#embossing rolling pin

[magicalshopping]

♡ Halloween Embossing Rolling Pin by Rolling Pin Collection ♡

[bewitchingkitchen]

CELEBRATING SPRING

Once again, a design to please those who prefer a simpler cookie, without icing. All you need is a rolling pin and even the painting is optional. The cookies will look beautiful without added color. But you know that I have a hard time leaving a cookie naked. The particular rolling pin I used is shown below… It comes from one of my favorite sellers at Etsy, you can visit it with a click here.…

[hanasnx]

“ BETTER FIND A MOP, IT’S GETTIN’ STICKY IN THIS BITCH ” — peter parker.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: marvel rivals chad peter parker w yuri lowenthal’s legendary voice. a recipe for success. also this wouldn't be possible without this anon. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ dirty talk ノ explicit sexual content ノ p in v ノ finger sucking ノ biting ノ long cock peter agenda ノ suit + mask sex but mask comes off halfway thru so you can see his pretty face <3

“Yeah? Mmph—you like that—hm—baby?” PETER PARKER speaks between his sheathes, evidently getting lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him. So much so that dirty talk for this silver tongue is interrupted by his own unfocus. It blurs in and out from the overload of sensation between his legs. You can’t respond, brows furrowing as he wetly slithers in and out of you, the head of him brushing that spongy spot inside you every time he bottoms out.

You try your best, murmuring a weak yet eager, “Mhm, mhm,” Nodding your head even while his fingers are hooked on your lower jaw over your chin.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Peter asks rhetorically, a slight snicker sprinkled in as he watches you with as much awe as a mask can have. “Was like I was ambushed.” he muses, reminiscing over his entrance met with such welcoming open legs. His cock bucks in at the memory, and you cry out through your occupied mouth. The knuckles between your teeth get a squeeze, a nip, and he releases a burst of air. “Trying to bite me, honey?” The tone conveys a sense of disbelief but it’s pleasantly surprised, and his pace quickens. Choked moans shoot out of you as he fucks into you, his body weight pinning you down while your suspended legs bob from the movement. Your lips enclose apologetically over his gloved fingers, the wet felt fabric is foreign against your tongue when you circle around them. In a bout of curiosity, your tip traces the embossed texture of the web design around his knuckle, maintaining eye contact with his mask while you do it.

Your cheeks hollow out, sucking on his two fingers and he groans from low in his throat. It’s the kind of purr that sends a shudder down your spine, eyes rolling back as he slots in your lulling body. The sheer length of him causes an ache inside your core that arches your back, clutching onto the sheets for purchase as you brace the sharp pain for the brain-melting feeling of pulling out only to fuck back in. His other hand comes to hook under the hem of his mask, peeling it off of him, and his brown hair explodes out in an endearing mess. You can finally see that crooked grin.

He pivots your head for you by your mouth, resting his wrist on the mattress to hover over you properly. Faithfully, you keep those fingers in, and he rewards you by shoving them in deeper, the tips of them making you lurch with a gag. Once again, he reacts audibly in euphoric relief like he was waiting for you to do that. “Baby.” he says in that voice, and it’s like a prize. You erupt in full-body tingles, curling your toes as he openly mouths at your neck. The pad of his tongue flattens against your pulse point, and ends it in a hard bite, scraping his teeth against your skin. You keen, that coil in your belly going taut.

Drool seeps out of the corner of your mouth while you desperately suck his spit-soaked glove, pitiful whimperings spilling out of you while he fucks you into the mattress.

[rafecameronssl4t]

What’s in My Bag Interview || Drew Starkey x actress!reader

Summary: Reader partaking in Refinery29’s What’s In My Bag interview!!!!!!

Warnings: none!!!

Word count: 1,127

MASTERLIST

The camera pans in as two smiling women stand before a white table. One speaks first, "Hi, I'm Brianna," she says, flashing a grin. "And I'm Sara," the second chimes in, her energy equally lively. "And we're about to spill it!" Brianna declares. "And guess whose celebrity bag this is!" Sara finishes.

Off-camera, you sit comfortably in front of a monitor, arms crossed and lips curved into an amused smile. as the two dive into your bag with giddy curiosity. The first item they fish out is your phone. "Okay, wait—no case?" Brianna gasps, holding it up for the camera to see. "Bold choice," Sara agrees, examining it closely. Then her eyes narrow.

"Wait, who’s this on the wallpaper?" They angle the screen toward the camera, revealing the photo. "Is this her boyfriend?" Sara guesses, her tone suddenly conspiratorial. "Or maybe just some random guy at Disneyland," Brianna jokes, though the way she squints at the image suggests she doesn’t fully believe it.

Behind the monitor, your shoulders shake with silent laughter, enjoying the speculation. Next, Brianna pulls out your sunglasses. "Ooh, vintage Chanel," she gushes, inspecting the delicate details on the frames before showing the camera, "she's got style." "Agreed," Sara nods.

Then she pulls out something heavier. "Okay, so there's a camera in here, like old school film camera" Sara announces, holding it up. Brianna digs deeper in your bag, before pulling out a roll of film. "So is this a clue? Should I open it?" Sara wonders aloud. "Maybe don’t," Brianna laughs nervously as they exchange giggles.

"Okay, next—Ted Gibson Texture Spray," Sara announces, holding up the bottle like a prize. "We love this!" "So good," Brianna agrees, nodding. "So she's got great hair," Brianna continues as you make eye contact with the camera that is focused on you and playfully flip your hair. "And what’s this?" Brianna pulls out your hand cream.

"How do you even say this? Goe… Go-ee oil?" Brianna stumbles, sniffing it cautiously. "Interesting smell," Sara comments, scrunching her nose. "It kinda smells like sunscreen," Brianna comments as you let out a soft snort, leaning closer to the camera and whispering "I thought it smelled good!"

Sara's hand then closes around something shiny and gold. "The only way out is through," she reads from the surface of a coin, inspecting it closely. Sara furrows her brow. "Is this… a medal?" "No, wait—it says ‘challenge coin,’" Brianna corrects, turning it over in her hands.

"Is this, like, a secret society thing?" Sara wonders. "Or maybe a movie prop?" Brianna counters. Behind the monitor, you laugh to yourself, your shoulders shaking slightly. "Drinking game!" You say lowly to the camera, amused by their speculation. "Maybe an actress?" Brianna says as Sara hums thoughtfully.

You turn your head to the camera again, winking. Sara then pulls out a small pin with the text “LOVE DC, GO” embossed on it. "Okay, are you from DC?" Brianna asks, holding it up for the camera. Laughing, you shake your head. "Initials!" you say quietly, clearly enjoying yourself.

"Ooh, cute," Sara pulls out your nail paint. "OPI in the colour 'Girl', super cute," Sara says. You flash your nails at the camera. "Did these in the car on the way here!" you confess with a cheeky grin. Brianna then pulls out your car keys. "Keys to a Mercedes," Brianna observes, dangling them in the air. "She’s driving in style," Sara teases.

They then pull out some gum. "So she's definitely someone who talks to people a lot," Sara guesses as Brianna pulls out some cash. "Canadian money?" Brianna says, unfolding the bill. "Is she Canadian maybe?" Sara questions. "Wait—there’s also Barbadian dollars. Are you Bajan?" Brianna asks, genuinely curious as she looks at the camera.

You silently laugh, throwing your head back, unable to hold yourself back. "A fan favourite!" Brianna gasps, holding up your Baccara Rouge 540 perfume. "She smells good!" Sara comments. They then pull out some bar wrappers. "She's on the go! I feel like she is someone who travels a lot. She's either an actress, or a travel influencer." Sara comments.

"She's an important person, obviously, she's in front of the camera. Whether that's her own, or other people's camera." Brianna guesses. "Can we get a hint?" Sara questions. "She's in the Outer banks cast," the producer says as the two girls look at each other with a knowing look. "Is it Y/n Y/l/n?" They say, "Yes! You're right!" The producer confirms, and you step into view, pulling off your headphones with a big grin as they squeal.

"Hi!" you greet, waving as you step onto the set. "You’re even more gorgeous in person!" Sara exclaims, pulling you into a hug. Laughing, you return the embrace before turning to Brianna. "Aw, thank you! It’s so nice to meet you both!" you say, settling between them.

"How did it feel watching us go through your stuff?" Brianna question, "Hilarious," you admit, still laughing. "I was cracking up the whole time," you say as they chuckle. "I thought this was a good clue because we shot OBX in Barbados the past couple seasons," you say picking up the Barbadian money as their mouths drop in synchronised surprise.

