#short black diamond

[short-black-diamond]

{His woman.}

This is just a fantasy! AU, with princess x servant/bodyguard (?), reader is a badass lady and the servant is head over heels for her. also, have fun reading!

also, I tried to make this as poc! friendly as possible. I have written some parts about hair, but I don't mean it in a bad/racist way. I'm not black, but in this story, you just have problems with your hair like I do, so I literally just inserted myself there. I just made it so other people could maybe relate to my problems too :)

Warnings: suggestive content, Your bodyguard masturbates to you behind closed doors in detail, angst-father issues/trauma/no love (at first, maybe a part two? 👀👀👀), near death experience-but not you

this is more like a story, so buckle up babes! Also, I think I'll make more parts of these, but tell me if you like it!

---

I have plenty of weird but also pretty romantic dreams, and in this one, I was some sort of princess who had to choose a husband because of being the next queen and only child and no brother and bla bla bla.

BUT. I also had some sort of, I dunno, servant? Well, someone who always watched me/my back like some sort of bodyguard. The thing was, he was pretty hot. Freckles which adored and accentuated the cheeks, neck, shoulders (+ other body parts 😏), glasses in front of tired, serious eyes, long/dark brown thick/curly locks that were always in a low pony tail and forehead fringes that gave the guy a cute but also at the same time hot look, big nose, broad shoulders, tall, muscular body (but not too buff), nice arms, veiny hands and pretty much everything that would make a woman wet swoon.

Also, the voice was to die for. Do you know professor cal? (I know him from youtube). Yeah, I had his voice in my head as the guard and let me tell you guys, I wanted that guy to become real.

Also, let's call him...Cal, okay? because of professor cal's voice, alright? and his nickname or real name will be Lasco, so when you are alone with him, you call him cal! And you're the only one who's allowed to call him that.

But that's not- okay wait that was mainly the fucking introduction of the guy of my dreams, now let me start with the introduction of the story.

---

"Your majesty, you can't just reject a man blindly-", a nameless maid said, but was interrupted by your soft glare. "And why can't I?", you asked gently, looking at her with an almost pleading look. you wanted to know the answer as well.

Your poor excuse of a brutish father and shitty leader of your country wanted you to be married to an unimportant country. The son from the country was a playboy, treated women like objects, didn't know what sharing meant, stepped and spit on other people and wasn't really interested in you, more attracted to your body.

your mother was a softspoken woman, but since women were still not respected in the monarchy, you wanted to change that. you hated that your mother couldn't stand up for herself. you hated that she got belittled whenever you were around, and you feared that it was much worse when you weren't.

One day, however, it all stopped. and you were the reason.

"Why should I marry him again?", you asked the man who was one of the reasons you came to this world. you hated to call him that.

Father.

ugh.

your 'father' gave you a glare which you reciprocated tenfold, making the geezer sitting in front of you scratch his neck nervously.

"Well, because... because I said so!" "And what use would that bring to our kingdom?"

"How dare you-" "Your highness. please tell me. Why am I going to be betrothed to a man whom I have no information over and who doesn't even seem interested in wanting to get to know me? What use would our marriage have?", you retorted quickly, eyeing the guest to your 'father's' left. His son was right next to him, glaring at you angrily. your mother only looked at you with a shocked expression before standing up to apologize-

"Don't, mother. You have no reason to do that.", you only said coldly while holding a hand towards her direction, awaiting a plausible explanation from the bastard sitting next to your king.

"Listen, me and your father are good friends, and we decided that it'd be a good idea if-"

"So you have no use for the country but just want us to get married to each other because you guys are friends? Or because your whore of a son can't seem to stop getting his dick wet and because I have never touched a man? If that's the reason, THEN YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF!!!", you screamed, pulling your golden sword from it's home-your earrings-and pointed it towards the bastard.

That seemed to be the thing they were not prepared for, because the king from the other country and his son scrambled away while your 'father' was getting angry at you. But, oh boy.

How was the saying again? Like father, like daughter?

If his anger was already bad enough that most people from his own country feared him because of his temper, how would the other countries try to calm yours?

"YOU INSOLENT CHILD! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST DO AS YOU'RE TOLD?! DAY AND NIGHT AM I WORKING-"

"WORKING?! DON'T GIVE ME THAT! WHAT YOU CALL 'WORKING', IS JUST FUCKING OTHER BITCHES, LOOSING YOUR MONEY FROM GAMBLING AND GIVING ALL YOUR DUTIES TO THE POOR SERVANTS!

YOU ARE NO WHERE TO BE CALLED A KING, A LORD OR EVEN A LEADER! YOU'RE NOT EVEN A GOOD FATHER!", you roared, your voice booming louder in the castle than his ever could, grabbing the attention of all the residents of your own, soon to be castle.

your golden sword pointed towards him, and while nearly every servant and some guards gathered together to know what this family fuss was about again, they were shocked and surprised to see that you were pointing your sword at him.

sure, you had arguments and fights with that old geezer, but nothing ever was as serious as this. "You put-" "YOU LISTEN TO ME, YOU POOR EXCUSE OF A MAN, I am done with you humiliating our name, or kingdom, our country. do that you get the hell away from here, with all your fucking concubines and mistresses. and don't you ever show your face in here, or my country again. because if you do...

... then I'll find you and behead you myself."

All he could do was run, run as fast as he could, and while he was still at it, his concubines and bad partners, gambling friends, drinking friends and other bad people he liked to associate with, followed him as well while taking all their belongings, which surprisingly, wasn't less than you imagined.

After the last one was gone, your mother only whispered your name and you immediately threw yourself to the ground in shame in front of your mother. "I beg for forgiveness. Please forgive me for my big mouth and sharp tongue, mother. please don't be mad at me-"

"Mad at you? Oh, my sweet daughter, how could I ever be mad at you?", she asked, opening her arms with tears eyes and a wobbly smile. You ran towards her but held her as gently as you could, like a flower. "I fear that I do not onderstand, mother. Why are you not mad? I put shame on your name for rejecting a noble's proposal...!"

Your mother only chuckled, happy to hold her one reason to stay alive in her arms. She was also glad that everyone saw that her and her daughter were so close and that the rumours about the daughter and the mother hating each other would come to an end. "That's exactly why I am so proud of you, my love. you have mastered what I couldn't and still can not do today; express myself, voice out my uncomfy state, give my opinion...being loud. Being heard. Being understood."

You stroked your mother's back like a mother consoling her child. your mother's nerves were always on haywire when your father was around, and it was tearing your heart apart to see your mother so scared in the presence of that former bastard of a leader.

"I will try my best to help you mother. After all, you are leading this kingdom on your own now. But fear not, I will stay by your side until death will tear us apart. But even then, I will not rest in peace until I have found your soul next to mine and we can be together again, even after we've descended to heaven.", you promised. She only hugged you tighter and released a breath.

Lasco, your bodyguard, who has witnessed your great performance of strength and anger, only watched you in awe, a small blush on his cheeks. See, as you were the crown princess, the next queen and he was your guard, he had to look after you ever since he could remember. he was also your best friend and you and him did pretty much everything together.

Except...

...love.

...

