#shining orange silk shirt...

[majimassqueaktoy]

Kaito-san...

[inkdrinkerworld]

anxious!reader hates her outfit but can’t find anything else in her closet she wants to wear on a date with Remus 🥲

‘On my way.’

Remus’ text sparked more nerves in your chest. You were getting ready for a date and all Remus had said was, ‘dress fancy.’ You were at a complete loss. You’d tried on three different dresses and none of them felt right. You were debating telling Remus not to show up- what if he was wearing a pretty dress shirt and you just wore a summer dress? Gods forbid you underdressed and all the patrons at the place were dressed to the nines. 

Amidst your panic, you’d forgotten to go searching for a new dress in your collection and suddenly Remus was knocking at your door. 

“Fuck.” you mumble, looking at yourself one last time in your mid-length yellow silk dress and your white heels. Maybe Remus would be able to help you choose. 

His second knock is just as gentle as the first had been, and you open the door, finding Remus standing there with his hair all combed back with a couple wavy curls dangling by his eyes. He’s in a black shirt and matching dress pants, his shoes shining and he’s holding a bouquet of lovely orange lilies. 

“Oh you look stunning.” Remus must not see the beads of sweat rolling down your temple. 

“What?” he chuckles at your shock, nodding to your living room and you step aside, letting him in. 

“You look stunning, do you need more time?” He’s noticed the slightly rapid fall and rise of your chest. 

“You got me flowers.” you say stupidly and Remus laughs again. 

“I did, I’ll set them up if you need more time, dovey. We’ve still got about an hour to get to the place.” He’s already reaching for your usual vase and taking it to the sink. 

You look down at your dress and then back up at Remus. “You’re sure of this dress? Because I was really panicking about what to wear and you’re in all black,” Remus cuts off your rambling by tilting your chin up and giving you a gentle smile. 

“Breathe, dove.” you take a staged deep breath, but as you exhale you feel a little more relaxed. “You look fucking gorgeous in this, love it on you,” he kisses your lips, not at all caring about your glare as you wipe away smudged gloss from his lips. “You’re gonna be the best dressed there. Will you leave your hair up?” 

Remus has a thing about it, he likes your hair in any style, but up in a ponytail or in a bun with curled pieces falling out is his favourite. 

“I just have to curl some of the pieces.” you say breathlessly and he smiles. 

“Can I watch you?” you laugh, all your anxieties quelled as Remus follows up behind you, the ghost of his hand skimming the hem of your dress.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I Never Missed You 3/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Angst and smut and fluff (the holy trinity!) in this last part.

Part 1 Part 2

Juice spills all over the table from the oranges you press, but you don't mind. There has been a soft smile on your face all morning.

Simon's still sleeping, and you want to surprise him with a special breakfast today: scrambled eggs, freshly pressed orange juice, berries, and…

"You took my shirt."

You flinch when you hear his familiar rumble not a few feet away. The staircase wailed like a widow last night, but obviously, this man has learned to avoid the creaky spots when he wants. A goddamn heavyweight ninja...

"I'm sorry." You lick your fingers from the juice and try to feign innocence. The sleeves of his black tee reach your elbows, but you're not sorry. Nor do you feel bad about seeing him in your kitchen without a shirt.

"It was not an accusation," he says, the corner of his mouth curving a little, the dark eyes that made love to you last night giving you an approving once-over.

You approach him with a glass full of sun, but it's you he grabs in his hold. Your fingers find the scars on his back as you two embrace, and you feel an odd churn in your stomach.

"What's this…?"

Your hand floats across the embossed, white ridges that crisscross his back. The collection forms an entire mountain range, and it's chilling because you've only brushed the space between his shoulder blades.

"A reminder. To trust no one."

"No one…?"

"No one."

You remain a coward and refrain from asking for more details. You doubt he would even share them.

"I made you breakfast," you lower your gaze to the colorful palette you've gathered on the plates. Is it some sort of an instinct to want to feed a man after they've fucked you so good?

"So I see," he says, ever more approvingly. Then you're lifted on the table, next to the plates, like you're the breakfast.

Soon you're only wearing his shirt and your tiny socks, which Simon decides to leave on, too busy with getting his face between your legs. 

No one has done anything like that before… No one has chosen you over breakfast; an entire abundance of delicacies laid out. 

He licks you until your legs are trembling on that tortured back. You're pure, you're untouched by evil, and he carries your naivety on his shoulders like it weighs nothing. He flattens his tongue on you, sucks your flesh, tortures you on that table and doesn't even mind his teeth all too much. The peak stubble he hasn't yet shaved stings and burns as he moves across your folds. 

Saying that the coarse chin on your silk feels good would be an understatement. You come undone next to the breakfast, clad in golden light shining through the small window left uncovered.

You feel alive, and raw, and stellar. A shooting star, a comet high above the sky, although the space through which you ignite consists of golden rays of sunlight and the scent of orange juice. 

He takes the shirt back after he's done. After you're done and try your best to return back to earth with shaking legs. The only thing you're wearing is your socks, but you feel completely naked before him, dopey and dumb before the day has even started. Simon only licks his lips, throws that shirt on, and grabs his plate.

He dares to comment that there's no hot water. You put the kettle on with a wobble, feeling hotness on your cheeks while he sits down to eat his second breakfast like it's the most natural thing in the world: to wreck you first thing in the morning.

…............................

Simon.

He fixes the door on your fridge. He helps you clean your garage and fucks you on the table. Oily, dusty, filthy table. You go to shower after, together. You're giggling; he's smiling. Fully, now.

You want to ask him, Is this free of charge too…? Not just his cock... But his smiles. His assistance and support. The looks he grants you when you come out of the shower, ready to be licked to ruin.

He calls you his Princess to tease you just right. To get you in a state where your eyes flash with half-rage, half-lust, just before he slips inside you. He knows exactly which strings to pull – and then calls you love just when you're about to give him a piece of your mind.

You end up on the table, on the counter, on the floor. He takes you while your jaw slowly falls open from his audacity and his cock, splitting you apart with slow love. The first time he takes you in a missionary, you squirt. It's like his cock was made for you. And he dares to tease you about that, too.

"Did ya just squirt all over my cock?"

You have tears in your eyes, shame on your cheeks, and he's wetter than a wet dog down there… then he makes you squirt again, high on the lewd, obscene praise you just gave him with your pussy. 

Your cunt can't lie; he knows it by now. So it's futile to keep your lips sealed either.

Kiss me. 

That's what you would've usually ordered. But after an exceptionally quiet and passionate and desperate fuck that leaves you both catching your breath, leaves him hovering only inches from your sweaty upper lip, you whisper…

"I want to kiss you."

You expect him to laugh or mock you, at least crack a stupid joke or two. But he doesn't. Instead, his eyes drop to your lips, and he swallows with a heavy roll, then closes the gap between you two. Covers your mouth with his, uses that strong jaw to open you for devouring.

The kiss lasts long enough for you to begin breathing through your nose. Your inner walls grip him, still buried deep inside, and the gusts of exhales passing through his nostrils hit your face with pure bliss. He’s a little breathless when he parts – withdraws just enough to look into your eyes.

“Will that do...?”

There is a drunken vigor in his eyes of crushed amber, but to your shock, you hear your own question laid out before you. The one you asked when you were going to that party.

Will I do…?

Your hands find his jaw and cup his face from both sides, drawing him back to your lips.

“Yes." 

You will more than just do. 

And then you say… 

"I want more.”

He chuckles a soft scoff on your face. 

"Greedy little thing." 

Then he swallows you again. You kiss for a good few minutes while he grows half-hard inside you. It's the most romantic kiss you have shared with anyone, ever. He tells you how spoiled you are between the breaths you both catch, then spoils you some more with his mouth and tongue and cock. 

You start to curl together in the evening. Just to watch a comedy. He massages your feet and smiles more every day. It's kind of domestic, how he wrinkles his nose at your fine white wine and asks what it is in that decanter you have in your study. When you say it's just some old bourbon, he goes and gets himself a glass like he's finally made himself at home. 

It makes your heart grow thick from love. You almost forget why he's here in the first place.

When you ask him about the plan, he explains it to you in detail while kissing his way down your ribs and navel. He takes his sweet time while doing it, kissing the inside of your thigh, the hollow place below the knee, the tender skin under the knee. He kisses your calf and the ankle bone while holding your leg up for his lips with just one hand. Then he does the same to your other leg, but this time, kisses his way from ankle to thigh until he reaches…

You.

You've forgotten half the plan by then because you realize Simon hasn't looked at you like you're a steak or garbage in a long, long time. 

He looks at you like you're a queen. You could say he worships you, but the thought alone makes your heart flutter with the anxiety of a fragile hummingbird. 

Simon gets you your groceries and gets himself only a beer as a reward. You would happily offer him a case if you knew it would make him happy.

But you don't really know what would make him happy. You don't know anything about this man. You know he likes it when you're dolled up and angry. He likes you when you're sleepy, without makeup, wearing only his shirt. He likes to fuck you from behind and hold you close after. He likes to give you a wash, likes it when you wash him. He likes to watch the two tall trees outside the window sway when there's a strong wind. 

"What makes you happy?" You ask one night after you've had him in your mouth.

"Blowjobs," he answers with a straight face, and you shove him in the shoulder. Nicely. Softly.

"No, for real."

"I dunno." He sighs and turns to stare at your ceiling with a bothered look. It's a tricky question, perhaps. Or weapons, not willingly gifted. 

"Dogs," he shrugs after a while. "A day of silence. Good whiskey."

He doesn't grant you weapons. You get some rope, but not enough to choke him with it. He trusts no one.

"Why don't you like missionary…?" You continue roasting him while curling your fingers around the pale hair on his chest.

"I never said I didn't like it."

"Don't avoid the question, Mr. Doggystyle."

You prop yourself up on your elbow and place your palm flat over his heart. His stare slowly drifts from the ceiling back to you.

"Simon. Why do you always fuck me from behind?" 

He raises his eyebrows like he's innocent of the crime he's being accused of. "Not always."

"Seriously, Simon."

The smug look returns; it gives his eyes a delightful little spark and tugs at the corner of that kissable mouth.

"I like your ass."

"But not my eyes?"

The smile dies, and he gulps down a short surprise, caught between truth and dare. But then his eyes settle like the calming sea under a full moon. Stern, but not remorseless. Bold, but not heartless. If anything, he's naked and bare.

"Darlin'. Love your eyes the most."

Your heart does a backflip. You've been a fool because what else has he done but search for your eyes first thing in the morning? Given you flashes of mischief over breakfast, made love to you with those eyes as you cum around his cock? That liquid fire and smoke hasn't left you since he stepped inside this house.

You breathe together; you can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. There was a time when you thought this man was incapable of love, but now you fear he has never been allowed to love enough.

"We never talked, you know," you whisper. His heart swells underneath your palm like a sail.

"What'ya wanna talk about?"

"Us."

"So talk."

Walls are raised so quickly you feel them knocking the warmth out of your body. It's cold, it's Antarctic, the technique he uses to withdraw. Your room turns into a kingdom of ice from the cruel, emotionless indifference he emits. 

You've been a fool, yes... And a child.

"You're making it hard," you say, noticing how the man starts to tense up under your fingertips. This is not the way, but you're not smart enough to stop your rampage.

"What happens when you've done your job?"

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even think twice before giving his answer.

"I go back to the base."

You know now why he's called a ghost. You wonder if he was ever even here. Simon becomes a reminder for you, a reminder to trust no one.

"...Right." You pull your hand away slowly. As if it somehow helps with the pain to pretend you haven't just touched a hot stove and ended up getting your fingers burned.

He notices how you tense up far more than he. The arm around your waist goes tight, and you wonder if you've always been a bloodied steak to this brute, a stupid little princess with your wines, sighs, and wet eyes. He just doesn't want to let go of the last bites of his fine, delicious meat.

"I never thought you wanted a relationship," he says with a hollow voice, and the red rage nearly blinds your sight. You're too riled up to even yell at him.

"Love…" he tries for the last time.

"Get out of my bed."

…............................

His musk still clings to you as you descend the stairs the next morning.

He's sitting at the end of the steps with hunched shoulders and a tense back, exiled into the man he was the first day you met him. Your heart bleeds from the sight, wondering whether Simon has waited there the whole night after you kicked him out of your bedroom. But the boiling bile in your stomach forces you to lift your chin and draw your shoulders back as you walk down those steps with an audible clatter as your heels clack across the parquet.

He must've heard you before you make a racket fitting for an angered queen, but rises only after you've made it halfway through the staircase. You won't allow yourself to even look his way as he draws a deep breath.

"Love. Sweetheart."

But with that, you flash the man a stare full of despise as you walk past him.

"Don't."

"Let me–"

"Don't say a word," you take a sharp turn and raise a hand to shield you from whatever brutality he would like to stain you with. "You don't talk to me. You just do your job. Ok?"

His chest swells with another deep breath, but otherwise, this man is still as a statue again.

"Ma'am."

It takes you a while to notice he has regressed back to that term again, and you tilt your head. The movement is that of a warrior who swings her sword to a guard before a fight. He crosses his hands over his crotch as if to shield the most vulnerable parts from a low blow, but his eyes are full of hateful hurt as he gives you his most pretentious, mocking tone.

"Miss."

Your heart skips a beat – Simon becomes the thing you miss. 

A hit and run.

You have to resist the urge to grimace at the pure venom in his voice - it doesn't matter what he calls you because that tone seeps straight through your skin like lye. It hurts; it burns to see him even more withdrawn to his shell than when you first met. He retreats far beyond the front line, he goes further than the rear, and it's a bitter defeat for both of you. 

This man has rubbed your feet while you've laughed at a stupid joke in a sitcom. The same man has been inside you – night after night after night. It rips your heart to see a distant, perfectly blank expression on his face after you've seen him give you a plentitude of relaxed and wicked little smiles. 

You share the breakfast in funeral-like silence. You wish you could pay him to stay home so that you can go through your day filled with terror and longing without Simon Riley following you around.

"I've been meaning to update you on new intel about the target," he breaks the silence, and your heart feels like it's being put through a wringer. Simon hasn't even touched his breakfast. "Turns out he received training in a sniper unit."

"So?"

"There's a high chance he might prefer to use long-range weapons."

He's professional, curt, clinical. Even more so than when you first shook hands with him. And all the while, those eyes burn you; they examine you like you're the most challenging puzzle he's ever tried to solve. He's cold as ice with his words and hot as hell with that stare. Those eyes seem to pierce your clothes, they even reach under your skin.

"Right," you say without giving him a single look back.

"We have to update our protocol asap."

Our…

We.

"The protocol…" you whisper and finally look up at him. His lips draw into a thin line as he sees how your walls crumble; they didn't last even half a day.

"Simon, I can't do this," you say, your voice breaking. The tears are only seconds away. They blur your sight, but as he rises from the table slowly and takes a hesitant step towards you, you turn your head back to your toast with a snap.

"I want to change bodyguards."

