#The white shirt and the blue collar is so deliberate

[homoqueerjewhobbit]

Loid is totally doing Richie Tenenbaum cosplay, right?

#The white shirt and the blue collar is so deliberate #spy x family #the royal tenenbaums #loid forger #richie tenenbaum #wes anderson #post o' mine

[tonixe]

goverment hooker..

a/n: I'm back again, there is no surprise. I'm feeling devious so I might post again, wowzers. Also, the sped-up version of the government hooker sound so fire, like it feels like I'm in one of those edits, anyways lemme stop rambling. I hope y'all enjoy, reblogs, and comments will be also appreciated.

warning: smut, penetrating, p in the v, unprotected sex, creampies. proofread (?)

pairing: Young!Coriolanus Snow x reader

word counter: 1.4k

What appeals to you to most men, maybe it was your cute antics, your siren eyes that attracted anyone toward you, or your body, sculpted with your delicate curves, and a perky bosom to match the appeal of your young face that can lull a man to sleep.

Or was it how you talked, deliberately making a slur of your words, with your ribboning voice, that can make anyone feel safe and warm with you. You fooled some powerful men, their hearts were already tainted and covered in greed, easy to control someone with their needs. You were in command of it, you made them your pawn, you played the cards, and made a charade of it.

Every time you talked or did anything, you automatically moved your chess piece forward never back. But..what were you doing in a low district as a 'prestigious' woman like yourself, doing in the slum like this. Well, these 'slums' they would call, these 'desperate streets' were your home, even though you won't admit with your own mouth, your words, it still was your home...

Trying to lift yourself from the slums called your homes, to a place where it is much safer than here, maybe to Capitol, but you would need a ticket in. They wouldn't allow just anyone, would they?

But here you were standing in a speakeasy, in a tight little red dress, with a lacey red lining. It was odd to see polished women like you in a bar in District 12, you looked like you were for the Capitol, but all things you see and hear aren't what it seemed. Drinking up on the cheap liquor they offered, looking at the scene in front of you with the happy and dancing couples on the floor, as live music played. The 'Covey' they called them, and the main star, Lucy Gray. Staring at the stage, as she sang into the mic, playing her guitar.

She was familiar to you, the only reference you saw was when she was fighting in the Hunger Games, it was a surprise seeing her still living, breathing, and standing up there, but needless to say, she was still good at what she did. You waving your body to the relaxing music, fixing yourself on the stool, swaying to the music. "What is a lady like you sitting in here" You turned your head to the gentleman talking to you, staring at him.

"I'm just sitting here, enjoying the show," You said, taking a sip of the alcoholic liquid, "How about you" you tilt your head to the side.

"Just enjoying my show" He gestured to your form, and you giggled at his compliment as he sat on the stool beside you. You really got to see the man that was next to you. He had a handsome face and a chiseled face, he wore a blue open-collar shirt and a blondish-white buzz cut, He seemed like one of those Peacekeepers lurking around the district. "Do you do this every girl you see?" You were amused by the blonde man who sat beside you. You wouldn't lie that he was indeed attractive in your eyes. Scanning his frame, his body, his face. "Not to every woman, but to the ones that look beautiful like you my dear" You couldn't help to smile at him, "━And your not bad-looking as well" You admitted, crossing your legs together. As you deliberately lean towards him, revealing a white lacey bra.

Pouting your lips together, "An attractive man indeed" giving him a sultry look, with your eyelids drooping down slightly. "So, what is your name, handsome" You took a sip from your drink, "Coriolanus.." He took your hand and kissed it, "Y/N" you smirked taking your hand gently away from him,

"Should we..take our business elsewhere for a private scene?" You whispered into his ear with a suggested look on your face.

Your hands were with his as you walked in the night street, your body already feeling hot. "Where are we going?" He was amused with your antics, as you batted your eyes at him, "A place, special" you gave him a smirk, your heels clicking down on the wet cement road. A neon sign coming into view, a little motel still opened near the bar. As you opened the door, walking down the lobby of the motel, the clerk managing the reception, "A room for one" The clerk nodded his head, and gave you the keys, "room 9" He said, as you walked away with his hand with yours. Your hips sway sensually, your heels stepping into the room and opening it.

Turning yourself on your heels, stepping closer to the man, "So..what are we going to do?" You pouted, your eyes dilating feeling the feeling of being aroused.

Feeling his hands on your lower bottom, as you hoof your legs around his hips, wrapping your arms around his neck, as you both leaned into a kiss, feeling his hands groping your body. Feeling him moving, as he withdrew from you, your chest heaving. "You do know how to make a man crazy, don't you" He groaned, Feeling him putting your body onto the bed gently,

His body touching you recklessly, his hands going under your dress, slowly taking off your red lacey panties, discarding it on the floor. Biting your lip down in excitement, crossing your legs together covering yourself. Staring at him, taking off his pants and his boxers, feeling yourself getting aroused, as your cunt pulsed.

As his dick sunk into you, the pain writhing through your body, feeling the pain in your lower abdomen. Feeling your cheeks getting flushed, as you groaned in pain. His hips push into you, slowly before increasing his pace.

The bed rocked with your back on the bed, your skirt flipped and your legs being held up with his arms. Your sinful moans came out of your lips, his cock splitting your open, as you bit your lip down. His hands massaging your waist down, "F-fuck" stuttering out of your lips, your lipstick already messed up, smeared on your cheeks.

Your skin felt sticky, your lacey dress sticking onto your skin. "C-corio—" You were cut off from his hips smacking into your pelvis, your hands gripping on the sheet, holding down for support, leaning back in pleasure and relief, feeling a rush of pleasure.

Your slick lubricating his dick, makes him slip inside you easier. Your face burning up, fixing your legs on his around his waist. Your cunt clenching down around him making him groan in your ear. Feeling lips and your crashing into each other, into a hungry kiss. His tongue abused your mouth, making you moan against him, before you withdrew for air, your chest heaving, up and down.

Feeling his cock reaching to your cervix, "Hmm" You whined, your eyelids getting droopy in the process, feeling his slender fingers rubbing the nub of your clit, your legs wrapping around his waist tighter, "Corio, I'm sensitive" You whined, his hips grinding onto yours, with his unrelenting pace, arching your back. His hands on your hips tilting up, plummeting into you.

"Don't be greedy, darling" He asserted, harshly rubbing on your clit, making you scream in bliss. His body leaning toward you, his dick still throbbing inside of you, making you go crazy. His mouth sucked onto your flesh, as the blooming mark left your neck.

Your body getting overstimulated, as your body trembled, skin prickling and your cunt dripping out.

Feeling a wave crashing down on you, clenching down around his cock. The pace of his hips getting slower, feeling his hands on your waist, gripping down making you wince. "I'm close" He groaned into your ear. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and your legs, "Inside" you mewled, feeling his hips stuttering against yours. His dick pulsed inside of you, as he thrust into you one more last time, painting your walls white, as your cunt fluttered around him. Your body feeling tired.

Falling down on the bed. Feeling his warm essence leaking out of you, feeling himself still inside you. "Don't leave...please" You whimpered, feeling his soft lips on your lips, before he withdrew, looking at him, pursing your lips gently. His hands lift your chin up, "I have to.." He looked at your lips, scanning your face. Taking your appearance from your smeared lipstick to your ruined makeup, before he drew you into another kiss, a longer, more passionate one. For the first time feeling your heart swell with a man you slept with once at a bar, "Please.." you said, breathlessly.

"I'll be back" he gently traced the shape of your lips with his finger, his voice was tender to your ears, lulling you to an endless abyss. As drowsiness took over your body, your eyes shut and closed.

#coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow #tbosbas #ballad of songbirds and snakes #president snow x reader #president snow #coryo snow #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas x reader #tbosas movie #tbosas #tbosas x you #tbosas imagine #hunger games x reader

[rwrbmovie]

VOGUE: Taylor Zakhar Perez Is The Prince Of The Vogue World Red Carpet

It’s also the only theatre in the United Kingdom to have two royal boxes, which surely proved useful at Vogue World: London tonight, where Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice rubbed shoulders with Taylor Zakhar Perez (a man who is not technically blue-blooded but did act as the love interest of a fictional prince in Netflix’s Red, White and Royal Blue). Perez emerged on this evening’s red carpet in a louche, open-collared shirt with an undone waistcoat that first debuted in Daniel W Fletcher’s autumn/winter 2023 collection. As would be fitting for a Netflix romcom, the deliberate deshabillé of the ensemble made it look as though Perez had perhaps been caught in a moment of spontaneous passion. “I must confess to having watched Red, White and Royal Blue multiple times so I was thrilled when Taylor said he wanted to wear DWF for Vogue World: London,” the designer told Vogue. “Nicholas Galitzine (who plays Prince Henry) has been a regular in the collections so I’m hoping that makes me a good candidate to design some Red, White and Royal Blue wedding suits!” Fletcher continues: “The look is part of a collaboration with Huntsman of Savile Row and was inspired by something I found in their archive. I hope the prince would approve.” As for the actual royals, Beatrice and Eugenie attended Vogue World: London in bespoke Richard Quinn and aqueous Fendi gowns, respectively, both having been styled by Harry Lambert.

#rwrb movie #red white and royal blue #taylor zakhar perez #nicholas galitzine #cast #the boys #tzp #pls prime everyone wants a sequel #let him design the wedding suits

[firespirited]

To be fair, it's hard to convey how intertwined and complex gay culture was with traditional masculine codes from the 60s to the 2000s. Gaston was a gay caricature, Bruce Springsteen classic denim on denim was gay if you wore it just right in the right place, the sleeveless vest in suede leather or colourful was considered masculine wear. end of. the idea was to pass as the blue or white collar patriotic man. the skinhead could be gay. Pride parades in the 90s had men in stars and stripes shirts looking like your racist uncle.

Paris is Burning was a culture of people who could not or would not pass. Patrick Batemen and Tyler Duerden were gay coded between the lines because of how they performed masculinity a little too hard. If you showed Wolverine of 2010 to comic book fans of the 90s or even early 00s they'd have called him slurs: he's so obviously doing hyper masculinity.

The perfectly sized ring above the barbie charm set Ken apart because the codes were small things, hints, tiny details. Clockable was about mannerisms and winks. You were just as likely to get a kiss as a punch because clockable wasn't a thing unless you were out and proud.

Then you add in club culture which was about deliberate blurring of codes, often by hetero men to appeal to women.

Fashion and it's intersection to culture is very strange.

[flamerunn3r]

Ok making this as a new post bc I adjusted a couple of minor things on these. In the order I drew them in, heres the great p5u au design post finalized after working on these on and off for like 5 months

This is my own personal interpretations but is also somewhat speculative in nature. I'm mostly trying to use already established characterizations and arena epilogue set ups as a branching off point but there might be stuff I've missed or forgotten (i also haven't played dancing yet sorry if there's something in there I hadn't accounted for). This is kind of like if I took the creative reigns on the story where I'd continue with it. Only the investigation team for now but maybe I'll do the shadow ops at some point.

Yu Narukami

He's currently either attending school as a journalism student in the city or just starting out as one. Enthusiastic about his field but still tries to find the time to keep up with his friends and visit Inaba when he's free. I felt journalism made alot of sense for him with the themes of persona 4. I liked the sport jacket and turtleneck but wanted something different so the scarf was chosen to keep the same kind of silhouette. I made the collar on the winter coat large and I feel like Narukami's large uniform collar is a key part of his design. and I wanted to call back to that in his casual outfit. The summer outfit I kept close to his summer outfit from p4. I mostly wanted to keep his outfits smart and simple. For his meta verse outfit I really wanted to go all out with the bancho (kingpin) stuff and other delinquent tropes. I lengthened the uniform coat a little because I wanted it to look like a tokko-fuku. Alot of smaller detail inspiration was taken from Izanagi. The lenses in the mask are supposed to mimic glasses. I'd imagine he'd take off the mask the same way he throws off his glasses at the end of P4.

Teddie

I can't imagine him leaving Inaba and the TV world behind. Still staying in Inaba and working largely the same job. He's got his own place now albeit small (still a step up from the closet though). At some point the IT asked Mitsuru to pull some strings so he actually has a legal personhood now. The animal hoodie is something that came to me spontaneously but I knew I needed to include it. I really that his normal outfit in 4 keeps the white and red of the bear costume in the outfit so I tried to keep the colour scheme here too. Most of his later outfits are less flashy and more casual so I tried to continue that trend. I didn't want to lose the rose from the corsage completely so I included a rose pattern in the second shirt. Alot of his outfits feature light blue so I wanted to feature that. (I considered making the hoodie light blue initially) I don't think he'd have a metaverse outfit he'd just use the bear costume.

Naoto Shirogane

I'm under the assumption Naoto is still presenting masculinely to the general public as of p5 but I may be mistaken. (If I'm wrong I'd still probably largely keep the outfits largely similar to this.) Naoto's still working as a detective and I don't think that's ever really going to change. One thing that a hypothetical p5u would have to address is what Naoto and the shadow ops would have been doing during the events of persona 5 but I haven't worked that out yet

I feel alot of the appeal of Naoto's design is the kind of boy detective fashion. I went at this design with the intention of kind of refining that into something a little more adult while still keeping in a similar vein. I did have to ditch the pageboy hat unfortunately as I felt it made them look too young. These outfits were kind of designed as pseudo work clothes which is why I tried to make them a bit more formal. Something I consider notable about Naoto's design that I deliberately avoided here was the rolled up pant legs. It's very obvious in 4 it's done because Naoto is short but I feel like Naoto would start getting that either custom made or tailored to fit. I was initially going to forgo the blazer on the summer outfit but the design felt empty without it. Naoto having a noir detective themed metaverse outfit is an idea I'd had for years but I tried to incorporate design elements that were princely. I alot of the inspiration was from Sam Spade specifically. Deliberately made similarities to Akechi's white crow design. The band around the hat is supposed to invoke the similar one on the old page boy hat.

Yukiko Amagi

Still working at her families in but is taking online schooling during the less busy seasons. She's mostly happy where she is but is keeping her options open. Occasionally makes visits to other ryokans out of town for ideas for her families own inn, as well as an opportunity to for her to sight-see.

The headband was included in her design in p4 as a like retro design thing but I find it too important of a marker of her design to remove it. I understand the why they went with the hairstyle they did for her golden epilogue but I feel it just ends up making her look way older then she is. I thought her having her hair up would be a nice change since she does it so rarely and settled on a ponytail. Tried changing the bangs but the ones she already had just felt right. I wanted her clothes to carry this kind of air of sophistication so I tried to keep them relatively simple and sleek. She's wearing pants in the winter outfit but I chose the longer coat to keep a similar skirt silhouette. The choker was largely inspired by the scarf she has in her winter outfit. Despite being a different colour the cardigan was also chosen to tie back somewhat to the sweater she wears with her school uniform.

In some side material it's mentioned that Yukiko has an interest in western fashion and aesthetics (part of what made the castle manifest the way it did) and I wanted to lean on that in some way for her metaverse design. I ended up going with a masquerade ball theme. I tried to keep the dress to something simple and easy to move in. The gloves and boots take inspiration from her persona in terms of design and size. I wanted to incorporate elements from her work kimono as well hence the ribbon around the torso and flower patterning. Probably the most unsure of this one of the metaverse designs so far. Especially the colours (considered making the reds pinks initially). Might revisit this one.

Rise Kujikawa

Canonically still making music as an idol as of p5. She thankfully has a little more time to herself now then she did at the height of her popularity but shes still enjoying herself and her career.

I really liked her epilogue design having her hair down because it feels alot more relaxed. I feel she probably stop wearing the pigtails as regularly outside of work as time goes on. I went for a more casual relaxed style for her in for her general casual wear, but I still wanted a kind of cute vibe.

Wanted her to have two metaverse outfits mostly because I wanted her to have this little magical girl transformation thing when she fights. But I also think it kind of emphasizes her thing in arena with Himiko about having different sides of herself. Tried to keep them visually similar. General coloursheme of these were inspired by the album cover she has in p5 bc I really liked the kind of more mature vibe to it then weve been shown with her previous idol stuff.