"And this," You pick up the coin, "Charlie, who plays Big John in the series, gave everybody this coin for a drinking game. It’s part of a drinking game and basically, if someone challenges you with their coin and you don’t have yours, you buy drinks." You explain.

"And I think it says," You start, opening the coin package, "yeah, Outer Banks season three," You chuckle. "Oh my goodness, we should have opened it but we didn't want to be nosey," Brianna says as you laugh. "Yeah, no you should!" You say. "Now we know next time," Sara adds on as the three of your chuckle.

"This is a pin I got when we wrapped Glass Onion," you explain, holding up the small, gold-embossed pin. "The ‘DC’ stands for Daniel Craig," you add with a smile. Their eyes widen, and Brianna lets out an excited gasp. "Love Daniel Craig!" she exclaims, her tone brimming with enthusiasm.

"Same," you chuckle, enjoying their reactions. "This is actually my second pin, though," you admit, tilting your head slightly. "I lost the first one but he was sweet enough to give me this replacement just last week in London," You explain.

Next, you pick up your phone. "This is my co star and boyfriend Drew Starkey," You reveal with a grin as the girls erupt into cheers "I thought this would be another fun clue," You chuckle. "That we failed," Brianna chuckles. You laugh. "One of my favourite people. Hi, babe!" you add with a wink at the camera.

[cuffmeinblack]

A Library Defiled

Garreth Weasley x f!reader

Summary: An tense encounter in the library shatters the barrier between friends and lovers. Tags: explicit | fingering | semi-public sex | friends to lovers 1.7k words

A/n: Just a quick smutty drabble from me but it's been a while since I wrote anything for Weasley Wednesday! I was inspired by this art which sent me slightly insane yesterday (help, he's so fucking tall).

The gold embossed spine winked down at your from its perch, far out of reach amongst the teetering heights of the stacks. Your instinct was to grab your wand and cast a quick summoning charm, but that idea fizzled out with a quick glance at your surroundings. The signs that Madam Scribner had hung earlier that year usually went ignored, but the stern librarian was only feet away now, shuffling through a cart of returned books. Forbidding the use of magic in a magical school was preposterous, though you could quite easily see Professor Black agreeing with her madness. No doubt it had been in response to that business with Cressida and her damned flying diary. 

You rolled your eyes before standing on tiptoes, fingers merely inches away from your prize, and yet it was to no avail. That extra height eluded you. The thought occurred to you to start climbing the shelves until the very book you needed was snatched from above.

“Wait, I-...”

“Is this what you wanted?”

You needn't have turned to discern who'd spoken—his voice was as familiar as his densely freckled face—but you fixed your face with a suitably irritated expression. You came face to face with his chin, having to crane your neck to meet the towering redhead’s eyes. Garreth held the book out for you with a smile that looked far too self satisfied for your liking.

“Yes, it is. Well done for being so tall,” you replied, casting another mutinous glance at the librarian. “How does she expect us to get anything down without using magic?”

“I think she'd be happy for nobody to touch the books ever again. However, I'm always happy to help a damsel in distress.” You could practically feel the implied flirtatious wink.

Shadow eclipsed your face, an arm braced against the shelf beside you. Your heart stuttered, arms clutching the book tightly to your chest like a shield in case the organ burst from your ribcage. The reaction he elicited wasn't new or unexpected—in fact, he played into it as much as he could these days. He knew how to stand, how to speak and what to say to send your heart racing, hoping that one day you would end the torturous game you played and let him fulfill those desires you both knew you held. The chase was fun but your patience and self restraint grew thinner with each passing day.

“Is that what I am?” you asked. Your voice quivered as you felt him envelop your back, his warmth seeping through your shirt. He ran hot like a furnace. You'd forgotten how to use your limbs, how to think; every sense was acutely aware and attuned to his movements. 

“You looked pretty distressed before I got here,” he chuckled, his mouth so very close to your ear. His fingers flexed against the wood, warm breath slipping down your collar. Another inch and his lips might brush your skin.

Garreth knew when to stop. This invisible boundary you'd drawn lay somewhere on the hair's breadth between your bodies. You still felt everything—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the copper curls that barely ghosted your forehead and his gaze lingering on your neck. 

Sweeping the hair away from that spot, you heard him inhale, dizzy from the slightest show of skin; not quite an invitation, only an enticement. If he insisted on teasing, you would repay him for his efforts. When he stepped closer you knew it had been foolish.

There was no more room between you anymore, only his muscled chest and the hint of softness at his midsection. “Are you going to let me leave or keep me pinned here forever?” you asked, hoping that the answer might be ‘yes’.

“I'm not stopping you.” He shoved his free hand into his pocket. He was quite correct—there to your right, was a route of escape. You could turn and leave, but your legs had suddenly atrophied. And then Garreth dipped his head further. To an outsider it might look as if he were whispering conspiratorially in your ear, his billowing robes and broad shoulders masking just how tightly your bodies pressed against each other. “You can go, or you can stop pretending not to want this,” he said.

“And what is this, exactly?”

Garreth shifted his weight ever so slightly, enough for you to feel an unmistakable twitch in his trousers. Cheeks blazing, you inhaled sharply whilst suppressing a whimper, clutching the book so tightly you thought the spine might crumble.

“You drive me crazy,” he replied with what could only be described as longing lacing his voice. Garreth wasn't the type of person to manipulate others; you knew he was being sincere. “Just give me a chance to love you.”

You finally looked at him then, shocked to hear that word slipping from his lips. He didn't seem to have noticed, or perhaps he held no shame in laying his heart on the line for you then. His eyes were full and earnest, unwavering as they held your gaze. In response to your shocked silence he asked, “Did you think I just wanted to sleep with you?” 

“Maybe,” you muttered. Despite every rational thought imploring you not to, your eyes dropped to his lips, and his own quirked into a smile at his victory. When he kissed you, he finally let go of the shelf to tilt your chin to meet him. The hand in his pocket came to encircle your waist, swivelling you around to face him. The book you'd held as a shield that signified the final barrier between your coupling fell to the floor with a thud as you gave into him completely. 

Your heart pounded so fiercely you didn't hear Madam Scriber shouting or the students whistling—there was only Garreth and his gentle touch and soft lips, tongues swirling in an endless caress. The battle had been long-fought but your surrender had made winners of you both. The whimper you'd forced down threatened to escape the tighter he held you, the longer his tongue teased your lower lip. 

Perhaps it had been a blessing when the librarian broke her own rule and blasted a hex at the pair of you, rendering you speechless and unable to move. Saving you from further embarrassment had been a steep price to pay and had made Madam Scribner enemy number one.

-

A month later, you found yourself in that very same spot again, except this time it was under the cover of darkness. Tonight you would exact your revenge on Madam Scribner by defiling her precious library. The room was still and blissfully quiet except for the rustle of fabric and lustful moans that spilled from your own mouth. Garreth's lips were just as sweet as that fateful day one month prior, his hand braced again on the shelf next to you—but this time his slick fingers teased your clit with precision as you pressed against his chest. 

Your head fell back on his shoulder, back arching into his touch as the circles grew faster and tighter. You whimpered unbidden, met by a breathy chuckle in your ear before Garreth's mouth returned to your neck. You guessed there would be purple bruises there tomorrow, by the way your skin now tingled and stung so deliciously.

“Fuck, Garreth…” Stars perforated your vision as every drop of blood rushed south, preparing for a mind-shattering orgasm only minutes after your arrival. Everything was so intense, so passionate with Garreth; years of tension finally culminating in the moments you joined bodies.

“That's it, let it go,” he whispered in your ear, silky smooth and commanding. “Come for me.”

You gripped his hair as those final slippery strokes sent you over the edge, coming hard with a loud moan that echoed along the rows of books. If they could talk, they'd have quite the tale to tell. Your thighs clenched around his hand, hips grinding against his fingers. His cock was already nudging against your behind whilst you writhed in the throes of pleasure.

“I can’t wait to be inside you. Fuck, you’re so wet.” Another nudge from his stiff length, his arm abandoning the shelf to hold you tight against him. You’d barely caught your breath before Garreth was tilting you forward, angling your hips just right as he slid between your folds. “This is exactly what I wanted to do to you that day, you know.” His voice had become gravelly, laced with want. His cock twitched eagerly at your entrance.