It was actually not fair, to be honest. Cal had a crush on you since the first time he saw you, which was when him and you were children; even when you were chubby, had snot coming out of your nose, and always chaos-hair. what drew him to you was your calm nature. He thought of you like a flower when he first met you. Never bothering anyone. always in your own little world. You never yelled, or got really angry or made a fuss out of everything. Only when something really bothered you, did you frown, pout, and release a small and quiet 'hmpf!' sound, which he cherished forever by grabbing at his chest where his heart belonged whenever you did it.

He also found you really cute. your eyes were so adorably wide and full of wonder, wanting to explore the world with silent pleading. But since it was forbidden, you examined books, maps and even listened to adventurers and businessmen and women who sailed the world like your life depended on it.

Your hair seemed to have a mind of it's own, as it was either perfectly calm, a few strands of hair not wanting to go to their place or your hair pointing to all directions. your personality was also to respect, or gush over.

You were always a calm kid, never dared to trouble your parents, always good with everyone. you tried your best to help everyone and do your homework or train your body to fit into a queen's life. you tried to take as much off of your mother's chest and shoulders as you could, with no regard of self care.

you, with those beautiful eyes, that changed over the years.

Your body, that changed over the years.

Your mind changed too.

But it scared him.

Sure, you've gotten a lot smarter and even more helpful than you already were. you blossomed from a small, sweet, shy, friendly, peace-loving girl to a poisonous, beautifully, deathly and ruthless woman. But Cal was not even close to the mind to complain.

I mean, you've grown up, and so has he. It was just...to him, time flew by so quickly. One moment, he was protecting you from other baby princes from bullying you because of your shy nature, then you and him talked about serious topics like future and love in your teenage years, where he nearly gave out his secret of having a crush on you, and now, you had to choose a husband, rule the kingdom alongside your mother, and forbid war, even when your kingdom was one of the strongest out there.

Cal has fallen for you. And...so have you.

You fell for him the moment he gave you the promise that he'd always protect you. It was when you two were still children. He was eight and you were five at the time, but you could not mistake your warming cheeks and fluttering stomach for anything else but love towards that boy. the first few weeks, you hid from him, spoke as little as possible with him and never looked him in the eyes.

You were wondering every night if Cal knew about how you gave him heart eyes everytime you two locked eyes. or if he maybe thought of you as a pretty girl...? Or if he thought of you as a nuisance, because you thought that you'd be one to him, being a princess and all. Since you had trouble forming big sentences and tended to be shy by nature, even as a grown up, you only gave him commands, asked about his wellbeings, or nodded when he gave you an update about something.

The more days passed, the more you strived to be perfect. Not just for the people you'd have to rule over one day, or your mother, but for him. you wanted to show him that you could become the perfect leader. That you'd become a great queen. You took more care to your body when Cal made some remarks about how skin care was less appreciated these days. your hair seemed to follow your lead too, because over the years, you managed to take proper care of it.

you took more care in the way you dressed, acted, spoke and most importantly, your face. you always frowned, naturally, and you hated it. You hated when people asked you why you were looking so sad or glum or depressed or angry, and you were left irritated. so you always raised your brows to give your face not an irritated, but bored look. Better than nothing, right?

whenever you looked at Cal, you didn't see your bodyguard, but a potential lover. He was always good with kids, treated women with the utmost respect, was one of the strongest men in your kingdom and very handsome.

However, there was one information that shattered your little love world and heart yes and daydreams about Cal; you had to marry a prince. Bodyguards were not allowed as potential husbands, except for when you'd like to have a consort or lover.

You, from that moment on, forbid your feelings towards your longest friend and buried them into the darkest corners of your heart, soul, and mind. and over the months, you managed to hold proper conversations with him, plus, you didn't see him as husband material anymore.

Or so you thought.

...

NSFW:

As you were busy with making new rules, comforting your mother and firing your father's followers, Cal thought that you didn't have any use for him at the moment, which was good.

As fast as he could, he excused himself with a silver plate in front of his crotch and went straight to his room. Beforehand, he made sure that no one was in the hallway, so that they couldn't hear him doing his unholy, and unforgivable act. In his chamber, he whimpered into his hand and his other one grabbed his hard-on. His glasses went down a little, but not that he cared. Lasco moaned into his hand as he slid against the door a little, panting at the thought of you.

You, who so bravely told your father to fuck out of your life with a blade at the bastards throat which you took from your earrings. you, who always was so...cold, but at the same time so unbelievably hot at the same time. His princess, who didn't want any nameless, stupid prince. Cal didn't know what type of prince you'd like. What type of husband would meet your standards. Maybe the fictional characters you've been sighing about with a sweet smile and gazing off with a blissed out face?

C-could he call you... his princess? Could he call you...his girl?

...His woman?

At that thought, Lasco stumbled towards his bed, throwing his belt and pants to the ground before stripping off his underwear and grasping his leaking cock. It may look small in his hands, but if you saw it, you'd be really scared of it's size and girth. Much over average, about 9 and a half inches, and his girth around the width of your wrist. His mushroom head was adorably flushed a light pink, with freckles adorning his shaft and inner thighs- actually his whole body to be honest.

He pumped it a few times, abs already glistening with sweat, whimpering in a high pitched voice again, brows furrowing and shoulders shaking, his nipples growing hard at the cool air of his room, forgetting that he'd get overly sensitive when he got hard because of you. He whined when he immediately had a flashback of him following after you for safety reasons and you suddenly halting in front of him and him stumbling on you, his hips - and so his dick - brushing against your soft, plump ass. When you turned to apologize, there was only a gust of whind in form of his silhouette.

He rubbed his head a little harder, and choked back a sob. His glasses nearly fell off, but he adjusted them while his left hand shook from touching himself. he faced the door this time, his brows furrowing, as he stroked his shaft, the foreskin covering and uncovering his cockhead evertime he moved his hand up and down.

What if somebody came in? How would he explain himself?

Lasco massaged his balls gently, groaning before chuckling breathily, growing shy as he thought of you again with a cute -about to be fucked out- smile on his face.

What if you came in and caught him in this state? How would you react? What would you say? Would you get aroused too? Or bully him? Tease him? Or be disgusted by him for thinking of you so lewdly?

He cried out your name before cumming so suddenly, the orgasm shaking him. His back arched and his thighs squeezed shut a little, and his glasses finally fell down, onto the sheets which were now soiled. He felt like the walls of his room were still echoing your name and he groaned. Cal was laying on his back now, arms spread out and he stared at the ceiling.

He panted, grinning like a madman with a heavy blush. The thought of you catching him in such an incredulous act, with him parting his legs for you and chanting your name like a mantra, giving you a show-

Ah shit. He got hard again. He sighed exasperately.

Just as he was about to do the act again, this time feeling a little more guilty for picturing you doing these things to him, he changed his mind. He stood up, and took a long, cold shower.

END OF NSFW.

...

Now refreshed and not so horny anymore, the bodyguard quickly made his way over to your presence, fixing his posture and taking deep breaths, a neatly written letter which he wrote months ago, only for you and you only to read.

Maybe Cal should just confess and hope that you'd accept his feelings. But he didn't know how you felt about him. Since you were little - since the first time you two fucking met - you never really talked much with him. Cal was left wondering if you even harboured any feelings for him in the first place.