From the corner of your blurred vision, you see how he raises a hand. If you didn't know any better, you could say that he's at his weakest. But the hand falls straight back and gives a twitch by his side. You wonder why he even bothers to disguise the spasm so lousily as a stretch. It's as if he wants you to see that he's in tumult too.

"I'll stay until–"

"No. Get out."

"Miss. I'll just get my things," he says, and you nod briefly. No exchange of gazes is probably the best policy after informing him you no longer need his services. It's better to rip the band-aid off with one yank than try to pretend that this relationship was something more than sexual. 

You know he came to your house with minimal belongings, a duffel bag full of spare clothes and a large case which you supposed was a container for different weapons. That is why you notice he takes a surprisingly long time to get those things and leave your house.

When he finally emerges from his room – no, not his room, but the guest room, you remind yourself – he places the luggage in the hallway and comes back to you, probably to say his polite farewells.

"You won't let me speak to you, so I wrote you a fuckin' letter."

You turn to solid stone as he places an envelope between your water glass and cup of coffee. You sit with your heart thumping in your chest as he picks up his things, walks to the door, walks out of it and out of your life.

It's one of those moments you wish you could freeze and rewind. Do everything differently so that it wouldn't have to come to this. Instead, you listen how the front door clunks shut.

Then you send your trembling fingers up from your lap and onto the pure white thing that holds his secrets. You pry it open and find yourself reading the lines, scribbled with surprisingly sophisticated handwriting, through a round of hot tears.

They cloud your vision, but they don't cloud his words.

You skim through the letter in a frenzied hurry once, then again with more control, and try to remember how to breathe.

He shares shrivels from his past, ugly, horrid things which make your breakfast nearly push up your throat. He tells you he stopped dating eleven years ago for a reason. He writes that he would rather be tortured again than make you suffer from his past and incapacities.

There are certain lines that enter your heart like a thief with the most delicate crowbar. Lines like I'm not good with words and You must know by now that I'm a broken man.

Lines like I'm not a fucking poet but I'll miss your warmth even under the desert sun.

Some lines make you want to tear the letter to pieces. Lines such as Don't throw your diamonds in the dust and I can't give you what you deserve.

He thinks you can't take his darkness, so he shelters you from it. He says he would come back to you if he could. You don't know what the hell he means by that. 

If he could? 

What the fuck prevents him?

You sit inside your empty, lonely house, confident of the fact that it is not you who prevents it. It was not you who just sent him out that door. Who commanded him to leave because you didn't need his services anymore.

The letter makes you cry, and then it makes you boil.

Such sweet words, and so many empty sentences. If only, if I wasn't, if I could.

You get the feeling that he's mocking you again. If only you weren't a princess and a spoiled brat, then perhaps he could reconsider this relationship.

You leave the letter there; you leave your coffee and your breakfast. You almost wish someone would shoot you and put you out of your misery as you call a taxi and go to the heart of the city.

You're completely numb as your fingertips brush silk and linen and all the newest designs. They curl around tiny bottles of bright nail polish and touch the perfumes made from the last free wildflowers of a burning world, but you feel nothing stir inside.

You're emptier than the echo that rings through the malls and corridors of stone; you feel poorer than all the beggars on the street. Shopping always makes you feel better. But now you want to burn all your money, throw your jewels out the window, torch all the fucking stores like some bloody anarchist. You leave every store without buying a thing and try to remember what it was to have lunch without drowning in tears that can't be cried in public.

"I can't give you what you deserve."

That's the line that scalds you most. You know what he meant when he wrote those words, seemingly humble. But your bleeding heart twists that sentence until his words are a testimony of pure rejection.

You have money, so you don't deserve love, is that it?

You want to find him and shake him. It's not about what you deserve or what he deserves. It's not about what anyone deserves. And if the bloody man thinks he doesn't deserve love only because he's made his home in suffering, then he's the last person who should be allowed to decide who deserves what.

You walk through the crowds and streets like a small whirlwind, on the verge of yelling your heart and loneliness out in the air until your vocal cords are raw. You're so riled your mind doesn't even register the gunshot.

The only thing you hear is a glass shattering next to you just before an entire boulder hits you.

His scent envelops you like a safe, warm blanket, even if that blanket weighs a ton and causes your jeans to grate and tear as you two hit the asphalt. Simon gives you bruises, scrapes and burns all across your left side as your body grinds through the dirt. 

Another shot is fired; this time, a car's glass is shattered above you, and the body surrounding you tenses until you worry your bodyguard has been hit. The bodyguard you fired this morning, who's still doing his job, who never even left you…

People are screaming and running in different directions all around and above you, but time comes to a halt as Simon rises only an inch or two.

"Stay down," he gruffs in your ear. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move, ok?"

The whole world could've gone silent from the way you only hear his voice. His words. His distress. You remain still as a stone and look up at him – your lips part because he's looking at you with impatience that's not just pressing; it's demanding.

"Yes," you stutter, "yes, of course."

Someone's pissed because a third shot sends him right back over you, and only then do you notice you're clinging to him, to his jacket and his shirt, like he's a human shield. Then the human shield speaks again, and the words that come out only make you grip him tighter.

"He has to change the magazine soon. You stay right here, ok? I'm going in."

"No, don't," your fingers curl around his clothes and try to keep him on top of you. "Don't go. I'm afraid."

I'll get you a dog. 

A day of silence. 

I'll buy you some good whiskey. I promise…

"I'll be right back," he murmurs, more softly now. "I promise." 

Then he rips himself off you. Your body misses his heat like the desert sand must miss the sun, and you realize you've ruined everything as you finally get to watch him in his element. He's agile and beautiful as he reaches for his gun, takes it out, and prepares it in a few seconds to fire death upon your faceless enemy. You've ruined everything because if Simon goes in, he might get killed – he's a human, not a shield, he's not even a weapon – and all the things you never said will haunt you for the rest of your life.

"Don't leave me," you want to reach for him, but don't dare disobey his orders. It should send you laughing: that you're finally doing precisely as he says. You finally trust your life with him, just before he leaves you, leaves you, leaves you. 

"Simon–"

"Sweetheart. I never left you."

He looks straight into your eyes. You gulp the tears now.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, and someone is screaming; everythings a buzz, cars whir by as you tell him all the things you meant to say weeks ago. "I never wanted you to go. I always liked you. I– I think I love–"

"Shh. Don't you do this to me now."

The words are so soft you have to struggle to hear what he's saying under his breath. It's like he's talking to himself, and you realize you're an asshole, saying things like that to him when he's trying to concentrate on his mission and his job. But you just can't help yourself sometimes. No one in your life compares to him. No one has caused such a ruckus, such turmoil, such devastation and such love.

"Do what?" you whimper there, motionless on the ground as he gives you a last, painful look before his stare fixes on the piece of glass still unshattered, the dim, transient mirror of a store window he uses to locate movement in one of the buildings. 

Then he takes a peek over the car, and you hold your breath – he's the bait now, and ducks his head immediately as two more shots are fired. You don't even have the strength to scream; your whole body simply shudders from the echoing sound of pure fear – how can he play tag with death like that? 

And then he leaves. 

He rounds the car and darts for the building and the sniper; he disappears from your vision so quickly you wonder if these past weeks have been but a dream.

A hit and run.

"Do what…" you repeat on the ground and curl into yourself even though he said you shouldn't move. You figure it's not that big of a crime to go into a fetal position when you don't know if he's ever coming back to scold you for breaking the rules.

You want to close your ears from the sounds that follow – you fear you'll jinx something if you listen too closely to what happens in that building. You try to concentrate on your breaths, slowly bringing you back to your body. You haven't even noticed that there's blood running down your arm.

It's funny how you only notice the pain after seeing the flowing crimson that makes small rivers around your fingers. You don't want to look at your burning shoulder because the shock is already here. 

The searing pulse gets worse as you hear another shot, then another shot. Those sounds pound inside your shoulder and send more fire down your arm. Minutes or hours pass and you think how strange it is that everything's completely still, how bizarre it is that there are no sirens, no cars, no screaming. They've finally closed off the roads.

You only start to cry when you see that he's alive.

You try to rise from the ground to meet him – a bleeding princess, waking from her beauty sleep and realizing everything's just been a bad dream, greeting her knight in a black pair of fitted tactical pants and a pistol on his waist. Diamonds and darkness…

He rushes to you in what seems like desperation. You find it oddly beautiful that he's not only relieved to see his client is still alive and well, he's also relieved to know you're still there. That his princess has waited for him.

He falls on his knees and prevents you from rising. You're quickly wrapped in his arms, feeling so happy and safe that you don't even bother to tell him you're injured. It's just a scratch anyway. Even if your leg was blown off, you wouldn't complain about being picked up in his lap like this. 

"Shh. I got you. I got you."

He's cradling you like a child while tears stream down your face, but there's no audible sounds of crying. You weep a whole river of tears and your nose is clogged, forcing you to breathe through your mouth, but there's no wailing, no screaming, no bawling. The first words that roll off your tongue are a child's moody complaint.

"You left me," you mope as he caresses your head.

"Only for a little while."

"You came back."

"I said I would."

More tears flow, and this time you sniffle and sob. He rocks you gently back and forth as you cry in his embrace. Simon would make a good father.

"Is he…?" You whisper, then look up at him. He just nods and gives you a quick scan, drawing a sharp breath when he notices the wound on your arm. 

You're placed back on the ground as he inspects your shoulder and tells you the bullet managed to scrape some skin but has mostly just ruined your jacket. You're almost sorry that the wound is not as severe as it feels. You thought the burning sensation meant shattered bones and scarred flesh, but the scratch is no deeper than if you had accidentally cut yourself with a kitchen knife.

"No, I don't want… No hospital," you beg as he offers to take you to ER. You're not spending the rest of the day in a frigid treatment room where tired medical personnel only clean the wound and put a big plaster on it. 

"Just take me home," you plead like you're his daughter who doesn't want to go to school today. "Please?"

"Sure. Whatever ya want."

He makes a few phone calls, arranges things with the local police or something. You don't want to know anything about it. You don't want to know who got shot in that building and how.

It's not a taxi that drives you back this time. You don't know where he got a car and a driver, but the vehicle is big and black, and your head is in Simon's lap when you lie in the backseat. There's a panel between the driver's seat and the rear, so you don't even know who's driving, but you're only grateful for the privacy after the crazy morning followed by a murder attempt. You look up at Simon, who looks back at you for the first time while you're in a car together.

"Why did you become a soldier?" You ask, not knowing why you're whispering. He's holding your hand – a simple, wholesome thing to do, but his grip on you is solid and warm and feels equally as intimate as the times this man has been inside you. 

"I wanted to help people." 

"By killing them?"

"By saving those I can."

He keeps a hand on your cheek too. Simon has spoken softly ever since you were fired at, has been humane and caring and tender, and you realize… This man is naked before you; he's stripped bare from all pretenses. 

And he's not darkness. He's not a skeleton or a dead man or even a soldier.

He's a beacon in the night.

"You did a good job," you squeeze his hand softly.

The last glass-like veil in his eyes shatters, but far more softly than those windows shot at with a rifle.

"I live to serve, Ma'am...–Miss."

"Don’t… Simon, please don’t call me a–"

He descends. He doesn't need that hand to lift your chin up to meet him in a kiss. It's not a hungry devouring this time, but a soft promise, a lover's seal. You feel the rest of the shock leave your body in his embrace. There's no more coldness, only a fragile burning.

"You never look me in the eyes," you whisper as a tear escapes from the corner of your eye. It's a silly thing to say when he looks at you with all the love in the world.

"Yes I do," he gives you a soft brush of a thumb across your cheek. His lips are right there, an inch away from yours. "How could you have missed that?"

He's right, as always. The dark love almost swallows the brown of his eyes as he looks at you, shining light on you as he has shined for days, for weeks now. How could you have missed that, indeed? You raise a hand to cup his cheek, not caring about the pain, not even mourning that your blood stains his chin. He doesn't seem to mind at all, so why would you?

When you arrive at your house, he drives away the loneliness, sorrow, everything a rich girl can fear by carrying you in his arms, stepping over the threshold with you like you two are married now.

He peels your jacket off with affection and tenderness, tends to your wound and wipes away the blood that has caked dry all over your arm. The gash has bled a lot for such a small wound, and you purse your lips from how accurately it reflects your feelings for him.

He ties the wound, checks at least two times he's not tying it too tight. His care breaks your heart, because you don't know whether he will leave you after this. There's nothing that keeps him here anymore – there's no way you can keep Simon Riley to yourself. So you abandon him first for the second time, ascend the stairs to your lonely domain while he cleans up the small mess in the bathroom.

It's a small miracle that he follows you. He opens the door to your room without knocking – not because he's entitled to your privacy, but because there are no more barriers between you two. You're gathered in a stout embrace for the second time this afternoon, and you wrap your arms around him to hold him closer.

"You'll leave me soon," you speak to the wall before you, to the man behind you, holding you so gently against his chest. "I'll miss you."

"Love," he murmurs behind you, you feel the words against your back as a warm rumble. "I'll come back. If you want me, I'll come back to you."

"You will…?"

"I promise."

You have no more tears to cry, so you settle for examining the stab inside your heart, the wound that will bleed you dry if no one ties it tightly enough. 

"I don't believe you."

"It's not a matter of whether you believe me."

He turns you around and lets you bathe in his warmth again, the same golden light that came through the window when he placed his mouth on you in the kitchen. It's almost frightening to know that there's nothing that can keep him from you. Nothing, except you. The only thing that has stood between you was only and ever pride.

"Simon," you breathe, a soft attempt to introduce him to mercy. "It's not a matter of what we deserve."

He blinks a few times, the chest against your side collapses a little. It's a hard reset. The corner of his mouth tugs, a beautiful betrayal of his surrender, a sign of being hit by a boulder – your boulder, finally bringing the rest of those walls down.

"You think so...?"

"Yes. I think so."

He brushes his knuckles across your sternum – a familiar motion that always manages to lift your heart. You used to think it was foreplay when it was in truth, an attempt to touch the organ said to be the house of love.

You think about the times his harsh breaths have hit you just before he cums, the urgent praise he's peppered you with merely seconds before you've cried from pleasure. Can't get enough of you pet, you’re fucking perfect, 'm gonna make you cum, sing for me, just like that... 

You always thought it was a catalogue of shallow lust when it was an offering of naked devotion. 

He was as vulnerable as you when you drifted through space together, when you drowned in his stunning midnight sea. He was catching fire and burning too, again and again until you were both satisfied and sweaty. He always held you close after, panted desperate love on your skin, planted kisses on your collarbones and neck before resting his head on your heart. Settling there, over your pulse, like he had finally found his way home…

The hand glides between your breasts and molds itself over your waist. It fits there like a second skin. You're relatively sure his hands were made for holding you. 

"You asked what makes me happy," he says, completely naked and bare. The heavy love surrounds you with warm safety; your breath flows freely as you await his confession, the last secret revealed. "I think you know, love."

You know. It has finally dawned on you. What you didn't know was that tears of hope could feel like fire too. You've never been more eager to burn.