“I wanted it, too,” you sighed, gripping the shelf in front of you hard as books shifted and dust invaded your nostrils, yet nothing could overpower the heady aroma of musk that had you salivating at the thought of Garreth’s dripping cock. “Please…”

Garreth entered you in one swift motion, stretching you until you were blissfully full. He groaned and nipped at your ear, sending shivers down your spine before retreating and plunging back inside. Harder, faster, deeper; he fucked you until the books fell all around you and coherent sentences were a thing of the past. 

All you knew was him, and his name sighed to the heavens as he pulled your hair and bared your throat. The sting of your skin felt like promises, made to linger. He was everything, and he was yours.

Garreth’s long fingers trailed your collarbone under the open fabric of your shirt before wrapping around your throat. Calloused fingertips grazed your pulse and the corner of your jaw. You were close again; tension coiled so tight it almost hurt. He must have felt your body twitch, your muscles contract—he responded with a shuddering groan, his hips grinding relentlessly against your behind as he met his own release. 

Your climax followed soon after, every pulsing wave around his cock filling you further and further until you were dripping, happy and satiated.

The dim light of the cavernous room made for quite the relaxing atmosphere, and your eyes blinked slowly at the ceiling as you came down from your high. You could have curled up there and slept, warm and safe in Garreth’s arms. 

He was busy nuzzling against the crook of your neck when he finally sighed contentedly. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

[spinstertheuncommon]

Gotham's Sewist - A Bachelor's Suit [Part 2/2] | Bruce Wayne x reader

Part 1 here

Series master list

A/N: i tried my best to make it gender ambiguous, however if there's any gendered language in reference to what the reader is wearing please notify me (nicely)!

Timeline: Reader and Bruce are 27

Note: Alcohol consumption (no inebriation of reader or bruce), swearing, cannon typical violence, reader kind of crashes out, abelism against young people, reader has a small panic attack which is described through the allegory of swimming,

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

++two months down++

making something for yourself was never your forte. you did begin as a sewist making and mending your own clothes, and through an extensive folio and 4 scholarship opportunities, you eventually graduated with enough respect on your name to work with May. May was what could only be described as a pocket rocket. she was 70, but ran circles around your 20 year old self, taking several orders per week. she had a production speed like no other, so when she got shot down it wasn't something you ever really considered. you always joked that she could just outrun death, but it caught up to her with a led bite in the jaw. just regular goons in regular Gotham. She had told you that no one in her life had such a passion for fashion like you did. so, the shop became yours. but May was such a capstone for the community, that many regulars never came back. numbers dwindled, not enough to cause proper harm to your business, but enough that things became slower.

Slow enough for you to actually have time to make yourself an outfit for the Wayne Gala.

and you were shitting yourself.

sure you could whip up a 3 piece suit for your new celebrity crush and his son, even throw in a gift for the kind butler in the form of custom cufflinks to match the other two suits. you could stay awake and embroider every single golden, art nouveau, stained glass patten into the suits, taking great care to not be tacky, just the right amount of class to match the embossed invite and stained glass window at the Wayne manor foyer. you didn't want to be creepy, but the amount of image tabs open on your ancient laptop of their door may warrant some form of restraint. maybe even revoking your invite.

an invite you have nothing to wear for.

Crunch time it is, then.

++one week left++

You had nothing. Nada. Zip. It felt like purgatory. Constant drafting of capes and cuffs, patterns and draping, drawing and pinterest boards alike. No colour stuck, no fabric you liked. All you had were scrapped plans for client work, and it's not like you could walk around in question marks. So you sat surrounded by swatches, sketches strewn about. You had called several ex classmates, seeing if any of them could give you any idea. All four of them had told you to match to the suits you made for the Waynes. Serves you right for asking them.

But then again, you had left over silk lining.

And many other drafts of embroidery.

Am I really gonna do this?

++the gala++

Jeeze Bruce goes all out doesn't he? You were prepared to taxi your way there, already standing at the curb to flag one down, when Alfred rolls up, claiming Bruce sent him to collect his 'special guest'. In the lux limo is a single serve bottle or champagne, small cut flowers, and hand written thank you notes, from both Bruce and Dick for their suits, Alfred thanking you for the cufflinks when he arrived. You take the flowers, adorning them (hair, breast pocket, lapel pin, etc). They're white stephanotis', complementing the gold and white of your formal atire. You adorne them, wanting Bruce to see your appreciation of his extravagance.

Speaking of extravagant, Alfred pulls up to the entrance, each side of the barricades flocked with paparazzi. Leading to the great arched doorway was a wine red carpet, flush to the stairs. Oh fuck I have to walk that, shit.

Alfred comes to your door, propping it open. The crowds are curious, why is the Wayne butler escorting another guest? Bruce and Dick are already inside. So who are you?

You knew it was bound to happen. As soon as your cane hit the carpet there was a cacophony of camera flashes. A chorus of conspiracies. A-

A hand reached infront of you. Alfred's. Panic meeting professional, you lock eyes. No going back now, he tells you, come swim in the deep end.

And in you jump.

You remember being taught how to swim. It wasn't something you were the best at, you weren't winning any carnivals, but you could float. You never really had a problem with keeping your head above the water, not until now. Nothing you knew could compare to the horror of those 48 seconds. Not even a full minute where you in the fray, but the tides ripped you from consistencies. The only thing there to ground you was the warm, guiding hand firm around your upper arm. One that doesn't let go until you are more than safely tucked away inside the exibit.

Once your mind clears, you lean into your cane, adjusting to the dim lighting. Figures flounce around down the hall, looking through glass cases that line the walls, drinking golden liquor and chatting circles around each other. Your eyes scan around, and land on the case next to you. A dreamy, couture dress flows off the maniquin. The coveted silk may look pearly white from afar, but the closer you come, the more you can see that its mother of pearl beads upon a sea blue silk. You just know that if it spun the curves and colour would dazzle a stadium of people.

Some days you forget why you do your job, why you bend over backwards to craft jackets and fitted suits in time frames of mere minutes. But this, the ephemeral beauty of a dress from centuries ago, is why. To make a lasting impact with your art.

While mesmerised, you almost missed the broad figure standing behind you, until you spied his reflection in the glass. It sounded like a good plan to use the rest of the silk at the time, sustainability and all, but you realise you may be seen as coming on strong to Bruce, with you now matching him, a yin to a yang.

Fuck me I should've just worn my graduation outfit.

"I see you got the flowers?" A half lip smile brushed his face. If you thought he looked good when you saw him at the manor, then this version is ethereal. It feels a bit self aggrandizing, but the way the gold embroidery pulls at the hues in his eyes, and the fine knit wool cascades his shoulders to not constrict, but also not undervalue his muscular build. Just like you had planned, from his slight off centre hair part, down to his shoes. But the one thing you didn’t account for was the boutonnière. On the left lapel, parallel to the edge outer seam, was a small coupling of stephanotis’, exactly matching yours.

Oh he definitely planed this. Well done, Bruce.

“Yes, as well as the champagne. Real expensive bottle too.” You turn back to the dress, presenting as unfazed, but seeping some kind of heat from your cheeks. Embarrassment? Flattery? Anger? Who knows.

“Mmm, yes, it’s one of my favourites, that’s why it’s being served tonight. Did you enjoy it? I can get you a glass.” He moves closer, hoping to catch your eyes again, the same eyes that seem to loosen every muscle in his body through one look alone. A look he craves. One he keeps getting lost in, despite his best efforts. He’s never had the issue of caving to another person, but with you it’s innate. He’s not sure he likes how much power you have.

But you want to feel powerful.

And so, you play against him a bit.

“No, i found it quite bittersweet, actually. I didn’t finish it.” Tilting your head away from him, touching sneak a small glance his way.

“No?” You hear in his voice that he knows it’s a game, but you don’t sway. Why would you loose?

“Mmm, sorry my tastes don’t match your high class.” You face him again, smile full of sarcastic apologies. Bruce cocks a brow, smirking, trying to crack your resolve.

Your stalemate was quickly interrupted by a tiny rocket of energy barring into Bruce's side.

"Hello Y/N!!" Dick Grayson-Wayne chirps, prying himself immediately back off of Bruce. You can tell he hadn't properly managed to learn how one fits in at these high price events, especially when there's little to no children his age here. His shirts untucked and unruly, spilling above his buttoned jacket. The cuffs, although stitched in place have rolled to make themselves uneven. His hair unruly, no matter the gel inside of it.

"Hello Hun. What's kept you busy lately?" You kneel down and ruffle his hair. You figured its easier for it to be stylishly messy than try and tame it again.

"Well I've been helping Alfred in the gardens, but also I bought a new..." he rambles on, talking about a fighting game he's been playing. You take this time to unbutton his jacket and untuck his shirt, evening out the collar as well. You nodd along, grabbing his hands to roll each cuff back down to sit flat and even.