Himiko kind of has this like emphasis on a lack of mobility with the mermaid dress so I ended up using this with Rise as well bc I thought it would be fitting for a navigator. I based the battle outfit mostly on her idol oufits from the anime and DaN. I was really unsure the direction to go with for the mask but I wanted it to be two-toned to emphasize the multiple faces thing again and I like what I ended up with.

Yosuke Hanamura

Studying in the city and struggling to juggle college and a part time job. I'm unsure on what he'd major in but he's paying his own way through college. He's working at either a Junes branch or a Triple Seven or something. I think he's rooming with someone in a rented apartment currently (either Narukami or someone outside the IT. Leaning towards the latter)

I'm trying to go for outfits that are like flashy but still pretty casual and I think I did an alright job. Darker colour pallete in his outfits here then the p4 ones but I think it works. The headphones being wireless was an immediate obvious design choice I thought of as a way to show the difference in time period (sounds weird to talk about it like that since its like 5 years difference but it is what it is/)

I went for this kind of tropey ninja/super hero thing with his metaverse outfit. The primarily black colour was something I also chose for this reason. The tools on the belt are also kind of typical in this regard. The headphones were something I felt was integral to his design so I had to include them. Charge suggested the googles as a mask idea and I think it works really well.

Kanji Tatsumi

Continuing the family business as well as expanding to sell his work online. Generally doing fairly well for himself, rightfully confident in his work. I feel like he's probably tried out a few things when it comes to his personal style before settling where he is now. Has gone back and forth quite a few times on his hair but eventually decided on keeping in black.

Going to be honest I sketched this out after Naoto's but ended up psyching myself out of working on it for a while. Anyway I went at this with this kind of idea of trying to like soften the though guy aspect of Kanji's appearance without losing them. I did try out a couple of other hairstyles but I couldn't come up with something else that felt right.

The Metaverse Design was initially going to have more samurai inspiration but it ended up only coming through with the mask in the end. Deliberately harkening back to his initial design with this but I feel like it's warrented because Kanji's fashion in 4 is as much a facade to keep people away as it is just his own personal taste.

Chie Satonaka

Still pursuing police work around the Yasoinaba area. I think all the IT are signed on with the Shadow Operatives in case of emergency but Chie is more actively involved with the Operatives then the rest of the IT as she actively asks and tries to be. Still talks to Akihiko fairly regularly as well (mostly exchanging texts).

Generally with her everyday outfits I mostly wanted to keep it sporty but relaxed. Deliberately made these a little less overtly feminine then her p4 outfits because I feel like she'd grow more confident in herself not being as feminine as her peers. Tried to keep an article of clothing the same between the two of these outfits to call back to the jersey she was wearing in 4. I considered having her not continue to dye her hair but I didn't feel like Chie once I changed her hair colour so it gets to stay the same.

Her metaverse outfit takes inspiration from kung fu uniforms, particularly the pants. The chest plate is styled after a hotoke dou albeit shortened. Charge also came up with the mask for this one; a blindfold to invoke the idea of a uber competent blinded martial artist, the fabric here is sheer though. The shoes on this design are not necessarily finalized as they are not technically part of the outfit. They are her weapons and would change as such like in the rpg.

Ok that's all for now. Glad to finally have this done

#persona 4 #ul #most of this text is copy pasted from the original post if you've seen that already #its late sorry if some of this doesn't read correctly. #feel free to leave asks as well if you want more like clarification or whatever #I do have like a loose plot for this but i didn't want to write it out rn #2023 #2024

[wellwornwornwell]

The Luxury of Apathy

There’s an old, however offensive, adage that is imparted over cheap beers in Rust Belt towns: “You can build a thousand bridges and not be remembered as a bridge builder,” the saying goes, “but you suck just one cock…”

If my inbox is any indication, somewhere along the way I was fingered as the subject matter expert on “stealth wealth.” “Quiet luxury!” they demand. “Old money!” they insist.

I don’t get it.

Sure, I’ve talked a lot about the kind of “IYKYK” tendencies that may get you noticed by certain circles of immeasurably vain and obscenely insecure elitists, but a quick search reveals I’ve never once typed the phrase “Stealth Wealth” on this platform. Like most virgins losing their sense of propriety, I feel bad for indulging my impulse, but the invitation has been extended and the suitor is quite insistent, so let’s do this.

You don’t want to quietly wear nice things. You don’t want anonymity in your autonomy. You do not enjoy the details enough to justify the purchase. You are not living this lifestyle.

As best I understand, the theory of Stealth Wealth is built on the premise of rich people painstakingly selecting tasteful, restrained, and exclusive garments in a deliberate effort to blend in and downplay their wealth. This of course makes a lot of sense because the masses are always so restrained, tasteful, and deliberate in their clothing choices. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve thrown my keys to the guy standing a bit too close to the valet stand in a Loro Piana parka!

Buying expensive clothes, however devoid of branding, and combining them into a cohesive outfit, will ALWAYS stand out. As sad as it may be, looking like you give a shit or have any idea of what you’re doing is an immediate tell.

And have you ever met a truly wealthy person? They’re either wearing the shirt they’ve had since high school or the pants their wife bought them without consultation. They embody genuine, authentic apathy distilled and aged into an intoxicating sense of entitlement. They’re not dressing for you or anyone because fuck you and everyone.

Stealth Wealth adherents are buying into the appeal of leisure and the luxury of apathy. It’s the fashion equivalent of being naturally skinny despite eating and drinking whatever you like: An ideal situation that is shared by VERY few but touted by countless aspirators. You don’t have a tangible sense of superiority so you draw confidence from quietly flexing; confidence from knowing you’re better than those around you, even if they can’t readily tell. And of course they can’t readily tell because they’re not you.

I could delve into the psychology of this – from the depressing impact of prestige television on our collective cultural psyche to how American Late Stage Capitalism insists on blue collar tendency despite white collar achievement – but it’s almost happy hour and you’re undoubtedly tired of my shit.

So I’ll leave it here: Enjoy the clothes you wear. Don’t cosplay titans of industry or downplay your enthusiasm for dressing well at the risk of being overt. People look good in clothes when they’re comfortable, both physically and emotionally. Own your taste and revel in yourself.

#Stealth Wealth #me

[eddawrites]

Mel & Jayce, a story told in colour

First of all, let me start by saying that I have a deep appreciation for just how much Jayce’s and Mel’s clothes mirror each other. The designers seem to have made some very conscious choices to make these two characters match visually. Let’s break it down.

Perhaps the most striking detail about Mel’s design are tattoos golden tattoos/armour pieces covering her back, shoulders and thighs, but have you noticed that each of these pieces is matched by a detail on Jayce’s suit?

The details on Mel’s shoulders are matched by Jayce’s epaulets:

The skin on Mel’s back framed by the golden plates forms a T shape, and so does the tailoring on Jayce’s back:

The armour on Mel’s thighs is mirrored by the embroidery on Jayce’s pants:

Even the lace details on Mel’s dress are similar-looking to the embroidery on Jayce’s sleeves (although I believe this less intentional):

The choice of giving Mel a slit dress and Jayce a tailcoat likewise appears deliberate, giving them a similar airy vibe.

Of course, their colour palettes are also very similar: both their outfits are predominantly white and black (Mel’s collar and Jayce’s shirt and pants), with some grey details (the lace on Mel’s dress and Jayce’s vest) and golden elements - in Mel’s case fused to her body, in Jayce’s the embroidery on his coat. However, Jayce’s outfit implements a colour that is conspicuously absent on Mel’s dress, which brings me to my next point...

A Fox or a Wolf?

In her style of dress and colour palette both, Mel appears to be distancing herself from Ambessa and her Noxian heritage. She prefers an airy dress with lace details to her mother’s leather and steel, she usually covers her arms with delicate sleeves while Ambessa keeps hers bare. While the primary colours of Noxus appear to be black, red and silver, Mel wears white and gold, even going as far as - quite literally - painting her family sigil gold (the window in her office, her ring, banners etc. are all wrought in gold) instead of the Noxian silver/steel that her mother uses. In so doing, Mel discards her mother’s teachings, choosing to be a fox rather than a wolf.

Interestingly, though, Jayce’s outfit does implement red. This choice appears very deliberate from a narrative standpoint. Of course, the House Talis colours are gold and red, so it’s only natural that they should appear in his design, however, Talis red is more of a maroon red - the shade used on his epaulets - whilst the Medarda red is very vibrant, perhaps to recall the colour of blood. The embroidery on Jayce’s pants and vest, as well as his tie, appear to be wrought in a similar shade of red.

Throughout the show Jayce wears a white tailcoat with golden details and a white-and-grey ves (which he keeps on even when he’s not wearing his overcoat), but under it he’s wearing a black shirt and a red tie. He’s wearing Ambessa’s colour palette under Mel’s colour palette. Now, at the risk of overthinking why the curtains are blue, I interpret this as Jayce having the potential to be both a charming diplomat like Mel and an aggressive despot like her mother - he even has a brief phase of displaying this very quality after he becomes increasingly aggravated by Jinx’s attacks. The wolf inside of him awakens.

While Mel is actively moulding him to be a fox, upon her arrival, Ambessa immediately starts pushing him to be a wolf, to “know death” like she was taught, which he does when the shimmer factory raid goes awry. Mel realises this potential and that is what triggers the (emotionally) violent confrontation with her mother. She doesn’t want Jayce to devolve into a type of person that her mother is, she’s trying to protect Jayce’s idealism (white is traditionally considered to be the colour of purity) and Ambessa is actively attempting to undo her efforts.

In the end, Jayce chooses the path of the fox, validating Mel’s anti-war stance, his figure bathed in stark white light.

#arcane #arcane thoughts #visual storytelling #mel medarda #jayce talis #meljay #maybe the curtains really are just blue #but i'll overthink it anyways #arcane designers really said these two are meant for each other #and gave them matching outfits

[you-show-me-love]

Gallavich Kinktober 2022 Day 17 - hair pulling X “Take it off. Slowly.”

For @gallavichthings and dreamers of Mexico

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

Mickey had just been dealt a good hand when his name was called from across the rec room.

"Milkovich!"

"Should probably get goin," Enzo suggested, his eyes on his cards and a smirk on his lips.

"And let you vultures take my pot? Hell no." Mickey's leg bounced with impatience as the men surrounding the table tossed in their bids.

"Now inmate."

The voice was directly behind him now. The other players were glancing above Mickey's head then back down to their cards.

"I heard ya, Red. Let me sweep the pot and I'll-" Mickey was lifted by his collar to a stand and dragged away from his poker game.

"Don't worry Mick, I'll take your share!" Enzo called after him. Mickey scoffed at his cell mate and let himself be dragged through the hallways.

"I was gonna win that one." Mickey grumbled, crossing his arms and exaggerating his annoyed facade as they passed by open cell doors.

"I don't give a fuck." His CO responded, green eyes staring straight ahead, crooked chin stubbornly set.

The pair entered a room locked behind a badge scanner. It was windowless and bleak, with only a table and chair as decoration. Once the door was closed behind him Mickey's collar was released. He stepped further into the room and made a show of taking it in.

"What are we doin' here Officer Gallagher?" He asked, figuring he'd keep up the charade a little while longer.

"Strip search."

"Oh yeah? Whatcha searchin me for?" Mickey hastily pulled at the snaps of his jumpsuit. While he was looking down Officer Gallagher had stepped closer. He watched another snap release before grabbing the hair on the back of the inmate's head and yanking. Blue eyes met green and hands stilled on the next snap, waiting.

“Take it off. Slowly.”

He released the dark locks and stepped back. Mickey took a second to remember how to breathe before he popped the next snap deliberately unhurried. Satisfied with the change of pace Officer Gallagher sat down in the lone chair and watched.

Once all the snaps were done Mickey eased the yellow jumpsuit off his shoulders revealing pale, strong arms and a white tank top. Gallagher placed a hand over his clothed crotch, eyes roving every bit of newly exposed skin. The jumpsuit pooled onto his black slip-ons which he stepped out of by pressing down on the back heels. In his white top and boxers Mickey toyed with the hem for a brief moment before lifting the shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor.

He smirked seeing Ian's palm pressing down on the tent in his pants. He flicked his gaze from the man's crotch to his face, licking his lips on reflex at the lustful gaze. Hooking his thumbs into his starchy prison boxers he lowered them off his hips. Only when he was fully naked did Gallagher move to remove his own pants, which he only pulled down to mid thigh. Mickey stroked his cock to full hardness as he watched Ian roll on a condom and lube up.

"Come 'ere."

Mickey straddled clothed thighs and sank down, Ian holding his cock upright and guiding it to Mickey's hole. A few shallow presses to open him up and he was ready. He sank down until his ass was flush with Ian's lap.

"Fuck, baby." Ian let out a sigh of relief as Mickey adjusted, moving his hips in a shallow up and down motion as waves of arousal stemmed from their connection.

Mickey bounced skillfully up and down Ian's hard length, eyes closed and mouth open as he lost himself in the build of his orgasm. So lost in the moment he let out a shaky sound of surprise when Ian pulled the hair on the back of his head and forced his face to the ceiling. He dropped down harder on the man's cock to express his appreciation.

"Fuck, Mick. So good." Ian praised, holding Mickey's head back and attacking his neck with sweet, wet kisses. The man on top of him keened and the sound coursed through Ian's cock like lightning. With a growl the officer grabbed the inmate around the waist and stood. Taking a few steps he then set the man gently on the table.

Mickey hissed as the cold metal came in contact with his back, then lost his breath as Ian impaled him on all nine inches in one smooth movement. Mickey's vision swam as Ian overwhelmed him.

"Gonna cum." Ian breathed out and Mickey was finally able to breathe in. His body tightened around the cock inside him making Ian whimper and still before his hips shifted in tiny thrusts as he came into the condom. Mickey rubbed at the back of his copper hair and clothed shoulders as Ian came down.

Once his breathing had settled Ian grabbed the base of the condom and pulled out, sliding the condom off his softening cock and tying it as Mickey shuffled to the edge of the table. Getting down on his knees Ian engulfed Mickey's cock in the warm heat of his mouth and let the man thrust himself to completion. Ian swallowed the shaking man's load, sucking at the tip of his cock before Mickey shoved his head away.

They got dressed quickly, they didn't have a lot of time before their whereabouts were questioned, but they spared a moment for a few sweet kisses.

"Soon?" Mickey asked when Ian pressed his forehead against his.

"Soon. Me, you, Mexico. Just tequila and sandals."

Mickey smiled, pulling back to take in Ian's beautifully pale, freckled face.

"Bet your white ass burns like a motherfucker."

Ian smiles and grabs Mickey's collar leading him back to his poker game.

#gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #shameless #ian x mickey #chaos writes #gallavich fanfic #ao3 #gallavich kinktober 2022

[altairtalisman]

"Why does everyone ignore me? Please, anyone... Just notice me..."

The original appearance of the Dark Curse before everything happened, all 'he' wanted was to be noticed... even if it meant being hated...

The Dark Curse’s bio is under the cut.

Name: Stark Nikto

Age: 19

Height: 178 cm

Birthday: 13 March (Pisces)

Pronouns: He/Him (but doesn't feel comfortable using them)

Likes: Socialisation, fairy tales with happy endings, intricate crafts

Dislikes: Bland food, being forgotten, dangerous activities, tattoos, swearing

Hobbies: Resin crafting, metalsmithing, playing chess

Clothes: Faded white long-sleeved t-shirt with a square collar worn under a black vest with simple yellow patterns, along with a pair of loose black pants and a red cloth wrapped around the waist. A pair of sturdy black boots is worn along with a pair of black gloves

Sexuality: Aromantic Asexual

Description: Tall, slim build with slightly messy hair hair dyed an electric blue, 'his' grey eyes are a stark contrast to ‘his’ caramel skin as ‘he’ greets everyone with a friendly smile.