If you didn't then he'd make a total fool out of himself. If you did, then maybe...

Just maybe, he'd become your husband. Your husband, who'd try to read every single wish you had right from your delicate lips. Your lover, who'd be the man of your dreams if you said yes to the very question. Your lover, who'd swear to become the greatest king in history, with you as his strong, smart and beautiful wife. His woman.

He wanted to be yours so bad it hurt him mentally and physically whenever a love interest who wasn't him got brought up. whenever you spoke about maybe visiting or inviting a prince over made him hurl and want to punch a wall.

He didn't notice that he was already in front of your door, your deep, gentle voice immediately reaching his well-trained ears. He allowed himself to smile for a millisecond, then his smile vanished and he stepped inside.

---

Heya, how was that?

I kinda let out everything I thought in here, like for part 2!

[frickingnerd]

Hellyu, I just wanted to say that I really liked your posts about My dress up darling. Would you like to become mutuals with me? I really like the anime and I'm sad that there's barely any fanfics about them, let alone people I could speak to about the anime.

I hope I didn't make you feel uncomfortable, and that you are eating and drinking healthily. <3

hey there! first off, thank you so much <3

honestly, i'd love to have a mutual to talk about my dress up darling with! i barely see people write or talk about it, so having someone to gush about with sounds great! :D

feel free to always slip into my dms or ask box if you wanna gush about the game with someone! 😌 i'm pretty much caught up with the manga as well, so spoilers shouldn't be a concern either! :D

hope you're doing well and stay hydrated, my mutual! ^-^

[bettie-may-page]

Bettie Page Standing #538

[veveisveryuncool]

ash ketchum is really fucking short

hello i would like to formally point out that ash ketchum is a tiny lil boy just look at him!!

he’s a good head shorter than brock AND noticeably shorter than misty, an average height girl if not on the shorter side, comparing how tiny they look to any adult within the series:

no, this is not an error! put him next to ANY adult-sized human from any generation and he barely comes up to their chin--

all other generations he is the same height as/slightly shorter than the pokegirl:

unrelated but tell me this does not look like the face of a kid who is unironically about to start belting parry gripp like the 10 year old little shit he is /affectionate

STILL CANT GET OVER HOW SERENA IS TALLER THAN HIM OMG-- THE SCENE WHERE SHE TIPTOES TO KISS HIM?? BESTIE YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN CROUCHING DOWN

poor sophocles who’s probably just hitting the 3 foot mark--

journeys is a little bit harder to decipher, goh and ash are about the same height, HOWEVER:

goh is consistently on the top bunk, guess they figured it out lol

ANYWAYS LOOK HOW FAR HE’S COME <3333

this is what you call quality character growth (pun intended).

[peachfruitcake]

[legaceyof]

Part two of my work outfit photo set is out now on onlyfans.com/Legacey: diamond opaque tights, chunky high heel platform shoes and a tight miniskirt. Had a lot of horny comments about this outfit so hope you all enjoy x

[odinsblog]

Andrew was entering his third month of unemployment when he sat down at his computer and opened the inbox of his LinkedIn account. He’d received a response to a query he’d sent off four days after his friend-turned-manager walked him into a conference room swimming with sunlight, smelling of cologne and the faintest hint of perfume left behind by a group of attorneys who’d recently vacated the space after a five-hour meeting.

“I’m sorry, man,” Colin Perkins had said. Andrew’s eyes glided to the glass conference table, landing on the silver tray holding a molehill of bagels. He imagined they must be stale by now, having been left there uncovered in the icy office air.

Someone had planted the pointed end of a white plastic knife in an open container of chive-and-jalapeño cream cheese. It brought to mind the moon landing; all that was missing was a tiny American flag. A laugh trudged up his throat, but he disguised it as a cough.

“I told you,” Colin continued, raking his hands over his manicured Afro, “that the last to hire would be the first to go.”

A month earlier, seventeen women and two men had accused the CEO of the company of sexual misconduct. That news had plummeted the stock. The layoffs followed. Andrew had witnessed dozens of employees being escorted by security from the building like criminals. Now it was his turn.

Andrew nodded, placed a comforting hand on Daniel’s shoulder, and squeezed. The crisp cotton of Daniel’s shirt felt cool beneath his palm. “It’s okay, man, I understand. Don’t sweat it.”

He’d spent that first week revamping his résumé, calling friends and old colleagues, people who might know of a job opportunity at their own place of employment or elsewhere. He’d never had a LinkedIn account, but took the time to set one up. To conserve the little bit of savings he had, Andrew dropped his gym membership and went back to drinking tap water instead of the bottled Evian he loved. He gave up Starbucks coffee and the expensive cabernet sauvignon he purchased by the case.

By week three, he was spending his days on the couch, dressed in boxer shorts and sweat socks. He’d stopped opening the blinds and only went outside to empty the garbage. He whiled away the hours playing video games, and watching Netflix and Pornhub. Oftentimes, he went days without brushing his teeth.

When his mother called to check on him, Andrew lied, claiming he had several interviews lined up. When his father took the phone into another room to ask if he needed money, Andrew assured him that he was fine on the financial front, even though he wasn’t. He’d made up his mind to sell his Shelby Mustang before he took a dime from his parents. That was a big decision because he loved that car more than he’d ever loved any woman.

The day he opened the e-mail, the panic had just started to set in. He could feel it creeping along the back of his neck, like the soft scuttle of caterpillar legs.

From: OBF, INC.

To: Andrew Jamison

Dear Mr. Jamison,

We found your resume to be very interesting and believe that you would be the perfect addition to our dynamic team of Client Liaisons.

PAID TRAINING!

Affordable benefits for you, your spouse, and/or children after 90 days!

Opportunities to advance within!

Hourly, overtime, and tremendous bonus opportunities!

If you love helping others, then you will love working for OBF, INC.

OBF, INC. wants to talk to you now! To set up an interview TEXT OBF51893.

Liaison was just a fancy French word for customer service agent. Well, that was his skill set. Andrew was an expert at assisting people.

He texted the number and received an instant response that directed him to call a telephone number and enter his personal code: 1032.

An automated voice offered him two available interview dates. He was instructed to press 1 for the first date and 2 for the second. The mechanical voice told him that he would receive a call advising him where the interview would take place.

It all seemed very clandestine. Andrew was cynical, but his desperation outweighed his skepticism.

A day later, he received a call from a woman with a Southern drawl . . . Georgia, Alabama, Texas? He couldn’t quite pinpoint where she hailed from, but listening to her speak conjured visions of sweet tea and fireflies. She asked for his full government name and the code he’d received via text message. There was a pause, two clicks, and then the syrupy voice asked if he had a pen available. He did. After she’d rattled off the address, she wished him good luck. There were a few more clicks and then the line went dead.

He walked into the lobby of the forty-story office building and was struck by the contemporary opulence of the space. Marble floors, potted palms that towered eight feet into the air, white leather sofas, and a slick-looking Louboutin-red reception desk.

Andrew presented his license to the security guard and was given a name tag, which he clipped to the lapel of his ash-gray jacket. He was told to go to the eighteenth floor.

While waiting for the elevator, he perused the list of companies listed on a plaque mounted to the wall. OBF, Inc. was nowhere to be found.

He smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the elevator. On the eighteenth floor, smack outside of the elevator door, was a sheet of lined legal paper taped haphazardly to the wall. Scrawled on its face in black marker was: This Way to OBF, INC. Below that was an arrow.

He started down the hall. A man the color of cedar and as tall as an NBA player speed-walked past him, mumbling to himself. Andrew thought he looked dazed, as if he’d just received news that a loved one had passed away.

“Good morning,” Andrew murmured.

The man turned eyes as wide as saucers on Andrew. He opened his mouth and muttered something that Andrew wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. The elevator doors slid open just as Andrew leaned in and asked, “Uhm, sorry, brother, but did you say run?”

The man leaped into the elevator, pressed his spine against the back wall, and fixed his eyes on the glass numbers above the closing doors.

Andrew stood blinking at his reflection in the chrome elevator doors. After a moment, he shrugged and continued down the hallway where he came upon a second handwritten sign directing him to turn left at the women’s bathroom. He rounded a corner and found himself staring at eleven men seated in folding chairs. They all looked up from their iPhones and Androids. Andrew nodded and headed toward the pretty blonde seated behind a metal desk.

“Good morning,” she smiled. “Name?”

“Andrew Jamison.”

“Okay, Mr. Jamison, please take a seat. Mrs. Americus will be with you shortly.”

He scrutinized his fellow applicants. They were all black men save for the one white guy with a man-bun who was called in as soon as Andrew sat down. Man-bun wasn’t in there long. In less than five minutes, cheeks flushed and cursing under his breath, he stormed across the reception area and out of sight.

Andrew clenched his jaw and made eye contact with another man across the room from him. He imagined the unease in the man’s eyes mirrored his own uncertainty.

“Andrew Jamison, Mrs. Americus will see you now. Just through that door.”

The door opened to a large office filled with cubicles and desks, manned by women tapping away on typewriters or murmuring into the handsets of—

Andrew slowed his gait.

Are those rotary telephones and, wait, Royal typewriters?

As Andrew gawked, a large man with a mustache as thick has a shoe brush appeared before him. Andrew glanced up and then quickly shifted his gaze away from the brawny man’s left eyelid, which was weighed down with a sty the size of a dime.

“In there,” the man huffed, aiming a chubby finger at a closed door not more than five feet from where they stood.

The office was as small as a janitor’s closet. And dark.

The lone window on the far left wall faced the shadowy back of a department store. Metal file cabinets lined the walls; some of the drawers were open, revealing manila folders bulging with papers. He could see, even in the muddy darkness of the room, a layer of dust atop the cabinets. Hanging on the walls were at least twenty framed photographs of people, all of whom were black.

The air was rife with the scent of cigarette smoke.

Andrew remembered people smoking at their desks when he went to visit his mother at her office job when he was young. Once, on a flight to Detroit with his grandmother, he stood at the back of the plane waiting to use the bathroom, and found himself engulfed in a cloud of smoke billowing from the cigarettes of three passengers.

He couldn’t recall the exact year cities around the country began banning smoking in bars and restaurants, but he was supremely aware that smokers had to be at least four hundred feet away from the entrance of any building if they wanted to light up.

Yet here was this woman, puffing away like it was 1975. Andrew eyed the near-empty box of Winstons and then the woman. She was robust—a meat-and-potatoes sort of gal, with doughy cheeks and large blue eyes. Her sun-bleached blond hair fanned back from her face—a style made famous by the eighties icon Farrah Fawcett. Her lips were slathered in tangerine-colored lipstick. The same color rung the filters of a dozen long-dead Winston butts heaped in the black ceramic ashtray. Andrew thought, If she’s going for clown instead of glamour, well, bull’s-eye!

Ornate rings twinkled on seven of her ten fingers, the rose-gold chain she wore around her neck dribbled down her chest and disappeared into her cleavage. She looked to be in her midfifties.

“Good morning, Mr. Jamison. Please have a seat.” Her eyes remained glued to the sheet of paper clutched in her hands. Andrew assumed it was his résumé.

He sat down.

“You graduated from Brown University?”

“Y-yes, I did. I graduated summa cum laude in 1990.”

Her desk was cluttered with newspaper clippings; stacks of aging yellowed papers, and dated fashion magazines. Andrew’s eyebrows climbed. Was that Marcia from the seventies sitcom The Brady Bunch on the cover of that Glamour magazine?

Andrew chuckled to himself. This had to be an elaborate joke. Someone was putting him on. His eyes ranged around the office in search of a concealed camera.

“Impressive,” she said finally, looking him directly in the eye. “Do you have a wife?”

“S-sorry?”

“Are you married, Mr. Jamison?”

“No, I’m not.”

She searched his face. “Are you gay?”

Andrew bristled. “Mrs. Americus, I don’t think you’re legally allowed to ask me that question.”

She smirked.

“It’s a yes-or-no question, Mr. Jamison. I know it’s unusual, but believe me, for this position I would need to know.”

His rent was due tomorrow and then again in thirty more days. His savings were dwindling. “No, I’m not gay.”

“Do you have children?”

“One daughter, she’s twenty-two years old.”

“Do you have a good relationship with your daughter? With the mother?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Americus glanced at his résumé. “Perfect.” She reached for the dying cigarette and brought it to her lips. “And according to your application, you’ve never been arrested. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we will be doing a background check.”

“Understood.”

“Do you have any bad habits? Do you use narcotics?”

“No ma’am.”

“Any . . . um . . . undesirable recreational activities?”

“Undesirable?”

“Porn? Well, not just porn. Kiddie porn.”

Andrew’s mouth fell open.

“No judgment, Mr. Jamison. Again, I just need to know.”

“No, I do not watch kiddie porn,” Andrew spat.

“Good!” she exclaimed, drumming her fingers on the desk. “Let me tell you the specifics of the job . . .”

Some of the faces behind the glass frames looked familiar. Again Andrew found himself squinting. Was that Omarosa? He pitched forward in his chair.

Mrs. Americus stopped talking and followed his gaze. “Um, yes,” she spouted. “That is who you think it is. She’s been one of our best recruits.”

Andrew swallowed.

Mrs. Americus stubbed out her cigarette and laced her fingers under her chin. “Some of our liaisons work directly with government agencies. That’s a promotion of sorts. Of course, before you can be assigned to the big house—I mean the White House—you’d first have to prove yourself out in the field.” She giggled. “In the field. You get it? It’s a double entendre.”

Andrew’s mouth went dry.

She twisted around in the chair and pointed to a photograph of a pair of middle-aged women standing shoulder to shoulder, each holding a red MAGA baseball cap. “Those ladies are Diamond and Silk. Do you know them?”

Andrew shot out up from the chair. For a moment, he thought his knees would buckle. “What does OBF stand for?”

Mrs. Americus reached for the pack of cigarettes. “OBF stands for One Black Friend.”

“One Black Friend?”

“Yes. You see, in these troubling times, times where so many people are labeling white people as racist, we need black people to stand up for us—to have our backs, as your people are fond of saying. Sometimes, Mr. Jamison, a God-fearing, good white person may be accused of a crime or some other offense perpetrated against a person of color, and when the accused does not have a person of color in his circle, it looks bad. The public may see him . . . or her, as a racist simply because their circle is . . . white. Lily.