"Now keep those pretty eyes on me."

[baby-yongbok]

You're So Pretty

Kim Seungmin x Fem!Reader

-`♡´- Genre: Smut - The Sugary Sweet Type

-`♡´- Summary: “You love seeing me in a bonnet?” -`♡´- Word Count: 3.3k -`♡´- Warnings: Unprotected piv (Safe sex is great sex) - [That should be it] -`♡´- A/N: This is 2000% self indulgent. I've never felt pretty when wearing my bonnet and I've always been so shy about it. I just thought of this idea out of the blue and I've been obsessed with it ever since! This might be some of the fluffiest smut I've ever written and it's really more about the connection than the smut (to me) I hope you enjoy because I love this! + the reader is depicted as chubby/plus size and is a POC ♡ . All feedback is appreciated! Thanks for reading! 💗

-`♡´- Masterlist -`♡´-

The privilege of lazy mornings was not something that Seungmin came across often, so when he had the chance to lounge in the golden morning sunlight shining through the slightly broken blinds of your bedroom he took in every single second of it. It’s been weeks since he’s been able to lay in the tangled sheets with you, watching with starry eyes as you hug more than half of the blanket to your chest. It’s still early, his body has gotten so used to his insane schedule that his eyes opened right when the sun started to rise but he can’t find it in him to be mad about it. Not when he has the best view of his life right in front of him. 

He turns on his side, resting his cheek against his bent arm as he scans your sweet features. Your soft breathing and snores - that you won’t admit to - fill the air around him, a soft smile adorning his lips as he takes you in. Gosh, he’s missed you. Missed this. He reaches forward, caressing your cheek with the pad of his thumb and pushing away a stray strand of hair that escaped from your bonnet. The pale pink silk covering your hair shines in the orange glow as more of the morning light creeps into the cracks of your curtains. The butterflies on the print nearly come to life in the shimmering glow. 

He gently drapes his arm over your waist, shifting towards you so that he can embrace you properly. He’s never been one for skin ship but in the years that you’ve been together he’s found that you are his only exception. He can’t stand not having his arms around you, the feeling of your soft skin under his touch calms him like nothing else in this world. 

You shift under the new touch, snuggling into his arms and nearly shrugging your bonnet off. He smiles, reaching up to adjust the edge of the cap so that it stays on. You always tell him that your pink bonnet is your favorite and for this reason the elastic is looser than your others. It’s fallen off in the middle of the night more times than you can count, allowing your curls to sprawl out over you and Seungmin’s pillows. 

You hum sleepily as he pulls the bonnet down and he hums back, mimicking the soft sound and making up a melody to lull you back to sleep. His fingers trace over your face, cradling your cheek in his palm. A sigh of contentment interrupts his humming as he traces over your features, he’s already memorized every inch of you but he can’t help but to pretend like it’s the first time he’s seeing you every time his eyes land on you. Your eyelashes flutter as his thumb brushes over your lips and a gentle smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He leans in close enough to feel your breath on his face.

"I know you’re awake" He pulls back, watching as you fight the grin pulling at the corners of your lips.

“I’m not.” A husky chuckle escapes him, the sleep coating his vocal cords making him sound deeper than usual. “I’m sleeping.”

“Oh yeah?” You hum, scooting closer to him and snuggling into his white cotton shirt. “You talk in your sleep now?”

His arm wraps back around your waist, tracing imaginary shapes into your back through your thin tank top. “Mhmm.”

“She snores, she talks in her sleep, I wonder what’s next.” You earn yourself another chuckle as you pull back from him, a scoff leaving your lips as you glare at him. “There go those pretty eyes.”

“I do not snore.” He hums, hugging you back against his chest. 

“You do, don’t worry it’s cute.” It’s your turn to chuckle as your arms find a home around his waist, you mimic his earlier actions, tracing shapes into his back as the two of you lie in the warm silent morning glow. He rests his chin on top of your head, settling into your fluffy bonnet and allowing the scent of your shampoo to flood his senses. “Good morning, princess.”

“Good morning, my love.” Your bonnet starts to slip off again and he smiles against it. You sigh, fisting the fabric and pulling it off of your head, revealing your surprisingly tame curls. “Sorry about that.” A shy chuckle escapes you as you pull away a bit to catch his gaze. 

“Why are you sorry?” 

“That thing is annoying and I bet it’s not that pretty to look at.” A deep blush paints your cheeks as you stare up at him. “You always say that you love my hair so I bet I look ugly in the -”

“Never.” His voice is soft yet firm, sweet but hushed. His honey pupils are wide and sincere as they stare back into yours. “You never look ugly, especially not when you're wearing your bonnet. I love seeing you in it, I've always loved it.”

“You love seeing me in a bonnet?” Your furrowed brows meet his slight pout as he slides down a bit to meet your eyes. You both lay your head on his pillow.

 “I do.” His big puppy eyes stay locked on yours as he twirls one of your curls around his finger mindlessly. “You’re stunning all the time but I love it most when you’re comfortable. When I see you in your bonnet, especially your favorite one, I know that you’re comfortable and that makes me the happiest man on this planet. I think that it’s cute.”

“Cute?” You can’t help the blush that runs over your cheeks. You’d be lying if you said that his words didn’t make your heart flutter and swell with love for him but it would be out of character for you to not tease him just a little. “I’m just cute?” He smiles at your pout, running his hand down the curve of your waist.

“You’re not just anything.” You blink up at him, his touch is waking you up faster than any coffee ever could. “You’re cute, You’re beautiful, stunning, hot, breathtaking.” 

His large hand squeezes your hip, pressing his pelvis - and morning wood - against you. Your hand rests on his chest, lazily fisting his shirt as he showers you with sweet nothings. 

“You’re right, you’re not just cute when you have your bonnet on.” He pushes his chest against yours and you move your hand so that your fingers are running through his blonde locks.

“What am I then?” Your voice is barely above a whisper and he mimics it with his response, leaning in dangerously close to the delicate skin of your neck. 

“You’re sexy.” He grins at the shiver he feels run up your spine, pressing a soft kiss to the shell of your ear. “Seeing you relaxed in your bonnet is the sexiest thing ever. I love knowing that you’re comfortable around me.”

You sigh into him, the sweet scent of him mixed with his words making you feel dizzy. “Are you comfortable around me, baby?”

“So comfortable, Min.”  He pulls you closer, his soft lips pressing against your forehead. You feel your body relax into his as his lips trail down the curve of your neck. You let out a sigh of relief, feeling safe and loved in his arms. 

“Do me a favor, please?” He reaches behind you, pressing a kiss to your temple and causing a chuckle to tumble from your lips as you press your own soft kiss to his neck. “Put it back on.” 

He holds the pink satin out to you, offering it with a smile as you take it from him. “Usually you’re telling me to take stuff off, this is a first.” He chuckles, his voice sounding more normal now. 

“We’re getting to that part.” He kneads the soft flesh of your thigh as you scoop your hair back into the cap, making sure to get every curl until Seungmin stops you. “Leave this one out.” He wraps the coil around his finger, pulling it down and watching it bounce back. 

“Why?”

“It always slips out when you’re sleeping. I love it.” A toothy school girl smile sweeps your features before you quickly hide it behind your hand. “Nuh uh, let me see.” He moves your hand, holding it in his as he studies your features once again.

“That’s my pretty girl. So cute. So sexy.”  He whispers as he pulls you flush against him, rolling over on top of you and hovering just enough to make sure that he doesn’t crush you. Your eyes flutter shut as his lips brush against yours. You let out a small giggle at the sudden movement as he lowers himself onto his forearms. You blink up at him, feeling the sleepiness float away as you get lost in the moment, only able to feel the love and pure desire radiating from him.

 Neither of you speak another word as you simultaneously soul gaze and brush blushed lips over every inch of available skin. Short chuckles and lazy smiles make their way into the mix as your hands glide over the smooth cotton covering his board shoulder and back, you rake your fingers through his hair as he presses his hips into you. Before the two of you even realize it you start grinding against each other, his hips rutting against your dripping core.

 You aren’t sure when you got so turned on but you’re almost positive that your panties are ruined. Seungmin on the other hand knew that he wanted to feel you as soon as his eyes fluttered open and landed on you, he meant it when he said he finds you attractive in your bonnet. Your comfort turns him on more than you could ever know. You do so much for him on a daily basis, you support him through hell and back so when you both have the chance to take it slow and you slip on your bonnet he’s the happiest man alive. It just so happens that his happiness is accompanied by a hard on. 

His lips are relentlessly pressing against yours, kissing, sucking and lightly nipping at your bottom lip. “What are you doing to me, pretty girl?” He’s breathless, whispering against your lips before going in for more. “Making me so desperate for you so early in the morning.”

“I like when you’re desperate.” You smile into the kiss and he mimics you, grinding against your clothed cunt hard and slow. The drag of his cock against your panties is dizzying, your eyelids flutter shut before you can even think to stop them. “You feel so good against me.”

“Can I make you feel good while I’m inside of you?” Sweet kisses are planted along your jawline, an airy moan escapes you and your clit throbs as you try to think of a clever answer but the only thing on your mind is him. There’s only Seungmin. You offer him an enthusiastic nod that he appreciates but won’t easily accept. “Gotta give me more than that, princess.”

“Please, Min, wan’ you inside.” Suddenly you feel sleepy all over again, maybe you’re drunk off of him. His sweet kisses and gentle yet demanding touch, his scent, his voice, it’s all so intoxicating. 

He supports himself on one arm while the other reaches down to dip his boxers down and free his cock. It slaps against your inner thigh and you can’t help but to whimper at the warmth of it as the soft skin rubs against you. He follows but hooking his finger into the gusset of your panties, pulling them aside and hissing a curse once he feels just how wet you are under the fabric. 

“Do you always get this wet when I call you pretty?” His middle finger traces the lightest possible circle around your clit. One, two, three times before trailing down, parting your folds with the same finger and prodding your entrance with the tip. You buck your hips up into his touch, desperate to feel more of him. “Or is it when I call you sexy?” 

His finger breaches your hole, filling you with half of his finger and pumping a couple of times before slowly pulling out and teasing your clit again. “Seung, please, I need you. Wanna feel you, baby.”

“Your wish.” He eagerly drags the head of his cock along your folds, he’d never admit it but he’s glad that you asked to skip the teasing. Usually he’d keep it going but this morning he needs you just as badly. He misses you, all of you.

You gasp as the head of his cock stretches your cunt, your eyes roll back as the rest of his length follows and a moan drags from your throat as he bottoms out, filling you so deliciously that your breath stutters. “Is my command.”

He starts moving slowly, rocking his hips almost lazily into you. He fills you to the brim with each thrust, giving you every inch that he has to offer and making your eyes roll back in pure bliss.

“So pretty like that.” His thumb caresses your cheek as you moan beneath him, slowly coming apart at the seams. “So pretty when your eyes roll back for me, so sexy.”

“You’re pretty too, baby.” You reach up to cup his face in your hands, he melts into your palms. His hips stutter at the contact and his eyes flutter shut for just a second. Your touch is the purest thing in the world to him. You never fail to make him melt. “So pretty, so fine, you’re sexy.” 

“Yeah?” A quick kiss to the tip of your nose interrupts his strokes. An elated smirk adorned his features as he stared down at you with bright golden eyes illuminated by the morning sun. 

“Yea - oh my gosh” You’re interrupted by a moan as the head of his cock drags along your swelling g-spot. That’s when he knows that you’re ready for more. 

“You’re prettier.” He scrunches his face at you playfully as he pushes himself up, still settled deep inside of you. He shifts onto his knees. “You want more?”

“Please, Minnie, more.” You reach for him, intertwining your fingers with one hand while his other pushes your thigh back just enough for him to get a good look at how he’s stuffing you full of him. 

“I’m going to fuck this pretty cunt okay, pup?” All you offer is a nod but due to his own burning desire he decided to accept it this time. He rocks into faster than before, finding a pace that leaves you both throwing your heads back. “My princesses cunt is drooling around my cock. Takin’ me so well.”

Your free hand grips at the sheet while the other squeezes Seungmin’s hand. He leans over and plants sloppy kisses onto your knuckles while his other hand grips at your thigh. The way that you’re clenching around him has him seeing stars and the sweet sounds filling the air around him are only adding fuel to the fire inside his chest. Usually he’d want to tear you apart, fuck into you at a rough and unrelenting pace but not right now. Right now he wants to watch the way that the golden light makes your cocoa skin shimmer, right now he wants to stare into your caramel eyes and get lost in the galaxies inside of them while you squeeze around him so impossibly tight that he has to write songs in his head just to keep his composure or maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll get so lost in you that he’ll forget the words to every song that he’s ever sung. Maybe that’s what he wants right now.

“Minnie - min, feel so good ‘s so full, baby.” He picks up the pace just a bit, filling you to the hilt with each thrust. 

“You like that, pup?” Your blissed out expression is all the answer that he needs but he still liked hearing you say it. “Wan’ give my baby the fuck that she deserves.”

“Oh god, right there, Min, please.” Your pussy is fluttering around him like you could cum any second. He shakes his head, smiling down at you with adoring eyes but you’re too busy biting your finger with your eyes screwed shut to notice. That’s fine, you look pretty like that, so pretty that his cock is twitching and he’s nearly ready to bust himself. “Min, Min, Minnie” 

You didn’t even have to actually ask him, he already knows what it means when you call his name like that. His hand abandons its grip on your thigh and his pointer and middle fingers softly - yet firmly - press against your swollen clit circling the bud just how you like it. 

“You’ll make me so happy if you cum on my cock, princess.” You prop yourself up on your elbow, desperately wanting to watch the way that his cock fucks you open so perfectly. “You see that? See how your pretty cunt swallows my cock?” 

You clench around him once his filthy words fill your ears. How could he fuck you so sensually while saying such erotic things? “ ‘S perfect. Was made just for me, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, baby it’s yours. Made just for you.” His hips stutter as you moan for him, his hand squeezes yours where your fingers are still intertwined. The energy around you is pure, loving, sensual, orgasmic. “M- Min I-I’m gonna cum, gonna cum, can I please.”

“ ‘M gonna cum with you, pup. Gonna fill your pretty cunt, okay?”

“Please please, yes.” You drop down, lying back against the pillow and Seungmin follows you so he doesn’t let go of your hand. He hovers over you, keeping the same pace as before while his other hand grips at your waist. 

“Cum for me, c-cum pretty baby, oh fuck.” He wants nothing more than to look into your eyes while you come undone underneath him, shivering and calling his name into the air like a prayer but he can’t help but to allow his eyes to flutter shut as he takes it all in. You feel so good, sound so pretty, so perfect. 

“Oh my- fuck.” You press your hands against his chest, fisting his t-shirt as he pants above you. A couple seconds of silence surround the two of you before you break it, a light chuckle leaving your lips. Seungmin smiles before he even opens his eyes, looking up to meet your sparkling orbs as your sweet chuckle fills the air. 