Bruce knew you were kind, always bending over backwards to make life easier for others, but the way you seamlessly cared for Dick, he really shouldn’t be swooning. He never really felt ready to take on a kid. He did it to offer Dick a life lived out of conviction rather than blind vengeance, to not end up like him. But then, the way Dick weasel his way into Bruces heart, Bruce couldn’t help but crumble. Despite only knowing him for just over a year, he would die for this kid. For any kid, really. That's all apart of the job.

Right?

Who knew his words would be challenged so much.

+++++++

Dick ended up dragging you around, showing you all the displays that he likes, or thought you may like, or, just anything, really. He felt he could talk to you, instead of being talked at by rich people trying to get close to Bruce. He's not like them, born into silver spoons and pockets pulling them down. He was like you, wooden spoons and hand stitched pockets. He was comfortable, and so were you.

You were scared that you'd be left to the wayside, which you wouldn't've minded, you could occupy your self, but it was the feeling of being an outsider. No one to talk to, but no. You had Dick. Sure its a bit weird to see a 27 year old running around with a 13 year old that they're not related to, but he made you feel less lonely. Especially against the constant whispers, the looks at your cane, the vulture eyes. It made you feel disgusting.

But Dick grounded you. Him, and Bruce, I guess.

It's not like Bruce wasn't trying to talk to you, but he got swept away by clients and colleagues and even competitors. It was his gala after all. When would he get any private time. All needing eyes are on Bruce, until they're not.

And they're all on the gunman instead.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three shots were fired at the chandelier in the main room, sending it careening to the floor, right onto the crowd. Shards fly everywhere, pushing the wave of party goers away from the destruction. You turn, hoping to grab Dick and run to the exit, but he was gone.

Fuck

You couldn't find anyone. Dick, Bruce, not even Alfred. In the fray and frenzy of the Gotham elite, all trying to save their own arses, you get swallowed whole. You eventually make it to a wall, sliding yourself into a corner to at least break for impact, seizing no chances to get out. Your body aches, the world is spinning, and your knees are practically falling apart.

Stupid fucking cane why do I need you so badly?!!

You curse, but maybe your biggest adversary could be your biggest asset. The 20 or so goons cornered everyone left inside the room, about 60 of us, going around and asking for wallets, jewels, and phones to go into these bags. They got to you, pushing past those infront to reach you in the corner. But you didn't have anything, just 40 bucks for emergencies and your phone thats about 14 generations behind the newest. Its cracked and some of the screen doesn't light up, but it does the job. You comply out of fear, putting them in the bag. But the goon snatched them before they hit the bottom, eyeing them in disgust.

"Are you kidding me? This is what you have? Where's your real shit? I know people like you, people who think they can get away with thow away objects for a robbery, thinkin im dumb? Well I WONT FUCKING HAVE IT!" His gun goes off, right into the wall beside your head. All the hostages dived for the floor. You felt cold, clamy, and unable to breathe. He was unpredictable.

You can run from a knife, not from a gun.

But you can frighten a gun man.

With a clattering sounded just behind him, the goon spun, shooting at it. Seconds later, he was knocked across the floor.

The Bat caught your eyes with a promise of a conversation. Something that held you in the room for what happens next.

Pounding fists and fired guns send further pandemonium. Bodies run and tumble, but yours stay locked.

you're trapped, watching the batman. Watching...

Hm.

Hnmm.

Shit.

That's.. definitely Bruce Wayne.

Like, he would definitely be the first person to be held hostage here, but Bruce was no where to be seen. And nor was Dick, but both Batman and Robin were on the scene in seconds.

And everything fell into place for you.

The looks of familiarity from Bruce.

How comfortable Dick was around you.

The fact you were booked by Bruce Wayne of all people.

Of course he didn't find you through "suggestion", he was the fucking suggestion.

You were pissed.

At yourself, at him, at yourself again. At yourself a third time.

But no, you weren't gonna say anything. Cause why would you? You have the upper hand now.

Okay who are you fooling?

Bruce just threw a man into seven others like a bowling ball.

Damnn

++++++

You sit in the alleyway across from the museum, already been discharged by the paramedics, with only real mental scars to hold. The thwap of a kevlar woollen cape sounds behind you, already knowing whose attached.

"Are you okay?" You ask.

He scoffs.

You smirk, beating him at his own game.

"Come on, let's talk."

"I've sent Robin home, come with me. Please."

++++++++

He pulled you up to the roof of the near by conservatory. Settling you both down so you could see the street and bustle, but not be seen yourselves.

"Throwing your cane. That was brave," he pushed, biting his cheek. He wished he could've been more extroverted as a kid, maybe talking to people on a genuine level could be easier. Or maybe he would still be sitting here, wishing things would fix themselves, and you could be with him his friend without facing danger at every turn.

"Thank you..." you mumble, mind elsewhere.

"'M sorry your night was ruined. You made it clear what seeing the works ment to you. I'm sorry you didn't get to enjoy it uninterrupted."

You scoff, "are you kidding? I had a great night."

He did not believe you one bit, and despite the cowl, you could see the guilt. He blames himself for this?

"What? I got dinner, a show, and an after party. That's way more excitement than what I've had in the last 10 years. I.. I kinda needed it to be honest."

The guilty eyes fall confused, laces with sorrow. You've seen that look, many times over. In grocery stores, in the doctors office, even just on the street. You pick up your cane, and lightly prod B in the shoulder. He’s one of the only people that has never given you that look before. And you never want to see it again.

"Hey, nah uh, no pity. It's not impossible for me to have fun, it's just… also not my priority. But tonight, it was. I mean it wasn't exactly my plan, but it was a brilliant surprise." You chuckle. It felt odd to enjoy the fact that you got shot at, maybe even something you should get looked at by a professional, but it was more than that. It was surviving. Surviving not only the attack, but the gala, the deadline, the social mess that you are. You survived all the turned noses and beady stares, all the whispers. You survived. Isn't that cool?

"We should get you home," Batman stands, offering you a hand. You take it, unconditionally, letting him pull you up.

"But what about-" you look around for the little boy wonder.

He wraps his arm around you, moving you both closer to the roof ledge. He grapples across the roof, and connects his stormy eyes to your less bloodshot ones. You give him the slightest nodd, and a second later your in free fall, but you've never felt safer. Wrapped in arms you've measured to high heavens, both in and out of costume as you now know. arms that will yearn for you in them from this night onwards, no matter how long it takes the brain attached to those arms to realise.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Hey guys! This was a long one lol

I reckon my posting has ended up being a little more sparatic than I wanted originally, but I had back stocked most of these posts with only have two more before I've got no drafts left. So I may be posting once every week/ week and a half.

I'm also dabbling in my brain on writing some oneshots, imagines and headcannons, as I've now decided that if no one will write what I want to read I'll do it myself. These would also be smaller things to hold attention between gs updates. As of rn, I have ideas for

▪︎ Wonder!Reader who will most likely be muscualr femme rep, and in the young justice universe (season oneish)

▪︎ Super!Reader x Jason Todd

▪︎Medical drama Damien + reader

▪︎Damien's twin (maybe hijabi reader? Cause Talia is muslim ¿sometimes?)

▪︎blue lantern reader x young justice

And ofc the sewist timeline. I've written about 30 different prompts for instalments for this story so it may take me a year, it may take me a month who knows.

Do not copy, steal or repost my work! Thanks!

[taylorswiftstyle]

MTV Video Music Awards | September 12, 2023

Versace custom gown (pictured similar)

As is her way, Taylor can only be consistently expected to do one thing: subvert expectations. Swiftly (some might say) bypassing an opportunity to plug any of the three albums she’s either released, or is on the precipice of releasing, she went straight to a very reputation-coded Versace gown. The likes of famed supermodel lore or legendary Liz Hurley status. It’s sexy, it’s slinky, it’s very distinctively signature Versace - using Medusa-embossed buttons in a pseudo snap closure style instead of the more overt safety pin (this detail continues on the strappy open criss-cross back all the way down the back to the end of her train, which is worth a look on its own).

I personally love a classic Versace look such as these. They’ve been done, and done a lot. But I can’t fight a classic sexy siren gown like this. The decision to forego Taylor’s signature red lip, I think, is a smart one that prevents the look from going too overboard. In my opinion, the styling choices were either pile on the jewels or pile on the crimson lip. And Taylor/her team went for the former - something that’s atypical of her style. The mussed hair with the trailing pieces left out of their updo feel “roll out of bed” intimate and sensual and feels akin to the curly bangs from the reputation photoshoot. But I can’t help but think an uber sleek blowout could have been great here. 