Background: Stark lived in Dassuleit Village, now lost to the freezing winds of Tschilly Peak, with 'his' average family. Growing up, 'he' was keenly aware that 'he' didn't stand out as compared to 'his' peers. Even 'his' family ignored 'him' after a while, soon becoming nothing more than just a ghost to 'his' family.

'He' soon discovered that 'he' couldn't use magic, which left 'him' limited paths 'he' could pursue for 'his' future. Stark became the village's librarian when ‘he’ turned 15, however as nobody visited the library, 'he' was usually alone with only the books to keep 'him' company.

Whenever 'he' was free, 'he' would deliberately approach others in an attempt to hold a conversation with them, but was always ignored by them. 'He' didn't understand why, until one day 'he' overheard a conversation about one of the villagers' picking up a new hobby which garnered much interest. 'He' then came to the conclusion that the reason why people ignored 'him' was because 'he' was a dull person, and sought to find hobbies to make ‘himself’ interesting.

As such, 'he' learnt how to play chess, craft intricate objects out of resin as well as make detailed metal jewellery with the help of the wide array of guide books in the library. 'He' thought that now that 'he' had hobbies, there would at least be someone who would want to talk to 'him'.

However, the entire village continued to ignore 'him' which fed Stark's loneliness further. ‘He’ then overheard a conversation about how one of them dyed their hair in a striking colour which led to a flurry of compliments, leading ‘him’ to conclude that ‘his’ hair wasn’t eye-catching enough.

‘He’ then went to buy a bottle of hair dye, and dyed ‘his’ platinum blond hair an electric blue. Thinking that this would finally get someone to talk with ‘him’, ‘he’ went out to search for someone to talk to but they still ignored ‘him’.

Dejected, 'he' made 'his' way back to the library and return to 'his' duties. Before doing so, 'he' made a trip to the washroom to freshen up and caught sight of 'his' appearance.

Seeing 'his' average appearance, Stark came to the conclusion that it was actually 'his' face that made 'him' average in comparison to 'his' peers. 'His' face hardened with resolve as ‘he’ entered the library's forbidden section in a bid to find a way to rid 'himself' of the accursed face.

Eventually, 'he' came across the Losirethan Abolishment, a forbidden spell that even those with magic could cast as long as they had the right materials and mindset. 'He' spent months gathering all of the required materials, and once 'he' did, ‘he’ cast the spell so as to finally grant 'his' desperate wish.

Stark knew the spell worked the moment 'he' saw 'his' expression floating in the air. What 'he' failed to realise at that time was that without a face, 'he' wasn't able to live and 'his' body started to decay after a week while 'he' watched.

'He' hoped that someone would notice 'him' not around the village anymore, but months passed and no one ever asked where 'he' was. 'His' soul grew hateful as time ticked on, envy accumulating as everyone went about their lives while treating 'him' as though 'he' never existed.

When Stark's skeleton was finally discovered in the library after three years, 'he' held hope that the villagers would finally remember 'him' and mourn 'his' death. 'He' was enraged when ‘he’ heard the villagers asking who did the skeleton belong to, and that they didn't know that someone had worked at the library to begin with.

Consumed by 'his' hatred, 'he' swore to make everyone suffer just like what 'he' had. 'His' soul plunged into the nearest villager, with the entire village soon lost to hatred and envy...

#Miitopia #Miitopia Dark Curse #Rook Ayeran #tw death #Altair draws

[shalinireadsforreal]

I made my way through the foyer out of the main door when I saw a tall man clad in an all black suit standing a few feet away from the stairs that led to the around the house porch. He stood there, still like a statue. His back was facing me. And that was one hell of a hot back. His hands were in the pockets of his pants. A silver of his neck peeked through the white collar of his shirt under his hair that stretched a little to his nape. He gave all the ‘my favorite color is black and I can kill in formals’ vibes.

Before I could look away, I realized I was ogling him. Ogling a stranger who might have lost his way for the central wing and walked into my driveway. He could be one of my father’s business associates. Damn you, Sara. Get a grip on yourself. You can’t go around checking out strangers like that.

I cleared my throat grabbing the strap of my back pack a little tighter than required, “Excuse me!” I said taking a step forward, “Can I help you?” I asked at which his head snapped up and his hands fell out of his pockets by his sides.  The back of his hand roped with nerves. A watch wrapped around his right wrist. Long fingers. Sexy.

My free hand curled into a fist and my grip on the strap tightened. With what I’d consider an agonizingly slow movement, he turned himself around to face me.

My breath caught in my lungs the moment I saw his face. That face. That crucially beautiful face. Never, in the worst or the best moments of the last decade in my life had that face left the permanent spot in my head. That agonizingly handsome face. Albeit, the time had changed his features, but it was still the most striking face I had ever seen and will ever see. High and sharp cheekbone and a strong and chiseled jaw.

His bizarre eyes looked deeply into mine. I took a step back, subconsciously as a gasp slipped my lips. His picturesque eyes. Blue-green lenses with tiny freckles of gold and dark irises. Such fine detailing in such a small canvas. Most exquisite case of heterochromia in existence.

He took a step forward. Measured and deliberate, “Hello, love”, his lips shaped around the words. My first kiss. The fullness of his lips that I had experienced vaguely, ten years ago. The longest and the shorted ten seconds of my life. It had been ten year one month and three days since my first kiss. Just as long when he called me love for the first time. And the last.

My eyes snapped shut as the memories flooded my brain and I sighed inaudibly. His last day at his house. His house that was just across the road. Our balconies facing each other. The last moments that I had spent with him. I was upset about him leaving. I didn’t want to let him go. I did want him to leave. His made promises. His bond.

His promises. His bond. Promises that he had taken a little too long to fulfill. Bond that he had broken.

Sei la mia casa, amore mio. The words that he had said years ago still rang in my ears. Loud and sharp. Silent and faded. I still didn’t know what it meant. Other than his half assed translation. The light in his eyes that day while saying those words was totally different. Serious. Determined. Promising.

And then, everything went downhill. I remember all of it. I remember every fucking detail. I remember my unreturned calls. Unanswered letters.

I recall him never contacting me. Never trying to reach out for me. Never writing back to me. Not even a fucking call.

He just …disappeared. In thin air. Poof! Gone! Nothing!

I tried to draw in a breath through my nose. It hurt. My eyelids still firmly shut. The back of my eyes hurt and I slowly opened them. He was standing there. Still. So still, I’d have mistaken him with a statue so intricately carved. So beautiful. So viciously fucking beautiful. So deceptively beautiful.

If he had been a stranger, I’d have said hi. I’d have considered introducing myself and leading him the way to the central wing.

He was a stranger. We were both nothing but strangers to each other. Strangers who had memories. Memories that cut deep when reminisced. Memories that had no business being stored in the brain anymore. Memories that brought more pain than delight.

All the melancholy, the grief, the anguish from a few seconds before evaporated, giving way to rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. Raw, seething rage.

This time when I inhaled a lungful of air, it hurt less. It just fueled my anger to see him standing at my door as if nothing ever happened. As if we could just forget the past and start over.

He had no idea how wrong he was on that note. My fingers curled in a strong fist as I stepped down the four stairs heading to the drive way. I noticed a slight twitch in his lips. His eyes lit up to see me walking toward him. He parted his lips as if to say something just then my fist landed on his chiseled jaw with a hard, strong punch.

His face turned left on the impact. A slight red line marking the beginning of a bruise or two on his jaw. Oops! Maybe be even a bruised ego.

I stood tall in front of him. Even though he had some seven or eight inches on me. He flexed his jaw that made me smirk inwardly with satisfaction.

He turned his face to see me, a vein throbbing in his jaw all the way to his neck that disappeared inside the white collar of the shirt he was wearing.

“I might have anticipated a bone crushing hug on your side. A warm welcome, maybe”, he released a sad, almost-there laugh. His words shaping around the slight accent in his voice that I didn’t recognize all those years ago. Now, it was more evident, down-right British. He brushed his fingers over the left side of his jaw where I had hit him, working it left and right, “but I definitely deserve your abhorrence.”

“That’s right! You deserve only and only my hatred. You’ve earned it”, my voice came out cold and detached. Just as I had intended, “so why don’t you do me a favor? Walk away.”

A shadow of surprise crossed his smug face. His bizarre eyes giving way to confusion.

“Walk away. Like you did all those years ago. Walk away”, I said, keeping my voice calm and collected, “and never come back.”

His eyes looking deeply into mine. As if he could look right through my defenses, “I wouldn’t deny you a thing if you asked me. But I’m afraid, I wouldn’t be able to grant that particular wish of yours.”

I scoffed, “right. Going down memory lane with you is my idea of an ideal Mondays morning. They suck as it is”, I glanced at my left to the parking shed of the north wing where my cars were parked, then looked back at him. My tone growing colder with every word I spoke, “So, keep standing here, scorching in the sun, or drag your ass back to your Transylvania castle for all I care”, I took a step further to him, my hands hung to my sides, “just don’t show me your face again. Ever.”

Something shifted in his eyes, his face looking more serious and determined. The bruises on his jaw blooming red. There was a hint of control when he said, “as charming as this reunion as been, I will continue to try to earn your forgiveness after my deterrence to any contact with you. I feel awfully ashamed for my absence in your life for the past decade. You must think that I abandoned you, except it wasn’t what I intended for. Though I don’t deserve your pardon but I will keep trying to be worthy of it.”

I just stared at him, point blank, while he spoke in that accented voice of his. If I hadn’t known him the way I did, I’d have been attracted to him. And it would’ve been deadly intense. But now, when he said those words, I felt disgusted. He disgusted me.

When I didn’t say anything or show any kind of reaction, he continued, “about not showing you my face. It could be a bit of a problem as you very well know that I inhabit the house across the road. And given the fact that our balconies face each other’s, it would be difficult to keep that up.”

He shot, what I knew was the smallest smile in existence and walked to the north entrance of The Infinity Tower. Every step of his, measured. Precise to an extent. Control in his demeanor, evident.

My heart thrummed in my chest. Like it did years ago, when I saw him walk away. Just like that. I felt the same pain in the same amount.  A little intense. My throat clogging at the sight before me as he walked past the guards and out of the premises. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fist harder.

A blinding pain from my right hand almost knocked me to my knees as I tried to curl my fingers. I realized that I had hurt my knuckles when I had punched him when I looked at the back of my hand. Reddish-purple bruises blooming on my knuckles. It hurt to move my fingers.

I had a concert that evening. I was supposed to play my guitar. Fuck.

That bastard. What was his jaw made of? Kohinoor? It was so fucking hard, it hurt my hand.

My detestation for him increased with every passing second.

#romance #separation #nostalgia #nostalgic #best friend #toxic #true love #novel #upcoming #new

[oatflatwhite]

hello biteable liz, i simply would adore your writing and this prompt together if you are so inclined: you used to be the absolute best at flirting, but now that you've got me, your flirting consists of deliberately embarrassing me, because seeing me react to your idiotically bad jokes is apparently the highlight of your day

4.1k | read on ao3

Buck kisses Eddie on a Tuesday afternoon over half-drunk cups of oat milk coffee against the white noise of last night's baseball match and the world doesn't end. It doesn't even change. Between one blink and the next Buck's lips are pressed to Eddie's and he tastes like coffee beans and sweetener and a little bit like spearmint gum and when he shifts back against the kitchen counter the sky is still blue outside. The tea towel slung over the handle of the stove is askew like Buck left it this morning and there's a to-do list stuck to the fridge, half-crossed out, eggs and magic sand and optometrist 3:30 still left at the bottom, and Eddie is wearing the same cream-coloured henley he'd been wearing when he let himself inside the loft, and the smile on his face is the same smile Buck's been seeing for a while now except this time he knows how it feels, pressed against his own.

Eddie's eyes open and his lip quirks up a little and Buck tilts his head back against the kitchen cabinet to try and stifle down the laughter bubbling up in his chest and someone on the TV hits what sounds like a home run and nothing is different, from the spill of oat milk on the counter to the hole in Buck's sock over his left big toe. He kisses Eddie on a Tuesday afternoon and the world goes on.

“I have to pick up Chris,” Eddie says, like he would any other Tuesday, and then he’s leaning in and kissing Buck again and his hand finds Buck’s hip where it juts out sharp beneath the soft cotton of his second favourite hoodie and their coffee is going to go cold. Buck says so, into the warmth of Eddie’s neck, clutching the counter to make sure it’s still there.

“I’ll make you another,” he says, fumbling for the coffee machine, watching the lines of Eddie’s shoulders shift as he reaches for the bright pink keep cup in the top right-hand cupboard.

“What?” Eddie laughs, when he turns and catches Buck staring, and he hasn’t looked over at the TV once even though Buck put the game on for him, and it looks like there might be a little toothpaste on the collar of his shirt and Buck breathes out, checks the sky outside the window, resists the urge to pinch the inside of his forearm and just shakes his head, fingers tangling with Eddie’s as he takes the cup from his grasp.

“Nothing, I.” The movements are familiar; grind the beans, lock the portafilter. They steady him. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“A good kind of can’t believe, right?”

Buck smiles despite himself, offers it over his shoulder. “The best kind.” And he’s still halfway turned around so is witness to the delicate blush that stains itself over Eddie’s cheeks and nose; works its way down his neck, the faintest hint of red that Buck knows would be warm to the touch. He wants to draw it out; wants to know what makes Eddie blush deeper, wants to kiss him, right there, on the blossoming pink across the bridge of his nose. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and this morning Buck woke up in love with his best friend like every morning since before he can remember and tomorrow morning it will be the same only this time Eddie might love him back. And it’s a Tuesday afternoon and Eddie has to pick up Chris and Buck pours the perfect coffee into the keep cup, screws on the lid and tilts it to check it won’t spill. Eddie’s still red when he hands it over and their fingers brush again and Buck wants to kiss him silly, wants to kiss him stupid.

Settles for brushing a hand down the line of Eddie’s flushed neck instead.

“You’re gonna be late,” he laughs, letting his hand fall away when it reaches the natural dip of Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie catches it, easy as breathing, in the hand not holding the keep cup.

He says, “come with me?” and it takes everything Buck has not to kiss him again then and there.

“I have the optometrist,” he reminds him, tilting his head to the to-do list on the fridge. “But hey, uh, that reminds me. I think there’s something missing from my calendar?”

Eddie blinks at him.

“…a date with you.”

And it’s worth it, the spilled coffee when the keep cup drops to the floor, as Eddie groans and shoves Buck gently back against the kitchen counter, for the way the both of them can’t stop smiling, Eddie’s face tomato-red and as warm as Buck hoped it would be when he kisses it. It’s a Tuesday afternoon and the Dodgers are about to lose the game and Buck couldn’t give a shit about baseball, never has, because the sky is blue and there’s coffee seeping through the hole in his sock and Eddie kissed him, is kissing him, and the world goes on.

Only now Buck knows just how deep Eddie can blush. And he kind of never wants to stop seeing it.

He’s late to his appointment.

*

Once is a coincidence, Buck says to himself the next morning as he locks the door behind him, takes the stairs down to his parking spot, keys the ignition of the Jeep and flicks the radio to FM like he does every morning on his way to work.

Once is a coincidence, two times is a pattern.

He swings by Starbucks on the drive in, picks up Eddie’s cream-and-sugar cap and his, Hen and Ravi’s oat milk lattes and Bobby’s earl grey and Chim’s cinnamon coconut monstrosity. The café is busy enough to make him almost late to the shift so everyone’s already in the loft by the time he finishes changing and bounds up the stairs, coffees in hand.

“You’re looking extra perky today, Buckaroo,” Hen notes, accepting her coffee with a smile.

“Some might say too perky,” Chim says, prying the lid from his cup and inhaling a face full of steam. He narrows his eyes through the mist. “I don’t like it.”

