom leather jacket, shrugging it off in one smooth motion before tossing it aside.

The second she did, the camera zoomed in on the thick, white wrist tape wrapped around her hands—bold, black X’s drawn over the knuckles.

The moment wasn’t lost on the commentary team.

Pat McAfee let out an obnoxiously loud laugh. “Ohhh, would you look at that? That is a direct shot at our guy over here!”

Beside him, CM Punk, who had been lounging comfortably in his chair, suddenly sat up straighter. His eyes flickered to the screen, landing on the tape, and for a brief second, something unspoken crossed his face.

Michael Cole chuckled. “Now that’s interesting. What do you think, Punk?”

Punk exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Cute,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Y/N turned her head ever so slightly in his direction, smirk firmly in place, and tapped her fists together, making sure he saw the X’s clearly. The smirk on Punk’s face faltered for half a second before he scoffed, leaning back again.

“She must think she’s real creative for that one,” Punk snarks, but Y/N picked up on his attitude all the way from the ring.

She grinned. “Glad you approve, old man,” she mouths.

Pat snorted. “Oh, she’s good.”

Punk rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m not impressed yet.”

The bell rang.

Y/N barely had time to react before Iyo Sky came flying at her, a devastating roundhouse kick aimed directly for her head. She ducked just in time, the force of it whipping past her ear, and immediately retaliated with a stiff elbow to Iyo’s ribs. The champion staggered back but recovered quickly, using the ropes to propel herself forward before slamming into Y/N with a handspring back elbow. The move connected cleanly, knocking Y/N back against the ropes, but she used the momentum to bounce off and hit Iyo with a running knee to the face.

The match quickly devolved into a brutal back-and-forth war. Every time Y/N gained an advantage, Iyo countered, the champion’s speed and agility making her nearly impossible to keep down. The strikes were stiff, each kick and punch landing with precision, the sound of flesh meeting flesh ringing throughout the stadium. Y/N could feel the welts forming on her ribs from Iyo’s brutal kicks, but she pushed forward, feeding off the energy of the crowd.

“Come on, L/N!” Punk’s voice cut through the commentary. “You gotta be faster than that!”

Cole chuckled. “A little tough love from Punk tonight?”

“Tough love?” Pat laughed. “The man sounds like a disappointed dad.”

Punk scoffed, arms crossed. “I just call it like I see it.”

Back in the ring, Y/N managed to catch Iyo mid-air as she attempted a crossbody, using her strength to hoist the champion up and slam her into the mat with a gut-wrench suplex. Iyo arched off the canvas, clutching her lower back, giving Y/N the opening to climb the ropes.

“She’s going high-risk!” Cole called.

Punk let out a breath. “Better not miss.”

As if hearing him, Y/N turned her head slightly toward the commentary table, locking eyes with him before blowing an exaggerated kiss in his direction.

The crowd reacted immediately, laughter rippling through the audience, and Pat lost it. “Oh my God! She’s making it her personal mission to mess with you!”

Punk’s face remained neutral, but the slight twitch in his jaw gave him away. “Focus on the match, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath, though the mic still picked it up.

And she did.

All of her attention went back to Iyo as she landed a perfect cross-body. Unfortunately, it hadn’t tired Iyo as much as Y/N had hoped it would, but she didn’t give up. She never would. Not when the title is practically in her grasp.

The match itself had been brutal, both women leaving everything they had in the ring. However, the next fifteen minutes of it had to have been the worst. The air inside Lincoln Financial Field was thick with anticipation, the crowd hanging onto every move, every counter, every near fall. Y/N’s body ached, her ribs screaming from the relentless kicks Iyo had delivered, but she pushed forward, feeding off the electric energy around her.

Iyo, for all her skill and championship experience, was growing frustrated. Y/N had withstood everything—the rapid-fire strikes, the high-flying assaults, the punishing submissions. And now, as the match neared its climax, Iyo was beginning to make mistakes.

The champion was perched on the top rope, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, eyes narrowed as she calculated her next move. Y/N was dazed, clutching her ribs, struggling to push herself to her feet. Iyo saw her opportunity.

With a determined yell, she launched herself off the turnbuckle, twisting mid-air for a moonsault.

It was mistimed.