If indeed a nod to reputation, I’ve always seen that album as one of two diametrically opposed forces: the external perceptions of who you are vs the internal realizations of the life you’re quietly building. To use a dress with so many asymmetrical details (the bodice, the straps, and even in the movement of the button detailing literally splicing her in half) as an embodiment of that would be quite appropriate. It’s also a smart use of a brand’s signature design details to (possibly) use for your own means.

Not to mention this is precisely the kind of dress at least I would envision buying so someone else could take it off. 

Worn with: Anita Ko + Maria Tash + VCA + David Webb + Ita + vintage jewelry, Foundrae + Jacquie Aiche + vintage bracelets, and Jimmy Choo sandals

[fromthedust]

portrayals of bats in the 20th & 21st centuries

Bat Cabaret Sign - France - wrought iron, rolled iron, carved and embossed, green glass

pair of bats - ivory seal - China

Rene Lalique (French, 1860-1945) - bat brooch - 1900

bat design - Bijutsukai (Art World) - vol. 2 - 1901-1902

Rene Lalique (French, 1860-1945) - bat ring - 1901

Rene Lalique (French, 1860-1945) - bat pendant - 1901

Ferdinand Erhart (French, active 1891-1933) - Bat Belt Buckle - cast silver, carved and oxidized - 1908

Bat Brooch - France - c.1908

Henri Husson (French, 1852-1933) - Cup with Bat - c.1909

Ohara Koson (Japanese, 1877-1945) - Bats In Moonlight - c.1910

Harrison Cady (American, 1877-1970) - illustration for Mother West Wind Why Stories by Thornton Burgess - 1915

John Buckland Wright (British, 1897-1954) - illustration for Le Sphinx by Iwan Gilkin - 1919

Heinrich Kley (German, 1863-1945) - illustration for Der Orchideengarten (The Orchid Garden) - 1919

Bats and Crescent Moon - incense box - Japan - early 20th century

Weird Tales - October 1933

Black Bat Firecrackers

Edward Gorey (American, 1925-2000) - Bat & Ballerina - pin - New York City Ballet - c.1970s

Edward Gorey (American, 1925-2000) - Bats & Bicycles stencil illustration from The Broken Spoke - 1976

Edward Gorey (American, 1925-2000) - cover illustration for A Clutch of Vampires by Raymond T. McNally

Three of Bats - Tarot Card - 1996

Richard Cooluris (American, working in San Francisco) - Perseus and the Bat - mixed media painting on wood panel - 2016

Yegor Smirnov (working in Montreal) - Bat Ring - 3d-printed and casted in silver - 2016

Stephanie Inagaki (working in Los Angeles) - Trinity - charcoal & gold foil

Adam Binder (British, b.1970) - Bats - carved ebony & carved ivory

Wayan Tuges (luthier working in Indonesia) - Raised by Bats - Commemorative custom Blueberry guitar for Aurelio Voltair - 2020

[theweedygonzales]

CANNABIS ROLLING PIN PATTERN with CANNABIS LEAVES for EMBOSSED COOKIES

theweedygonzales is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC associates program, an affiliate advertising program designed provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to amazon.

[suguwu]

"need a light?"

you glance up from your sputtering lighter, the last hint of the flame dying out. aventurine gives you a smug little grin. you sigh, but lean forward when he produces his own lighter—gold-plated, embossed with a spade—and flicks it to life.

a breeze stirs, whipping through the alleyway. he cups his hand around the flame to keep it from guttering out. his fingers are long and bird-boned, deceptively delicate.

you breathe in until the tip of your cigarette burns, a sunset catching fire at the edge of the horizon. you exhale, the smoke wisping out from your mouth.

"how'd you find me?" you ask.

his smile gleams; you think of the moon hanging high in the sky, a lonely mirror.

"c'mon," he says. "you gotta give me a little more credit."

you hum. "i give you plenty of credit."

"not enough, apparently."

"apparently. what do you want?"

"maybe i just want the pleasure of your company."

you pin him with a deadpan stare; he laughs, the sound bright like champagne, a crisp pop of sound. it shows his teeth.

"spit it out, aventurine," you say.

"aren't you going to offer me a cigarette?"

you roll your eyes, but you hold out your case. he slips one free and twirls it deftly. he tucks it between the sly curve of his lips, but he doesn't go for his lighter. there's a challenge in his eyes.

you exhale a sharp stream of smoke. then you slink forward into his space, until the tip of your cigarette presses against his, the cherry of it burning bright. he leans in closer. despite the smoke, you can still catch a hint of his cologne, citrusy with a marine kiss of ambergris.

this close, you could count his sun-gold eyelashes. he gazes at you from beneath them. the heat of his breath curls between the two of you. there's a promise hanging in the air.

his cigarette catches; he pulls away. the chilly air rushes in to fill the space between you, leaving you cold.

he exhales, a dragon's breath of smoke. "that's better," he says. "thanks."

"just tell me why you're here."

"c'mon, don't be cold. we're friends!"

"we're something," you drawl.

he grins; a shiver ripples down your spine. "we're something," he agrees.

you take another drag. "don't you have important things to be doing? saps to swindle? you know i'm not one of them."

aventurine gazes at you for a moment, his bi-colored eyes sharp. in the dim, they almost seem to glow. he blows out a stream of smoke.

"no," he says. "you're not."

something stirs in your chest. there's warmth to it, the soft heat of hearthstones long after the fire has gone out. you grimace.

"aventurine."

he hums.

you sigh, dropping your cigarette butt and grinding it out beneath your heel. "go home," you say. "there's nothing here for the ipc."

"we both know that's not true."

you hiss out an annoyed breath. "you don't know when to quit, do you?"

"it's all or nothing," he says, a coy grin blooming on his lips. "i thought you knew that by now."

you push off the wall you've been leaning against. "i do. that's why i don't bet with you."

he laughs. you ignore him and head for the door that leads out to the alley. he catches you by the wrist. before you can pull free, he slips his lighter into your palm. he curls your fingers closed over it, his touch lingering.

"what—"

"since yours isn't working," he says, letting go. the heat of him lingers on your skin. you try to press it back into his hand; he pulls away before you can. "ah ah, no take backs."

you sigh, tucking it away in a pocket. "fine. thanks."

he'll come back for it later. you both know it.

"bye," you say, slipping by him. you open the door; the sound of the casino spills out.

"catch you later," he says. once, you'd have thought it was flippant. but now—

it sounds a lot like a promise.

[superprincesspea]

Courted by the Dragon

Chapter 5 - Cyvasse

Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.