“And that’s wrong. Not having black friends does not make a white person racist by default. Anyway,” she waved her hand, “that’s where OBF comes in. We provide that one black friend. That one black friend introduces doubt, and more often than not, that doubt diminishes a large percentage of the negative impact our clients might face.”

Andrew just stared.

“Oh, Mr. Jamison, don’t look so shocked. This practice has been around for centuries.” She pointed to the far wall near the window. “You see that guy there? He was actually the inspiration for this company.”

Andrew peered at the photograph. “Who is he?”

“Joe Oliver.”

“Joe Oliver?”

“Yeah, Joe Oliver. You don’t remember him? Joe Oliver, George Zimmerman’s one black friend.” Mrs. Americus raised a black ceramic coffee mug to her lips and sipped. The red decal on the side of the mug read: Black Tears.

Andrew’s stomach lurched, perspiration beading across his forehead. “This is some kind of joke, right?”

“Oh, I assure you this is not a joke and I am very serious. As serious as a heart attack. Is that how the saying goes? As serious as a heart attack?”

Andrew started toward the door.

“Wait, Mr. Jamison. Look here.” She pointed at a photograph hanging above the row of filing cabinets. “This is another one of our liaisons. Since he’s been working for us, he’s paid off his student loans and I understand that he’s just recently purchased a Cadillac.”

Andrew followed her index finger to the photo of a grinning black man holding a Blacks for Trump sign above his head like a trophy.

“Shall we talk about salary?”

The lights flickered.

He thought, Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is a nightmare.

“Andrew? I can see you’re having a hard time processing all of this. But really, it’s not as uncommon as you might think. We live in America, this is a capitalist country, and we monetize everything. Everything.”

Andrew couldn’t remember reaching for the doorknob, but suddenly he was stumbling through the reception area.

He fled down the corridor, rounded the first corner and then the next. A slight man the color of honeyed milk stepped from the elevator. He wore a yellow dress shirt with a red bow tie. His dark-blue khakis were flooded just enough to offer a wink of his orange-and-navy argyle socks.

Upon Andrew’s frantic approach, the startled stranger stepped swiftly out of his path. Andrew didn’t make eye contact. He jabbed at the elevator button until the doors slid open.

Weeks later, Andrew was seated in a truck-stop diner with his fork poised over a plate of scrambled eggs and corned beef hash.

The mounted television was tuned to Fox News. The anchor reported that yet another young black man had been gunned down by a vigilante, another Good Samaritan, named Christopher Parks.

Christopher Parks was heading home from his job as a sanitation man when he spotted young Daniel Latham sitting in Starbucks, dozing over his law textbooks. Parks entered the establishment, woke Latham with a tap to his shoulder, and asked if he lived in the area. According to eyewitnesses, Latham replied that he did in fact live in the neighborhood. Parks demanded to see Latham’s ID and was met with laughter. The law student gathered his belongings and stood to leave—rather menacingly, one eyewitness reported.

That was when Christopher Parks pulled his weapon and fired. The stunned Latham, still laughing, crumpled into his chair and pressed his hand over the whole in his heart. It wasn’t until he saw the blood that the smile slipped from his lips and he began to cry.

The cops were called, but not an ambulance. Well, not immediately.

The police shackled Latham to the chair and took Parks to the police station for questioning. The woman behind the counter gave Parks a high five and a tall Caffè Mocha to go.

By the time an ambulance arrived, Daniel Latham was dead, having bled out all over his take-home final exam.

In the days that followed, it was revealed that Daniel Latham had several unpaid parking tickets and was thrice fined for not scooping his dog’s poop. Not only that—he was also a practicing Buddhist who supported a woman’s right to choose.

A search of Latham’s apartment unearthed a well-worn copy of Alex Haley’s The Autobiography of Malcolm X, which was on his nightstand alongside Jay-Z’s Decoded. This discovery was further evidence that Latham was no angel.

Laura Ingraham looked directly into the camera and told her viewers that Christopher Parks was a hero, a polite and well-spoken man who had been raised by his father after his mother died from breast cancer when he was just three years old. Yes, as a youth, Christopher had been suspended from school for fighting, and as a young man he’d beaten a girlfriend with a pipe. Later, when he was in his early thirties, he’d threatened to castrate his boss—a black man old enough to be his grandfather. All of that behavior, Laura Ingraham said, was directly connected to the trauma of losing a mother at such a tender age.

She paused, and in that moment her entire face pulsed with empathy. “That said,” she continued, “Al Sharpton, along with the Black Lives Matter terrorist organization, have labeled Christopher Parks a racist and are calling for his arrest.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Earlier today, I had the pleasure of speaking with Christopher’s longtime best friend, Andrew Jamison . . .”

Andrew lowered his fork, reached for his shades, and slipped them onto his face.

—OBF, Inc., a short story by Bernice L. McFadden

[mysteriouslotuscasebookreference]

[keepcalmandclipemin]

Short Hairstyles to Suit DiamondFace Shapes

[short-black-diamond]

HII I'M FINEEEE I'VE BEEN BUSY AND I SEE YOU'VE ALSO BEEN BUSY TOO😮

SORRY I CAN'T SEND REQUESTS BECAUSE I'VE BEEN TOO TIRED TO THINK EVERYTIME 😭😭

You don't know this but I actually check your blog daily to see if there's anything new🫶🫶

- 🍰nom

NAH T'S OKAY IF YOU CAN'T SEND REQUESTS; BUT A LITTLE "HELLO" WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE; YOU KNOW?!?!

Yeah I have to write a test tomorrow wish me luck~

"You don't know this but I actually check your blog daily to see if there's anything new🫶🫶" bro I'm crying right now you're too sweet

Please at least send a hello or an emoji to me you have no idea how much I missed you 😭😭😭😭

-your diamond <3

[inactiverosigribouilli]

~Raven

[cute-clothes-uwu]

[iiapple]

legit funny ppl were convinced that SU, a kid's show aimed at kids teaching to be nice and growth, needed to show full blown out murder towards the antagonists while stating the communist manifesto word for word

[polarisbear]

lil creatures <3 (and some i don’t know… hermits?) (Really detailed image description below)

a drawing of geminitay, pearlescentmoon, zombiecleo, stressmonster101, and false symmetry posing in a line. they’re in their season 10 outfits or slightly altered versions of their normal skins.

gem is posing with a diamond sword across her shoulders and wormy snail, and the orange and yellow lighthouse goldfish hanging out behind her. she’s in her pirate skin with magic hair ending in water, with shark teeth, slitted eyes and claws. she has a very toothy grin and desaturated palette.

pearl is flicking up the brim of her hat while holding onto the strap of her messenger bag. pogt is peeking out behind pearl, with a messenger pigeon on her hat. she’s in her postmaster skin with an undershirt on, a jacket tied around her waist, and hiking boots. the bag has more celestial details. she has a relaxed smirk and a very warm palette.

cleo carrying atlas, an orange cat, and a tray holding enchanted books and a tall, teal glass. she has on flowers in her hair, a sleeveless button up, a torn off-the-shoulder shirt, a high-waisted pencil skirt, and dress shoes. she looks exasperated and she has a cool palette.

stress is proudly holding up a pile of mud with roots and bricks sticking out of it with madame meepless, a gray british shorthair, looking up at stress. she’s wearing a pink-purple-teal flower crown, a white shirt, overalls with patches and one leg short and the other leg tucked in her black rain boots, and a bright pink tracksuit jacket on top. she’s covered in mud and has a very vibrant color palette.

false is holding a briefcase and a diamond shovel casually, with the shovel on the ground. she has on the minister hat with red and white goggles acting as the ribbon, a red, poorly tied tie, an untucked red-and-white striped shirt, a dark green blazer with gold buttons, fancy shorts with a white 2nd shorts underneath, and brown boots with socks. she’s looking confidently off to the side and has a warm, but muted, palette.