“What, I can’t wake up on the right side of the bed for once?” He joins Eddie at the kitchen counter, hip-checking him where the others can’t see and sliding over the last steaming cup. Eddie is careful not to let their fingers brush this time when he takes it, but the tips of his ears are already turning red and Buck kind of wants to put his mouth on them. He settles for leaning against the counter so his back’s to the others, playing with the lid of his latte as Eddie takes a sip of his cappuccino. He drops his voice to an almost-whisper and asks, “do you need more sugar or am I sweet enough?”

The effect is instantaneous. The red flushes like a tide from Eddie’s ears across his cheeks and nose and down his neck. He manages not to choke on his coffee but only just, Buck can tell, and sets it down on the counter with enough force it sloshes over the sides.

“You okay, Eddie?” Bobby calls out, concerned, and Buck hides his smile in a sip of his latte as Eddie clears his throat, scrubs a hand over the stubble at his jaw as if it’ll hide the blush.

“Yeah, Cap, sorry,” he says, looking anywhere in the room but Buck. “Went down the wrong way.”

Buck sets down his coffee, grabs an extra sugar packet from the opposite counter and stirs it into Eddie’s, the way he likes it. “Sorry,” he murmurs, not sorry at all, lingering a hand on Eddie’s hip where the kitchen bench hides it and Eddie finally looks at him. Is still pink, delightfully so, but his hand finds Buck’s at his belt and holds it there for just a moment, all they can do when they’re at work and this thing between them is barely fifteen hours old.

“No, you’re not,” Eddie replies, replacing the lid back on his coffee to take a sip and smiling when it’s perfect, the way Buck knows how. He lets his hand fall down at his side and takes a deliberate step around the counter, away from Buck, who turns to watch him go and is now privy to the way the back of Eddie’s neck between his neat hairline and the collar of his shirt blushes bright red too. He feels like he’s known Eddie all his life, or at least—the bits of it that matter, and he’s still finding out new things. Wants to learn, if Eddie will let him, the shape of his collarbone beneath Buck’s mouth. Wants to map every freckle, the one under his eye Buck sees every day and the one in the crease of his left knee he’s glimpsed only once before. Wants to trace just how far down that blush goes, press his palms into that warm stretch of skin to feel the shift of muscle beneath and never, not ever, let go.

Eddie tips a smile over his shoulder, tugging Buck from his train of thought. It’s familiar, small and wry, the one that says you coming? without Eddie ever needing to ask.

Buck goes. He’s got a theory to test, after all.

*

It keeps happening, is the thing. They’re at Eddie’s after their shift, and it’s late enough that Chris is in bed. Buck isn’t really sure what to do with his hands until Eddie takes the beer from them, sets it down on the counter, half-drunk, beside his own. When he steps into Buck’s space it’s like the distance—collapses, and Buck shouldn’t have heated up the leftover pizza for dinner because now they’ve both got garlic breath but it’s Eddie, and Buck can’t bring himself to care.

His hands settle on Eddie’s shoulders as Eddie’s come around his thighs and then Buck’s up on the countertop like every cliché high school romance ever and maybe if this actually happened to Buck in high school he wouldn’t have hated it so much.

When Eddie kisses him, it’s only the fourth, or maybe the fifth, time, but it feels like the hundred thousandth, the way Eddie is moving against him. Buck’s pretty sure he’s sitting in a spill of soapy water from the sink and they both probably need a second shower after that last four-alarm but Eddie’s mouth is plush and warm and searching against his and he does taste like garlic but that’s whatever, because it’s Eddie, and Buck moves his mouth to press against the freckle beneath his eye because he’s been wanting to for literal years and now he can. It must tickle, because Eddie’s laughing, and his eyelashes flutter against Buck’s cheek like—like butterfly wings, Buck thinks nonsensically, as he moves his mouth to the tip of Eddie’s nose, to the hinge of his jaw. He kicks his Uggs against the shitty melamine cabinets as Eddie’s socked feet slip a little on the tile and now Buck’s the one laughing, pulling back from the kiss to press their foreheads together and when he opens his eyes Eddie is smiling so wide it almost looks like it hurts. Buck’s hands fall from Eddie’s shoulders to clutch at the sweater at his waist.

“Do you know CPR?” he asks, unable to stop the grin that’s pressing against the corners of his mouth, pushing up and over his teeth the way it does only sparingly, the way he taught himself out of years and states and lifetimes ago.

Eddie frowns, adorably, the jut of his lower lip a fucking beacon Buck has to physically restrain himself from taking into his mouth. “You know I do,” he says.

“Good,” and Buck bites at his lip, waits as Eddie’s eyes track the movement, “because you just took my breath away.”

The blush this time is accompanied by a groan and an eye roll Buck’s pretty sure could be seen from space. He’s still laughing when Eddie kisses him, and his face is warm between Buck’s hands when he holds it, and at this rate they’re going to wake up Chris who will probably just lean in the doorway, fake gagging the way he did earlier tonight when Buck kissed Eddie’s cheek over the pizza, and Buck has to keep telling himself not to be careful, because he can have this, because he can hold it between his palms as tight as he wants and nothing’s going to shatter, nothing’s going to break. He can hold on and Eddie’s gonna hold back, as long as they both can manage, and maybe if Buck was a twelve-year-old kid with a smart mouth a mile wide he’d be fake gagging, too.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Eddie complains, cheeks a little squished between Buck’s hands and still red, so red Buck could probably fry an egg on them if he could be bothered to move to the fridge. He can’t. He kind of wishes he could stay here on the countertop, Eddie flush between his legs, forever.

“Prove it,” he laughs, closing the distance between them once more. Eddie’s too busy being kissed to reply. Which, really, was Buck’s plan all along.

*

Grocery shopping the following weekend, Buck nudges the cart gently into Eddie’s hip where he’s browsing the fresh produce.

“Hey babe,” he smiles with his teeth, placing a bag of nectarines into the front of the cart, “if you were a vegetable you’d be a cute-cumber.”

Later that day, as they’re driving home past the cinema: “I’d like to take you to the movies, but they don’t let you bring your own snacks.”

“On a scale of one to America, how free are you tonight?”

“You must be a broom, ‘cause you just swept me off my feet.”

“Good thing I renewed my library card, because I’m totally checking you out.”

“We’re not socks, but I think we’d make a great pair.”

Eddie splotches pink and red every time. “You’re not as cute as you think you are,” he grumbles one night when Buck asks him for a Band-Aid. He sighs heavily, leaning his head back against the couch cushions. “No, Buck, I don’t have a Band-Aid.”

“Damn. I scraped my knee falling for you.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” is the reply he gets, endearingly muffled as Eddie tries (and fails) to hide his blush in the fabric of Buck’s hoodie. Buck kisses the hot tip of his ear, buries his fingers in the soft strands of Eddie’s hair and holds him as close as he can manage with their clothes still on.

“M’sorry,” he murmurs, running his free hand down the line of Eddie’s back, who sighs against him. “I’ll stop if you want.” He kisses Eddie’s hairline. “Just say the word.”

Another sigh, then some shuffling, as Eddie unearths himself from Buck’s hoodie. He presses his thumb to Buck’s birthmark, replaces it with his mouth. “Nah,” he murmurs against Buck’s temple. “I’ll survive. Besides,” he adds, kissing him for real this time, “I’m kind of curious to hear the rest.” He pulls back, just enough that he can look Buck in the eye. “Please don’t make me regret saying that.”

“I make no promises.”

*

After the coffee incident, Buck’s careful about keeping it under wraps at work. The firehouse knows, of course—Buck told Maddie, who told Chimney, who told the rest of the 118 barely a week after he and Eddie first kissed, but they’ve had their talk with Bobby, signed a bunch of paperwork for HR, and Buck’s not about to put that in jeopardy.

It’s just—Eddie looks so good in a harness.

Buck is on winch, for once, thanks to a pulled calf muscle their last 24. He lets his hands linger on the straps as he checks Eddie’s harness, who rolls his eyes but smiles fondly when Buck tugs on the same fastening for the fourth time in a row.

“I’m good, Buck,” he murmurs, clipping his helmet. “Are you?”

Buck forces himself to step back. “Always am,” he grins, full of false bravado that just makes Eddie roll his eyes again. “I’ve got your back,” he adds, a little more seriously, and something Buck can’t parse sparks behind Eddie’s eyes.

“I know.”

The rescue goes cleanly enough—a sixth storey apartment, inaccessible from anywhere but the roof thanks to a collapsed ceiling and shoddy fire escape. Buck meets Eddie back on the ground to find him removing his harness, helmet already off, having done its job of cowlicking Eddie’s hair adorably. They’re half-hidden between the engine and the ambulance which is quite possibly what makes all Buck’s reason fly completely out the window as he asks, “let me?”

Eddie’s eyes flick either side of the narrow gap between the vehicles before he huffs, dropping his hands and shuffling his feet a little as Buck steps in close. All that’s left is the strapping around his waist and thighs—Buck bends down a little, to reach it.

“Buck,” Eddie says.

“Hm?” The clip is at the back of Eddie’s thigh. Buck should probably ask him to turn around, but—

“Buck.”

“I know.” He takes a breath, lets his forehead rest against Eddie’s hip for a moment, then reaches between his legs calmly and unbuckles first the left, then the right strap. He stands, feeling a little flushed, as Eddie fiddles with the strap around his waist then steps out of the harness. “Sorry.”

“Buck,” Eddie says again, then, inexplicably, laughs. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that to you?”

“Um. Many?”

“Many,” he confirms. And Buck—Buck can barely stand it, you see, Eddie in his freshly pressed uniform now creased from the harness, his hair sweaty and tragically styled by the helmet, smiling at Buck like he hasn’t just handed him the keys to his heart and said come on in.

“Eddie,” Buck says, because he can’t help himself. “I’ve only been in the harness once since we’ve been dating.”

“Yeah,” Eddie replies steadily. “I know.”

And it’s suddenly imperative that Buck kiss him right now. So he does, with a quick glance over both their shoulders first, quick enough he catches Eddie by surprise. When he pulls back, Eddie’s eyes have fluttered closed, and Buck runs a careful thumb along the bone beneath his left eye.

“Are you French?” he asks quietly.

Eddie’s eyes blink open as he quirks an eyebrow. “You know I’m not.”

Buck steals another quick kiss, the last he’ll be able to manage the rest of their shift, then skips back til he’s out of reach. “Because Eiffel for you!” he laughs.

“Why’re you so red?” Chim asks suspiciously on their way to the next call. Eddie’s answering sigh can probably be heard all the way to Santa Monica.

*

It’s Eddie, though, who has the last laugh.

They’re on a call, a bachelorette party gone wrong when the disco ball exploded. Hen and Chim are triaging the more serious patients so Buck’s helping Eddie check up on the others, a group of about six women in various stages of drunkenness. One—the bride-to-be—is crying and apologetic, while two others seem determined to finish off the table’s drinks. As Eddie kneels beside a red-haired woman with a maid of honour badge pinned to her dress, she gives him a slow once-over.

“Are you experiencing any kind of pain, any headaches, dizziness?” Eddie prompts, shining his torch in her face.

“I’ve been dizzy all day,” she giggles, fluttering her eyelashes. “Mind if I fall into your arms?”

And Eddie—Eddie doesn’t even blink. He smiles tightly, shutting off his torch and standing. “You seem to be fine. If any symptoms present in the next 48 hours head straight to emergency, okay?”

Buck puzzles it over as they deal with the last of the patients and head back to the firehouse for hopefully a nap between calls. He snags Eddie’s sleeve on their way to the bunk room, pulling him towards the lockers instead.

“Everything okay?” Eddie asks, concerned, sitting down on one of the benches as Buck begins to pace.

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Buck stops in his tracks, hands on hips, wheeling to face his boyfriend. “Actually, no. What happened, back there?”

Eddie’s brow wrinkles. “With the call?”

“The call, the—the woman? The maid of honour.”

Eddie’s frown deepens a little as he tries to remember. “The—oh. Her. What about her?”

“What about her?” And—okay, so it’s two AM, and Buck’s maybe not thinking the clearest he could be right now. But he’s had a plan, he’s tested his theory, and suddenly this has thrown it all off-kilter. “She flirted with you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Now it’s Eddie’s nose that’s wrinkled, and Buck—Buck wants to kiss it. He always wants to kiss Eddie, but this Eddie—this two AM, droopy-eyed, wrinkly-nosed Eddie? It’s a lot. “It was kind of unpleasant, actually, some people just don’t know where the line—”

“She flirted with you,” Buck interrupts, because it’s kind of vital he gets the words out now before he kisses Eddie and forgets about everything else in the room, “and you didn’t blush. You didn’t even—blink, Eds, I don’t—”

“Wait.” And Eddie’s standing, crossing the room in two strides, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile Buck will never get tired of. It’s his oh, there-you-are smile. His I’ve-been-looking-for-you smile.

He takes Buck’s hands from his hips, brings them together and kisses his knuckles. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I just.” Buck deflates. Eddie’s hands are warm around his and it’s two AM on a Sunday morning and yesterday Buck woke up with Eddie’s body around his and counted his fingers to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He’s gotten better about it, lately, but sometimes when the sunlight is just this side of warm on the sheets, when Eddie makes him coffee in the mornings and kisses him long and deep despite the bitter taste lingering in Buck’s mouth, when they make Christopher’s school lunch together and Buck cuts off the crusts of the bread while Eddie drizzles lemon juice on the apple slices to keep them from going brown, Buck will forget. That he can have this, that he does have this. That he’ll have it, for the rest of his life.

“You’re a sure thing,” he says instead, watching for the way Eddie’s eyes light up at the words. “You are, and Chris is, and so’s our coffee and toast in the morning and that stupid AM radio show you like to listen to on the way to work.”

“Hey, now—”

“You wear socks to bed,” Buck continues, “and you burn the eggs but can make your abuela’s tres leches by heart and you think I don’t know that you’ve been reading Fifty Shades of Grey on your Kindle but I do, and—we’ll talk about that later—and you pour your milk before your cereal and you know all the words to Mambo Number Five and you blush when you’re flirted with, bright, fucking ladder truck red, every time.” He breathes out. “Except today.”

Eddie’s looking at him like, like—Buck can’t find the words, except that it’s golden-brown, honey-soft and sweet. “Buck,” he says, murmurs because it’s two AM and the rest of the firehouse is asleep. “Baby. I—Jesus Christ. I love you.”

Almost automatically, Buck replies, “I love you too.”

“I.” And Eddie lets go of Buck’s hands, brings his own up to frame Buck’s face instead. “I don’t blush when I’m flirted with,” he says, simply, unwaveringly, like he isn’t realigning Buck’s entire world on its axis, “I blush because it’s you.”

The wave of heat, when it comes, crashes over Buck like the breakers at Venice Beach. His ears, his nose, his cheeks—up his neck from his breastbone, mottling his jaw. “Oh,” he replies, like he isn’t blushing the deepest he ever has in his entire life. “Oh, okay.”

“Okay,” Eddie repeats, laughing, still gazing at Buck with that same softness, that same wonder. “I guess heartfelt declarations do it for you?”

“Shut up,” Buck laughs, pushing Eddie away only to reel him back in, press his face into the warmth of his neck and just breathe. “Only you,” he adds, the words muffled and barely audible, only—Eddie must hear them, because he’s clutching Buck tighter for a long moment before pulling back enough to see his face, to meet his eyes—smiling, crow’s feet at the corners—and finally kiss him.

“Hey, Buck?” he murmurs, seconds or maybe hours later, long enough that Buck doesn’t feel quite as red, quite as warm.

“Hm?”

“…is that your phone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

#sorry this took so fucking long em whoops #probably riddled with mistakes too sorry i'll take a pass at it later! #buddie #buddie fic #buddiefanfiction #911 #911 on fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #oatflatwrites #fic prompts #answered #queerpanikkar

[dressed-euphoric]

The Collaring

By. Euphoric Dressed

A man found himself awake in a strange situation. Forced to trod along with a process of "collaring", he undergoes a dandy change.