Y/N had staggered to her feet just a fraction of a second too soon, her head still down as Iyo’s knee connected—hard—against her brow instead of the planned impact to her chest. The sound of bone hitting bone was sickening, an audible crack that made the entire arena wince.

Y/N dropped like a stone.

The referee immediately knelt beside her, checking for movement, but it was the blood—thick and dark—already dripping down her face that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd.

And through Punk.

At the commentary table, he had been leaning back, arms crossed, the usual smirk on his face as he quipped about the match. But the moment that knee landed, his entire body tensed. His smirk vanished. His hands slammed against the table as he pushed himself to his feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

For a split second, he wasn’t CM Punk, the commentator.

He was Phil Brooks, the man who had spent his entire career in this business, who had seen firsthand what a misplaced knee like that could do.

“She’s hurt,” he said, voice lower than before, tighter.

Pat McAfee blinked, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in him. “Whoa, hey, man—where are you—?”

Punk had already taken a step forward, instinct screaming at him to move, to get to the ring, to do something. His fingers flexed at his sides, breathing shallow as he locked onto Y/N’s unmoving form.

Then, as quickly as he’d reacted, he caught himself.

Realized where he was.

What he was doing.

His jaw clenched, and slowly, rigidly, he forced himself to sit back down. But his posture was different now—leaned forward, elbows on the desk, one hand anxiously rubbing his jaw as his eyes never left the ring.

“She’s bleeding pretty bad,” Cole noted, though his attention had drifted toward Punk now, clearly sensing the change.

Pat, of course, couldn’t help himself. “Man, I swear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say Punk here was about to—what? Jump in there and save her?”

Punk shot him a glare. “Shut up, Pat.”

Pat laughed. “I’m just saying! Look at you! Sitting here all stiff, like you’re about to sprint down the ramp any second!”

Punk exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he tried to settle back into his usual nonchalance. “She’s fine,” he muttered, though his eyes betrayed him. They were locked on Y/N, watching as she blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blood that was beginning to seep down the side of her face.

Back in the ring, the referee hesitated, momentarily unsure if he should call for medical personnel, but Y/N pushed his hands away.

"I'm good," she gritted out.

Her vision was hazy, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but the last thing she was going to do was let this end with her lying on the mat, bleeding out.

Punk leaned in slightly at the sound of her voice, his shoulders still tight.

“Come on, Y/N…” he muttered under his breath, as if willing her to snap out of it.

Iyo hesitated, realizing her mistake now, but it was too late to take it back. And Y/N—still dazed, still blinking through the blood—was already pushing to her feet.

The sight of her standing, wiping the blood from her eye with the back of her hand, made the crowd erupt.

Punk let out a slow breath, watching as she squared her shoulders, forcing herself back into the fight despite the crimson streaks running down her face. The sight of it—the determination, the fire—made something flicker in his expression.

Cole chuckled, side-eyeing him. “You can admit it, you know. You’re impressed.”

Punk scoffed, but it was weaker than before. “She still has to win first.”

Pat grinned. “Oh, come on. You were two seconds away from running down there to help her! I’ve never seen you move that fast in my life.”

Punk ignored him.

Back in the ring, Y/N caught Iyo off guard, ducking under a clothesline before hoisting her onto her shoulders in one swift motion. The crowd roared, the energy surging to its peak as she took a single step forward and then drove Iyo into the mat with her finisher.

The ring shook from the impact.

Punk straightened in his seat, fingers twitching slightly as he watched the ref drop to count.

One… Two… Three.

The bell rang.

A moment of silence passed before the realization hit.

She won.

The crowd exploded, the sound deafening as Y/N collapsed to her knees, clutching the championship to her chest.

And then, slowly, blood still dripping down her face, she turned toward the commentary table.

Her gaze locked onto Punk’s.

Tears were brimming at the corner of her eyes as she held her title over her shoulder proudly. She stood up, woozy and shaky as blood continued to trickle down her forehead, but her smugness never faded. The smirk was slow, knowing, as she tapped the title against the X’s on her hands.

Punk exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but he didn’t look away.

Pat leaned in, grinning wildly. “You okay over there, bud?”

Cole smirked. “Go on, Punk. Just say it.”