[vaaaaaiolet]

When you run out of his work summit on the brink of tears, you can't believe that Leon hasn't picked up on how he hurt you. His only option is to apologize, but you're not listening to a word he says. So he'll just have to make you watch.

mdni i'm so serious. married f / m smut where porn is the plot THERE'S LORE I SWEAR, sour then sweet dom leon, mirror sex, EMOTIONS, aftercare :3 + 1 bad pun

a/n: anon req'd reader w/ praise kink. i really thought i did something and then i read it and i wanted to die. it isn't my writing if i don't try turning smut into shitty poetry.

word count: 2.9k // read on ao3

“I’m apologizing now, aren’t I?”

“A little late for that, Agent Kennedy,” you seethe. 

Your metronome heels keep time with the irate pounding of your heartbeat. This California Ritz-Carlton hallway stretches like the goddamn Shining and you can’t seem to get away fast enough from your husband. He’s too damn good at his job, and you’re too smart to pretend that this dance the two of you are playing at is anything but a distraction, an impediment.

You are a distraction. You’ve been an unwelcome one all night.

So you’d cut it short yourself.

One keycard slice through the sensor and the sanctuary of your hotel room opens up to you, messy with the aftermath of black-tie preparation. You step up to the vanity; plant your palms on its wooden surface and stare straight ahead as if to admire your ruined mascara. It’s a formality, really. It’s not as if you need the mirror to remind you what happened in this room. Tonight began with indulgent kisses afraid to smudge dress shirt collars, hands squeezed for courage, Leon in perpetual pursuit of the train of your gown. Big dreams.

“You wanna talk? We can talk.” Leon shuts the door with an exasperated sigh. “Don’t make this difficult, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t do a damn thing,” you hiss. You stare daggers at his reflection.

“Really?” His shoulders drop. “Then what was all that with the storming off, the- oh baby, don’t look at me like that.” 

Leon’s arms wrap around your middle while his nose buries itself in your diamond-laced neck. He’s good at that, that sneaking thing without leaving so much as a whisper to signal where he’s going. The higher-ups at the DSO call it stealth. You just want the man you married to tell you what the hell he’s doing before he makes a fool out of you. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I swear,” he whispers, kissing softly down your neck. “Didn’t mean it at all, I’m sorry. What’d I do?”

You scoff. 

He’s testing the waters. A rough thumb finds and starts running down the divot of your spine, thank you backless Mirror Palais ballgown. Pass the smoking gun back and forth, pretend not to see the shrapnel from the bullet holes. You don’t pay Leon any heed as you stoically unhook diamond pendants from your ears, and he frowns.

“I said I was sorry.” 

“I shouldn’t need to tell you what you did, Leon.” 

Shame simmers sickly and strong in the pit of your stomach. You teeter on the edge of snapping altogether and consider throwing his blankets on the floor for the night – you will, actually, as soon you take off all your evening regalia. In your haste, your nails end up nicking Leon’s nose when he tries to murmur another weightless apology.

The kisses stop leaching onto your collarbone. “Don’t play this game with me, sweetheart.” 

“So now you’re calling me immature?”   

“Isn’t that what you call running out of my work summit? Making me chase you down?” Leon counters, running his hands down your sides in a last-ditch effort to diffuse the situation. Thinly-veiled irritation finally seeps into his tone. “What exactly did I do?”

And gosh, does that get the tears going. He’s so blind it hurts.

You tug pins furiously out of your hair in an effort to keep an impending outburst at bay. “You practically had me on a leash!”

Not once had he let you out of his sight in that dreadful ballroom. In front of all those international representatives and agents, people whose reputations preceded them, Leon had kept you attached to him with a heavy hand on your waist, glued to his hip like an untrustworthy child he’d lose track of at a supermarket. Coughs had quickly turned to snickers behind your back. You’re no agent, sure, but you could expect to have some kind of autonomy, right? 

The guest badge you’d flung over the hotel room bed glints tauntingly now, respected by every security detail except the one whose chest your back is currently pressed against. It’s humiliating how untrustworthy, how incapable he made you look tonight.

Leon blinks. “You’re saying I think you can’t handle yourself?”

“You don’t have to. You showed me all night.” 

Tears drip down your cheeks when he relents, his arms lifting like fog over the Golden Gate, and if you’re finally free from his clutches, you might as well take off this suffocating dress. It’s gauzy and gorgeous and completely worthless despite the stack of bills Leon paid for it, however giddy you’d been when he’d brought it home. 

If only you could reach the tiny zipper perched on your tailbone. 

Leon, ever the perceptive one, however, never passes up an opening whether it be zipped or not. He’s got a handy index and thumb; he puts them to use. He’s your husband after all. 

“Right, okay,” he exhales sharply, tugging the chain as your back bows forward, “I did this all wrong. I thought you’d catch on when I should’ve just shown you instead.”

“Show me what?”

A hand inside your newly agape gown. A palm pivoting south to the curve of your hip, pressing, searching. Leon presses his lips to your neck in answer, but this time, it’s urgent in a way that doesn’t quite feel like remorse. He hisses.

“Tell me to stop and I fucking will, but this is my last resort considering how bad I seem to be with my words, sweetheart. How many times have I told you I’m sorry?”

“You-”

A squeeze on your hip. A direction. 

“I need a number.”

The door, your neck, seconds ago.

“...three.”

“And not one of them made it inside that pretty head of yours,” Leon scowls. “Doesn’t look like words are either of our strong suits. Chin up for me, doll, and pay attention ‘cause I’m only asking this once.”

So you do, you lift your face to meet mascara-rimmed eyes in the mirror along with Leon’s sapphire-blue ones that glint right behind, and his palm drifts up to cup your jaw from underneath. He tilts it back and forth. Kisses his teeth. 

“Tell me. How am I supposed to let my wife loose in a room full of criminals just like that?”

What?

Leon circles your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, pulling away quickly. Too early to indulge in this kind of affection. “Thought I asked you something, doll.”

But you hesitate, and so Leon must disappear. His final instructions are to face forward.

He dives to the floor, locking rough fingers around your ankles only to slide them up to the backs of your shins. He goes under so quick that there’s a breeze; you’re granted mere seconds to watch Leon’s blond head duck underneath the floor-length train of your dress and by then, it’s far too late to notice the fire. 

Leon loves starting those.