Author's Note: The short story was inspired by a prompt post by @hypnosisuit. I haven't encounter any stories written of such so thought I'd take a try with my imagination. The story was written in 1 day as I had a lot of fun with it. As such, I apologize if there's more grammar issues than usual. The inspiration photo, not prompt, is included at the end. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the short story!

Word Count: 3080

This is not happening. No way is this all real. This is a dream. This is a dream. Wake up. Wake the goddamn up!

I could hear my heartbeat, my breath, my confusion that surrounded itself in the midst of the hallway that I stood in. The poorly lit wall was covered with floral designs, contrasted with the hallway white rug underneath my running shoes. To make it worse, the light bulbs on the wall struggled for their life, as each would erratically flicker and then falsely lit bright. 

One moment, I woke up in a secluded room with no windows. Then the next, I ran out the door and here I was, standing in the middle of this eerily situation.

Fuck. Shit. What the hell. Every damn curse word I knew poured out of my head. It was the first time in my life that many concurrent curse words escaped my mouth.

“Sir.” A voice announced itself behind me.

“Fuck!” My body jolted as I quickly turned around and faced the voice.

A man that seemed to be in his 40s stood to face me. His face was clean shaven, and his hair was nicely combed. He was taller than me by a few inches and his body was much more well built compared to mine. 

But what distinguished him was the clothes he wore. A blue tie matched with an outdated white high-collared dress shirt, tucked into a sharply creased black trouser. His black oxfords were well polished and even shined in the atmospheric hallway.

“Sir. You have not been called yet and must remain in your room.”

“Where am I? Who are you? What the fuck am I doing here?” I blurted out, pleading for answers knowing that the man won’t give me what I wanted. On the other hand, my body was ready to run in an unwarranted situation. 

“I’d like you to calm down, sir.” The man responded.

“Tell me, where am I!?” I emphasized my question.

The man stood still and stayed silent, as he contemplated the choices of his words. Then he moved his lips as carefully as he could upon his answer.

“You have been chosen for the collaring.” 

“The what?” 

“Looks like the boss is ready for you.” He suddenly commented.

My heart skipped. Whatever he had said didn’t sound too good. I turned around, and started running for it.

“Ouargh!!” I grunted out in pain, and my knees fell flat down to the ground. My scream of anguish echoes through the empty hallway. It was a pain that I had never felt before: a deliberate shock that cut through my body. 

“What did you do to me?” My body trembled, and my voice quiver. 

“Please do not run away, sir.” The man walked beside me and then in front. He bent down, reached his hands forward and gripped onto my arm.

Before I could retaliate, the man took out a piece of syringe and jabbed it into my arm. I slammed my eyes shut in anticipation of the pain.

Nothing. It didn’t feel like anything. Was it a drug? Was it to knock me out? The questions flooded my head in a span of a second.

I slowly opened my eyes, preparing myself for the worst outcome. But there the man stood with his hands still gripped onto my arm. I turned my head to the side, and there was the syringe on the floor.

I opened my mouth to curse at him, “what did you fucking do to me?” But silence escaped through my lips. A dread sense of the unknown settled into my stomach. Before my head could continue to process, the man gripped my hand and pulled me upwards, standing straight.

“Follow me.” He ordered.

He turned his back around me and started walking in what seemed to be an endless hallway. My feet stepped forward, and then another. I was following him. Why? Why!? Why was I following the man? 

My body wasn’t listening to me. 

Stop. Stop! Run. Run away. 

My commands to my body were useless, and instead it was the man’s words that were absolute. But that couldn’t be it, could it? No. There’s no way a drug out there exists: one that would make a man mindlessly follow another around. 

“There you are!” A voice exclaimed.

Who was that? What’s going on?

My mind quickly snapped back into reality as I stared upon another man, standing behind an opened door. 

My mouth slowly opened to speak, words wanting to gush out to fight the confusion. 

I was silenced.

No. That wasn’t it. It was that I couldn’t find the words.

I stared astonished at the man in front of me. It was an older gentleman, who was very well dressed. 

His hair was neatly parted and combed. It was a shade of a darker brown but consisted of small white streaks. His brown eyes stared at me, and it spoke volume about the man: fierce, strong, and commanding.

It didn’t help that his charcoal suit was well fitted. He wore a clean crisp white dress shirt with a dark navy tie, under his buttoned jacket. His purple pocket square gleam with elegance in his jacket pouch. Finishing his outfit were his polished shiny brown oxfords. 

“Thank you for escorting him here. You may take your leave.” The older gentleman spoke clearly and firmly.

“Thank you, sir.” My escort politely bowed to the older gentleman and turned his back upon us, walking off into the distance.

My heart pounded and raced against the time. What was going to happen to me? This isn’t real. It’s all fictitious. I need to wake up. This is just one big ludicrous nightmare. 

“Come on in.” The older gentleman said. 

I took a second to stare at him as he stared back at me. Part of the hesitation was the situation itself but what won in the end, was the pain I felt a moment ago. 

So I walked in with a lump in my throat, a rock in my stomach, and a zip on my lips. My destiny was sealed; I was doomed. 

I was greeted with a warmly lit room with a window in the center of the back wall. Two wooden bookshelves laid against the wall on the left and right of the window. Daylight was still out as it shone in the middle of the room, a large circular rug. On top of that rug was an armchair, with two end tables on each side. Across from the chair, was an already lit fireplace. Strangely enough, there was a modern flat tv mounted above the fireplace. 

I then darted my attention to the older gentleman as he walked to a wooden table behind the armchair. I stared and observed the items. A pile of carefully folded clothes and what looked to be shoes right next to the pile. After that, were some items that I couldn’t fully dissect as I was obstructed by the older gentleman.

He motioned me to come forward to him with his finger. I wanted to protest, to resist, to fight against this screwed up situation. But the look on the man told me he was not going to play around. So I slowly stepped forward to the man.

“To be finely dressed is to have the utmost respect for yourself. You are a man, and while you may choose not to wear a suit everyday, you must still hold yourself to a high standard of what’s acceptable.” The older gentleman declared. “Now strip.”

“Wh - What?” My voice finally croaked up to the man’s words. 

“No jeans, shorts, shirts, and especially no running shoes.” He said firmly.

Who does the man think he was to declare such monstrosity? 

“Strip. Now.” 

I quickly nodded in defeat, in fear of his voice and what he could do after that running incident. How could I let him do this to me? I bashed myself for not having enough courage to fight. Was I a coward? I quickly pulled off my t-shirt and slipped my running shoes off. I reached for the zips on my jeans and pulled them off. Then I bent down and pulled my shorts socks off. I stared at him, standing with my briefs. 

“Off.”

My heart sank. He was a man of little words. and with the apparent goal of humiliating me. I looked down to my body and noticed my hands and legs were trembling. I looked back up to the man, and his body confirmed his statement: he wants them off.

I slowly reached down to my briefs and pulled them under, slowly revealing my flaccid cock. He had me at his whims, and there was nothing I could do about it. There I was, forsaking away my manhood to the man in front of me. He had stolen it. He had shown that I was willing to do what the man speaks.

The brief dropped to the ground and I was truly silent, staring at the older gentleman. His eyes looked up and down, observing me like I was a specimen. I even caught him staring at my cock for a couple of seconds. 

“Moments from now, you will be a greater asset to yourself and to society.” The man proclaimed.

How dare he? All sorts of emotions flared through me as I stood naked in front of the man. My body tensed with anger. 

“Put these on.” He grabbed two pieces of garments off the table, and handed it to me. I looked down and stared at what he was making me do. A piece of white brief and a white tank top. I gripped them hard on my hands.

I was a coward. 

I bent down and succumbed to the man. I pulled the white briefs up and then the tank top over me. Instinctively, my body tucked the white tank top into the brief.

“Good. You’re starting to look proper.” He commented, as he gave me the next piece of clothing.

A pair of long gray ribbed dress socks. 

I had never worn dress socks nor worn long ones. I had no desire to, but I simply stared and conformed to the man’s words. I pulled them through my feet as the man simply watched. Then, I pulled them up beyond my calves.

Before I could get another chance to brace myself, he had already handed me the next piece of garment.

A white neckband dress shirt.

I had never seen such a dress shirt without a collar. Where was the collar? I put it on for the sake of the older man. My hands slowly trembled as it moved to button each of the buttons of the dress shirt, signing away my will to the older gent. As I finished, the next piece of clothing was already in my peripheral vision.

A gray trouser.

I was becoming like them. I was going to be dressed like them. And it humiliates me to do what my captor wanted. I didn’t understand the man’s goal, why would he make me dress like them? I didn’t understand anything in the first place. I simply oblige and put the gray trousers on. Then he dropped something in front of me.

A pair of brown loafers. 

I gulped. He wanted me to descend into them, and so my will shall. My feet sipped into the loafers and it went down comfortably and smoothly. It was a perfect fit. 

There, I finally looked like them, except I was missing a collar and, judging from these men, a tie.

He simply grinned at me with pride as he observed his dressed up doll. There was nothing left in me. No fight. No words. And maybe no emotions left. After all, I was stuck, and I’ve lost. 

“Good. Good!” He praised his work.

He walked to the armchair, “come, sit.” 

Like a dog, I simply followed his orders as it felt like I had nothing to lose. Even though there was still a sense of resentment and even a burning desire to fight, I couldn’t let myself go through. The fear of pain. So I sat on the armchair as he had instructed.

As soon as I sat down, the TV instantly turned on. There was an attractive man shown with a suit and a top hat. His lips moved and his words spoken.

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see a single thing on the TV. I wanted it all to be over with. The words that he spoke turned gibberish as I blocked them out. 

I could feel something attaching to me on my neck. A collar. The older gentleman attached and buttoned the collar onto my neckband dress shirt. Then like a switch, everything became clear. The words on the TV started to paint a picture within my head. 

Home. I thought of home. For the first time since this madness, I smile at such a thought. I would walk into the door and be greeted with a warm sense of security and control. I would take my running shoes off.

No, that wasn’t right. I didn’t have any running shoes; in fact, I hated wearing them as they tarnish the image of a proper man.

Instead, I’d pulled off my beloved polished oxfords and set it next to my finely dressed shoe collection: from loafers, to brogues and oxfords. Classy and timeless and what should’ve been the expectation for years, before the world went casual. 

I’d take off my suit jacket and wander around the house with my dress shirt, tie, and trousers. I would read my news and drink my coffee, or tea whenever I feel like it. I’d make sure to look into the mirror and adjust accordingly. Whether my collar is on right, or my tie needs to be straightened, or I just needed to recomb my hair. 

I affirmed myself to the thoughts. It felt right. It felt correct. Like a man once said, “to be finely dressed is to have the utmost respect for yourself.”

“No jeans, shorts, shirts, and especially no running shoes.” A voice called out to me. 

I opened my eyes and stared back at the TV. The man on the TV was right. Those weren’t needed in my wardrobe. 

The man continued speaking on the TV, and I nodded along to his statement. I agreed with him. Men have lost the value of tradition, and the days where every man was finely dressed. I was to revitalize the lost art.

I could imagine it: a wardrobe consisting of only fine wear. There will no longer be t-shirts and instead, dress shirts. No more jeans, only dress trousers. There will be a plethora of ties waiting for me. But I can’t forget the most important of them all, the collars. 

Why didn’t I find the man sooner? He and I shared such similar values and beliefs. The man would have taught me so much. 

I felt another hand probing my neck as it was to attach the next thing. The older gentleman was tying a blue tie upon my collar. Then he swiftly completed me with the knot. That was what’s missing. I was missing the tie. 

“Thank you,” I thanked the older gentleman.

“Sir.” I quickly added, forgetting my manners.

My eyes quickly glued back onto the TV. This time, he talked about the etiquette, and the manners I was to show to others. I nodded along with each and every statement, ingraining them into my head. 

His words were like the gospel, and every sentence was an awakening within me. I looked down and observed my blue tie, my collared dress shirt, my gray trousers, socks, and brown loafers. 

I enjoyed them to say the least. No. That wasn’t it. Something about the program, something about the collar, had awakened me. It was excitement. It was gratitude. It was lust. I truly enjoyed the clothes and my manhood reflected it. I could feel it already erected under my trousers. 

I thought of the older gentleman that was working on me. He was plain astonishing and his clothes refined it. The escort that carried me in, I couldn’t believe it but I was starting to find him attractive as well. 

“This is proper.” I mumbled to myself.

A wide grin popped on my face as I stared at my brown loafers. As they said, clothes and shoes makes a man.

The older gentleman rubbed something behind me and then plopped it down to my head. I didn’t know what it was but it was gooey. I let the older gent have his way with my hair as he started to comb my hair. All I knew was that the older gentleman was guiding me. 

I continued to watch the TV, making sure I didn’t miss the program. 

“Yes sir.” I responded back to the TV.

“Yes.”

“That’s right.”

“Couldn’t speak truer words.”

Slowly and steady, the man’s words eroded into me, bringing along with it his beliefs and his values. I was collared and conformed to be a traditionalist, and I’m proud to be. That is who I am.

—

“You’re leaving, sir?” The gentleman asked as I approached the door. It was the gentleman who had escorted me to my awakening.

“Yes, indeed I am.” I replied with a smile.

He opened the door and held it for me as I stepped by him.

“I was instructed to give you this.” The gentleman said as he held out a beige trench coat and a top hat, “the boss has also sent you a couple of new clothes for you when you’ve returned home.” 

“He sends everyone a welcome present, due to the mass removal of undesired clothes.” The gentleman added, “I, and the boss, sincerely hope that you enjoy the gift.” 

“Thank you.” I expressed my sincerity and grabbed the two offered pieces, “I definitely will enjoy the gift.”

He offered to slip the trench coat on me and I accepted. I spread my arms wide and he slid it through. Then he handed me the top hat, which I grabbed and placed it on top of my neatly combed hair.

“It’s nice to have you, sir.” The gentleman said, “have a good day.”

“I’m glad to be here. You too now.” 

I was a new man with a new view in life. I smiled as I felt the collar on my neck and felt the newfound clothes on my skin. This is me.

=====

Inspiration Photo from hypnosisuit

It was meant to be. A piece of paper guided along the winds and towards your direction. As it followed the whispers of wanted temptation, it was caught by your hands, and you glanced at the poster with interest. 

“We would like to collar you.” It reads.

What would you like to do?

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Promo Eddie - costume analysis

My costume mind is spinning and spiralling out of control! no costumes to analyse for an age and then they drop a promo with some non uniformed goodness and I go feral - as in write a n epically long costume meta based on 5 seconds of footage! 

There might only be a couple of teeny tiny moments, but they’re good! another is so much grey and beige going on - like soooooo much!! I’m putting it under the cut because she got looooong!!

Eddie in the dark

It’s really hard to tell you much about this, other than the fact that he’s wearing black and black has so many connotations with depression (think black dog etc etc) the black t-shirt with the grey bedding the stark cool lighting which is all shades of grey and black and darkness. It’s all deliberate and its all screaming depression nightmare - its darkest before the dawn etc etc. Having experienced plenty of them myself, I know they’re not fun, however I look back now and I know how important they were to my healing - the unconscious and semi conscious mind show you your truths and fears and its only when you spend the time to understand them and accept them that you can progress and that is what that one second clip is giving me! 

Can I also point out that Buck was in a black tee with grey bedding when Eddie came to pull him from his depression in 3x01...

Frank!!

Firstly - Franks office - it is stark and barren and we’ve lost the big leafy foliage from Eddies S3 visit to Frank, however much of the rest of it is the same (or very similar) the big grey painting is the same, we now have more files (there’s more to unpack and sort though metaphor anyone!)  and the lighting is different - the lighting was warm toned in s3, now it is very much cool toned (much like we’ve seen at key moments elsewhere in s5!) which makes everything look bare - empty. (I super lightened the picture above so I could see Eddies costume more clearly but it doesn’t change the fundamentals of how Franks office is lit)

Franks clothing is an interesting one - he is screaming vet to me (i’ll come back to this in a minute) the green/grey/brown trousers, the beige cardigan, the layering, the pale grey/blue jumper, the CHECK shirt (also in beige tones) the beige and grey of his office, again with the cool white lighting. He is the very definition of neutrality and safety - both in person and his space. that Eddie has chosen to go back to seeing Frank, rather than find a new therapist supports this - it shows that frank is a safe space for Eddie to explore his trauma and deamons and shows that maybe Eddie clicked with him better than he thought back in S3!

the olive green/grey/brown trousers - they’re smart suit trousers, but they have undertones of military about them (the fact that he’ resting his hand on them is drawing my eye to them!) in fact they’re pretty much the colour known as olive drab - a colour used in American WWII and Vietnam war army uniforms, 

Drab as a term originally meant natural undyed cloth made from wool, it is a dull light brown colour but over time its meaning conflated to dull, lifeless or monotonous as a descriptive term more generally. Sorry - got side tracked by word etymology! Olive drab is more on the brown side of the spectrum than green and so general brown meanings apply - namely, stability, approachability, reliability, honesty and wisdom- all things you definitely want from a therapist!

then we have the greys and beiges 

the grey/blue v-neck jumper - so a combination of the two colour meanings - neutrality, detached, calming and trustworthy - security

the beige cardigan - bulky and protective with a rolled collar - beige is a colour of comfort, it is neutral and plain, it is meant to be soothing and relaxing, whilst being warm - a combination colour of yellow brown and grey - so while it is considered a boring or ‘non colour’, the shade of Franks cardigan steers more towards the yellow end of the spectrum and away from the grey making it more lively and warm and pushing it in line with my favourite colour meaning - yes that yellow of communication. And what is a therapist if not for communication!

and lastly - the check shirt - In my check theory the check is usually worn by the person who is about to experience the trouble or trauma, but here because Frank is a therapist, we need to view him as an extension of Eddie - as his psyche if you will (this also holds up with our previous Frank encounters - check suit jacket in 3x09), so the trauma/trouble is eddies, but the great thing about my theory is that all those wearing the check/plaid pattern get some form of resolution at the end of an episode or arc - we’re not generally left wondering if they’ll be ok or what happened next -we generally see them moving on or accepting what has happened to them (when they’re central to the story of the firefam and not just a random rescue)

So if we look at Frank as an extension of Eddie and combine the olive drab trousers, the check shirt, the blue grey jumper and the beige cardigan, we’re left with some hints as to Eddies psyche and what we’re going to get to see him exploring on screen - his military background (hence Franks look screaming vet at me like I mentioned earlier - Eddie is a vet ergo Franks look needing to suggest it too), the need to communicate, the resolution of his trauma as well as the concept of safety and security and what that means or looks like.

Then we have the actual Eddie in Franks office

Man oh man - he is grey and black - and not just his clothes! I already replied to an ask from @mandzuking and said this; ‘Eddie is definitely looking depressed - the messy hair, the bags under his eyes, the off pallor to his skin (props to the make up team), the stubble, the looking utterly exhausted and drained, the slouched position that screams of a man who is going through it and somehow Ryan has managed to make his face look what I call 'depression bloated' - I look back at pictures of myself when I was at my worst and lowest and its the same bloated look on my face - hard to explain, but I've not seen Ryans 'Eddie' face look like that before, so its making me so unhinged.’

There is also his posture - when we see him in s3 in Franks office - he is sat upright - he looks alert and engaged (in a semi defensive/ combative manner) whereas now  he’s still in an open pose, but he is very much the definition of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders!

But back to the clothes we can see his grey button down henley, grey/black denim shirt, black jeans (i think)and boots/shoes plus his watch is on display (although I can’t tell which watch it is because my image isn’t high enough quality for zoom to be any use! Eddie has been trending dark and black/grey wards - not completely, but the lighter colours have been slowly disappearing from his wardrobe and we haven’t seen him in anything light coloured since 4x12 - when the treasure hunt was coming to its end and pre sniper!

I said in an earlier post that Eddie only has his henleys buttoned up fully when he’s trying to protect himself otherwise he tends to wear at least 1 button open. the choice of a button up henley is deliberate - he doesn’t always wear them with buttons, usually when they’re trying to say something about his open-ness - so at important or key moments/scenes (think about breaking with Ana or the 118 is the family we chose - moments when he’s revealing his true thoughts/feelings.

The worn grey/black denim shirt - it’s him layering - something that s done for protection, but it also implies the concept of peeling back the layers (if we get to see more therapy sessions with Frank than just the one in the trailer, I fully expect to see both Eddie and Frank reducing the number of layers they’re wearing - especially Frank - as Eddie works through aspects of his psyche and trauma) but the choice of denim is also interesting because it has its roots in being a working mans fabric - suggesting the idea that Eddie is working - putting in the work and this ties in with the other times we’ve seen him in a denim shirt - moments when he’s putting work into something (moving away from Texas, Shannon returning, visiting Abeula in hospital - which is about him putting in the effort to put Carla in place to free up pressure on Abeula, Post tsunami Buck - there’s no one I trust more…) the fact that it is worn just adds to this - the session we’re seeing is clearly not Eddies first session with Frank this time around, so we can assume the work has been going on for at least a couple of sessions and they’re beginning to get somewhere - hence the worn look of the shirt!

the black jeans and the boots just add to the idea of Eddie being in a dark place

The interesting thing is that we can pick up a few parallels with other characters and their struggles; 

Athena in 1x02/3 when May OD’s is in a black denim shirt, worn open (she’s also wearing a watch in this scene and she doesn’t do that very often!)

Buck’s therapy session 1x02- worn and holey denim, the use of layers - Buck is discovering new things about his character, but the big holes on buck show a short term - immediate reaction type of depression - kind of like the idea of a blade cutting a hole in fabric so its an immediate damage, while the soft wearing of Eddie’s shirt shows more of a long build up - slow wearing away (pebbles on a beach becoming sand)

Maddie is the only one in layers in the therapy montage from 3x09 and she is the only one we see continue on with Frank, both Eddie and Hen are in single layers.

When Maddie goes to confront her trauma in the place it happened - she is wearing basically the same colour way as Eddie - grey turtleneck, dark grey jacket black trousers

so yes they might have only given us a few second to go feral over, but it was plenty to unhinge me more than I already was! Right I’m back off to embroider (I’m not sure i’m going to get it done before the start of 5b!) and be unhinged!

tagging; @fiona-fififi @prettyboyandthekid @moniquekatie @oneawkwardcookie @mandzuking17  @leothil​ @eddie-diass​ @reallysmartladymariecurie​ @adamsparirsh​ @theladyyavilee​ @talespinner230​ @lovecolibri​ @mistmarauder​ @diazchristopher​ @localbitcheddiediaz​ @ktinastrikesback​ @kitkatpancakestack​ @trashendence​

#kym costume meta #give me 1 crumb and i will analyse the hell out of it #911 promo #911 promo speculation #911 spoilers #911 speculation #unhinged on main #eddie #Eddie Diaz #therapy eddie #spiralling #costume meta #costume analysis

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Hello i would kill for some awkward Connor attempting to comfort Chris during training please and thank you

Follow-up to this piece from yesterday

CW: Pet whump, implied whump of a minor, bruising, some dehumanizing language, BBU, facility whump, creepy comfort, The Moral Standards of Monsters, some implied conditioning due to ableism (blink-and-you’ll-miss-it)

“Hey, Manning.”

Connor looks up from his lunch - he’s at his desk in his training room, a sandwich, bag of chips, and bottle of his iced coffee set out in front of him while he finishes up paperwork from the last trainee’s fitness reports - and sighs. Fucking Luke goddamn Petrus. “Yeah?”

For a second, his stomach flips. Linda swore up and down that the complaint would be anonymous, and Connor isn’t the only person in the hallway who has brought up the screaming being… irritating… but still.

Luke is Director Renford’s favorite in a big way, her loyal henchman, and he can make a handler’s life a living hell if he wants to.

Luke leans against the open doorway, giving him a bright smile. Above the expression, though, Luke’s blue eyes stay cold as ice. Like the Director, Connor thinks sometimes. Two fucking peas in a pod, and Connor’s always a little bit on the outside.

Lately, though, he’s been feeling kind of grateful he’s on the outskirts. The Director’s approval is something everyone works for, but having her focus on you too long and too thoroughly sounds as terrifying as her anger.

“I just got called up to a meeting with Renford.”

Renford. Like they’re buddies. Like he’s equals with her. Connor keeps his mouth shut, but he wonders how the Director would react if she knew he calls her Renford when she’s not right in front of him. “Good for you. I don’t see why that should affect my lunch break.”

“The meeting could last a few hours. I know you’ve got the afternoon off from trainee work. Would you mind keeping an eye on one of mine? He’s just out of a week in solitary, so he’s needy as fuck.”

Connor perks up a little at that. Needy trainee and unscheduled afternoon sounds like just the pick-me-up he needs today. “He need any training work?”

“Nah. Do whatever you want with him.” Luke gives Connor a wink. “He’s got some top notch fucking flexibility. Just saying. You can twist him into pretzels. Tell him he’s being good and he’ll do it all himself. Kid’s eager as fuck now that we’re past the halfway point.”

Kid?

Connor swears internally but keeps his expression carefully the same. “What do you mean, kid, Luke? Wait a sec-”

“I’ll bring him in, hold on!” Luke’s already gone from the doorway.

Connor has a sinking feeling of realization that Luke didn’t just randomly decide to leave a trainee with him. He must’ve figured out who put the fucking complaint in. And he knows that Connor hates the screaming, if he knows that.

Which means…

Luke reappears, and sure enough, the little redheaded trainee who is the cause of all the wailing and sobbing is right beside him.

No weights hanging from his hands this time, but there are deep red marks around his wrists and bruises at his upper arms just below his sleeves that suggest he’s done plenty of training work this morning, whatever Luke says.

Jesus, this kid is eerily beautiful. Pale skin, flushed in the aftermath of tears, with a smattering of freckles all over like constellations of stars. His hair’s that rare shining strawberry blond, with eyebrows pale enough to make him seem faintly inhuman. Connor wonders exactly which piece of shit with a thing for teenagers put the order in.

He wants to make sure he doesn’t vote for the guy.

Not that Connor Manning votes.

But maybe he’ll start, and then start purposefully voting for someone else. That's probably way more effort than he'll ever put in to anything that isn't work or Socks, but it feels kind of nice to think about it.

The trainee keeps his eyes carefully down on the floor. Connor notes he’s not even wearing the shock collar any longer - just your average band of black leather, buckled at the side, no padlock. Not only not being shocked, or not needing it, but already far enough along not to try and remove his own collar.

“Luke. I’ve told you how I feel about the underagers-”

“Yeah, and I’ve told you that you can judge me when you're an angel, numbnuts. You’re not better than me. You just have different victims.”

“Oh, the Director would have a shit-fit hearing you call the trainees victims.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m the only one who really grasps exactly what it is we do here, Manning. I just also happen to enjoy it. Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life, right?"

“Go fuck yourself, Petrus. I enjoy my job just fine.” Why is he defensive about this? Connor doesn’t quite understand the surge of irritation within him. Why does he give a fuck what Luke goddamn Petrus has to say about anything, anyway?

“Yeah, for now you do. We’ll see how it goes. I’ve been at this gig for a long time, I see the ones who flame out, and you’re one of them. Anyway, I’ve got to go meet with Renford, I’ll be back by three. If you get tired of him, just put him on the mat and I’ll pick him up when I’m done.”

“Yeah, okay.” Connor frowns, pushing himself to his feet. “I do like my job, Petrus.”

“For now. Bet I’ll be the only person here totally unsurprised when you quit one day.”

“I’m not going to quit.”

“I’ll bet you a thousand damn dollars you do, and I’ll raise the bet to fifteen hundred that it’s over your fucking conscience making a reappearance.”

“Don’t have one."

Luke just sighs, and gives Connor a patronizing little smirk before he turns and leaves. The trainee looks over his shoulder to watch Luke go, pleading with his eyes but not saying a word. The door shuts, and Connor and the trainee are alone.

Connor clears his throat, picking up the sandwich but finding he doesn’t really want it any longer. “What’s your number, trainee?”

The boy’s eyes snap back to him, briefly, before they drop to the floor. Connor notes with vague professional detachment that they’re red-rimmed. He’s been crying again, but then, when isn’t this fucking trainee crying?

When he’s screaming instead, Connor’s thoughts answer him.

God, he wishes these trainees didn’t get to him so much. He can’t talk to anyone about it, either, word will get out Connor Manning has regrets. Questioning the company is a good way to find yourself on the wrong end of a shock collar.

“223499, sir,” The boy says. His voice is low and soft, and each number and word is deliberately placed, as if he’s carefully pacing himself as he speaks. “Designation… Romantic-”

“Yeah, I knew that already. That’s all Luke does.” Connor leans his chin on his hand, looking the kid over. There’s solid muscle in that kid, he thinks, legacy of whatever life he lived before. It’s wasting away under the carefully calibrated malnourishment they’re all subjected to, but the memory of strength is in there, still. An easy, unconscious grace that didn’t have to be taught. “You’ve already done training work today?”

Those green eyes flash up at him again, nervous. Frightened. The boy shifts from foot to foot, then goes still. His fingers twitch before he pauses that, too. Connor watches it all with a kind of slightly repulsed interest. “Yes, sir. But… Handler Petrus said that… that if you want, you can-... can test me-”

“I don’t want,” Connor says heavily, cutting him off with a gesture. The boy’s mouth snaps shut instantly. “Not in the mood.”

There’s an expression of genuine confusion - when is a handler not in the mood? - that flits across the boy’s face. It’s a look of such comedic bafflement that Connor ends up laughing, shaking his head. He doesn’t even put his sexy, dark laugh on, but just snort-laughs naturally, before he walks over to the kid, watching him pull into himself, shoulders hunched.

“Relax, kid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The kid’s nose wrinkles. It’s adorable. “But… all you do… is hurt us.”

Luke’s fucking technique, Connor thinks. Luke’s trainees don’t forget anything he’s taught them, to be sure, but they never quite learn how to act like they’re in love with it, either. Connor can turn out a trainee who genuinely thinks he’s in love. Luke turns out trainees who hate everything they can’t stop themselves from doing.

Some perspectives are into that, he supposes. Connor thinks he’d rather have the act.

“Yeah, well, I’m not going to do that today. Come on,” Connor says, and his voice gentles a little. “I’ve got plenty to keep myself busy with. Why don’t you lay down on the mat and get some sleep while I work?” He puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder, feeling him trembling slightly through the thin cloth of his white trainee t-shirt. The boy moves when he’s nudged, carefully stepping across the room, tense as a wire about to snap.

“Are you-... are you going to, to, to, to, um-” The boy flinches back from an expected punishment when he stammers. "Silence is, is better than stammering, try again, silence is better than-... try again." The kid mutters to himself, takes a deep breath, tries again. "Are you... going to... give me a pill?"

Connor pulls his hand back, frowning. Now it’s his turn to look confused.

What the fuck is even going on with this kid?

“Nah. I don't even keep them in my training room. No worries, kid.” He pitches his voice low, soothing, reassuring. “The only thing I intend to do is finish up some papers, go take a smoke break outside, and then come back and get set up for my next rounds at seven before I head out. This is a real break. Okay? I’m not even interested in whatever it is Handler Petrus is doing with you. I just want to do my job.”

The kid looks at him. He’s almost always seen him drugged out of his gourd, barely able to focus on anything not right in front of his face. Right now, though, there’s a sense that the boy is considering his words, actually able to think about them. “Yes, sir. I can-... I, I can lay down?” 

 “Yeah, go for it.” Connor waves his hand again, moving back to his desk.

“Thank you, sir.” The kid’s gratitude is pathetic. Connor has to give Luke that, he does know how to make a trainee say thank you for just about anything. Connor’s method takes more work to get to that than Luke’s.

But Connor doesn’t have to drug his trainees to do it. And he doesn’t work with kids.

Shit. Maybe I am going to wind up with a conscience. Handlers get fired over that.

Or worse.

After a pause, watching him go, the kid kneels down, then lays down on his stomach, making as much contact with the heated mat as he can. There’s a soft exhale, something almost like contentment. Connor watches those tensed, probably painful muscles slowly relax. His bare feet start to rub against each other, back and forth, back and forth.

There’s a blanket nearby, and the boy hesitantly grabs at it, pulls it over himself. Breathes out, eyes fluttering shut as warmth surrounds him utterly for what’s probably the first time in a while. Or at least warmth that doesn’t come with certain conditions.

Connor’s eyes trace the line of the boy’s jaw - there’s a bruise there, too, like a thumb pressed too hard into delicate skin. Coppery eyelashes lay flat, long enough to just brush his cheek. His hair falls over his forehead and eyes.

It’s like looking at a fucking painting.

“Jesus, you’re pretty as hell, aren’t you?”

The boy’s eyebrows furrow, briefly, but he doesn’t open his eyes or pull back from the mat. He curls up tighter under the blanket, disappearing up to his chin.

Connor turns back to his work, filling out a questionnaire. He’s still working at it when he hears, just barely, the boy’s soft reply to his question.

“I, I, I wish I wasn’t.”

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

#223499 #whump #bbu #box boy #box boy whump #box boy universe #pet whump #dehumanization #dehumanizing language #brief vague #ableism tw #internalized ableism #self-loathing #whumper pov #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #caretaker whumper #whumper as caretaker #bruises #creepy comfort #creepy comf #hurt/comfort #connor manning just wants to be friends #luke petrus is a piece of garbage #chris the strawberry blond romantic #facility whump

[hopeamarsu]

Of potions and myths

This is for the lovely @clydesducktape​ and her CDT celebration challenge. Congratulations on your milestone my darling! ❤️  

I thought I was just going to write a small blurb, but it got out of hand a little, oops. I also decided to try my hand in something else entirely, namely a whole new character. I hope it’s not rubbish.  

My picks: Mythical creature - Love Potion - Blind Date

Will Miller x f!reader (eventually if I can manage a chapter two of this)

Word count 2,1k

Warnings: Predatory behaviour, dangers of date rape drugs and drugging (nothing happens, don’t worry!), alcohol, magic, mythical creatures are known, strong tension. Please let me know if I missed anything! 

Chapter 2

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” A deep voice rumbles behind you just as you straighten your body to get back to your drink and continue your date. Your eyes widen, flitting between your drink still on its coaster, your date who looks like he’s about to sweat through his button-up and the stranger standing to your left, one huge hand hooked around his belt buckle and the other twisted outward a little, displaying his intricate tattoos. 

He looks calm on the outside, posture all relaxed as he holds your gaze for a moment before turning his eyes to your date and you can practically see them turn into ice and stone. You follow his gaze and take in your date, how the collar of his shirt looks a tad too tight and the perspiration gathering at his hairline. He’s very nervous for some reason, you think but remain silent, waiting for more information.  

The blond stranger nods towards your drink, sitting all innocent at the bar top, water pooling around it. “Saw him drop something in your drink as you were turned away.” Despite his calmness, the voice is laced with venom, the ice in his eyes burning as he regards your date with disdain. With slow, deliberate movement, he picks up your drink and gives it a small whiff. 

“Love potion.” Two words that turn your world upside down. 

It had been a blind date, set up by your co-worker who had assured you that their friend was good and kind and cute, when you first hesitated accepting the invitation. And it had been an okay date so far, if a little lacklustre in conversation. He’d talked more about himself and his work than engaging you in conversation during your two-hour in the bar together. You’d already given up on the idea of a second date, but tried to humor yourself and him by not cutting the date short even if only to please your co-worker, trying to at least make it work. 

But to hear he’d tried to lace your drink with love potion? Oh hell no. 

“Give me the drink,” You order in a low voice, holding out your hand for it. The blond man agrees, passing the drink to you and you bring it to your own nose, picking up the notes under the alcohol. Once you are certain the stranger is indeed right and you know exactly what the potion was supposed to do to you, you turn your body to look at your date fully. 

In a flash of a movement you tip the drink upside down and pour it down his crotch, ice and all. When he yelps and jumps up cursing, trying to salvage the light chinos, you stand up as well and push the empty glass into his chest, growling in his ear.

“You absolute fucker! Next time when you try to use a potion to make someone fall into bed with you, do it with someone who doesn’t study potions for a living. Or better yet, don’t do it at all.”  

With another push at the date, you step around him, not sparing him a second glance. Your mind is screaming for you to run, hide and maybe get shitfaced at home to avoid the humiliating feeling already creeping up your spine and you rush away out the door. 

The cold air hits you full force and you need to lean back towards the brick wall, trying to gather your shields and thoughts as your mind wanders into unsavoury grounds. Had it not been for the stranger looking out for you... Like called upon, the blond man steps into your eyesight, arms loose and his posture unthreatening even when he fills the air around him with restrained power. 

“Are you alright?” 

His deep rumble feels like balm against your bleeding wounds and you lift off the wall to fully look at him again. He is taller than you, his blond hair cropped short and his full beard trimmed close to his skin but showing how full it is nevertheless. His eyes search for signs in yours and you feel your mental shield drop a bit as you drown in his blue orbs. Your hand shakes by your side when you let out a soft sigh. 

“I’ll be soon. Thank you, for what you did. I didn’t even notice.”

“He was sneaky, using the moment you checked for your phone. I’m glad I caught it, it was very fast.”

“The phone!” You exclaim and dig hastily through your pockets to find the object in question. You turn the screen to him, showing the blank email notification still up on the phone. “The bastard had this all planned. I can’t believe it.” You shake your head in disgust, another wave of cold fear running inside your veins. 

“Do you wish to report him?” 

“I don’t know…” 

“Unauthorized use of a Class B potion is a felony,” He points out casually and you have to nod at his words. It’s true and given that you could also smell the undertone of aphrodisiac potion in the drink as well tells you the man was either playing with fire combining these two potions together or had done it before and gotten away with it and he should be brought in for his offenses. 

“If only I hadn’t poured it down his pants. Now there’s only my word against his and who will believe a researcher over… whatever hell he is. I don’t even know if he is mundane or someone who practices the arts.” You feel dejected and upset at yourself. Even after all these years mingling with the supernatural you still don’t know all the clues you need to pick up upon to pinpoint someone.  

“Don’t worry, it’ll all turn alright. You have me as a witness, I have a pretty good idea on what he practices,” The stranger tells you, offering you a wry look. He holds out his hand and introduces himself as Captain William Miller, part of the Delta Force and you suck in a surprised breath. Delta is known all around as the elite of the elite, almost exclusively recruiting non-mundanes and mythicals into their ranks and if he’s made Captain within them, he must be at the top of the chain.

“You’d do that for me?” You manage to ask after introducing yourself. William, Will as he asks you to call him, give you a reassuring nod and you find yourself relaxing a little more. He steps closer and suddenly you feel tendrils of something wrap softly around you, offering you reassurance and protection. You find yourself leaning into the sensation, lowering your shields even further to enjoy them snake up your arms in soothing motions. 

Your eyes flip up to his and as they lock into place, you swear you see something red flicker in them for a second before the dark ocean-blue hue hides it. Almost like the opposite sides of a magnet, you are pulled closer to one another until your back is pressed against the wall again and he stands right in front of you. 

The tendrils are followed by his hand ghosting up near your bare arm as he cages you into the wall, one hand up over your head. “I don’t know what it is, but… Something draws me into you,” Will murmurs as his lips nearly graze your forehead. “I feel it too,” You answer him, your eyes falling shut as the sensation on your skin turns from soothing to electrifying. Something powerful hums between your bodies, just waiting to claim its prize.

He doesn’t touch you and you don’t touch him, both of you knowing unconsciously that the second you do, all bets are off. Your body calls to him and he is clearly having a tough time not answering the song. You can see how he struggles to keep his composure, his eyes flickering to your lips and your neck and back to your eyes. One of his hands curls into a fist as he breathes your scent in, his nostrils flaring at the combination of your natural musk and the bar you’ve left behind. 

You struggle against the pull too, trying to gather your shields again but it’s so hard when you want to drop them completely for him. You desperately want him to swoop down and just kiss you, erase everything and anything that is not him. It makes your head spin, the intensity of it all and you are glad of the wall offering you support and grounding you so you won’t fly away.    

“Allow me to take you home and come pick you up tomorrow? We’ll go and report the creep first thing but now I need to know you are safe. I need to keep you safe,” His voice grows husky, tender and possessive and you shiver under his whispered words. 

“Please,” you mumble, unable to deny his plea. With great effort Will pushes himself off you and steps away a little, your head clearing as the distance grows between both of you. It seems to have a similar effect on him as the hue in his eyes lightens. You can still feel his presence tingling in the base of your skull and you are already itching to explore your books to find more about this unexpected and intensive connection you seem to share with the handsome Captain.  

He gestures towards his car and you walk side by side to it. As the engine roars into action, you can feel the air get thicker as you are once more in close proximity. You want to open the seat belt and touch him, sink your fingers into his hair and feel the beard scratch along your chin and neck. One look at his white knuckles gripping the steering wheel tells you that you are not alone in your thoughts and it makes heat flare up inside you. 

By some miracle, or his ironclad will, he gets you home, following your quiet instructions to a tee. As you step to the curb, you feel the intensity simmer down again and file it away for later research. You turn to the open window after closing the door and offer your thanks for the ride and for catching the would-be predator. He has one hand still on the wheel anchoring himself in place, and just as you are about to turn around and walk to the front door, he speaks out your name.  

“After you’ve filed the report, can I, uh, can I take you out for a coffee?” Will sounds almost bashful as he speaks. Is he afraid you’ll deny him now that your mind is a bit clearer? You know he felt the magnitude of whatever it was surrounding your bodies earlier too. You can clearly see the remnants of it on his body pulled so tight, the muscles tense and poised to pounce under his Henley. You chuckle softly before offering an affirmative. 

“I would love that.” 

“Good! Great. Wonderful.” Will coughs to hide his eagerness. “I’ll pick you up in the morning then?” Now it’s your turn to nod, before bidding him good night. You feel his eyes tracking your every move as you walk away from the car, every cell in your body rebelling against the movement of your legs. It takes all of your concentration not to rush back but to finally open the door and step inside.

The lock clicks into place and you sigh as you rest your forehead against the wood, hoping you’d invited him in. But for now, this is for the best, you remind yourself. You have some research to do. You need to get to the bottom of this connection before anything rash can happen. No matter how much you wish for it to. 

Hours later you step into your bedroom and a soundless whisper calls to you from the window. You walk next to it and push the curtain to the side a little. Will’s car is still parked on the same spot where he left you and even if you can’t see his face, you see his figure in the front seat, reclining a little as he’s gotten comfortable.

He’s going to be there all night, you realize suddenly. It should feel creepy, but it only fills you with warmth. He’s going to keep you safe, just like he said.    

#william miller #william ironhead miller #will miller #will miller x f!reader #tw: date rape drugs #tw: drugging #cw: alcohol #will miller fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #charlie hunnam #charlie hunnam characters #my w #cdt celebration challenge

[alilbihh]

woods&witches — knj

masterlist

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: You think it ends with you saving a fox. That is, until you start getting love letters sent to your doorstep and little knick knacks left on your window sill.

genre: fox shifter!namjoon, witch!reader, fluff

words: 4.5k

a/n: this was meant for the bingo challenge but completely escaped its original prompt. anyway. heres shy!lovestruck!namjoon bc i love him. also no this is nOt a witch au blog idk whats wrong w me

A finch flutters onto your windowsill, and you shuffle over once you hear a tap, tap, tap on the glass. You push it open and the bird hops inside, beak leaning forward tentatively.

You take the letter. "Ah, so they sent you this time?" Or maybe the finch volunteered, you wouldn't be surprised. They are quite the gossips.

It's a soft blue envelope, and when you turn it over there's a scrawled #12 on the left side corner. You think that even if he hadn't written that, you'd know. It's easy to keep track, after all.

A maple leaf slips out when you open the envelope. You set it aside and tentatively take the letter, brush a hand over the ink. It was written by hand in messy but deliberate hand writing and it smells like chamomile and honey, like it was written under a half-moon.

You read it once then twice then three times until it feels like you've been dipped halfway underwater, until the buzzing of the midday cicadas has faded into white noise and everything is suddenly tinged blue.

The man, you deduced a while ago, tells tales of palm trees and blue ponds and red and pink frogs, of catching crabs on a stranded shore. He's writing poetry but he's not, writing reality but he's not, and you don't know how he does it, how he can make five paintings with just one phrase.

You clutch the letter to your chest, feel yourself have an out of body experience because of a not-poem. Your head whips towards the finch when it chirps suddenly, and you huff.

"Why're you still here?" You shield the letter from the bird's eyes. Its head tilts. "And don't give me that look, I know exactly what you're thinking."

The bird only gives another chirp before flying away.

You scoff out a laugh, and when you walk towards your bedside table, the drawer opens before you can even think too much about it. You glare at your walls before tucking the letter with the others, as if to stop the house from teasing you too much.

It all begins and ends on a sunny afternoon.

The tree roots whisper as you pass, as if to purposely lead you astray, but you follow them anyway. The forest is never wrong, after all.

So when you stumble against a snowy white fox lying on a field of wisteria, you're only a tad bit surprised.

"Ah, you don't want to do that," you say some time after it woke up in your home and stopped panicking. It's now looking down at your polka dot socks, then looks up sharply to stare at you. You don't think there's a way for foxes to show emotions, but you think that if there were, he'd be staring at you with a little bit of awe.

You clear your throat. "Your foot, I mean. You don't want to strain it."

It just keeps staring at you, one ear twitching a bit.

"Um." You say when it doesn't stop, "You'll be better in a few weeks time. It wasn't that serious."

The fox blink blink blinks before shaking itself off, fur spilling every which way. You take it as acknowledgement enough.

In a few minutes he's managed to sniff and inspect every piece of furniture in your home, ranging from your small couch to your droopy house plant. He trudges and limps and sometimes skips from place to place, and then becomes highly confused when you don't let him climb the kitchen table.

Yoongi appears on your window somewhere between the fox kneading at your rug and the fox trying to catch a moth with its mouth.

"Hey grump," you say to the black cat, scratching behind his ears. Yoongi's tail twitches in dismissal, but he whines when you stop petting him, anyway.

You can almost see when Yoongi's gaze settles on the fox, because when you turn to look he's frozen solid on your couch, as if hoping he can't be seen if he stays still enough. The cat gives you a look.

You raise a brow. "What? Don't look at me like that."

He keeps looking at you like that.

"I helped him over by the wisteria. His foot's a little bad, but it's nothing too bad." The fox stays curled up on your couch, digging his nails into the cushions much like a cat would. An ear twitches in your direction, as if he's sheepish but won't admit to it.

Yoongi mewls a single, drawn out mewl of acceptance. You nod nod nod, and the cat jumps down your window and disappears into the woods right when the wind starts blowing north and the sun starts climbing higher before dropping lower.

The world stills for a while as you work through your home, organizing your chipped cups and bent spoons and funny forks. The mushroom wraith on your door wiggles when you pass it by, and when the frog figurine on your counter croaks in greeting the fox nearly jumps out of its skin.

(The fox is gone by morning, right when the sun settles over the honeysuckle tumbling down your thatched roof. You try to feel for his presence, but it's overwhelmed by the snails and woodpeckers and oversized mushrooms.

You think that's when the letters started coming, perched nicely over your windowsill whenever you're not looking).

There's a man in your pond.