Punk rubbed his jaw, leaning back in his chair, and after a long pause, muttered, “She did alright.”

Pat snorted. “You are so full of it.”

But Punk said nothing.

Instead, as the cameras focused on Y/N standing tall, bloodied but victorious, the faintest ghost of a smile flickered across his lips.

That’s when a microphone is handed to the newest champion and it makes everyone in the stadium cry out loudly as she raises it to her lips. “How we feeling tonight, Philly?”

Everyone screams once again making the new champion nod enthusiastically. She didn’t know if it was the high she was on from her win, or the blood loss, but she was no longer concerned about how professional she appeared.

“Yeah, me too!” She calls out with a small chuckle. “Y’know I’ve gotta say I couldn’t have done it without all of you cheering me on like that.” The crowd once again goes ballistic at her kind words. “I also couldn’t have done it without the amazing Paul Levesque giving me the chance to achieve greatness, and for that I am so grateful.” She spins on her heel, walking slowly towards the edge of the ring that’s closest to the announcer’s table. “But there is one person in particular I owe a special thanks to…”

She leans on the top rope, looking over at Punk with the biggest shit-eating grin she’s ever sported. He can’t help but lean back in his chair, eyes bemused as he scoffs softly at her behavior. Blood still oozes down her face, but she couldn’t seem to care less.

“The man who pisses me off more than anyone else in the locker room. Who unfortunately taught me half of my move set, mostly because he’s ancient,” she mumbles the last part but the audience roars with laughter. “The best in the world… CM Punk.”

As the crowd begins to chant his name, Punk shakes his head at her antics. He watches as the woman makes her way out of the ring and walks over towards his side of the table. Her chest is heaving as she continues to try and replenish the oxygen her lungs have lost over the last half hour in the ring.

She looks good, he notes to himself. The new gear she’s sporting fits her body perfectly. It shows off her stage persona perfectly, beautiful but deadly. His eyes trail over her hands, growing slightly fond of the fact she’s rocking his signature look. If anyone else were to have done that, he might’ve lost his mind on the spot, but with her, it’s different.

“Without his incessant nagging, I wouldn’t be here today,” she says into the mic, stopping directly in front of him, never breaking eye contact.

She’s currently towering over him as he’s still sitting in his designated seat. But without warning, he stands from his spot, silently moving forward and wrapping his one good arm around her in a tight hug. Audible coos and whistles are heard throughout the arena as Punk leans forward to speak into her mic.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he tells her. “You worked hard for it. Paid your dues.”

The crowd was already losing their minds over the embrace—CM Punk, the surly, hard-nosed veteran, openly showing affection? That alone was shocking enough. But as Y/N felt the warmth of his body pressed against hers, the steady rise and fall of his chest, something in her buzzed with exhilaration. Maybe it was the fact he was trying so hard to remain in character, or maybe it’s because she was tired of this cat and mouse game they became so good at playing.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to catch the flicker of something in his eyes before he masked it. He was playing the role, staying in character, but she saw it—a crack in the armor. A slip.

A slow smirk curled at her lips as she tilted her head. “Y’know, Punk,” she drawled, deliberately stepping closer, toeing the line of personal space as she brought the mic back up between them. “I was thinking… since we’re so close and all… how about a gift for the victor?”

His expression didn’t change—at least, not outwardly. But she caught it. The subtle way his jaw tensed. The way his tongue darted out to wet his lips like he was considering something. The way his fingers twitched at his sides like he had to physically restrain himself from reacting too quickly.

Still, he played his part. He always did.

Punk should’ve seen it coming. Should have.

But the moment Y/N took that deliberate step closer, eyes gleaming with something far too playful, far too dangerous, he knew he’d walked right into her trap.

His lips pressed into a firm line as she invaded his space, the warmth of her body nearly brushing against his. He should move—he needs to move—but he doesn’t. He just watches her, that smug little smirk playing at her lips, the kind that made his fingers twitch with the urge to do something drastic.

Like kiss it off her.

No. No, he absolutely was not thinking that.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to roll his shoulders like he wasn’t already bracing for impact. “What did you have in mind?” His voice was smooth, controlled—CM Punk. But there was an edge to it, an almost imperceptible waver that Y/N caught immediately.

She knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Y/N hummed, tapping her fingers against the mic as if she were thinking. She tilted her head, feigning innocence as her gaze dropped to his lips for just a second—a split second—before flicking back up to his eyes.

“Oh, you know…”

And then—she kissed him.

The moment her lips pressed against his, CM Punk ceased to exist. There was no more character to hide behind. Just Phil Brooks.

A deafening roar swept through the stadium, fans screaming, chanting, reacting with sheer disbelief at what they were witnessing. The cameras caught it all—CM Punk, the man who prided himself on being untouchable, who never ever strayed from his carefully controlled image—being kissed, in front of thousands, by the newly crowned champion.

Phil. Was. Stunned.

For the first few seconds, he didn’t even move. Didn’t even process it. He had anticipated her usual antics—teasing, pushing his buttons, making him squirm—but this? This wasn’t scripted. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this wasn’t supposed to happen—but then her hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him just enough to make his knees buckle slightly, and suddenly, he was forgetting why he was supposed to stop this at all.

Her lips were soft but commanding, determined, and goddammit, he should push her away, should pull back and scowl and play it off like she hadn’t just sent a bolt of electricity down his spine.

But he didn’t.

For a second—just a second—his hand twitched at his side, instinct screaming at him to cup the back of her neck, to deepen the kiss just enough to make her regret thinking she had the upper hand here.

But then she was gone.

The absence of her warmth made his body lurch forward slightly before his brain caught up, before the noise of the arena came crashing back down around him.

She turned on her heel, already stepping back toward the ring as she raised the mic again, her voice ringing through the chaos.

“See you later, old man.”

The crowd was losing their minds.

Pat McAfee was practically feral beside him. “OH. MY. GOD. SHE DID IT! Y/N L/N JUST KISSED CM PUNK ON LIVE TELEVISION! WHAT UNIVERSE ARE WE IN?!”

Michael Cole was just as incredulous. He was barely able to hold himself together as he laughed loudly, “I– Punk? Any comment? Anything at all?”

He grabbed his headset, sliding it back on with forced nonchalance. “Shut up, Pat.”

Pat cackled. “OH, HE’S FLUSTERED! HE’S SO FLUSTERED! HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO RIGHT NOW!”

Cole grinned. “Are we witnessing the beginning of a WWE power couple?”

Punk pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to god, both of you—”

But it didn’t matter.

The damage was done. The moment was out there, in front of thousands. There was no walking this back.

His eyes were locked on Y/N as she stood at the top of the ramp, championship over her shoulder, owning the moment like she’d planned it all along. She looked so damn proud of herself.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even be mad.

The next few days were nothing short of exhausting. He hadn’t had a quiet moment since what happened at the main event. Whether it was questions from his coworkers, his bosses, or the public, it was never ending. He, of course, handled it with the utmost professionalism, never breaking character, but it was starting to irritate him the way Y/N was handling it with such ease. Like she hadn’t completely blown up both of their careers. Not in a bad way, but the scandal in itself was enough to keep all attention on them for the next few months. Yet she acted like she didn’t have a care in the world.

She easily deflected probing questions and didn’t appear flustered by the event at all. It was infuriating. His jaw ticked as he watched her from the other side of the Gorilla, laughing at something Dominick Mysterio said. Once again, acting as if nothing happened. He watched as the younger male wrestler’s eyes flicked over to him and Phil could only assume the next question that came out of his mouth was about the kiss.

Once again, she deflects the question without much effort. Y/N simply bat her eyelashes at the boy, placing her hands on his chest as if she were fixing his gear before saying something slightly flirty and walking off. Her strategy changed with everyone who asked, and it worked every time.

His feet start moving before his mind can even register what he’s doing. Y/n rounds the corner to no doubt head out to your trailer, but he manages to grab her wrist before she can make it out. Her eyes widen in surprise, but they quickly calm when she realizes it’s him.

“Hey stranger,” she grins cheekily. She made no effort to pull away from his grasp, instead shifting her weight slightly, subtly closing the distance between them.

Phil’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all you have to say?”

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What else am I supposed to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, voice low, sharp, “maybe something about how you’ve spent the last few days dodging every question about what the hell you were thinking?”