“I love you.” He whispers just loud enough for you to hear over your glee, you offer him a toothy smile in response as you comb his hair back with your fingers. 

“I love you more.” An airy scoff escapes him as he sits up, trying his best to gently remove his softening cock from your dripping core. 

“Impossible, I love you more.” He groans at the sensation and you sigh at the feeling of semi-emptiness. Seungmin watches for a second as his cum runs out of your cunt, hypnotized by the sight. 

“Nuh uh.” The sound of you closing the drawer of your nightstand and handing him a pack of baby wipes pulls his attention away from the beauty in front of him.

“Yuh huh.” He plucks a wipe from the package, warming it in his hand before starting to clean you up. “If you think you love me more than I guess I just have to show you how much I love you all day.”

Your walls clench at the thought, pushing more of his cum out of you and earning a chuckle from him. “All day, huh?”

“Yup.” He smiles as he throws the pack of wipes to the side, moving to cuddle next to you. You snuggle into his side, staring up into his bright eyes. The morning sun casts a glow over both of you. 

“Does the bonnet stay on?”

“Yes, pretty.” He leans in, pressing his lips against your forehead in a sweet kiss. “The bonnet stays on.”

Thank you for reading! All Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated! Let me know how you liked the story. It makes my day!

[follows-the-bees]

Filmmaking analysis time!

How cinematography, blocking, and camerawork in S2 eps 6&7 show Ed's and Stede's emotions.

Since season one, red has been used to show the love for each other: the red of the silk and Stede's new red shirt in both moon scenes. We also know that purple comes out more as Ed falls in love with Stede.

So let's talk about Calypso's Birthday and Man on Fire.

The lighting during this scene is full of color, the reds, purples, and blues. Besides being classic bi lighting, it incorporates the red and purple that we know represents Ed's and Stede's love.

They are swimming in it. Yet, they aren't the same blockingwise, they aren't as close as last season, there is still stuff between them that needs to be spoken. They are standing by each other, their bodies turned inward, and a giant red flower sits bright and center between them, showing how large and full the love they have for each other is.

These purples and reds diminish when Ned Lowe crashes the party. His presence brings a screeching halt to the healing and good times the crew and particularly Ed and Stede are having. He not only crashes the party but right before Ed and Stede were about to dance. This giant wrecking ball that symbolizes Ed's pirate past brings in the harsh blue and green lighting and ups the trauma for both men. Green lighting is used to show that things are off, it is off-putting and fills the scene and audience with unease.

Gif credit

The purple lighting stays very subtle during this whole scene, but as Ned insults everyone, and brings up all of the still unspoken insecurities of the men, the blue shines more, especially on Stede as he makes his choice to have Ned walk the plank. We see immediately how that affects Stede, his trauma comes roaring back, he's shaking, and has tears in his eyes. He retreats back to his cabin.

Ed on the other hand is also experiencing trauma here. While helping out and being around Stede, he has been treading water, trying to figure out what he actually wants in life. And the embodiment of that, when he was at his lowest after S1, when he was trying to break the record has come back to taunt him and the man he loves. He chooses to check in on Stede.

This is when the lighting and camerawork change. We are now inside and the lighting is warm, glowing from candlelight. Ed has a yellow glow behind him when Stede opens the door, like he is the beacon of light in this storm of emotion and trauma that Stede is experiencing from his decision to kill Ned. To cross that boundary when with the rest of the crew he used his usual positive people management style.

Pay attention to their positions here, cause this upcoming choice makes this scene feel off. The pull into the room and the subsequently slam into the wall and kiss are flipped. Along with the quick movements in each shot, this triggers a little part of our brain that realizes something is off even if we don't know why. Read more about the mirror shot in this meta analysis.

When Ed and Stede decide to be together for the first time, to numb the traumatic pain in their desperation and love for each other the lighting is different. It turns a warming orange/yellow glow, showing the softness of the situation.

These men desperately love each other and want to be together. They both agree to this night, Stede pauses before kissing Ed, waits until Ed nods his head and gives consent then pulls Stede in.

And when Stede closes the curtains, the lighting is back to red and purple. The two colors symbolizing the love these two have for each other.

In the morning, the bright yellow lighting is back. The beautiful morning sky in the background looks serene and idyllic, but it also puts our characters in a shadowy haze in the foreground.

They are still in the warmth, the afterglow of being together. Ed gets nervous and brings Stede breakfast in bed. (A parallel to Doug and Mary). They have an intimate conversation where Ed opens up about seeing mermaid Stede while in Purgatory. They have now been intimate in all forms of the word.

But there is still something off, just like with the mirrored images. Stede is shirtless, open, feeling safe. Ed has ditched his leather clothing, his Blackbeard persona, and is now in fine clothing. And I can't confirm but the inside of the robe looks purple. But his robe is closed, which can be read as still hesitant, even if it's subconscious. And they have the same body language of all of the last episode. They are sitting apart, not touching, but still comfortable facing and leaning into each other.

And this bliss continues outside where they open up more. The lighting is bright, pretty, they are surrounded by greens and tans, glowing still. Stede tells him about the multiple letters in bottles he has written. They are opening up about things but they are still avoiding what needs to be talked about - the trauma, their different paths that seem to be emerging.

And then finally, when the fight happens, all of the uneasiness from the mirrored shot, the close but not yet close enough body language, all of these choices come crashing down just like the relationship.

The light is muted. They have spent part if not all of the day apart. So the lighting indicates that it is approaching sunset not only in time but in their relationship, the foreshadowing of Ed breaking up with Stede and leaving.

Ed has already made up his mind. He is leaving to be a fisherman. He thinks what happened the night before - and by that - the moving too fast part was a mistake. While they both love and want each other, Ed is self sabotaging - in a direct parallel of last season - thinks he has ruined Stede, spiralling and choosing like he's done in the past to completely run away from the darkness. He needs to learn that he can embrace both (all) sides of himself without losing himself.

Stede tries to save it. Responds to Ed saying "this can be whatever we want it to be." But then things escalate, things aren't explained. Stede doesn't realize what the fish means to Ed, and saying he lied about the quality of the fish is Ed's view of them, "they are the fish."

They need to talk, about what they want, their diverting paths, finding common ground, and learn how to be in this relationship.

They believe the exact opposite of the truth. Ed thinks he's ruined Stede and that Stede won't love him if he's not Blackbeard (the chin convo!) And Stede thinks he isn't good enough for Ed (and everyone, that is why he goes a little crazy when people recognize him - in a direct parallel to Ed during the dinner party in 1x5.) And Ed doesn't love his softness.

All the lighting reaffirms just how much these two love each other, but the blocking, mirrored camerawork, and fast movements show the underlying unresolved tension that has been building up and ultimately leads to this rift.

[loveshotzz]

Hi Leighanne 🩷 can I please request on the balcony in early morning,  where neighbors might see,  but no one will likely look. with Colours Steve please? 👀

So fuckin excited to revisit the Foxy Lounge for Halloween!

Hi baby 💗 thank you for your request, I know how much you guys love colors!steve and how much I always avoid him 😂 so here is my gift to you for always being so sweet.

A/N: This blurb comes from my series Colors, you can read this as a stand alone if you want. Steve is in his 40’s and you’re in your 20’s and his daughters (her name is Jenny) best friend from college. For those that read the series, this takes place right after chapter three. enjoy 💗

WC: 1k

Warnings:18+ age gap (Steve is in his 40’s, R is in her 20’s) Best friends dad (affectionally known as colors!steve) semi public smut, dirty talk, cream pie all the time.

Older!bestfriendsdad!steve x fem!reader

You knew what you wanted saying yes to Jenny when she invited you on an impromptu trip to visit her Dad for a long weekend. Just like you knew what you wanted when you found yourself at his bedroom door at 4am despite calling it quits after New Year’s Eve, you just didn’t know he would give it to you.

The dark violet sky starts to burst with hues of oranges and pinks, the golden sun breaking through the last bit of night that has warm rays shine against already heated skin. The grip you have on the railing of his balcony is just as hard as Steve’s grip on your hips. Sleep shorts forgotten down by your ankles along with your oversized shirt. His gray sweatpants are pushed halfway down his hairy thighs, while the pads of his fingers dig into your soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises you’ll have to lie to Jenny about later.

The blunt ends of his nails dig crescent moons with each desperate roll of his hips, the sound of your slick growing loud enough to have you scared of waking her up with her bedroom window not that far from his on the second floor. The silver chain he wears runs cool up the dip of your back when he leans forward, pushing himself even deeper, trailing open mouth kisses wherever he can reach, your eyes rolling back when he hits the spot that makes you flutter around him.

“God, this pussy.” He groans, teeth nipping at your spine, the auburn and salt scruff that covers his jaw rubbing rough against you. “Always so tight honey, fuck - perfect.”

His words come out around huffed breaths, muttering against your sweat slick skin while his thrusts get slower - deeper, relishing in the feel of your silk wrapped around him like a vice grip, like you were close. He’d already pulled two out of you, one in his bed when his fingers curled just the right way to make you see white and another one with his face buried between your thighs when you came outside for a smoke break.

You were supposed to go back to your room before Jenny woke up.

He pulls himself all the way out, smirking when you whine a little, your own hips pushing back to try and chase him. His cock twitches in his hand when he sees the mess he’s made of you, how your walls seem to seem to beg for him with his fat tip pressed against your entrance.

“Yeah?” He chuckles darkly, watching how you drip more for him.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, one rock of his hips burying himself all the way to the hilt of you again, the stretch burns making your jaw go slack. Big hands swallow yours around the railing, fingers intertwining as he folds himself over so the dark curls on his chest are pressed wet with sweat against your back. His thrusts become more controlled like this, shorter, more precise. The sweetness of your arousal still lingers hot on his breath that huffs against your neck, you feel surrounded by him like this.

“Couldn’t stay away could you? Those college boys don’t feel like this do they, baby? She missed me huh?”

Words get lost on your tongue when the tip of him reaches the place inside of you only he can find over and over again. All you can manage is a shake of your head, eyes screwing shut and knuckles flexing against his palms when you grip the metal bar harder. His hips stutter when he feels your cunt do the same.

“Steve - please.” You sound wrecked when you plead with him, while the tension building deep in your gut starts to come to a head, the beginnings of your third orgasm making itself known.

“Shit - I know, I know.” He hisses releasing one of your hands so the pads of his fingers can find your clit, the sun getting higher up in the sky is a reminder of the time, “gonna take care of her all weekend, fuckin’ dream about you and this pussy all the time. Missed it so much.”

His words and the circles eight’s his index and middle finger rub against your bundles of nerves rips a moan that borders the edge of too loud from your chest, making you both freeze for a second. The heavy length of him twitches deep inside of you and it has you grind your hips despite the consequences. His head drops, eyebrows marrying in the middle when you squeeze around him with purpose, a loose strand of hair falling against his forehead when he nods, meeting your movements with fingers that become determined.

“Need you to fall apart for me, we don’t have much time.” He whispers, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “let me get another one, come on pretty girl.”

His hips circle, hitting angles he wasn’t before overwhelming you, becoming too much. He thrusts hard enough to have you on your tippy toes, getting you to do exactly what he wants. Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you bite down to try and stay quiet and you’re scared it’s going to draw blood, walls spasming around him so much that the intensity of your orgasm rings in your ears.

You squeeze his length like you’re trying to push him out, but it only makes him bury his cock deeper fighting against the velvet of your walls. It doesn’t take much to have him follow your lead, hot ropes spilling out of him warming your insides when he comes. The grip he still has on your hand turns his knuckles white as he dips his head into the crook of your neck, letting his moans come out muffled against your soft skin.

The stubble on his jaw threatens to rub you raw while his jaw tightens trying to calm himself down, while you flutter relentlessly around him in your aftershocks. He holds you to him, both of your chests heaving as you try to catch your breath. The birds chirping outside are loud enough to tell you it’s fully morning now, and you hear the sounds of Jenny’s bedroom door open and shut. Your heart threatens to beat out of your chest until you hear her shuffle to the bathroom leaving you just enough time to sneak out.

“Come to my room earlier tonight, honey.” Steve finally whispers, smirking against your neck.

[a-leg-without-fear]

Hi congrats on 200 followers! Soon enough, you'll have 300 lol! Anyway, can I request a medium Caramel frapp and (gonna be greedy lol) peppermint latte for Matt Murdock (with a reader that has Dysautonomia?) Hope you have a good day or night or whatever 😅

Bye

Thank you so much!!! And hopefully we hit that (WILD) number soon :) One caramel frapp and a peppermint latte coming up!!

(NSFW warning, lovelies)

Caramel Frapp

Matt was someone who liked to take things slow with you. Taking his time loosening you up, making you so wet you soak the silk sheets below you, whines and whimpers echoing from your throat and into his waiting mouth. All the while cooing in your ear that you're "doing so good," and that you're "so beautiful, sweetheart."

Especially when you'd finally told him about your dysautonomia. He was even slower, if it was possible. Kissing you softly, gently caressing your sides, handling you like you'd break. It annoyed the hell out of you. Some nights you'd wish he'd just get on with it already.

Thankfully, this was not one of those nights.

Matt had texted you an hour before he came home, the message reading "Take your meds, sweetheart." You knew exactly what he'd meant.

His blood was up and he wanted to fuck you senseless.

The memory of his text flashed in your mind while Matt fucked into you from behind. Your meds were doing their job at keeping your blood pressure normal. You knew he'd stop instantly if your dysautonomia acted up. But, by the grace of God himself, your symptoms were manageable.

Matt's grip on you was utterly bruising. Still gloved hands gripping at your hip and throat, holding your naked body flush with his clothed front. Black fabric rasped against your flushed skin. His silver belt buckle dug into the flesh of your thigh as he rammed into you.

"Fuck, sweetheart, you're taking me so well," he grunted into the skin of your neck. He brushed his teeth over your pulse point and rumbled out a low moan, "Mm, you've definitely got a few orgasms in you."

As utter euphoria poured into your veins at Matt's honeyed words and his cock slamming into you, you couldn't help but smile. Thank God he wasn't going slow.

Peppermint Latte

It was a bad day.

Your meds wouldn't be filled for another two days, thanks to your stupid fucking insurance. The orange pill bottles sat miserably empty on your nightstand.

Staying awake was a hurdle all on its own. Constant fog seeped into the edges of your mind. You were drowsy, almost painfully so. Sharp-edged nausea bit at the edges of your empty stomach. It was near impossible to get up and feed yourself as you knew you'd faint after moving even the slightest bit.

All you could do was lay in bed and suffer.

Until Matt got home, that is.

The sound of his key in the door was like an angelic choir to your hypersensitive ears. Your eyelids lifted, the weight like two garage doors, and squinted through the bedroom doorway.

An extremely blurry, dress-shirt wearing Matt moved quickly and quietly through your shared apartment. He toed his shoes off, hung up his suit jacket, and slinked into the bedroom. His concerned expression broke through some of your blurriness.

"Hey, how're you doing?" he asked, delicately running a warm hand down the length of your arm. He must've left his glasses somewhere as his dark eyes were focused somewhere on your sweat-covered forehead.