He also doesn’t wait. Invisible flames lick up your bare legs from Leon’s dragon mouth. Red hot kisses trail up your thighs – he drops a sweet one on the inside of your right knee, makes you buckle momentarily – and these stubbled kisses of his have a tendency to sear any skin on their skyward path. You can’t remember when your elbows propped themselves on the vanity, out of instinct, maybe, to keep the floor of your stomach from falling out at the very first sneak of Leon’s tongue inside the drenched lace gusset of your panties. 

But you can’t afford to be surprised, can you? Not with the line of destruction he’s left behind on his way to his destination. They say it takes one to know one. 

You clutch the edge of the vanity’s shelf, suck down sobs in your throat fluttering into something indecent.

“I need you to talk to me,” he whispers with his lips pressed to your pussy. The vibration echoes up your spine, jerks your head back. “You’re all clammed up. Keeping secrets.”

Air gushes down your throat. “And you’re not?” 

“Of course I am, baby, but I’m explaining, aren’t I?” 

Kiss. Kiss. Suck. 

You keen with your mouth shut.

He noses at your clit, prompting you. “So, where’s your explanation?”

Another quality the DSO prides itself on is your husband’s ability to sweet-talk himself out of a tight spot. That seems to includes in between your legs. Your thighs clench together in a final attempt of defiance when his mouth makes contact with your cunt. Your reflection in the mirror starts to swim at the first swirl of Leon’s tongue, and he makes quick work of you with his goal being none other than to dangle the promise of more to come, literally. 

Thumbs tuck into sensitive folds, and you’re gone. Shaking at the first breach of Leon’s fingers inside you. You spread apart at his will. He dips into arousal now impossible to ignore, and when sparks finally light at the hot air Leon blows over your spasming pussy, he commits his second unforgivable sin of the night: ducking right back out at the crest of your orgasm.

You have principles. The mirror reflects Leon’s swollen lips, tousled hair damp with you when he rises from his knees, and above all this, you clench your teeth. Face forward. 

He wipes his mouth.

“That’s one.” 

The other two remain rhetorical.

You’re being lifted bridal-style when the seal on your mouth finally breaks. “Leon,” you tremble in his arms, “where are we?” The summit, the people; you chase his mouth for any explanation. “You’re working with criminals now?” 

“Yes and no. Arms up,” Leon rasps, and tugs down what remains of your gown, crashes his mouth onto yours. 

You taste yourself in his kiss. Surely that’s not an answer, is it?

“Tonight was a mission,” he continues in his feverish haste, quickly laying your naked body onto the bed before kissing down your breasts.

Pride gets tossed on the floor next to your undergarments, his crumpled dress shirt. 

“The DSO couldn’t guarantee you wouldn’t become collateral for this assignment if things went south and I didn’t want to risk it. So I took you with me.” 

“You brought me to a- oh! ” 

Two thick fingers push into your sopping cunt. You squeal, clutch the sheets. Leon presses the ribbed flesh nestled deep inside you, carving out room for himself from his kneel at the foot of the bed. He gouges deep and you writhe. Your arousal shimmers on his fingers when he finally pulls them out and you find that have nothing to say about that.

“Go on,” he coos lowly. “Don’t get quiet now.” 

Your head whirls. “You sh-should’ve told me they were dangerous.”  

“And where do you think that would’ve gotten us, sweetheart? I didn’t want you panicking. Blowing cover. I had you to take care of and intel to gather, I couldn’t think straight myself. Letting you out of my sight could’ve meant losing you.”

Fuck. You don’t need a mirror to remember how antsy Leon had been before going down to the ballroom. 

Hands squeezed for courage. Hand on your waist. 

The vanilla and leather on his skin had reeked of nerves, and you? You’d written it off.

“I wanted to keep you safe.” Leon looks up at you now, eyes glinting in the dim light. There’s a new softness in their blue depths, a sincere apology. “I just wish you'd believe me.” 

By all intents and purposes, Leon Scott Kennedy is sorry.

There’s been a lapse in judgment. Your elbows sit you up from the bed to fix it. Cupping his cheek, you lean forward to meet Leon’s waiting mouth in a long overdue embrace, one he can melt into with relief. There’s no bitterness on your tongue now. Just sweetness in the seconds you take to breathe your forgiveness into him. The clink of his falling belt promises no punishment.

“But you can’t let me off the hook just yet,” Leon murmurs when he tugs free from your latch on his bottom lip, “I hurt you, angel, and I never wanted to. Tell me I can fix it.”

He can. Your husband can fix everything, the world included. You sigh your approval, yes, yes, more, because forgiveness feels incredible as he lays your shoulders down, sets your hips straight when you twist them the first time he teases his cock’s weeping head over the soaked seam of your pussy. 

“Don’t take your eyes off the mirror for a second,” Leon instructs.

He plants his palms on the sides of your head. You whimper; swear you won’t.

“I mean it. Watch yourself, and maybe then you’ll understand how crazy you drive me.”

So begins your descent. 

You’re drowning, crying for air when Leon sinks into the liquid warmth you’ve saved for him. There’s so much of him to take, tight, tight, tight – your mind is a melting record. You’re breaking. Can’t disappoint him again. When your overwhelmed cunt nearly pushes him out, Leon just chuckles. He cants his hips to compensate, goes at it again. That should be enough to tell you how the DSO’s finest agent never lets a detail go amiss. 

“The Belgium ambassador started tailing you by the fountain." 

And to your astonishment, he starts rattling off half the world map. 

“Got rid of him quick. Then there was a – oh, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me – Swedish agent, don’t remember what I did to him.” 

A roll of his hips. Your nails down his back. 

“Someone from Germany tried to dose your champagne. Another from Argentina, shit,” his thrusts grow erratic the longer the list grows, “two from Russia, a Japanese spy – perfect fucking pussy, oh my God…”

Your husband takes you on a trip around the globe. He’d traveled to the ends of the earth in that ballroom, kept your back bulletproof with just his hand, the one that was once a collar to you. Turns out being a Kennedy puts you on a hitlist; makes your blood run blue. 

“Too much!” you sob.

You can’t take the responsibility. 

But here in the dark, here with Leon, there’s just pleasure. Opulence. The back of his head is a blond crown in the vanity mirror, the diamonds on your breasts sparkle with each bounce from Leon’s cock slamming home. Even the gooey mess you’re leaving on the chiseled marble of his lower stomach shimmers. War paint from a battle won for you.

Your head falls away from the mirror and Leon guides it back without losing his rhythm. “Mm-mm. You need to see your face when you break.” 

Never has a threat sounded so loving on anyone’s lips, you imagine. 

Your hands tangle into his hair, you grow quiet, you clench. You’re close. This, he can feel.

His lips curve into a weary grin. “Wanted you to see why I had eyes on my baby all night. My pretty girl, all mine.”

Lucky you. 

That somehow does you in. Every word of praise Leon utters makes it clear that no, he did trust you, does trust you. He trusted you enough to know you could hold your own in that lion’s den downstairs, trusts now that you’ll forgive him for a misstep born of love. And with that realization, your pleasure rides helium high. 

“Shit, Leon!” you cry.

Electric pressure builds in your sensitive bud, the one Leon rubs frantically now. Gasps from your wide open mouth sweeten the air like perfume and Leon wishes he could breathe it all in, you’re beautiful when he turns you into a wailing mess. All for him.  