Y/N’s lips twitched, like she was fighting the urge to laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his irritation flaring. “You blindsided me. In front of the entire world. And now, you’re walking around like you didn’t just blow up both of our careers.”

She hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. “That’s funny… last I checked, the crowd seemed to love it. I mean, the reaction was insane. Even the higher-ups don’t seem to mind all that much.”

“That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point, Phil?”

His grip on her wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go. “The point is that you—” He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re just—”

Y/N’s smirk widened. “Oh, come on, old man. Spit it out.”

His jaw ticked. She was enjoying this way too much.

And worse? He knew exactly what she was doing.

She was trying to get under his skin. Trying to make him crack first.

But Phil Brooks wasn’t so easily unraveled.

He took a deliberate step closer, forcing her back until she was against the cold concrete wall. His hand finally released her wrist, but before she could so much as breathe another teasing remark, his palms pressed flat against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.

Y/N’s eyes flickered with amusement—but also something else. Something darker.

She licked her lips. “You know you want to do it again.”

Phil’s brows lifted. “Do what again?”

She didn’t falter. Didn’t waver. Instead, she reached up, trailing a single finger along the collar of his hoodie. “Kiss me.”

His lips pressed into a firm line, his heartbeat betraying his otherwise composed exterior.

“Admit it,” she murmured. “You’ve been thinking about it.”

He scoffed. “I’ve been thinking about wringing your neck, does that count?”

She laughed, soft and sultry, before tilting her head slightly, eyes locked onto his with laser focus. “Come on, Phil. The people want us together. I want you. And we both know you want me.” She leaned up, voice a whisper against his lips. “So what’s stopping you?”

Silence.

For a moment, Y/N thought she had won.

That she’d finally broken him.

Then, he moved.

Leaning in—so, so close—until their noses brushed, until she could feel his breath against her lips.

But just as she started to close the distance—

He smirked. And pulled back.

Y/N blinked, stunned, her lips parting slightly as she tried to process what just happened.

Phil tilted his head, eyes dark, mocking. “You really thought that was gonna work, huh?”

She scowled, irritation flickering across her face for the first time all night.

He chuckled, low and dangerous, before ducking down just slightly, lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

“You got lucky when you caught me off guard at Mania,” he murmured, voice a velvety rasp that sent a shiver down her spine. “But it’s not gonna happen again.”

Then—because he was an asshole—his lips barely ghosted along her jaw, just enough to make her shudder. His hand skimmed her waist, squeezing just once, before he pulled away completely.

Y/N swallowed, hard, struggling to keep her expression neutral as she forced herself to meet his gaze again.

Phil smirked. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that to impress me, sweetheart.”

Then—just as calmly as he’d cornered her—he turned and walked off.

Leaving her there. Flustered. And seething.

“Touché…” Y/N grumbles as she watches him walk off, not bothering to hide the fact she checks out his ass due to the form fitting jeans he’s wearing.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N had slowly been losing her control over her situation with Phil. Originally, she held him in the palm of her hand, she was the one making him flustered, but now it seems he was reclaiming some of that power. She finds herself looking for him in any crowd they’re in and he knows it. He smirks when he finds her eyes searching for him, sending her flirty winks, whispering filthy things in her ear when she’s least expecting.

He’s letting her know that she never truly was the one with the upper hand. He just needed time to adjust and make a game plan, and boy he did.

She remembers one particular instance where she was talking to Damian Priest backstage when her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out, giggling at the joke Damian made, but it was short lived as the breath was stolen from Y/N’s lungs.

Oh.

The image staring back at her was sinful.

Phil. Fresh out of the shower.

A towel hung dangerously low on his hips, water still beading down his sculpted torso. One hand was running through his damp hair, pushing it back, while the other held his phone in the mirror. His expression? A cocky smirk, one that screamed I know exactly what I’m doing to you.

And as if the photo itself wasn’t bad enough, the caption?

“Hope you’re staying focused, sweetheart. See you at the interview. ;)”

Y/N’s face ignited.

Her grip tightened around her phone as she struggled to process the absolute audacity of this man.

She must’ve gone silent for too long because Damian furrowed his brows, concern flashing across his face.

“Hey, you good?” he asked, nudging her lightly. “You just turned, like… bright red. Do you have a fever or something?”

Y/N let out a choked sound, hastily locking her phone and shoving it back into her pocket. “I—I’m fine. Just—uh—hot in here.”

Damian raised a brow, clearly not buying it, but before he could press further, one of the producers walked by and called out, “Y/N! You’re on in an hour for your interview. Punk’s already getting mic’d up.”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Of course he was.

Damian patted her back. “Good luck with that. You look like you need it.”

She glared at him before storming off toward the interview set, her mind still short-circuiting from the damn picture.

The interview was with Cathy Kelley, who greeted them both with a bright smile as they settled into their seats. Y/N knew she was supposed to be professional—that was literally her job—but sitting next to Phil, who was clearly feeling himself today, was making it impossible to focus.

He was too close, his body angled toward her, his scent still faintly fresh from whatever expensive body wash he used.

Kelley beamed as she turned to the camera, perfectly composed and ready to dig into the interview fans had been dying to see. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here with two of the most talked-about names in WWE right now—CM Punk and Y/S/N.”

Y/N barely managed a smile, still recovering from the photo Phil had sent her. She’d tried to push it out of her mind, but the smug look on his face told her he knew exactly how much he’d rattled her.

“Thanks for having us, Cathy,” Phil said smoothly, his voice dangerously casual.

Y/N forced herself to focus, nodding along. “Yeah, should be fun.”

Phil’s hand slid onto her thigh.

Y/N tensed, resisting the urge to slap it away.

Cathy, oblivious to the slow psychological breakdown Y/N was currently experiencing, launched into her first question.

“So, Punk, you made your big return last year, and a lot of people wondered if you’d still be able to keep up with the current roster. But after the fight you put up in the Royal Rumble match, I think it’s safe to say you haven’t lost a step. How do you feel about your performance?”

Phil pretended to think about it, shifting slightly so his fingers inched higher on Y/N’s thigh. “You know, Cathy, I think I did alright. Besides tearing my tricep, I’d say I held my own. I mean, I’m me. It’s not really a surprise, is it?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Oh my God.”

Phil grins, squeezing her thigh out of spite which makes her gasp slightly. She feels a chill run down her spine as he looks completely unbothered. “What? You disagree, sweetheart?”

Cathy laughed. “Y/N, what was it like for you, being part of WrestleMania? And not only that, but winning the Women’s Championship?”

Y/N opened her mouth—only for Phil’s hand to start massaging her thigh ever so slightly, working its way inward.

She barely stopped herself from choking.

“I—it was—uh—” She cleared her throat. “It was amazing. One of the best moments of my career, for sure. I’m really grateful that I was presented with the opportunity.”

Phil hummed in agreement, tapping his fingers against her leg. “Definitely one of the biggest moments.”

Y/N refused to look at him.

Cathy moved on. “Punk, since coming back, you’ve had some… let’s say, heated interactions with some of the younger talent. Guys like Seth Rollins and Cody Rhodes haven’t exactly been welcoming. Any thoughts on that?”

Phil shrugged. “Look, I don’t expect everyone to throw a party just because I’m back. Some of these guys have been carrying the company for years, and suddenly, I show up and steal the spotlight. But hey—” He smirked. “If they don’t like it, they can try to do something about it.”

Y/N muttered, “Cocky bastard.”

Phil heard her.

And instead of ignoring it, he leaned in just enough for his breath to tickle her ear.

“You like it, though, don’t you?” he whispered.

Y/N nearly jumped out of her damn seat.

Cathy, unaware of the absolute war happening beside her, chuckled. “Well, speaking of heated interactions…” She turned her attention fully to them. “We can’t ignore the elephant in the room. The moment at WrestleMania. The kiss.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

Cathy smiled knowingly. “The fans have been going wild, and the speculation is at an all-time high. So, I have to ask…” She turned to them expectantly. “What exactly is going on between you two?”

Y/N braced herself, ready to deflect, when—

Phil beat her to it.

“Yeah, Y/N,” he said, voice thick with mock innocence. “What are your thoughts?”

You smug, evil little—

Y/N shot him a look that could kill.

Phil? He just smirked, his fingers idly tracing circles against her thigh, his expression pure amusement as he watched her flounder.

Cathy raised a brow, intrigued. “So, there is something going on?”

Y/N forced a tight-lipped smile. “I think… I think what happened at Mania was—”

Phil’s hand slid higher.

Y/N lost her train of thought entirely.

Cathy tilted her head, waiting for her to finish, but Y/N’s brain had short-circuited.

Phil, meanwhile, just relaxed, completely at ease, knowing damn well she was falling apart.

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists.

He was enjoying this.

Finally, she somehow managed to bullshit her way through a vague answer about the unpredictability of wrestling and keeping the fans entertained.

Cathy nodded, sensing she wouldn’t get a real answer, but her amused expression said it all. “Well, whatever’s going on, I think I speak for everyone when I say we’ll be watching closely.”

The interview ended, and the second the cameras cut, Y/N grabbed Phil’s wrist and yanked him toward the nearest empty hallway.

He let her, still smirking.

Once they were alone, she whirled on him, shoving his shoulder hard. “What the hell was that?”

Phil barely stumbled, still annoyingly amused as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What was what?”

Y/N let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, stepping closer, her frustration boiling over. “Oh, don’t you dare. You were messing with me the entire interview!”

Phil tilted his head like he was actually considering her words. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Y/N let out a growl of frustration before shoving him again, her hands flat against his chest. “Bullshit, Phil! You—” She gestured wildly, completely losing it. “You—your hand, your voice, that stupid smirk, and then the ‘Yeah, Y/N, what are your thoughts?’ Like you didn’t just spend the last ten minutes scrambling my brain!”

Phil barely reacted, just staring down at her like she was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was mocking, his lips twitching with a lazy grin. “Did I distract you?”

She groaned, shoving him again. “You were being a little—”

“Careful,” he warned, low and teasing, as he caught her wrists.

But Y/N didn’t care. She ripped her hands away, pacing as she fought the urge to scream. “You’re playing hard to get now? Now?! After everything?” She turned back to him, rage and frustration and something dangerously close to desire burning in her expression.

Phil just leaned back against the wall, completely unfazed.

And that made her snap.

She grabbed the front of his hoodie and yanked him forward, her teeth gritted. “You think this is funny?”

His grin widened.

“Oh, I think it’s adorable.”

Y/N pushed him again, but Phil caught her easily, his hands gripping her waist as he let out a low chuckle. “You thought you could outplay me, princess?” He clicked his tongue. “How cute.”

Y/N’s breathing was heavy, her hands shaking as she glared up at him, her face inches from his. “You are such an—”

He cut her off.

Not with words.

With his hand, pressing firmly over her mouth.

Her eyes widened, a muffled sound escaping.

“Stop talking,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dark and smooth.

Y/N’s breath hitched as his fingers slid down, palm curling around her throat. Not tight—just there, warm and commanding, his thumb brushing against her pulse point, feeling how fast it raced.

Then, finally—

He kissed her.

It was hot, consuming, and completely overwhelming. His lips moved against hers with absolute confidence, taking what he knew she’d been begging for. His fingers tightened, his other hand gripping her hip, pulling her flush against him.

Y/N melted for half a second—then fought back, her hands fisting in his hoodie as she bit his lip, just to be a brat.

Phil let out a low groan, then snapped.

He pressed her hard against the wall, his grip on her tightening as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers, swallowing the smallest whimper she let out.

By the time he pulled back, Y/N was breathless, her knees weak, her entire brain fried.

Phil smirked, his thumb brushing over her jaw. “I’m taking you to dinner tonight. Be ready by six.”

He goes to walk off with that same smug grin, but Y/N catches him again. He turns around, raising a questioning eyebrow as he watches her usually bright (e/c) darken. She yanks his arm back towards her before slamming her lips into his again. His hands move back down to her waist, squeezing the soft flesh there as her hands shoot up into his hair, lightly tugging at the strands which makes him groan into her lips.

The two of them slowly pull apart, a small strand of saliva connecting them, but Y/N raises her finger up, breaking the string. Phil watches as she sucks her thumb into her mouth, cleaning their shared spit off her finger. He feels his jeans tighten uncomfortably as Y/N leans up to whisper in his ear.

“Only if you promise to have me for dessert.”