"Not good," you mumbled groggily. Managing those two words felt like daggers in your inflamed throat. Your eyes squeezed shut again, the sun shining in through the windows becoming too much to your dizzying vision.

Matt sighed, "I'm sorry sweetheart. Want some saltines and water?"

You hummed in affirmation, the vibrations making you wince, then Matt pressed his lips lightly to your hairline. Gentle warmth spread through your body from where he kissed you.

"I'll be right back," he whispered, giving you another kiss then pulling away. You didn't need to open your eyes to know where he was going. This was an unfortunate common occurrence in your lives.

You couldn't help but think of how lucky you were as Matt rummaged around in the kitchen. He was your rock when your symptoms reared their ugly heads. He'd hold you when your dizziness swirled your mind, he'd write notes for you when your memory lapsed, he'd catch you when you fainted, he'd always have tissues at the ready when your eyes watered or your nose ran.

His hand brushed along your shoulder again, pack of saltines crinkling as he set them on the nightstand. You sighed as you nuzzled into his lap.

"I've got you, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere," he said while rubbing soothing circles into your sensitive skin. His presence was the reprieve you'd needed. Like a crackling fire in the middle of a harsh blizzard, Matt kept you warm and safe and comfortable when times were hardest.

I hope I did the struggles of dysautonomia justice!! I did research on the illness, so I hope I described it accurately. Wishing you all some Matt cuddles and... other things ;)

[phanfictioncatalogue]

2024 Era Masterlist

After the birthday stream (ao3) - trashcanfromgallifrey

Summary: The events that may have occured after Dan's birthday charity stream;) Starts of with fluff but ends up in a steamy hot shower

another day (ao3) - wearealldoomed

Summary: “It’s another day in the forever house. It’s been a day since uploading ‘We’re All Doomed’ to the channel that started it all. Dan Howell gets to live another day.”

Backyard Bliss (ao3) - milfbilvy

Summary: Dan and Phil spend some time in the backyard of the phouse, enjoying some quality time together under the shade of their beloved cherry tree.

bragging rights (ao3) - wednesday_ukiru

Summary: A hot doctor sits down next to Phil as he’s coming off anesthesia.

from emo to angel(ao3) - starlightphil (adreaminthedark)

Summary: “Oh my god you did it. Crisis twink era.” “Isn’t it my crisis twunk era at this point? You did a whole thing where you claimed I went through twink death, remember?”

Phil surprises Dan with a new hair color.

look how (the stars) shine for you (ao3) - howell_slide

Summary: Two boys looking at the night sky together, 14 years apart.

Lost In Thought (ao3) - microwaveoven

Summary: Based on that one part in pizza mukbang 2 where DNP talk about why the hiatus started and how Phil felt lost for a while

northern lights (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Dan and Phil watch the northern lights together.

oh, baby, seasons change (ao3) - antiadvil

Summary: anon prompt: dnp sharing a bed in 2010 x them sharing a bed now :3

there is bedsharing in this fic, but more of the fic is spent discussing dan's laundry than spent in bed

[orange heart emoji] (ao3) - natigail

Summary: WE'RE ALL DOOMED finds its home on YouTube and Dan breaks the whole phandom with one single emoji. It's okay. If Phil can be earnest, then so can Dan.

Phlonde (ao3) - greyskysss

Summary: Phil gets his hair dyed. Thats the fic

phlondes do it better (ao3) - wearealldoomed

Summary: The day has come around quicker than Phil had anticipated.

The day where Phil dips his toes back into the waters of dyeing his hair after months of letting his natural hair colour grow back through.

The day where Phil goes platinum blonde without confronting Dan about it first.

phlondes have more fun (ao3) - howell_slide

Summary: The morning after the Phlondening of 2024.

rat and relaxation time (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Dan and Phil wake up on the first day of their holiday.

routine (ao3) - qrovers

Summary: The scene is as follows: The dining room is empty except for Dan, who sits in front of his computer about to upload We’re All Doomed. There is the lingering smell of fries and dips. Dan is in his pajamas, the Minecraft ones Phil always manages to hog. By the side of his desk, a full cup of cocoa has since lost its steam. It’s also from Phil. “To relax you,” he said.

Dan knows he just made two by accident.

slumber party (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: Dan never has been able to resist Phil’s spontaneous ideas, like having a slumber party in their lounge after filming a gaming video. Especially since it means getting to appreciate Phil in those red silk pyjamas.

(Set right after filming the DAPG video, “Getting Deep at the Slumber Party.")

Stir Fry (ao3) - ottertrashpalace

Summary: Dan never cooks unless he's feeling guilty. Phil waits.

two wolves (ao3) - possumdnp

Summary: They're in the middle of a meeting, and Phil seems to be trying to tell him something. But what?

(or, Dan accidentally wears a certain novelty wolf t-shirt to an online meeting with their tour team.)

We’re All Gay (ao3) - howell_slide

Summary: On some fuckass Tuesday in April 2024, Dan Howell dropped “gay” on the phandom.

you and me (that's all we need it to be) (ao3) - bunnyslipper

Summary: 🧡

[mackenzielovee]

ambivalence blurb: twenty — rafe cameron

a/n: happy tuesday besties! i hope you enjoy! leave me some love and reblogs are always appreciated!!

this is post series but pre-epilogue!

warnings: swearing, smut (kissing, oral (m rec), PinV sex, unprotected sex

series masterlist

     For weeks, you have agonized. For weeks, you have coordinated secretly with Rose, Topper, Kelce, and your mom; seeking out advice and allies. For weeks, you have kissed him every time he brings it up — trying to distract him so you don’t have to talk about it. He never notices, which makes you sigh in relief every time. 

Now, as you lay beside him, watching his breaths draw in and out, you can’t believe it’s finally here. The day you’ve planned. 

You’re bare under your silk sheets, and so is he. When he stirs, the comforter falls, showing off more of his tan chest. You don’t want to wake him, so you slide out from the bed, letting his arm fall onto the mattress where you had been. You slide on shorts and his tee shirt, then slip out of your bedroom. 

Your parents left for work hours ago, and Scott sleeps until noon, so you’re sure that you and Rafe can have the house to yourself for breakfast. With excitement stirring in your chest, you remove all of the ingredients from their respective homes, and get to work.

     The coffee pot hums just as you hear your bedroom door open upstairs. Equal parts anxious and excited, you pour out a mug full of coffee and then hurry to the doorway of the kitchen, finding him just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. He grins when he sees you in his shirt, claw clip holding your hair up, and glasses over your eyes. It’s his favorite sight — and you’d done it on purpose for him today. 

“Happy Birthday!” you exclaim, rushing to him. 

He catches you as you jump into his arms, squeezing him tight. He laughs against your ear and holds you up, one hand covering your ass while the other splays across your back. 

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, his voice full of emotion, “Thank you.”

You pull back from your hug and give him a wide smile, watching him reciprocate. His blue eyes shine and every part of him looks relaxed and happy. Watching him watch you makes you feel dizzy; enough so that you start to ramble. 

“Okay, I have bacon, eggs, pancakes, fried potatoes, orange juice, coffee—”

“Y/N,” he laughs, pulling you back in, “I’d be fine if you just made toast.”

“Shit, I forgot the toast!” you exclaim, already attempting to get away from him and correct the error, “Hold on, I can do it.” His deep laugh settles somewhere in your chest, and it seems to calm you. With a shy smile, you grab the coffee you poured for him and pass it off, then accept his embrace when he steps over again. 

“Hey,” he says softly, earning every ounce of your attention, “Thank you for making all of this, sweetheart.”

You smirk, “Maybe taste everything before you thank me.”

He laughs, and if it’s possible, his grip on the back of your shirt grows tighter, like all he really wants for his birthday is for you to be as close as possible. 

“Seriously,” he whispers, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply, butterflies swirling in your stomach, “Did I give you a birthday kiss, yet?”

“No,” he replies instantly, “Feel free anytime.”

You laugh and stand up on your tip-toes, cupping his jaw in your palms and pressing your lips to his. His body relaxes instantly and his hand travels underneath your shirt, stroking your skin. You pull back when you feel yourself caving; ready to forget all about breakfast and just take him back upstairs to your room. 

“Sit,” you whisper when you pull back, “I’ll put your breakfast together.”

“Sweetheart—” he objects, but when you raise a brow, he stops. 

“Sit.” 

He grins and does as instructed, carrying his coffee and sitting down at the kitchen table. You watch him as you arrange food for him, knowing exactly what he’ll do as he sits. He sips from his coffee mug, then looks down at the table and smiles. 

When Rafe sits at this table, he takes the seat you always sat in as a child. Your name is carved into the wood with a pencil — a distraction from your math homework — and every time he sees it, he grows the most nostalgic smile on his lips. He traces over the carving lightly with his finger, as if afraid to damage it somehow. 

He never says a word to you about it — you have to watch and know in order to catch him in the act. And you love it every time. 

You grin as you round the corner with his plate, loving how he reacts when he sees the candles sticking out of the pancakes. He chuckles, tossing his head back and laughing as you grow closer. He lets you set the plate down in front of him and smile successfully, then he tugs you into his lap and holds you close. 

“Happy Birthday, handsome,” you whisper as he buries his face in your neck and tosses your legs across him, stroking your thighs. 

“Thank you,” he whispers against your skin, pressing a wet kiss to your throat. 

You find yourself falling into him, so you push lightly against his chest, just enough that he pulls back to look at you. 

“You have to make a wish,” you insist. 

He smiles shyly then, and your heart skips a beat when you realize what he’s about to say with the way he’s looking at you. 

“Sweetheart,” he practically whispers, thumb massaging the skin on your leg, “You’re all I wished for every year.”

You stare at him; at his blue eyes and messy hair, and smile. He returns it when you lean in and kiss him, letting it linger for a moment before pulling back. 

“So, wish for an Xbox or something,” you tease. 

He laughs, “Nah. I’ve got an idea.”

He kisses your cheek on his way forward, then closes his eyes and blows out the candles. You cheer and clap, making him laugh. He looks up at you and gives you a lazy, loving smile, one which you return. 

“So?”

“So, what?” he asks. 

“What did you wish for?”

He busies himself with removing the candles from the pancakes, but you can tell by the way his lips tip up that he certainly wished for something. 

“If I tell you, it won’t come true,” he says, “And, trust me, sweetheart, I need it to come true.”

You just shake your head and comb through his hair with your fingers, deciding to let him have his wish. When you move to get up and let him eat, he grips you tighter, then brings bites of pancake up to your mouth with his fork, requesting that you stay with him as long as you can. Faintly, you hear your phone going off on the kitchen counter, and part of you demands to go get it. You’re sure it’s last minute coordination, but you can’t raise suspicion with Rafe. 

“I’m really sorry about tonight,” you say quietly as he eats, “I just couldn’t get out of this stupid thing for Scott.”

He shakes his head, “It’s fine, sweetheart. It’s a big deal for him. You should be there.”

You told Rafe that Scott was being honored at the school for his accomplishments in baseball — which isn’t technically a lie. He is being honored — just not tonight. 

“I know, I just—”

“You’re gonna miss watching Sarah roll her eyes and Rose getting up from the table every five seconds to take a picture?”

You chuckle; Rafe says his birthday dinners with his family every year are the same, and no matter how many times he says he doesn’t want to go, Rose always makes him. It’s sweet — her desire to celebrate him. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” you correct, containing your excitement. 

He finishes chewing as he stares down at you, smirk heavy across his lips. You smile shyly, cuddling into him as he cuts off another pancake bite for you. 

“We can celebrate another night,” he promises, “Right now, I just want to sit right here with you.”

You nod against him, “Okay.”

     You fidget yet again in front of the bathroom mirror, suddenly feeling as if everything is going to go wrong. Topper and Kelce are stalling Rafe, yet he’s texted you twice to ask how things are going, and you feel wrong lying to him. 

Your dress feels too tight. Scott hasn’t arrived with the cake yet. Your heels hurt your feet. Sarah complained about the alcohol selection. Your dad wants to eat. Rose has been the only person you can confide in; the only one who genuinely seems like she wants to help you.

“Y/N?” 

Her voice comes through the bathroom door with a small knock, and you take a deep breath before you walk over to the door and pull it open. 

The surprise party for Rafe is being held at Tannyhill. He thinks the boys will drop him off and then he will leave with his family to go to dinner — in less than thirty minutes. Yet, nothing feels like it’s in place, and you feel as if your lungs are squeezing shut with every breath you try to take. 

“I hate my dress,” you blurt to Rose, “Nothing is right, Scott’s not even here with the cake, and my mother—”

“Y/N,” Rose says calmly, grabbing onto your hands, “That boy is going to be the happiest in the room when he walks in, because he’ll see you. Relax.”

You start to shake your head, but when she squeezes your hands and nods, giving you a reassuring smile, you replay her words in your head and try to calm the impending anxiety you feel. 

“I just—” you start, looking down at your dress again, “I want everything to be perfect for him, because he makes everything perfect for me.”

She nods, “I get that. What can I do to help?”

You take a deep breath and connect with her eyes again, wanting to express your gratitude toward her. Instead, you squeeze her hands in thanks, then look over her shoulder. 

“I’m gonna get a hold of Scott. Could you light the candles and make sure everyone has a drink?”

“Yes, of course,” she replies, then looks you up and down, “Stop fidgeting with the dress, honey. You look amazing. I promise.”

You smile, “Thank you.”

Rose pulls you from the bathroom and out into the kitchen, where she hands you your phone and then grabs a lighter, doing what you asked of her. You walk from the kitchen to the front door, where you call Scott again. It rings and rings, so you step outside to hear better. Just as the call goes to voicemail, you see his car pull in the driveway. 

“You’re late,” you say to him when he gets out of the car, already rolling his eyes. 

“Y/N, I can’t control the red lights,” he mutters, “I got the cake, though.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand; a text from Kelce telling you that he’s on his way back to the house with Rafe and Topper. 

“Give it to me, then get your car out of here,” you demand, taking the cake from him, “Hurry back.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott grunts. 

You hurry inside with the cake, catching Rose’s eye and giving her a satisfied smile when you see guests with drinks and candles lit. She hurries to you and helps put the candles in the cake, then lights those when Kelce sends another text that they’re two minutes out. 

“Relax,” Rose whispers when she notes your shaky hands, “He’s gonna love it.”

Scott rushes in the back door and greets several people, then grabs a beer from the cooler, raising it up to you to show you that he made it. You hear the front door open and a whole new set of nerves kick in as you wonder if you checked everything one last time to make sure the surprise wouldn’t get ruined. You hear faint conversation between the three boys, and you subconsciously tug at your dress again. 

“Rafe, dude, do you have any snacks?” Topper asks, nearing the kitchen. 

“I don’t know,” Rafe mumbles, growing closer, “Do you guys think it’s weird that Y/N hasn’t texted me back?”

“For the last time, no,” Kelce groans, “Come on, let's get a snack.”

“I’m not really hungry—”

“I’m gonna hurt you, Cameron,” Kelce replies, “Go in the kitchen.”

You take a deep breath, then another, and watch as he finally comes into view. He’s staring down at his phone — at the two unanswered messages he’s sent you, when all of you yell ‘surprise!’. 

He jumps and immediately spots you among the room full of people, but it takes him a minute to process what’s happening. His lips part as he tries and fails to speak, deciding to glance around the room and take it all in. You’re hopeful that everything is to his liking, and judging by his expression, you’re sure it is. 

“What’s this?” Rafe asks breathlessly, tucking his phone away. 

“It’s all Y/N,” Rose says to him, encouraging you forward, “She put it together.”

He looks back to you, and you can see how much it means to him when your eyes meet. You offer him a shy smile and tug on your dress out of habit. 

“Happy Birthday,” you say. 

He grins, “C’mere, baby.”

You start to move forward, but he loses all control and rushes to you. He brings you right into his chest and picks you up off the floor, holding you tight in his grip. You can feel his lips on your skin and his heart racing in his chest, which makes you smile. 

You don’t hear the people cheer, or the way Topper and Kelce insist on shots for everyone. You just hear him; his heartbeat, his breathing, his quiet ‘thank you’s in your ear. When he finally sets you down, staring at you in admiration, you launch into everything you’ve been dying to tell him. 

“Sorry I didn’t text you back, but, now you get it, I hope. There’s food outside, and I can get you a drink, too. Are you thirsty? I got a bunch of different stuff, and I hid it because Scott likes it, too, even though he’s too young, you know—”

“Sweetheart,” he laughs, his smile wide, “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

You chew on your bottom lip, going shy, “I love you, too.”

“I mean it,” he shakes his head, tugging you closer, “You did all this for me? I hope you didn’t stress yourself out.”

You shrug, “It’s just that you always say that your birthdays are the same every year. I wanted to do something special for you now that we’re together.”

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, almost like it seems to slip from his lips before he can stop it. 

You just shake your head, then tug him down for a kiss. He keeps it short, all too aware of the family members in the room, then smiles when he pulls back. 

“Let me get you a drink,” you tell him, “What would you like?”

“A beer would be great. Thank you, baby.”

He kisses your forehead, pulling you in for another hug before he lets go of you. Ever so polite and charming, you watch as he starts to make his rounds, shaking hands and thanking everyone for coming. You take a little extra time getting his drink so that he can have time to talk, then approach him when he gets to his dad and work partners. 

He keeps his arm around you, even when you try to excuse yourself. Then he charms your mother the way he always does, and when he finally makes it to Rose, you see her practically melt at the smile on his face. 

“Happy Birthday, sweet boy,” she says, pulling him in for a hug. 

“Thanks,” Rafe smiles, “Thank you for everything you did here.”

“Oh, please. That was all Y/N,” she says, shooting you a wink, “You’re very lucky, Rafe.”

Rafe beams, pulling you in closer, “I know. Will you take a picture of us?”

Rose agrees, then leads the two of you outside. Your smile comes easy; the perfection of the evening brings only happiness to you. 

After several photos, Rose passes Rafe’s phone back to him, then heads inside to find your mom. Rafe keeps one arm around you, the other dangling at his side with his beer bottle. 

“Can I get you another drink?” you ask him, noticing how the bottle is practically empty. 

“Let me get you something,” he replies, “Water? Food? Tequila?”

You laugh, “Tequila would be great.”

“Straight? Or do you want a tequila sunrise?”

You’re sure he already knows the answer, but you love that he’s asking just in case. 

“Tequila sunrise, please.”

He nods, “You got it, baby. Back in a minute.”

You watch as he breaks off into the house, chatting with everyone as he passes. You decide to make each of you a plate, then find a seat at one of the tables outside. Rafe returns with a fresh beer, a drink for you, and a tipsy Topper and Kelce following behind him.

“Here you go,” he says with a smile, setting your drink down in front of you. 

“Thank you.”

He takes his seat beside you while Topper and Kelce collapse into the seats across from the two of you. 

“This for me?” he asks, pointing down to the plate in front of him. 

“Yes.”

He grins, looking from the plate up to you, “All my favorite foods.”

“I know,” you smile softly. 

He leans in and gives you a kiss; both of you ignoring the fake vomiting noises from the boys. 

“Get a fuckin’ room,” Kelce grunts, grabbing Rafe’s plate and pulling it over to his side of the table. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe replies, setting his arm around the back of your chair. 

The four of you talk, drink, and laugh with each other. You can’t help but stare at Rafe every so often, just desperate to see his smile or hear his laugh. As more tequila enters your system and Rafe scoots your chair closer, your hands meet the back of his neck, and his arms pull your legs across his lap. 

“You still have a present to unwrap,” you murmur, intentionally keeping your voice down.

Rafe looks over at you with those big blue eyes you love, slightly inebriated but still mostly there in his head. 

“I do?” he asks innocently.

You smirk, “Yes.”

He just stares, not catching onto what you’re trying to tell him. The tequila boosts your confidence enough for you to grab onto his free hand and set it on your knee, then slowly slide it up your leg and under your dress. Rafe tenses, his eyes widening in understanding. 

“Oh,” he whispers, “Sweetheart, I can’t put my hand up your dress right now. Believe me, I want to, but your dad is, like, fifteen feet away.”

“He’s saying his goodbyes,” you promise, “I’m staying the night. Is that okay?”

Rafe’s eyes widen even further, “Uh, yeah—shit, of course, yes, I’d love for you to stay the night with me, baby.”

“Good,” you whisper, feeling confident off of the tequila, “I need to make sure you know just how much I love you, Rafe Cameron. It’s probably going to take all night.”

The tips of Rafe’s ears turn red, and both of you note your father making his way over to the table. Still speechless at your words, Rafe tears his eyes away from you when your father approaches. 

“Rafe, it was a good night,” he says, holding out his hand for Rafe to shake. 

Rafe stands, and you don’t miss the way he shifts in his stance to cover the impending erection.

“Yes, sir, thank you so much for coming,” Rafe replies, clearing his throat several times. 

“Happy Birthday, son,” your father smiles, then looks down at you, “See you tomorrow, honey.”

“Goodnight, Dad,” you reply sweetly. 

“Goodnight, sir,” Rafe calls after him.

You stand once your dad, mom, and brother have exited the backyard, then set both your hands on Rafe’s chest. 

“Happy Birthday, baby,” you whisper. 

“Thank you,” he replies hoarsely, “Can I take you upstairs, now?”

     Rafe practically carries you up the stairs, his desperation and greed so blatantly obvious to every single person the two of you pass. He throws his bedroom door open, then locks it behind him before he turns and pounces on you. 

He kisses you deeply, and you can tell by the force of it that he’s been on the edge of kissing you like that all night. You let him have control for a moment, then you grab onto his shoulders and push so he sits down on the edge of his bed. 

You break the kiss and watch as he pants, hands already grabbing at you to pull you back. His lips are puffy and swollen, eyes dilated and dark, and you’ve never felt more desperate to please him in your life. 

“Two choices,” you say softly, “You can unwrap your present now, or I get on my knees for you now, and you unwrap later.”

His jaw falls slack, as if he has no idea what the right answer is. His palms roam over every inch of your dress and skin, pulling you closer. 

“Unwrap now,” he whispers, his voice weak, “Fuck, baby, this is the best birthday ever.”

You smile, then bring his hands up to your back, setting them down on the tie that holds your dress up. 

“Just pull on the knot,” you direct him. 

He swallows and takes a minute to breathe, allowing his eyes to rake over every inch of your body. 

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart.”

You cup his jaw and smile, “Thank you.”

Gently, Rafe pulls the knot loose on your back, watching carefully as your dress slips off your body. It falls to a puddle on your floor, but neither of you bother looking down. Rafe takes in the new lingerie that lines your body, letting out a shaky breath as he observes it. 

“Did you—” he stops to clear his throat, “Did you buy this for me?”

“Yes.”

It’s a black set; lace bra and panties that drive him absolutely crazy. His hands run up and down your exposed skin, and he notices you’re wearing the gold ‘R’ necklace he got you for Christmas. It sits perfectly in between your breasts, making his mouth water. 

“Fuck.”

You giggle, “Happy Birthday.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to your bare stomach, “You’re perfect.”

Not daring to argue, you tip his chin up so he’s looking at you, then carefully get down on your knees in front of him. You watch his eyes widen when he realizes just what you have planned for him, but he doesn’t dare try to stop you.

When it comes to receiving head, Rafe never asks for it. Ever. It shocks you every time; the way you start to unbuckle his belt and he always tells you that ‘you don’t have to’, right before he flips you over and settles himself between your legs. 

“Sweetheart—” he starts, but you shake your head. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say, reaching for his belt, “I wanna make you feel good.”

“You always make me feel good,” he insists. 

“Good answer,” you smirk, “Now, relax.”

Reluctantly, Rafe nods, although you can feel how hard he is. You pull him out and spit on his tip, then use your hand to get him wet. 

“Fuck,” he groans loudly the second your tongue touches his tip. 

You resist the urge to smile and continue licking him, pulling back to giggle when he fully collapses backward on the bed. 

“Do you want me to keep going, or—”

“Yes,” he almost sobs, “Please, baby, please. Don’t stop.”

You smile victoriously and do as instructed, but this time, you take him into your mouth and suck. He lets out an unholy groan at the sudden sensation, and when his hands come to either side of your face, holding you into him, it only encourages you to take more. 

His hips buck and you gag, which seems to bring him back down to earth. He immediately sits up and pulls you back, wiping your bottom lip with his thumb. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says quietly, noting the water forming in your eyes, “I didn’t mean to. You don’t have to—”

“Rafe, I’m fine,” you say, your voice stern, “You can be rough with me, I’m not going to break.”

His lips press into a tight line as he takes in your words, and for a moment, he’s frozen. Then, he leans down and kisses you roughly, as if he’s trying to prove your point. 

“You’re so sexy,” he whispers against your lips. 

“Lay back,” you demand softly. 

He nods and releases you, doing as you instruct. This time, you don’t bother teasing him. You take him right into your mouth, loving the grunts and groans that come pouring from his lips as you work. 

“Fuck, baby, that’s so fucking good,” he praises, finding your hair again and slotting his fingers through it, “My God, you’re amazing.”

His noises, his praise, and his desperation only encourage you further. You take him deeper, and you smirk as you watch him practically lose his mind. 

Your hand strokes the part of him you can’t take — not even when you try your hardest. Even so, Rafe doesn’t seem to be upset about that at all. 

“That’s it, that’s fucking it, baby,” he says, his voice deep and desperate, like he’s holding himself back, “You’re so good. So good for me.”

You make a mental note to go down on Rafe more often. 

He feels you pull off of him, but you continue to stroke him. He leans up on his elbows and looks at you, grinning lazily at the sight in front of him. 

“You can cum in my mouth,” you tell him, watching his fists ball up. 

“Fuck,” he pants, falling backward again, “You’re so hot. You can’t just say that to me.”

You laugh before taking him back into your mouth, bobbing your head up and down. 

It doesn’t take much more before he’s panting loudly and bucking his hips, which only encourages you to go faster. 

“I’m so close, baby, fuck,” he says quickly, fisting your hair, “Please, just like that. You’re so perfect, just don’t fucking stop.”

Part of you thinks that you wouldn’t stop for anything right now; seeing this side of Rafe is so hot that you swear you’ll get on your knees every day just to see him like this. With a few more bobs of your head, you swallow around him, and he shatters. His groans are loud, but you don’t care. You keep your mouth around him until he relaxes; falling back onto the bed as he tries to catch his breath. 

You pull off of him and swallow, grinning when he sits up. Without a word, Rafe cups your cheeks in his hands and pulls you up, bringing his lips to yours. His tongue explores your mouth and you let him while you crawl up into his lap, eagerly tugging your panties to the side. 

“Baby,” he whispers, “You’ve done enough. I can be on top. I know how you like it when you can feel me everywhere.”

You peck his lips, “I’m taking care of you tonight. All you have to do is sit back and relax.”

You can tell how this makes his brain short-circuit, because Rafe’s favorite thing to do is take care of you. He finds pleasure in that. As much as it turns you on, you want to be the one who gives him everything once in a while, too. 

“I love you so much,” he practically blurts. 

“I love you, too,” you reply sweetly, “Do you think you can go again?”

He laughs dryly, looking down at you once more in your lingerie, all ready for him, “Uh, yeah, that’s not gonna be a problem.”

You don’t argue when he helps you guide himself inside, and he holds you tight when you gasp at the intrusion. Taking Rafe like this always adds more pressure because he’s deeper, and you swear he’s not this big when he’s on top. 

“We can switch if it’s too much, baby,” he says gently. 

You shake your head, determined, “It’s fine. You’re just…big.”

He grins, “You’re good for my ego.”

You laugh, and once you start moving, Rafe’s head falls back. His hands still grip tightly onto your hips, and he guides you up and down slowly. You don’t object, knowing he needs some sort of control. 

“Feels so good, Rafe,” you moan, burying your face in his neck. 

“I know, I know. You’re so beautiful. Can I take this off?”

He reaches around to the back of your bra, waiting on your small nod before he removes it and drops it to the floor. His mouth roams your chest as he bounces you up and down, adding to the stimulation for you. 

His length combined with his mouth and the position has you whimpering and falling apart sooner than you anticipated. You kiss down his jawline, then press your lips to his ear as he continues to guide your movements. 

“Rafe, I’m so close,” you whine. 

“What can I do, baby?”

If possible, the question turns you on even more, and you find yourself pressing a kiss to his lips to hide the way you want to cry out as your orgasm hits you. Rafe continues moving your hips through your orgasm while simultaneously swallowing up your sounds, keeping you as close as possible. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, “I’m so close, can you keep going for me?”

“Mhm,” you hum, trying to keep the overstimulation at bay for him. 

“Okay, baby, just a little more,” he promises, “Being so good. Fuck.”

The feeling of your thighs shaking against him is what ultimately brings him over the edge, and you collapse into his chest when he finishes. For a few minutes, the two of you just sit there, attempting to catch your breaths.Then, when Rafe lifts you up and pulls out, you practically collapse on his bed. He chuckles and walks into his bathroom, where he soaks a washcloth in warm water before bringing it back out to clean you up. 

“Mmm, thank you,” you hum, giving him a blissed out smile. 

“You're welcome.”

Once you’re clean, he sets a tee shirt and boxers on the nightstand beside you, then joins you under his comforter. You press yourself against him, tipping your chin up for a kiss with your eyes closed. 

“I love you more than anything,” you say quietly. 

He smiles and kisses your forehead, “I love you, too, sweetheart. Thank you for everything you did for me, today.”

You nod, “I hope you enjoyed it.”

“I did,” he answers, and after a moment of silence, he adds, “Can I tell you what I wished for?”

You’re already half asleep on his chest and he knows this, but he feels it. He has to tell you. 

“I thought you needed it to come true?” you question.

“It will.”

He’s confident, and it makes you smile. 

“Okay, tell me.”

You feel his chest rise and fall against you once before he speaks again. 

“I want you to be my wife. I want to marry you, and have babies with you, and fight over money with you. That’s what I wished for.”

You smile as you drift off, knowing that you’ll be dreaming about that life with him the second you fall asleep. 

“Okay,” you mumble sleepily, “I’ll be your wife, Rafe Cameron.”

While you’re too busy sleeping for the remainder of the night, completely worn out, Rafe is up, staring at the bottom drawer of his dresser. It’s the drawer that houses his least favorite pair of jeans. It’s the only drawer of his dresser that doesn't contain anything of yours, because that means you might find it. The ring he has hidden in the pocket of his least favorite pair of jeans, crying and begging to be put on your finger. He doesn’t get even one minute of sleep, all too busy wondering if he put the ring on you now, would you accept? Would you call him crazy? He debates until the sun comes up, and when you open your eyes, he makes a promise to himself. Soon.

*i no longer have a taglist , follow @mackenzieslibrary for updates!

[amphibious-thing]

If you don't mind answering, what exactly makes something macaroni?

A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue (1785) defines macaroni as follows:

An Italian paste made of flour and eggs; also a fop, which name arose from a club, called the maccaroni club, instituted by some of the most; dressy travelled gentlemen about town, who led the fashions, whence a man foppishly dressed, was supposed a member of that club, and by contraction stiled a maccaroni.

To put it simply a macaroni was a fop. That is a man who is too interested in fashion. Because interest in fashion was considered a frivolous female trait men who were "foppishly dressed" were often ridiculed for their gender nonconformity. The Natural History of a Macaroni describes the macaroni as follows:

There has within these few years past arrived from France and Italy a very strange animal, of the doubtful gender, in shape somewhat between a man and monkey, which has generated so much within that time, that they form at present no inconsiderable groupe in most of the public circles about town. Its natural height is somewhat inferior to the ordinary size of men, though by the artificial height of their heels, they in general reach that standard; the face is quite effeminate, but sometimes distinguished by a little hair growing on it like a beard; the fore legs, or arms, are disproportionably long, the hind legs of a slender make. Its dress is neither in the habit of a man or woman, but peculiar to itself, and varying with the day; at present it is principally discovered by an Indian flesh-coloured cloth, or silk, clasped all over with broad shining steel, and buttoned at the neck with a large black collar;

~ Walker’s Hibernian Magazine, July 1777, p458

The term macaroni really just means effeminate if someone or something was perceived as effeminate it was macaroni.

However as the term was predominantly used in the 1770s and 1780s it's associated with the fashion from those decades. So while there isn't strict rules dictating what is and isn't macaroni there are certainly some key aspects to the fashion that come up a lot in satire.

The Hair Probably the most iconic aspect of macaroni fashion was the height of the hair. This was mocked in the satirical print What is this my son Tom. However in reality the hair was not worn that tall. Compare the caricature to Richard Cosway's self-portrait in which he is depicted wearing the fashionable style.

[Left: What is this my son Tom, print, c.1774, published by Sayer & Bennett, via The British Museum.

Right: Self-Portrait, Ivory, c.1770–75, by Richard Cosway, via The Met.]

The Suit Menswear of the period consisted of the same basic elements; shirt, stockings, breeches, waistcoat and coat. At a time when English menswear was characterised by plain monochrome broadcloth macaroni fashion was disguised by the fabric, cut, colour and trimmings of the suit. Fashionable were the tightly cut French style suits known as habit à la française. Popular were brocaded and embroidered silks and velvets, sometimes further embellished with metallic sequins, simulated gemstones and raised metallic threads. In contrast to the black suit worn by many Englishmen, macaroni wore pastels, pea-green, pink, purple, red and deep orange.

[Left: The Illiterate Macaroni, print, c.1772, by Matthew Darly, via Lewis Walpole Library.

Middle: The Sleepy Macaroni, print, c.1772, by Matthew Darly, via Lewis Walpole Library.

Right: The Catgut Macaroni, print, c.1772, by Matthew Darly, via Lewis Walpole Library.]

The Accessories But a macaroni's ensemble was not done without accessories. Some examples of popular accessories include red heeled shoes, shoe strings, dress swords, canes, nosegays and muffs.

[Such Things Are, watercolour, c.1787, by Captain Mercer, via Lewis Walpole Library.]

If you want to learn more about macaroni I highly recommend reading Pretty Gentleman by Peter McNeil.

[adsosfraser]

first kiss

an in-panem, no games everlark oneshot

wc: 2222

Today is the first day. The first day I’m allowing Peeta to go steady with me. We’ve been tiptoeing around each other for the better part of two years now, until I finally crossed that line last night when I leaned in and pressed my lips against his at the Harvest Festival.

Just the thought of it makes me giddy with joy and a blush colours my cheeks.

Of course Madge won’t let it just slide when she sees it.

“What has you all hot and bothered Everdeen?”

My head whips back from Peeta’s vacant seat in the back to Madge’s to the right of me. “What?”

Her eyes trail back to Peeta’s seat and a smirk blooms across her face. It’s honestly terrifying. The maniacal joy in the search for my misery and embarrassment clashes with the cherubic face dotted with freckles and lined with corn silk blonde hair. Oh no.

“Or should I say who?”

Before she can begin the true teasing, I’m saved by our history teacher Mrs. Earworm. There’s a first for everything I suppose.

Last night surely taught me that.

It’s hopeless to even try to focus on the lesson. Though I do have Mrs. Earworm to thank for the consistent background noise that is her droning voice to set up the backdrop of my thoughts and tune out everything.

He’s in a dark green shirt, my favourite colour. I’m in my father’s old sweater and the only pair of jeans my mother owns. I really tried to find an outfit that would make me look beautiful for Peeta, and I wanted to wear his favourite colour, but I could only find the deep red sweater with specks of burnt orange. Throughout the night, I pinch my cheeks to bring colour to them like the girls in Town do with their makeup tins of blush.

Peeta leans closer to me, his breath crystallising in the air with mine in a giant satisfying puff. We sit on a bale of hay off to the side, tuckered out from all the dancing. The sun is long gone and only a few stragglers remain, swaying close together as a slow song plays from the fiddle. No one blinks an eye at us, already too far gone in their drinks or simply not caring about two teenagers dallying out at almost one in the morning.

His hand twitches and lands on my hip. The lanterns and fairy lights above blur everything into a softlight, and cast a halo through his pale messy hair. My heart races as he places his other shaking hand onto my hip and licks his lips. I know he’s staring at mine because I was staring at his not even two seconds ago.

Is this what my mother felt like? Drawn into my father like a moth to a flame?

I want his light to flood into me. I don’t want to capture it in a jar but I want to let it flow in both of us, so we can bask in it together. If he’ll allow.

As I raise my hand to brush away a lock of blonde from his eye, I smile at the small indentations left by the hay in the palm of my hand. Peeta smiles too, not knowing my reason for it, but wanting to share in it all the same. I know I react the same all the time.

It’s impossible not to smile when Peeta’s happiness shines everywhere around him and blocks out even the clouds.

His hand strokes my cheek and I lean into his warm skin with a shiver and close my eyes. I didn’t even notice his hand begin to travel from my hip until I felt his touch, too focused on the sight of his lips and eyes. I let the feeling of his warmth spread through me with a smile and place my hand over his, hoping to give him the same.

“Can I kiss you Katniss?”

I nod shyly, my cheeks blushing an even darker shade of red than I thought possible. They’ve been in a perpetual state of red ever since the Harvest Festival began. Or well, ever since Peeta walked down to my shack of a house in the Seam to escort me to the square, the whole time my hand held safely within his own.

“Yes.” Please.

His short bursts of warm breath puff against the seam of my lips. I close my eyes again. People are supposed to close their eyes when they kiss, right? Madge says it’s creepy to have guys staring straight into her soul.

I inch closer to him, connecting our hips and knees together so they’re flush against each other and there’s no space between them. Except for the fabric of our clothes. His top lip lightly brushes my bottom one and I sigh.

Everything is new and strange but I also feel like I’ve done this a thousand times with him before. I bring my other hand to the nape of his neck, tugging on the curly strands there. We pull apart, but not for long. I stare into his eyes that twinkle under the lights and surge back into him. My leg nestles between his thighs now and-

The harsh crash of a book against my desk nearly sends me into a heart attack. My hands startle away from under my chin and the finger that was on my lip drops to my side.

“Oh it must’ve been good.”

I look back to Peeta’s desk and it’s still empty. My heart drops at the sight but I try to ignore it. I’m just being silly. He probably is running late from the early morning shift at the bakery his brothers no doubt pinned onto him because of last night. I cringe at the thought. I never want Peeta to be in trouble because of me.

“Shut up Madge.” I hiss at her and clumsily gather my things to scurry out of the room.

I can hear her cackle echo behind me until I slip out through the door. I never knew she could cackle like that but I’m not surprised. She’s as special as me, even if she is a Merchant.

My pulse shoots straight up like the game with the hammer and the bell at the Harvest Festival. I don’t know how my poor heart handles me these days.

Peeta is looking directly at me over the shoulder of one of his friends. The circle of boys laughs at a joke he says and I smile at the way his eyes crease with humour. I like down at myself. I’m in a worn-down sweater darned with all different colours and patchy corduroy green pants. I frown down at my muddy boots and tuck back a strand of hair that came loose from my braid back behind my ear.

The shame is instantly gone once I catch Peeta’s smile again. My grin is so broad I fear it might split my face as I wave sheepishly at him. He keeps staring. And talking. And staring. His eyes squint, most likely with another laugh incoming.

I feel stupid waving my arm for almost thirty seconds with no acknowledgement and slap it down against my thigh.

And he rounds a corner out of sight without even a nod of his head to me.

Oh.

I thought he was different. I thought I was different.

So he only wants me under the light of the new moon. Where no one at all can see us under the dim stars. His dirty little secret.

My chest aches with a pain I never knew was possible before. Like someone reached straight inside and held my heart hostage with their inhumane grip. My heart sinks right through the floor under my feet, under the foundation of the school and deep in the dirt. I sniffle, but quickly shut that down. I’m angry. I’m pissed. I am not sad. He doesn’t deserve that from me.

Madge respects my need for space and quiet, sensing my complete change in attitude as I sit down next to her for our next class.

I don’t even know why I do it. Apparently I have no respect for myself and want him to trample all over me whenever he pleases. Or maybe I just want to yell at him, unfurl all of the hurt and anger that simmers in me and unleash it at him so we’re both stuck with it. I linger under the oak tree we always meet at after school for another second. A second too long it seems. Because he’s right on time.

His face looks far too cheery at the prospect of being with me. It just won’t do.

I turn on my heel, crossing my arms over my chest and ignore him. See how you like it, Peeta.

He catches up with me far too quickly, grabbing the crook of my elbow and forcing me to stop in my tracks.

“Hey, pretty girl, what’s the rush?”

“Why do you care?”

“Huh?!”

“You know some of your friends are still out here.” My head swivels to gesture around the schoolyard. “I didn’t think you’d want to be seen slumming it with a Seam slut.”

“Katniss what?”

“Oh don’t pretend like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. I have some pride, you know. I’m not going to waste my first kiss on someone who doesn’t even recognise my existence but thinks he can

“What are you talking about? I didn’t see you at all today until now. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to come into history and I needed to use lunch to feed the pigs.” His brows furrow in confusion.

I have to admit, he’s a pretty great actor. Maybe the Capitol would make an exception and welcome someone district into their ranks.

“I was right in the hallway after history. You sure were having a good time with your friends it seemed. Enough to stare straight through me even when I was waving at you for a minute like an idiot and not even give me the basic decency of acknowledging my existence.”

He frowns and turns me closer to him, both his hands on the outside of my elbows.

“Katniss, I didn't see you.”

“You didn’t see me or you didn’t see me?” I still want to be mad at him but it’s difficult with how miserable he looks, especially when his blue eyes are weighed down with everything he feels.

“Honestly I didn’t see you, I truly am sorry Katniss.” He explains sheepishly to me.

“Hmmm.”

I rip open my zipper and tear a piece of plain paper from deep in the bowels that is the pit of my bag. I’ve seen my mom do this test enough to understand what to do. It’s simple enough, really.

“Stay put.” I uncap the marker and walk slowly away from him, squinting myself as I approximate the distance that was between us in the hall. I scribble a letter onto it as I hold the cap in my mouth and press the flimsy paper against my palm. “Now what does it say?”

I hold up the card to my chest.

“Um… little d?”

I look at the letter in my hand and frown. An uppercase B is definitely not a lowercase d but they are similar enough.

“Hold on.” I call out to him.

I flip the paper and scribble a giant A with the marker and hold it up.

“T?” His response raises up at the end in an uncertain voice.

I shake my head with a teasing smile. As I approach him, I wag my finger back and forth at him and place the paper in his hand. The other hand is reserved to hold mine and he squeezes it in relief at my acceptance of his affection and attention now.

“You sir, need glasses.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I can see perfectly fine Katniss. I don't need glasses.”

“For most things, yes, but my little baker boy I’m sorry to say you definitely did not pass the eye exam today.”

He sighs, looking up from our linked hands into my eyes with a timid smile.

“It’s just-” I nod, encouraging him to say what’s on his mind. “If I admit it then it’s real. I really thought it would go away on its own somehow.”

I smile at the notion and shake my head at him again. Bringing our hands up to my face, I press a kiss to his knuckles.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure this out together. Maybe someone in the Hob will have glasses in good shape.”

I don’t have to say it and he knows it as well as I do. His mother would never buy him a pair of glasses.

Peeta reaches around my waist, pulling my body flush against his and I tuck my head under his chin.

He breathes into my hair. “I’m sorry my eyes didn’t capture your magnificent beauty in the hall today. But you really are so pretty today and everyday.”

“Apology accepted.” I grin up at him. “You know how you can make it up to me?”

He leans into me with a grin, of the same mind as I am.

[fatewalker-phoenix]

The Basics

Name: Eden Azalea

Nickname: none

Age: early to mid twenties, she doesn't know exactly

Nameday: again she doesn't remember, but she celebrates it during the Heavensturn celebration as it's the surest confirmation of living to see another year

Race: midlander Hyur

Gender: woman

Orientation: pansexual

Profession: Adventurer, Warrior of light, sometimes a queen and sometimes a wife

Physical Aspects

Hair: long, sleek, jet black hair, hangs past her waist as of Dawntrail. Occasionally she pins it up but she usually just lets it hang loose

Eyes: dark, smooth violet, most prominent when sunlight shines upon them

Skin: very pale

Tattoos/ Scars: she has a blossoming branch tattoo up her right arm to her shoulder (the Yakaku shirt tattoo), and a double crescent tattoo under her right eye. Her left shoulder has a gnarly scar up against her neck from Zenos trying to cut off her arm, and her abdomen has some scarring from almost being cut in half from Grynwaht's chainsaw sword.

Family

Parents: Doman nobility who helped arrange her betrothal to Hien in her childhood. They both perished in Doma's first attempt at an uprising following the news of the Black Wolf's defeat, executed publicly as an example to the masses. They never got to know that their daughter was the one to slay the Wolf and inspire them to rise up.

Siblings: none

In laws/others: depends on who she ends up with in any given verse, but in her Hienverse she considers Gosetsu to be her father in law.

Skills

Abilities: very skilled with the blade, favoring katana and naginata but proficient with a bow. On a lesser level she is also skilled in summoning and healing magicks, powered by the Phoenix within her.

Hobbies: adventuring, experimenting with recipes in the kitchen, entertaining the various auspices that come to keep her company

Traits

Most positive trait: fiercely protective of those she loves, and extremely caring in her own way

Most negative trait: stubborn to a fault. Even if she's very clearly in the wrong she will dig her heels in and refuse to concede

Likes

Colors: purple, orange, red

Smells: spices and citrus

Textures: silk, steel

Other Details

Smokes: a pipe, on occasion

Drinks: heavily. she's working on it.

Mouth insurance: they don't even have dental...

Been arrested: the attempt in msq at the Bloody Banquet, and she has probably evaded arrest for public intoxication in Limsa Lominsa

Tagged by @avalon821, thank you!

Tagging: @ffxivbabey, @heretic-altias, @femmeduskwight, and @tiredassmage as well as anyone else who sees this and wants to do it!

[redwayfarers]

5 character associations - cassander

was tagged by @coldshrugs, thank you fren <3 i already did it for nika, but i was torn between nika and cass so porque no los dos lmao

(art by @just-eyris-things)

EMOTIONS

spite

anger

love

enthusiasm

kindness

COLORS

turquoise

deep green

gold

deep red

dark brown

SCENTS

orange

leather

cooking

masc perfume

hair spray

OBJECTS

hair brush

silk scarf

thread and needle

notebook

swords

BODY LANGUAGE

mischievous smile

hands running through his hair

laughter

hands on the hips

graceful motions

AESTHETICS

extravagance

oversized shirts

wine glass in hand

green eyeliner and gold shimmer

gold rings, earrings and bracelets shining in the sun

tagging: @seawillfuckyourshitup @ghostwise @iredara @just-eyris-things @euelios @scionshtola @greyyourwarden @sunshinemage <3

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 12: Incandescent

A continuation of the dream dates from Fluffbruary 2!

Find all my @fluffbruary ficlets on AO3 here.

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Hob realizes he’s dreaming as soon as he appears on the London streets. It’s dusk and the streetlamps begin to flicker on, the arc lights much dimmer than the LED lights he’s used to these days. He smiles, remembering his astonishment that no one had to light them. He looks down at his clothes, another clue to which period he’s in. Ah. The 1880s, before their meeting.

He’s dressed in a fine suit. The black wool of his trousers and waistcoat keep him warm in the brisk air and he notices a distinct lack of itchiness. Much higher quality than the suits he typically wore in these days. His waistcoat covers the edge of his trousers precisely, the contrast between its bright white and the trousers striking. Hob brushes his fingers over the mother-of-pearl buttons, their iridescence shining in the dim light. At last, he notices the fine cotton shirt, its stiff-winged collar brushing his jaw. He fingers the silk tie, its color and texture reminding him of someone’s skin.

At that thought, he senses someone behind him. He takes a step to turn and join them when he is stopped in his tracks. Dream is, quite literally, stunning. His suit is styled similar to Hob’s own, except he is distinctly missing the “white tie” portion of the dress. His waistcoat is a deep black, glimmering with stars, and at his throat is a crimson silk tie. Hob’s fingers twitch at the contrast between Dream’s skin and the tie. He moves his eyes higher, seeing Dream’s top hat. It is then that his head feels oddly light. Gathering his wits, he floats toward Dream.

“You seem to have forgotten something.” From nowhere, Dream pulls out a top hat to match his own and a pair of white gloves. Hob takes them from Dream’s hands, hidden away by his own black gloves.

“You know me,” he grins. “What would I do without you?” He perches the hat upon his head and slips the gloves on, offering a hand to Dream. “Shall we? Do whatever we are dressed so finely for?”

The corners of Dream’s mouth curl up in a smile as he delicately takes Hob’s hand.

“We are going,” he begins to walk. “To the opera.”

Hob chuckles. “I suppose that does make sense, considering the getup. And what show are we seeing, my dear?”

“Patience.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll wait. I’m sure the theatre isn’t far.”

Dream smiles, in the way Hob knows means he has something he’s not telling him. They make their way up the street until Dream comes to a stop in front of the Savoy Theatre. The lights inside are different from what Hob remembers of the theatres he visited in those days, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Nonetheless, he follows Dream’s lead and heads toward the doors.

That’s when it hits him: Electricity! The incandescent bulbs emit a warm glow, casting the room in orange. He sucks in a breath and looks at Dream.

“You didn’t—”

“I think you will find that I did, beloved.”

He looks like the cat that ate the cream in this moment. Hob files through the centuries of history in his head as Dream hands the tickets to the usher. Dream tugs on his sleeve, bringing him back to the here and now. He offers his arm to Dream, who slips his hand through the bend in his elbow. Though he realizes it is a dream, Hob puffs his chest out as everyone turns their heads to look at the pair. It is satisfying to have the most beautiful creature in the universe on his arm, to know that everyone is jealous that he is his.

Dream is, of course, playing into Hob’s wish—his dream—that he could have taken Dream out on dates throughout his long life. In a blink, they are on the balcony overlooking the stage, in a private box. The orchestra is warming up, sounds of strings humming and musicians fiddling with their tuning pegs and slides. The pair settle in their seats, Hob finding Dream’s hand and settling on the armrest between them.

“Now will you tell me what the show we’re seeing is?” He looks at Dream. He is so beautiful in the dim light, the orange hue reflecting off his skin to make him seem to glow from inside.

“As I said before, Patience.” He produces a program. Hob examines it. The front page is busy: filled with flowers, birds, and a woman lying in the grass. The show is indeed called Patience. He flips through the pages, where maidens of all types decorate the page. He gets the idea that the show is mocking the aesthetic movement that was popular in these days. He sets the program on his lap.

“You tricky creature! I understand now.” He smiles at Dream. “Why this one?” “You mentioned taking me to historic events. I believe the first stage lit by electric light counts?” Dream rumbles.

“I suppose it does. Now come here.” He slips his hand free from Dream’s and brings it up to his cheek. He had forgotten how infuriating gloves were now that he cannot be skin to skin with his love. He leans in to kiss Dream gently, softly, keeping chaste but still impressing all his love into the kisses. He pulls back as the lights begin to dim.

A man comes out onto the stage with a glowing lightbulb. He welcomes everyone to the theatre and announces that tonight will be the first night the entire stage will be lit by electricity. Then, he breaks the bulb. The crowd begins to murmur, worried that the room would catch fire.

He smiles and says, “Completely safe! Now enjoy our show.” The orchestra begins to play the overture as he walks away.

Hob wraps an arm around Dream’s shoulders and presses a kiss to Dream’s cheek. This was going to be a fine night at the opera.

A/N: Man, I love doing a bunch of research to make my blorbos kiss in the 1800s times. Patience is a Gilbert and Sullivan opera that satirizes the aesthetic movement and pretentiousness. It opened at the Savoy on October 10, 1881 to an auditorium that was fully lit electrically, though the stage was still lit by gas lamp. On December 28, 1881, the stage was finally lit by electric light, where the owner really did come onstage and break a bulb to demonstrate its safety! The show ran at the Savoy until November 22, 1882. It's a pretty fun show, I recommend giving it a listen! G&S wrote entertaining music and a lot of patter songs (my personal fave in musical theatre).

The program I described can be found here. This particular example is from opening night, but from my research it looks like they used the same design (albeit with different color inks) throughout the show's run!

[olliethescribe]

Oh look, it’s propaganda @tmntausummit ! The second I saw that it was gonna be a fashion show, I had to send my most fashionable lads. ***

“You’ve got the goods!”

The boombox in front of them stood proud, a sleek confidence packaged into each circuit running through it, likened to veins pumping the life-saving funk of eighties groove into its stereo heart. A Prince-inspired beat blared into the open air, taking any listeners (un)lucky enough to be caught in its radius on a one way trip to Project Runway. Well, not quite, but a fashion montage nonetheless. 

Speaking of said listeners, well…

Five minutes earlier

“Are you absolutely sure the failsafe is in place, Donatello?” The magician tsked as he looked the finished piece over.

It didn’t take much for the purple turtle to convince him that this was a good idea, something that should’ve been a sign that this wasn’t exactly the most sound thing he could agree to. Still, he gave in, primed and ready with song lyrics and melodies. Wasn’t like he’d fall victim to his own hypnosis without a proper escape plan. Wearing earplugs worked well when handling the Foot Clan, but for willingly listening to an illusion trap? Well, a brief yet sharp pinch or slap could fix that. And given how Donnie described the way things worked, it almost completely dissuaded his fears. Almost. 

“Oh, Ron, doubting me this far into the project? You wound me!” Donnie mimed a fainting motion, hand bent over his head with his elbow pointed to the heavens, leaning back before righting himself just as quickly. “But, once again, we’ll be fine. That’s a Genius Built guarantee (patent pending). Now, let us commence!”

His finger hovered over the power button as he looked to his pseudo-uncle for approval. Ron smiled at him, nodding with just a touch more confidence. 

“For science! And fashion!”

Present

“You’ve got the goods that can make me smile!”

The curtains blew open as Donnie stepped through, a full ombré suit adorning his person, his blazer starting white at the top before fading into a layer of yellow then one of orange then red. Massive sequins and rhinestones in jewel tones bedazzled the edges, shining in the bright light of the dressing room. 

He did a turn around as Ron clapped and cheered, taking his seat as his brother’s mentor got up and skipped with joy into the dressing room, the magician muttering excitedly about clothing for hippo men only existing in dream dimensions. 

Dee nearly pulled his phone out while he waited before remembering himself and where he was. So he leaned back, eyes up to the ceiling as the song that kept them there continued to play on loop, until the ceiling was suddenly gone. As were the walls when he looked around, the couch he sat upon and the dressing room Ron occupied suddenly in a much larger building. 

“Where in the name of Marie Curie are we?” 

Donnie’s question was interrupted as Ron popped out of the dressing room, posing dramatically as the curtains swooshed back to reveal him in his brand new outfit. 

A sky blue smoking jacket with gold swirls over a lilac button-down shirt and dark purple bowtie, paired with an amethyst and rhodochrosite paisley print cape clipped to his shoulders with tiny hippo-shaped epaulettes with pearl string tassels swinging for tails. Grey silk slacks held up with an hand-embroidered black leather belt adorned his lower half, a brass pocket watch dangling from the free space between belt loops. His shiny brown leather boots clicked with each step and heel turn against the tile floor, small sterling silver rabbits placed lovingly beside the playing card-shaped buckles that kept them closed. 

The purple turtle ahead of him was too busy looking around to pay him much mind. 

“What are yo-” Ron glanced up and to the side, taking a moment to register the scenery change. “Oh, Wellington Sunday… this wasn’t in the spell…”

“Uh, no duh this wasn’t in the ‘spell’!” Donnie shot a cursory glance Ron’s way, eyes focusing on movement behind the hippo magician as the dressing room itself disappeared. 

Figures in the distance steadily approached, accompanied by the echo of hard acrylic on marble. Eerily familiar features were hidden under lavish accessories. They got ever closer, closing in. 

“That’s it! I’m activating the failsafe!” Dee slammed a button on his bracer, waiting for the pinch that would get them out of this if things went south. But no pinch came. 

“I’d hazard a guess and say it hasn’t worked.” The fear edging Ron’s voice only lended to the sincerity of his question, silently cursing the fact that his razor rings had become flower crowns in this strange state of not quite sleep. 

“No, not even close.”

They traded glances as a new thought came to mind. 

“Donnie, we can make another boombox, yeah?” Ron was hesitant as he spoke, starting to understand the emotional investment Donnie put into each piece of his tech. 

The purple turtle swallowed uneasily, watching as more figures quickly appeared. There was only one option. He sighed.

“Affirmative. Do what you must.” 

A sudden rush of footsteps neared in further and further to them, forcing the two back to back as Ron considered how to go about things from there. It wouldn’t take much to rush the crowd-

“Hi! Welcome to our fashion show! You’re just in time!” 

The magician blinked at the crowd of, oh, turtles, in front of him. He nudged Donnie, hoping the terrapin teen had just heard what he had. 

“Uhh, hello? How did we get here?” Ron bent down to their level, nearly forgetting he was well over seven feet tall in his hippo form. 

The tiny representative in front of him smiled at him, a name badge with the name ‘Leo’ scrawled on it tacked to their shirt. 

“Don’t worry about it. Now, c’mon, it’s your turn on the catwalk!” This Leo motioned for the two of them to follow as the rest of crowd began to walk off, swishing and swaying as they went about their business.  

“Donnie what do you think of-”

But Donnie had skipped ahead, taking notes and samples of his surroundings with scientific curiosity, greeting other Donnies on his way to the catwalk. 

Yeah, they were gonna be there for a while. Wherever ‘there’ happened to be. 

[changenamelater]

A Kanej One-shot; Lingering

Inej has never been one to linger. Always jumping from one thing to the next, rooftop to rooftop, caper to caper. Lingering gets you caught. She knows this.

Then why is it that she can’t seem to make herself look away?

Kaz is sitting by the large window of the caravan, leaning over a small desk as he works in a scuffed-up leather notebook that he tracks finances in while away from the barrel.

There’s nothing unusual about this, but she finds herself admiring the furrow between his brows as he works in his head before scratching it onto the page in front of him. How if something stumps him, his eyes quickly flit up, where the falling sun could catch them and Inej could almost see his pupil, and just as quickly land back onto the paper, the equation solved.

Here, where his coat is hooked to the back of his chair because of the Ravkan heat, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. Normally pristinely pressed shirts are now travel creased, and once greased-back hair has since curled and fallen onto his forehead due to the humidity. He blows it out of his eyes, his focus not splitting. It had gotten longer in the time he’s been here, she notes. It suits him here.

In a different reality, the sun would have suited him, for it welcomes him like a familiar stranger. Inej knows if she was only closer, she could see sweat shining his face, and faint freckles on the bridge of his nose from a past life, not yet faded.

The curtaining daylight dances across him, laughing with mirth as it washes over him. There he is, bathed in orange light in her worn wood caravan, surrounded by warm and colorful spices, rugs and silks, completely unaware of its acceptance of him there.

He spoke then, not turning from his work.

“Hello Inej.” His mouth is slightly quirked, and she can hear the hint of amusement in his voice.

This is why you never linger.

“Kaz.”

Well, this is just embarrassing on her part.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she joins him at the desk, scanning the the little book, and strictly ignoring his eye contact.

Ever attuned with her, Kaz extends an escape through quiet explanations of the numbers laying in front of them. In their own little world carved from her space, Kaz rests his hand by hers, letting the touch linger.