“This one’s two, angel,” he groans when you flutter around him. No way. 

His cock had put you in a trance, so warm and filling is it inside you. You’d forgotten about the deal entirely. 

Your cries increase precariously in pitch. “Oh, please, please, you can’t, Leon, I have to-” 

“Hold on!” 

Leon presses you into the sheets one last time to free the pretty songbird singing his name. You sprout wings in the looking glass.

The afterglow is golden. The sunset is long gone but it glows in your hotel room all the same, wrapped in silk sheets and Leon’s arms.

“You’re beautiful like this, you know?” he hums, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. 

“What, all sweaty and gross?” You wouldn’t expect him to know. He’s gorgeous. Leon is gorgeous when he makes love to you.

He nods, laughing when you roll your eyes. “Really, you do. Enough that I had to spend half my mission clawing bad guys off you. But I got it finished, and so did you in the process, huh?” 

Leon drops a kiss to your forehead, murmuring one last I’m sorry, his fourth one.

Shit. 

You scramble to hide under the sheets, leaving him cocking his head after you in utter confusion. “Wait, wait, what’s the matter?”

“I can’t do any more, Leon, I’m gonna pass out.” 

“Do any…?”

“You only left off on two!” 

Leon snorts. You soon feel a warm press on the top of your head: a sugary, schoolboy-sweet kiss.

“There you go, baby. That’s three. Apology accepted?”

And when you poke your head out of the covers to give Leon a kiss of your own, you make sure he knows it’s for apology number four.

He shouldn’t be so surprised you noticed. It’s not like you can take your eyes off him either.

psst, find more of my work here!

comments and reblogs are very much appreciated <3 take care and i love you!

[taylorswiftstyle]

Chiefs vs Ravens | Kansas City, MO | September 5, 2024

Versace 'Medusa Bustier' - $1,325.00 For Future Reference 'Vintage 1970s Ancient Bronze Coin Necklace' - $12,750.00 Three Stories Jewelry 'Single Long Love Explosion Starburst Charm' - $590.00 EF Collection 'Diamond Mini Huggie & Prong Set Chain Stud Earring' - $850.00 Wove Made x Michelle Wie West 'Custom Diamond Tennis Bracelet’ - $5,680.00 (starting) Lizzie Mandler 'Three Row Cleo Bracelet' - $18,300.00 Howl Jewelry 'Ruby Cocoon Ring' - $4,800.00 Retrouvai 'Cushion Ruby Impetus Interlocking Puzzle Ring' - $29,100.00 Louis Vuitton 'Side Trunk Bag' - $3,950.00 Grlfrnd 'Whitney Shorts' - $115.00 Giuseppe Zanotti 'Frannie Boots' - $1,650.00

Touchdown - she’s back. Many wondered how Taylor’s style playbook would shift (if at all) for “National Sportsball Observation”: Season Two. You might recall that during her “rookie” season, Taylor’s opening outfit was, as we’re calling it now, demure. A simple, lace-trimmed white cotton tank to + denim shorts + sneakers + a Chiefs jacket she picked up at the Arrowhead pro shop. As a way of testing the waters in a completely new setting, it was a lowkey, casual entrypoint into a very headline-exploding relationship launch. As we saw her continue to show up to games, her clothing choices became bolder. Bigger jackets, taller heels, tighter bustiers, cheekier cut denim. It all signalled a growing confidence in herself — and her relationship. 

When you makeout on the field at the Superbowl, there’s no going back to demure. This denim on denim moment is obviously sexy, and yet entirely familiar to where we last left off with Taylor’s game day fashion thanks to some repeat silhouettes. Which in my opinion makes this an extremely well executed strategic start to her season - and a hot and spicy one to boot!

Bustiers: Bustiers + corsets have become TTPD’s “signature” item. She wore plenty to previous Chiefs games last year. You might even recognize this exact one because she wore it in black the night she ‘killahardlaunched’ her relationship with Travis when they were photographed leaving Saturday Night Live in October 2023. 

Jewelry Stacking: Another era-specific signature that became key over the course of TTPD. Taylor became comfortable heavily layering larger, statement pieces of jewelry over the last few years. 

Denim: Taylor wore a lot of denim last year (like the distressed Ksubis from her first game and a crystallised Area pair at the NY game). But to go denim on denim feels like a pointed “painting the town blue” democratic signal to me. 

Boots: Thigh high boots by Louboutin and Larroude were incorporated into her game day style through the winter games.  

As an aside, this particular cut and fabrication of bustier is giving me flashbacks to her 2023 MTV VMA after-party look, which was by EB Denim. Given the 2024 VMAs are next week, I can’t get over the genius use of slideshowing.

As we saw throughout Taylor’s game day fashion playbook last year, she would often employ sentimental pieces through her jewelry. Items that were named for certain goddesses, or that were adorned with a certain jersey number. It was a subtle way of bejeweling a little bit of romance into her outfit.

The ‘Long Love’ name feels both appropriate to the circumstances for why she’s at the game and it also sounds a lot like her own song “Long Live”.

For her Retrouvai piece, the brand notes that it is from their “Impetus collection” which includes a lot of puzzle motifs that they say “represent that we are each individually part of a much larger picture. The force behind this collection was thinking about the idea of purpose and drive.” Love that!

As a repeat, Taylor also rewore her 'TNT' bracelet - a custom gift to her from Travis she wore when the Chiefs won the 2023 AFC Division game against the Ravens back in January. What a full circle moment to reference as they kick off the 2024-2025 season.

Just this past summer, FFR launched a curated collection of unsigned, one-of-a-kind vintage pieces exclusive to Bergdorfs. The pieces range from the 1940s through to the 1980s.

Upon launch, FFR founder Randi Molofsky told National Jeweler, “I think the idea of vintage is in the zeitgeist, and clients are actively seeking out jewelry that has stood the test of time.”

It’s not surprising to me that Taylor would gravitate towards a stunning vintage piece like this. She’s long loved vintage fashion since she began to incorporate it into her wardrobe around the Speak Now era and really leaned into the aesthetic in the RED era. Just last summer, she acquired a vintage Cartier necklace she wore often that was valued at just above $27,000.

I reached out to Randi Molofsky directly who told me a bit of history with this special one-of-a-kind vintage piece. “This one-of-a-kind vintage necklace is the ultimate in sexy 1970s style — it’s bold and powerful and makes a real statement,” said Molofsky. “In the ‘70s, oversized medallions and chunky chains had a major moment — heavily influenced by the disco movement and Italian resort style — and that look is having a resurgence now. I love that Taylor chose vintage for this moment not only because is it good for the planet, but because these pieces have lived lives before us and they will still be treasured for generations to come.”

Taylor often will wear a lot of red-tinged jewelry to her Chiefs games as an obvious nod to their team colours which makes the Howl ruby ring make total sense here. But a part of me can’t help but smirk at the ‘three row’ bracelet and wonder if it’s an optimistic fingers crossed moment for a Chiefs Super Bowl threepeat (they won the big trophy in consecutive years in 2023 and 2024).

Lastly - those 'girlfriend' shorts? Girl, please.

Photo by David Eulitt via Getty Images