Masterlist

~~~

While the men are hunting, court is held in the queen's private chambers and there is enough cake and gossip to fuel an entire afternoon.  

The cake, you enjoy, but the gossip is all the same. Suitors. Marriage. Betrothals. It's as though the men never left and, the name which far surpasses all others in its frequency, is Aemond.  

The sound of it seems to prick your ears from every direction and, for a moment, you wonder if he enjoys being the most eligible bachelor at court. Except you already know the answer to that. You've never seen him dance or flirt. In fact, the only time you've ever seen Aemond perform for his gaggle of starry-eyed admirers, is that day on the balcony. And you’re not sure if he did it for their benefit, or if it was just a natural result of arrogance and gloating. 

Laughing to yourself, you decide on the latter before reaching for your second raspberry tart. 

Your mother, however, has other ideas. She slides the plate from your grasp and, if that wasn’t bad enough, she also picks up the embroidery hoop which has been idling on your lap for the past twenty minutes.  

"This will need unplucking... again ,” she scolds, handing it back to you with a pair of scissors and a stern look. 

You refrain from rolling your eyes, looking instead at Maris and Cassandra who have almost finished their handkerchiefs. They never have to unpluck anything!  

Why can’t you be more attentive? It would save you so much time in the long run, and your poor thumb wouldn’t be facing another round of pin pricks. With that in mind, you quietly decide that one wonky cornflower will have to do, no matter how much your mother disapproves. 

Afterall, it's not as though you'll be giving this handkerchief as your favour, since you can’t think of a single person who will ask for it.   

So, instead of wasting more time, you wait until your mother is distracted by something Cassandra has said. Then you slip away, taking your hoop and a spool of thread as though you might continue elsewhere.  

Your real destination is the bookcase on the other side of the room, and it's been calling your name since you first arrived.

The closer you get, the easier you can see the dragons carved into the wood just like they are carved into everything else. The walls, the chairs, the stone fireplace. As though anyone in this room could ever forget you were in the lair of the dragons.  

Reaching the bookshelf, you’re excited to see every inch of space is piled high, and some of the volumes look as though they have never even been touched, their spines smooth and their gold embossed lettering in pristine condition.  

There are no new books in Storms End, and you itch to open one. Wanting to smell the fresh ink on crisp parchment and feel the pages beneath your fingertips. But you don’t. You'd hate to be the one who sullies that perfect leather, and these aren’t just anyone’s books, they’re the Queens. So, you reach for an older book, its cover curled at the edges, its pages stained and wrinkled from countless turns.  

Aegon’s Conquest.  

Flicking through the first few chapters, you wonder if Aemond has read it and curse yourself as soon as the thought enters your mind. Wasn't it enough for his name to be in every conversation? Did he really need to creep into your subconscious too? Though you suppose you couldn’t really blame Aemond for that, he wasn’t even here. Still, blaming him felt infinitely better than blaming yourself.  

Replacing the book back onto the shelf, you turn to the window. From here, you can see a perfect view over Blackwater Bay, and it could remind you of home if it wasn’t for the near constant stream of merchant ships. Most of them are small, with only one sail to propel them through the water. But one is much larger, and you count 15 sails in total as it leaves port, its tiny crew standing on deck. 

You wonder where they're going, who they carry, and just how exciting it would be to sail away to some strange and exotic place like Braavos or Volantis. 

When you can’t make out the people onboard the ship any longer, you turn your attention to the Cyvasse board. You’ve never seen one like this before, its pieces carved from ivory and jade instead of black and white.  

You reach to pick up the green dragon and its heavier than it looks, the stone perfectly smooth and the carving intricately detailed. It almost feels as though it might spark to life in the palm of your hand, which leads you to wonder just how small real dragons are when they’re born.  

You'd never thought much of dragons before but, here , they are everywhere. Carved, embroidered, painted and prowling the halls in black leather.  

Holding the piece closer to the window, the tiny green gems of its eyes glow brightly in the sunlight, and again you’re thinking of Aemond . You’ve never seen what lies beneath the black patch across his scar, but you know it's a gem and wonder of its colour. Green like the tiny dragon in your hand, or blue like his eye.  

Cursing yourself again for not only thinking of Aemond but knowing the precise shade of blue which makes up his eye, you place the dragon back on the board then reach to investigate another piece- 

"Do you play?” A voice startles you, and you glance over your shoulder to see Queen Alicent standing directly behind you. 

“Your Grace,” you gasp, turning to face her and offering a somewhat awkward curtsy.  

What was it about this family which always seemed to catch you by surprise?  

“I said, do you play?” 

“A little.” And not as well as you would like. Cyvasse partners were not frequent in the Hall of Storms End and, if they were, most people didn’t want to play with a girl.  

“Then sit,” she says, gesturing towards the ivory side of the board.  

For a moment, you don’t move. Was this really happening? Were you really going to play Cyvasse with the queen? The whole thing seemed so unlikely to the girl you were a few months ago, yet it was happening just the same.  

You force your legs to move, sitting opposite her but not without casting a weary look towards your family. But its only Maris who seems to notice what is happening and, when you smile, she does not return it. 

“Your sisters seem to have become quite close friends with Helaena,” the Queen says, drawing your attention back to her. 

“The Princess is very kind,” you reply sweetly, thinking your mother would be pleased with your answer. But more pleased to hear you had not gone on to say, ‘unlike your son.’  

The queen doesn’t reply and there’s a comfortable silence as you both arrange your Cyvasse pieces into your preferred starting positions.  

You know it will be your turn first, but you’re not sure what piece to play. You don't want to appear too aggressive or too careful. You want something surprising, thoughtful. Though you suppose none of that really matters, since your only real hope is that she won��t beat you too quickly.  

You move the Light Horse. 

“Are you enjoying your time in Kings Landing?” she asks, contemplating her own move for longer than you would have imagined. 

“It is... everything I expected it to be.” 

“Quite the political answer,” she says, sliding her Rabble two spaces forward.  

Your aunt always played her Rabble in the same way. As a result, your second move is a little quicker and the queens is too. You both play four more turns before there is a longer pause while she considers her options. 

“I noticed you looking at the books, you may borrow one, if you wish,” she says, falling into the trap you’ve been baiting. 

Your heart quickens, excited. “Thank you, your grace,” you say, sliding your Dragon to capture her Elephant.  

For her move, she claims a Trebuchet, and you bite your lip, frustrated by your mistake.  

“A good Cyvasse player must notice everything, ” she says and, maybe she’s talking about the game, but there’s something in her tone which causes you to meet her eye and wonder why she has noticed you .  

The room is filled with other ladies. Ones who crave her company, one’s who she’s known for years and most with stations far higher than yours. Still, you don’t ask her why. You play your next move and, more than thirty moves later, the Queen wins.  

You’re not surprised by her victory. It's been almost a year since your last game, which is a good enough excuse, yet you hate to lose just the same.   

“You play very well but you should practice more,” she says, and you enjoy her praise far more than you’d care to admit.  

"Thank you, your grace but my family does not play,” you reply, knowing instantly that Maris, who has not stopped staring, would hate you for saying this.  

If the queen wanted Cyvasse, then Maris would practice until her fingers bled, even if she despised every moment of the game. 

“Then meet me tomorrow, after breakfast, in the garden.”  

This is not a request, nor does she wait for an answer or even stay in the room. She’s done with court and leaves you and the rest of the ladies to finish the afternoon alone.  

Later, when you should be sleeping, Maris sneaks into your room, sitting at the bottom of your bed with her hair in rags. 

“What did you talk about with the Queen?” she asks, and you know she’s been desperate to ask you this all evening.  

“Nothing really, we just played.” 

“Urgh...” she falls back dramatically on the bed. “I’ve been trying to get her to notice me for weeks and you spend one afternoon with her and-” she sits back up, frowning, “it's not fair!” 

“You try too hard.” 

“Well , you don’t try at all.” 

She wasn’t wrong. If anything, you were trying to stay out of the way. But you supposed aloof was noticeable when everyone wanted centre stage. Perhaps if you were livelier, you’d be less visible. Like you were those first two weeks at court.  

“I envy you,” she says, reaching to brush away the hair which has fallen onto your cheek. “You are the third daughter which is even worse than being the second, but you don’t care. I wish I didn’t care.” 

“Then don’t,” you smile, taking her hands in yours and holding them tightly. “Starting now, no more caring about what anyone thinks.” 

She returns your smile, and you both know that what you’ve said is an impossible task for someone like Maris. She cares about everything and everyone. Still, neither of you say it.  

Instead, you scoot over in the bed and pull back the covers for her to climb in beside you. You haven't slept together like this since you were little girls, but the excitement you feel is just the same. Sometimes you would stay up all night, talking, telling stories and daring each other to sneak down the hall to bang on Septa Orella's door. Maris would never do it, but you could never resist.  

Blowing out the candle, you both snuggle into the quilt, lying face to face, arms tucked under pillows and eyes still not quite heavy enough for sleep.  

“There is one person I care about...” she whispers in the dark. 

“Who?” 

“Aemond, of course,” she says as if this is common knowledge, yet it is not common to you. 

"You don’t even know him,” you say, hating the tone in your voice. So judgemental, so accusatory.  

“What is there to know?” 

What is there to know about a man you care for? You scoff, its times like these when you realise just how different you are from her. 

“How about his manner? His interests? His passions?” Or the way he might mercilessly tease a person for the rest of their life. Which leads you to the terrible realisation that, if Maris marries Aemond, then you will never be rid of him.  

“You are quite the secret romantic,” she says, laughing softly. "Ladies do not marry men for their interests, and I do know him. He is a Prince of the realm and Helaena has told me he is the kindest and most gentle brother.” Her voice turns so whimsical at the last part that you can’t help but snort. 

“Helaena is hardly going to tell you that he is ungentlemanly, exasperating and completely incapable of-” you stop yourself.  

What exactly were you going to say next? Incapable of forgetting a certain day on the beach?  

You swallow your words, but Maris presses for more. "Incapable of what ?”  

“Smiling ,” you say quickly, except that isn't true. You've seen him smile plenty of times. Heard his infuriating laughter too. Yet Maris agrees with you.  

“You’re right, he never really seems to smile but I can hardly hold that against him.” 

“You don’t hold anything against anyone,” you remind her.  

“Well, you hold everything against everyone . You know we are all wondering why Ser Harrold does not ask you to dance anymore...” her tone is playful, as though she assumes the whole thing is by your design and you don’t refute her. 

“Ser Harrold is a fool.” 

You can practically hear the roll of her eyes. "Is there a single man you don’t despise?” 

“Of course,” you say, keeping your tone even and entirely serious. “I don’t despise, Lord Henry.” 

Maris giggles so loudly you’re certain she will wake the entire keep. “He is a cat!” 

“And much more amiable than the men at court,” you say, trying desperately to hold onto your own giggles. But Maris’ laughter is so infectious that you’re both forced to cover the quilt over your head to smother the sounds.  

When you come up for air, you don’t tell her you’re playing Cyvasse with the Queen in the morning. In fact, you don’t tell anyone, and for someone who is trying to steer clear of unwelcome company, you’re doing a terrible job.  