The carp in the water yells indignantly as the man tries to stand but tumbles, pondweed curled over his ankles as if begging him to stay. You just stare because the man tries to get up once then twice then three times, hair loose and windblown and positively drenched, twigs and pondweed in the knots.

You stare and stare until the man notices you and startles, looks away quickly before cringing and hesitatingly meeting your eyes. He lifts a hand, lowers it, lifts it again and waves. You wave back.

"Hello." You say. The man looks a little stunned, more stunned than when the carp had nipped at his feet. You point at the pond, "You're standing in my pond."

"Ah!" He startles, head whipping down like he'd forgotten all about it. "I am! In your pond, I mean. Sorry, sorry." The pondweed untangles itself mercifully, and he shuffles out of the water, toes curling into the dirt around it.

"It's okay!" You shoot him a thumbs up. He stares. "Do you want to, uh, come inside?"

So the man walks through the slim wooden trellis and diligently wipes his feet on the rug, shuffling through the door with hesitant steps. He looks a little like a painting left out too long in the rain, all ruffled hair and stiff shoulders, but pretty nonetheless.

"Would you like some tea?" You say, already grabbing the kettle from the cupboards, "It will have to have milk, though, since the cups don't like serving without."

"Okay! Tea is nice. Thank you." Then he smiles with knee-deep dimples and pinchable cheeks and something inside you kinda melts a little.

The man's name is Namjoon and his skin is tan despite it already being winter, the color of salted caramel. He's so bright you find it easier to look away, to look instead at the space around him, the shadow against the pane of his neck, the length of his-- very long legs. You'll pretend you never noticed that.

You don't talk about why he was in your pond, not really. He's already apologized to the carp, he says. You talk instead about mushroom glades and why avocados are acceptable dinner foods and his intense love for moths and his hopes for snow this year.

When Namjoon leaves it all feels a bit unprecedented. Lost souls show up on your doorstep often, always leaving after a cup of tea and a few helpful directions, but Namjoon doesn't look lost at all. Looks a little like he belongs, really.

He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, then sticks a hand out in offering. You shake his hand. He nods, lingers on the doorway, plays with a loose stitching of his soft green overalls.

"I'll-- be seeing you, then," he clears his throat, and you just laugh a little loosely because no, you won't. With lost souls, you never do.

Except Namjoon does return. He returns, in fact, in green baseball shorts and an open-collared shirt with sugar packets sticking out of the front pockets. He looks a bit like a dad showing up for his son's football game. Looks a little dangerous but in a harmless way, like a huge gangly bug. A six-foot stick insect hovering outside your door.

You're a little stunned. Very stunned. So stunned that Namjoon cringes, shuffles a bit on your welcome mat. It's a frog with a thought bubble that says welcome! that Namjoon has expressed his love for on multiple occasions.

"Hello," he purses his lips. "I... wanted to thank you. Again. For everything." He sucks in a breath. "Bad time? Bad time. I don't actually remember knocking-- did I knock? God, I didn't, did I? I'm so rude, I'm so sorry."

"No, no," you say once you've recovered. "You, you definitely knocked."

"Oh!" His lips form a surprised little 'o'. You're so fond. "That's good. Okay. I'll... be leaving, then."

"Um!" You interject, "You can come inside, if you want?"

So he comes inside and drinks tea and names the cactus by your windowsill Gerald and discusses his complaints on climate change and you're a little content and a lot confused, because--

Only creatures of the forest can find your house more than once.

Unless--

(That night, you knock on your own walls and glare indignantly. Say, "You led him here, didn't you?"

The walls do nothing. You think you hear a floorboard creak, though.

You stomp your feet like an overgrown child. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but I'm not falling for it!"

No response. Except the wind chimes outside sing brightly, but when you look out the window there's no wind at all).

Namjoon visits once then twice then three times, always showing up unplanned and out of nowhere. He brings a pinecone first then a dandelion next, blushes and says I didn't pluck them against their will! I told them they looked pretty and they volunteered to help me.

He's so pretty it's become a little harder to hold in. He was always pretty, always smiles a bit too brightly, like he's swallowed a star and can't quite keep all the brightness to himself, but something's shifted a bit.

(You contemplate this in a mid afternoon. As in: whisper-screaming to the ceiling for a while. And then whisper-screaming some more when Yoongi walks directly across your face.

"You're a monster," you inform him.

He digs his tiny monster-claws into your stomach.)

One day, you learn the man is weirdly good at knitting. You learn he has a pretty solid grasp on quantum physics. You learn that when he laughs it's a little hah! under his breath, and when he really laughs it turns sideways and belly-up, pitching into something that could almost be defined as a giggle. You learn that you need to stop staring.

Another day, Namjoon sits in the corner of your couch, curled up reading a book he'd picked up from the next village over. It's small but very thick with what could only be very small letters, because he's squinting a bit as he reads. It's vastly endearing.

Another day, he makes cheesy bread in your toaster and felt bad about it for the next three weeks. Which is also the amount of time it took for you to get all the cheese out.

Everything's great.

Today, though, you're walking through the forest alone. The forest doesn't guide you, not really, maybe because it knows you're walking on your own terms.

The forest is noisy with the sounds of birds calling and trees growing and little things skipping here and there through the undergrowth. Your shoes are so muddy you don't really care for how much worse they get, and they squelch when your heels sink into puddles and spongy moss.

You walk and walk until you come across a clearing, a bird feeder propped neatly over a tree branch. A sparrow squawks when it sees you.

"Hello," you say in greeting, and the tree with the bird feeder sighs, the wind blowing and carrying the sound.

A tree root on the ground grabs a fistful of dirt and promptly flings it onto your knees. You shriek indignantly.

You have a lot to figure out, the tree echoes because of course it does. It has a history of saying things vaguely and hoping you'll understand.

"I don't understand," you say out loud.

It flings more dirt onto your knees. You step back protectively, "Okay, okay! I get it!"

One, two. Four clouds in the sky, for now, it says at last, and you're a bit afraid of prying, so you just accept what it says as fact and move on, say one last goodbye to the bluetit that flutters onto the bird feeder.

It starts raining not long after that, when more than four clouds settle over the evening sun, makes it a bit harder to maneuver through the woods. You walk based on feeling, a hand brushing over the tree trunks, silently cursing the tree.

Namjoon is already waiting when you arrive home, hurries forward when he spots you through the trees, holding an umbrella up high.

And it's-- sweet. Just a really sweet thing to do, really considerate. He could have waited inside, in the warmth and shelter, but instead he's walking through puddles to meet you halfway with an umbrella.

He looks a little funny when he stops in front of you, hair disheveled and sticking up in random places, eyes all worried and sullen. He looks like a goose.

"You look like a goose," you say out loud with a little laugh, "I'm already wet though, so there's not much point in this, you know?"

Namjoon's smile is a bit dopey, a bit sloppy at the edges. "But there's not many trees to shield you, from this point on." He says, "Let's-- go inside?"

So you go inside, the house already setting the fireplace with its never-ending firewood, the frog figurine croaking and the wind chimes singing and everything feels a little right. A little more homey.

"Did you find your way back easily?" Namjoon says later, hands cupping his tea mug as he sheepishly adds, "I know this is your-- home, obviously, I don't wanna just assume anything, but-- For me, it's a bit harder to navigate when it rains like this. Fogs my senses and all," he clears his throat.

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, "Do you know how a wood witch works, Namjoon?" You continue when he shakes his head, "A wood witch is the one who planted the first seed that sprouted the first tree that grew the first forest," you say, half-chanting it, cite it like a rhyme long forgotten.

He looks a bit awe-struck. A lot awe-struck. Says, "Oh." And that's that.

You add, sheepish, "It's really not much. I'm not as powerful as other wood witches, but I am grateful to the woods." You hum, "They gave me this cottage. They gave me who I am, really."

"Oh." Namjoon says. "Oh." He stares and stares, open mouthed and in awe and sort of dazed but pretty, pretty. His gaze trails over the room once before settling back on you, says, "You're all the beauty in the world."

And the world-- stills, maybe-- balanced atop a drop of nectar.

You whisper a small, delighted "Oh." And that's that.

Namjoon somehow manages to drag you outside the woods.

You're being dragged through busy streets, cars and crowds and carriages that boggle your senses. The difference between the village and the woods is astounding. (Not that you've never been to nearby cities or villages-- sometimes you crave poptarts and there's nothing you can do about it-- but it's been a while since you've walked into the very heart of it).

You might be a wood witch, but Namjoon is the one who looks a little — lost, outside the woods.

"This is my favorite corner cafe," he admits proudly, "Um, if Seokjin-hyung says anything, please be aware I'm not associated with him."

"Got it." You like this Seokjin guy already.

Taylor Swift is blasting through the speakers when you walk inside, a broad shouldered man swaying from side to side behind the counter as he pours milk into a cup. Once his eyes land on Namjoon he positively grins.

"Namjoon, my man!" He belts out a particularly impressive high note as Namjoon approaches him, but no one around seems at all fazed. "It's been so long!"

"I've been here last week, hyung." Namjoon says but he seems a bit happy to be missed, sheepishly ducking his head.

"That's too long. You should visit more often, it's great! I get free coffee here and don't have to walk through muddy paths and ominous sounds to visit you."

"It's not free though?" Namjoon frowns, "You may own the shop but you're the one who buys all the coffee in the first place."

The man behind the counter makes a noise that's too distorted to understand. "If I wanted someone to tear apart my ideas with logic I'd talk to Yoongi, you're both insufferable."

You want to interject but at the same time don't. You get so absorbed in your own thoughts you almost don't notice when they mention a Yoongi. Huh.

"Oh, you know Yoongi? The cat?" You blink when two sets of eyes settle on you.

"Ah, yes. Yoongi." The man you've now established has to be Seokjin sighs, resting a chin over his palm, "The devious fiend. The pest of the nest. The gremlin goblin."

"Do you ever think before you speak."

"I do! I thought of those words and then I said them."

Namjoon sighs and none of them elaborate any further, but you decide not to pry. You can always just ask Yoongi, anyway.

You both sit in a booth in the far corner where light reflects onto it perfectly but not in an overwhelming way, just enough to be warm and comforting. Seokjin pads over with your drink and Namjoon's latte and shoots excessive finger guns as he leaves, and Namjoon looks a bit like he's refraining from apologizing on his behalf.

Namjoon doodles on napkins and talks like he's reciting a far off poem, except he's talking about what should be the correct pronunciation of pickles and you're kinda maybe really hopelessly endeared.

"Do you think I should paint my nails?" He's saying, closely inspecting his nibbled nails, "Maybe it will make me stop biting my nails."

"Have you thought of green?"

He hums delightedly, "Green! I love green. I'm thinking pink though, since gender norms are a social construct and pink is just pretty in general."

"You'll look like a pretty little winter fairy!" You grin. He flushes pink, too.

Then when you get up to order another drink he stands quick, as if intending to order it for you, but you're already grinning and skipping to the counter and when you turn to look at him he's slowly sitting back down, defeated.

You're maybe smiling too hard when Seokjin walks to take your order. "Ah, Y/n-ssi! How may I help you, my gentle woodland elf?"

"Can I just have the same thing, please?" You say and he hums, walking mechanically towards his cabinets.

Then after staring dazedly at the separate christmas mugs and cinnamon buns and droopy plants, you're looking around when you spot a box by the back counter that looks like an awful lot like a letter slot, a stack of envelopes sitting neatly on top. Oh.

"What's that for?" You gesture towards the box, and Seokjin turns away from the coffee grinder to smile something a little gentle. A little secretive.

"We're a letter shop too, you know?" He looks like he's suppressing a sort of devious smile he doesn't want you to see, "We deliver letters on the writer’s behalf, so the sender stays anonymous."

Your organs twist and melt together all at once. You mumble a small "Oh" and that's that.

Then when you leave Seokjin winks before sending you both off, the man waving boisterously and maybe obnoxiously but you're immensely endeared, wave back until the shop is out of sight and Namjoon is sufficiently embarrassed.

You predictably invite Namjoon inside after you arrive home, deciding that soup after coffee doesn't sound too bad. So you watch as the fireflies do somersaults and the moths hover over lamps as you both go for seconds and then for thirds and you don't say much, maybe say nothing at all, but that's okay, too.

The soup signals a change, you think. Either

1) You are in love with Namjoon and need to tell him.

Or

2) You are in love with soup and need to seek help.

So you walk through the forest.

Namjoon is at home, you know, but you feel that talking to Namjoon about your possible love for Namjoon is a bit counterproductive, so you walk through the forest instead.

Everyone is still adjusting to last night's downpour, the floors muddy and the leaves droopy and everything smelling like wet earth. You walk but you're hovering a few inches off the ground, silently thank the forest for its kindness.

You walk through the forest again the next day, think back to the tree with the bird feeder and think that maybe he wasn't so vague after all. Just wish that he could tell you what to do next.

It's easier to listen to a tree's vague advice than it is to follow through with it, you think, until a few weeks later, when the universe decides you need a little push. A big push. The biggest push.

Namjoon has been visiting consistently for the past month or so, sometimes staying over and sometimes staying just before nightfall, but for maybe a week you haven't heard of him at all. He's disappeared without a trace.

The forest guides you this time, patches of sunlight shining through trees as you follow. You think you hear the shrill argument between a finch and a jay on the treetops as you navigate through mushroom patches and mossy rocks.

It's the field of wisteria. You're in the field of wisteria when you find a small burrow, a little home for a woodland creature.

When you turn, you see-- Namjoon. Namjoon, eyes widened in horror, a strangled sound breaking free from his throat. Two white fox ears standing ramrod straight on his head.

You clear your throat. Say, "Hi, Namjoon."

He shrieks.

A finch flutters onto the bird feeder, eyes twinkling, "Guys, you will not believe what I just found out--"

"We know," the jay says.

"We know," the bluetit says.

"We know," the sparrow says.

Even Yoongi mewls from a higher tree branch.

The finch squawks, gossip stolen from right under its wing, "How on Earth did you all know?"

"The forest made the house bigger," Yoongi drawls, tail swishing here and there, "And we all helped deliver the letters."

"Different from someone, we can actually keep secrets!" Says the jay, chest puffed proudly, ignoring the offended squeals from the finch.

"You know, it was actually kind of obvious."

You hum from beside Namjoon, his arm draped over the back of the couch inches away from dropping onto your shoulder. He wants to tug you closer, comb a hand through your hair, but the mere thought has his face burning and ears threatening to pop out at the stress. He's kissed you before, dozens of times, for many reasons and for no reason at all, but it all still feels a little nerve wrecking, like one push will have you burst at the seams.

(Which, frankly, is ridiculous-- you're the strongest person he knows, but-- but.)

"What is?" He says to distract himself.

"The letters stopped coming after you started showing up, and you literally took me to a letter shop." You falter and add, "And just.. the way you say things, it sounds like how you sound when you write. I don't know if I'm making sense, but it's-- nice." You explain, a hint of affection on your voice.

That has nothing to do with being a fox shifter and everything to do with you sitting so prettily next to him, smelling like Ilsan sunshine and kept promises and damp earth, like the forest itself.

"Hmm," he hums, a hand settling on your thigh, finally gathering the courage to drop his arm onto your shoulder--

"Namjoon, you really don't have to hesitate for this kind of stuff." You say, turning to look at him with a grin. His face burns as he clears his throat pointedly, crossing one leg over the other as he finally drops an arm over your shoulder.

"M'sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be," You press a kiss to his chin, "And you better kiss me properly this instant, because it seems you still think that crocs are acceptable footwear. I'm gonna come to my senses any second now."

"Please don't," he says, a little wild. Then he's moving, nose brushing over your cheek, and then— and then—

A hand curling softly over your cheek, a little giggle, and his lips pressing gently over your own. Something a bit real. Un-takeback-able. You taste a lot like the poetry he writes, still writes, like you're pressing the wonders of the world to his lips, like he's skimming the universe with his hands.

(Once upon a time, you saved a fox lying in a field of wisteria.

The rest of the story is told in open envelopes, messages left for the moon to see.)

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