~~~~

Thank you for all your lovely comments, likes and reblogs on the previous chapters! <3

[bewitchingkitchen]

CARAMEL SANDWICH COOKIES

Today I share three versions of Caramel Sandwich Cookies. The first recipe (top left) is my default (Chocolate Chipotle Cookies that you can find here). The second version (bottom right) was made using Sweetapolita Bakebook recipe for Dark Chocolate Cutout Cookies which I won’t share due to copyright issues. At any rate, as written the recipe is a bit too strong for my taste, I would advise using…

[zmediaoutlet]

hellooooo, for the bicep curls: dorian from DAI, bitter?

The sun is only just settling on the gardens of the Winter Palace, gilding the fountain and trellises and samite-and-silk gowns. The slaves—oh, pardon, Dorian thinks ironically, servants—are passing what the Orlesians must think is a decent red. He holds his goblet at what he knows is an insouciant angle, watching through the open archway into the collonade around the ballroom floor. Gets too cold in Orlais for a true expression of this grape, which came down from Tevinter during the Swords Age and which was bred by vintners considerably better than whatever passes for an oenologist in the fetid South; nevertheless it is alcohol, and despite warning glances from Leliana and Cullen and Josephine in quick succession, it is doing the trick. He'd think Josephine at least would have the sensitivity to get him a bottle on his own. It's not like his problem is subtle.

Then again they're all busy, aren't they. The ballroom's a positive riot of activity, fans fluttering and whispers passed and new futures being forged. Dancecards filling out. Dorian, of course, has been pressed for a turn or two around the floor, because despite his status as a frightful bloody magister and despite this frankly dreadful red uniform they're all wearing—another miss from Josephine, and if he were in a better mood he'd query whether she were feeling all right—he does have this face and this body he's worked for (without blood magic, thanks very much) and his wit is charming indeed. Would be. If things were otherwise.

Another pass through the archway. He squints against the hard slant of dying light. The servants—elves to a one, the South's protestations that they believe in free choice really need more work—light candles, lanterns, clever little non-magical reflectors that pass a glow across the whole garden and scatter refractions across the many masks of the attendees. A woman near Dorian is wearing a positively exquisite version of silver-lace studded with chrysoprase, curved impenetrable as plate over her brow. Her interlocutor—impossible to tell whether a suitor or lover or her true-wedded husband—wears gold with improbable demonic embossing, his expression largely obscured other than the sly smile as he leans into her ear. All very charming, really, though childish. A real courtier knows that the mask sits high and hard under the thinnest surface layer of the skin. It's what separates a wittering pretender from someone who has something to lose.

Another pass—only, no. This time they pause in the archway. Dorian's fingers do not flex on the goblet and his expression does not change. The Inquisitor wears the same uniform they all do—why they call it a uniform—but he wears it rather better. Not for the first time, Dorian suspects that the stupid thing was chosen specifically to fit the man's frankly astonishing shoulders, with the rest of them left to flounder in the best fit they could. He watches while Leliana murmurs something no-doubt portentous in their lord's ear and then steps gracefully away, and then there's a full minute where the man stands and looks out over the ballroom, and then off to something Dorian can't see, his profile strong in the glowing light. He's frowning about something and Dorian would go to him, would ask—would make a jest, would ante some devastatingly trenchant observation—but he's pinned here, in the garden, fifty feet from everything worth having.

The witterers have been asking about the Inquisitor. If he's set to inherit in Ostwick. If he's promised to anyone. If he has a lover, and if so who might it be—perhaps the lovely ambassador, or perhaps the stern seeker, or some other lucky woman entirely, who could roll onto her back and receive the great weight of the savior of the South between her open legs, and perhaps thereby get a new family line that would rival any in Orlais?

When Dorian can't sleep he occasionally thinks on what his father's great plan was, for the ritual. Presumably to rip the proclivities out of his mind, leaving torn-open earth and roots that would rot behind. The great family Pavus has been bred for centuries, hoping to create the next Archon, and he has rather ruined their chances by refusing to dump seed into the most appropriate bride. Even for blood magic, though, the kind of deep work required to change this most essential part of his nature would be tricky, and his father is a mage of some power, but. Dorian has thought, sometimes, what if his father performed what is in the end a much simpler ritual—for work on the body is brute-force, rather than the delicate surgery required for the mind—and then one day Dorian would wake to be, perhaps, Isadora, and Isadora's preference for muscle and masculinity and beautiful, thick cocks would be no impediment to the project for a future Archon at all.

He gulps his wine and empties the goblet. A wave and a slave fills it, immediately, and he takes it to his mouth and breathes in the perfume but doesn't drink. Rancid cherry, sickly sweet. Granted his preference is to take rather than be taken but he could learn to like it the other way, given sufficient motivation. His tailor would fit him out in something exquisite, a rippling whitesilk waterfall edged with the dawnstone appropriate to an Altus, and he would be announced at court unmasked and he would descend to the ballroom and he would let his hand be taken by a man with beautiful shoulders and a quick crooked smile and hard calluses where he held a broadsword and he would say then my lord, I am yours to command, and in the style of the court it would be nothing but polite fiction, a thrust to be met by riposte, but it would earn him a broader version of that smile he's dreamt of for months and he would mean it, mean it, mean it.

"There you are," Trevelyan says, like it's a relief. Dorian pulls his eyes from the gold-gleam of masks and finds his lord agitated. "I think I've worked out a way into the library. We've got work to do."

"No time for wine?" Dorian says, lightly. He hasn't a care in the world.

Trevelyan huffs, a dimple creasing his cheek. "Maybe later. I'll need to wash away this night when we're through. Save me from grasping women. And all these masks!" He shakes his head. "Ostwick might be small but at least it's honest."

Dorian smiles at him, the expression perfectly practiced and perfectly precise. "Three cheers for honesty, eh? Lead on."

When the Inquisitor turns Dorian drains the goblet of wine. He drops it into a perfectly trimmed rosebush and a branch cracks but the Inquisitor is already yards ahead and doesn't notice. The sickly-sweet will stay on Dorian's tongue for hours.

[lukehughes]

This would be us, us if you touched oys

just wanted you to know you asked for this

--

“Baby, c’mon we gotta go,” Nico calls from the front door, “The car’s downstairs!”

“I’ll just be a sec,” Poppy yells back, frantically rooting through the drawers in the dresser for her ear plugs. She had promised herself after the long flight over to Prague that she wouldn’t forget them the next time she got on a plane - the altitude had fucked up her hearing for days, making her feel like her head was going to explode at any minute, and she’ll be damned if she lets such a thing ruin the weekend away for this wedding. She had bought a pair in the airport on the way to Geneva, and had told herself she’d keep them to hand for the next time she and Nico travelled anywhere. 

They hadn’t been in the kitchen, hadn’t been in the bathroom, and haven’t been in the sock or underwear drawer so far, and that only leaves the nightstands. Hers is mostly bare, loose bobby pins, a bottle of body lotion and a tub of dental floss, but Nico’s is cluttered. A bunch of tangled charging wires, a roll-on muscle rub, and toward the back, a box. The light pouring through the windows doesn’t quite make it that deep into the drawer, so she reaches back in the hopes that it might house her ear plugs, but her heart stutters as soon as the tips of her fingers make contact.

The material that coats the box is soft, smooth like velvet, and the shape is unmistakable, even without looking. Small, square with rounded edges, the type with the lid that hinges shut with a pop.

She doesn’t need to pull it out to know what it is.

“Poppy,” he calls again, and this time the sound is accompanied by that of footsteps making their way down the hall. She releases the box immediately, closing the drawer and darting back toward the dresser. “What’s wrong? Have you lost something?”

“My ear plugs,” she huffs, turning to face where he’s stood in the doorway and trying to will the heat to simmer back down her neck. “I can’t remember where I put them.”

Nico reaches into his pocket as she struggles to steady the rampant beating of her heart, and tosses over a little container that she just about manages to catch. A disc-like shape, with Loop embossed on the side.

“I got you better ones. The ones you bought in Prague kept falling out, remember?”

She thinks that might have been because she kept nudging them out every time she leant her head against Nico’s arm, but that doesn’t really matter, now.

He had noticed something hadn’t worked, and he had made the effort to fix it for her.

He loves her in a thousand ways she’s yet to even discover.

Despite all the jokes shared over the last couple of months - comments from his family about weddings in the garden, hints at proposals in the bathtub, even in the middle of random conversations about visas - she hadn’t once felt an ounce of trepidation over the consideration of marrying Nico. 

So why does the thought of a ring in that box make her feel like she could never possibly be ready to receive it?

[aralezinspace]

Emboss

~AO3~ Ezio/Reader, mildly suggestive.

Kinktober prompt: Leather

Kinktober masterlist

You had never been able to restrain yourself when Ezio came home from a mission, especially if he had been gone for more than a few days. On this particular occasion, he had been gone just shy of a month, long enough for you to become frantic with concern.

You were about to hunt down any and all of his associates in Roma and demand to know if they had heard from your partner. The moment you were ready to leave, you heard the clatter and creak of the door opening, followed by the clump of boots on the floor and a deep, groaning sigh you’d know anywhere.

“Ezio!” you called, racing down the stairs. He was leaning against the closed door, his eyes half-lidded. They shot open and a delighted, ravenous grin split his face open when he heard your voice.

Ezio didn’t even bother greeting you before grabbing your arms and turning you so you were trapped between him and the closed door. He attacked your lips with a desperate growl, shoving his tongue into your mouth to taste every inch of you.

“I missed you,” he rasped, sliding his lips down to mouth at your neck. Your hands pushed his hood back, revealing dark hair neatly tied with a fading red ribbon. You dug your fingers into the muscles of his shoulders and gently pushed him back. He frowned in warning.

“Let me look at you,” you urged him gently. Your eyes traveled quickly from his head to his toes, stopping briefly where you knew vital organs were, searching for any injuries. On the second pass, you did a double take, your eyes going wide and a red flush burning your cheeks.

Over his customary white robes, Ezio was sporting a brand new set of armor- vambraces, a chest piece, greaves, and a thick belt about his waist, all in deep brown leather. It was shiny and hardly scuffed- all you could see were a few scratches from the hilt of his sword brushing over the chest piece as he moved, and a few scrapes on the vambraces from his hidden blades. The vambraces and greaves had the Assassin insignia embossed onto them, surrounded by artful swirls that would not look out of place on a coat of arms.

Heat began to coil low in your belly as your fingertips ghosted over the smooth leather. The material was warm from the sun and the heat of Ezio’s body, the buckles that held it all together somehow still cold. The smell of the leather and conditioning oil stuck in your nose with a sharp tang. You bit your lip as your touches became more insistent, questing over the armor, gently pressing in to hear the slightest creak of material.

You bit your bottom lip and tilted your gaze back up to Ezio’s face: the look he was giving you was nothing short of blazing, eyes dark and narrowed, the tendons in his neck trying to break out of his skin with the effort it took to maintain his self control.

The man before you was a force of nature wrapped in linen and leather. His choice of material was a testament to the knowledge of his own skills: he didn’t need to encumber himself with plate armor, for no opponent had even the slightest chance of landing a blow. It was built for stealth and speed, light and flexible- the armor of a man who could vanish into the night before his target even knew they were dead.

“I take it you approve?” he purred slowly, a positively feral smile spreading across his face. You nodded twice- short of breath, mouth dry, knees weak. Ezio stepped in closer.

He took your wrists in one hand and pinned them to the door above your head, while the other pressed his leather-clad forearm to your throat, forcing you to lift your chin just enough for him to see your muscles work as you swallowed hard. Arousal flared through you; being the sole focus of this man, one whom the word ‘dangerous’ didn’t even begin to cover, was a heady feeling you couldn’t get enough of.

“Well then, caro mio…” He rolled his hips into yours, a startled whimper bubbling out of you as your legs turned to jelly. His breathy growl sent a shiver down your spine.

“Why don’t you show me how much.”

[self-shipping-doll13]

#4 - Bookshelf

A Peak At What’s Inside Their… Prompts

Wc: 793

“Grab that book for me while you’re on your feet, would you?” Liam’s voice came lazily from the armchair, where he was sprawled with one leg hooked over the armrest, a whiskey glass balanced on his knee as he absentmindedly traced the rim. 

I obediently meandered over by the bookshelf.

Tall, dark wood, and slightly overcrowded, like everything else in his flat that seemed to be more lived-in than fully organised. It was an eclectic collection: battered paperbacks were shoved against scratched up hardcovers, titles in gold-embossed lettering beside others so faded you had to tilt them to the light to make them out. Some had the look of old friends, their covers yellowed with age, while others were newer and white as rice grains, pristine even, like they hadn’t earned their place yet.

“Which one?” I asked, stepping closer and letting my fingers skim along the worn edges.

“Middle shelf, left corner,” he said. “That slim one, tea-coloured.”

I hesitated, my fingers hovering over the worn black wood as I took it all in.

This wasn’t just a regular hoard of literature. A brass compass sat snugly between an old volume of Dubliners and a tattered collection of Oscar Wilde’s poems. Its glass surface was tarnished, but the needle still shivered dutifully when I poked it, having never forgotten how to find North.

Beside it, a small bottle of sea salt caught the light. It was stoppered with a cork, the grains inside as fine as sand. Snatching it up, I rolled it between my fingers, imagining him scooping it up from some windswept shore, the cold air brackish and the suds of waves teasing at his boots.

Further down was a taxidermy beetle, pinned in a shadowbox frame no bigger than my palm. Its elytra shimmered green, like a glimmer of flowing Irish rivers. Again, I wondered if he’d captured these oddities himself, or if he’d stumbled across them in one of his wanderings through a secondhand shop or flea market. 

Then there were the books themselves: Ulysses, its sapphire-blue jacket frayed at the edges. The Wind Among The Reeds, its beloved pages foxed and soft. North, a volume of Seamus Heaney’s, thumbed so often it was on the verge of collapse.

“Does it ever bother you that they’re not in any kind of order?” I asked, glancing back at him.

“Nah,” he said, having been mid-sip. “I know where everything is. That’s all that matters.”

I finally found Padraic Fiacc’s The Selected, its spine cracked but sturdy, and pulled it free. A musty scent drifted up from its paper, and it was indeed beige like spilled milky tea. 

Beside the bookcase was a stack of vinyl records, leaning precariously as if one wrong move might send them sliding to the floor.

Unable to resist more nosing, I crouched to examine them, running my hand over the topmost sleeve. Leonard Cohen’s Songs of Love and Hate, a few records by The Smiths, a band I didn’t know called ‘Them,’ Van Morrison’s Moondance and a compilation of Thin Lizzy’s. Something classical beneath those dusty jackets—Vivaldi, perhaps? It was a strange mix, curated with care. Hours spent turning each record over in his hands before choosing the next.

“You’ve got good taste,” I said over my shoulder.

“Always have,” he replied patiently, a good-natured chuckle in his words. “D’you find it, love?”

“Yeah.” I straightened up with the book in hand and crossed back to him, holding it up like a prize. 

“Good woman.” He didn’t bother shifting, staying sprawled like a king in his chair, but his arm reached out, catching me at the waist as I handed him the book. “Sit,” he said simply, tugging me gently down onto his lap. 

Liam’s arm curled around me, keeping me steady as I settled sideways, my head resting against his shoulder. He was all wiry limbs and strong, beating heart thumping from sternum to my ear. 

“You’re a nosy wee bird today,” he teased, flipping open the book but not reading it yet. 

“Just curious,” I said, tracing the script lightly. First Movement. “You’ve a lot of really interesting things stashed away in here, I can tell.”

A little jolt of happiness sparked through me as I recognised my hometown, but then Liam’s thumb scraped to turn it away. 

Those murky green eyes were beckoning, like a shiny glint at the bottom of a lake. “Maybe,” he said, his lips quirking into an easy half-smile. “You’re welcome to dig around all you like. But don’t go judging the state of my records.”

I laughed softly, sinking further into his warmth as he finally opened to a favourite page and began reading, the lilting cadence of his voice like music in the quiet flat.

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics