#dusty rose paint color

[treskoff]

Bedroom - Traditional Bedroom An illustration of a medium-sized traditional guest bedroom with pink walls and no fireplace.

[virgochalet]

[sophie-looks-at-stuff]

Hi love! I hope you are doing well ☺️

If possible could I request a Aemond X reader? Maybe something where he takes notice of a hobby reader likes and surprises them with something related to it?

Piece de Resistance

Pairing: Aemond x Wife Reader

Summary: Aemond stumbles upon your love for the arts, painting, drawing, sketching, and the like. <3

Warnings: none I don't think, Aemond being a cute and supportive husband. a good moment of domesticity :)

AN: Hello! I absolutely love this request! I hope I did it justice haha. Thank you so much for submitting it! The picture is from Pinterest! It's St Augustine by Philippe de Champaigne.

It wasn’t often you got a moment to yourself nowadays. With your husband acting as Prince Regent in his brother’s absence, you and he both were kept rather busy. Him with the Small Council and issues of the realm, you with the petty social gossipings and happenings of the Court. So rare moments of peace and quiet like this were highly coveted.

Your marital chambers echoed with emptiness as you entered and looked around. The curtains you had chosen fluttered in the breeze. Aemond had not wanted them, but ultimately he conceded, never being able to say no to you. 

He must be in a Small Council meeting, you thought. Or perhaps training with Ser Criston, letting off some steam. Your husband seemed to have an ever-constant knot of stress in his shoulders and neck. You’d tried to massage it out many a time, but it never seemed to budge, or it ended in a much different sort of activity –

Under your armoire, lay a dusty, maroon-red box. You bent down, moving to pull it out of its little hiding spot. You had snuck it under there after you had moved into Aemond’s chambers. The day after your wedding. Aemond had insisted that you move to his quarters as soon as possible. He didn’t like being separated from you more than necessary. If he could, he would have you seated on his lap in Small Council meetings or even when he sat on the Iron Throne. But alas, that was a touch too far, and people would talk. As they always do –

Your husband was kind and dotting, if not overprotective and possessive of you. You had known one another since you were children. Your house and family coming to visit the Court, your mother and the dowager Queen had been friends since their youth. They had hoped that you and Aemond would get along well, and you did, famously so. When he had lost his eye, you had come to the Red Keep, to offer him comfort and company. You had never left after that. 

Your fingertips graze over the top of the box, as you rest it on top of your bed sheets. Leaving an empty trail in their wake. The lock lay rusted and golden on the front, pulling a small key from the pocket of your skirt, you unlock it. A small, soft resounding click bounced off the walls. As you gingerly opened the lid, the stale smell of linseed oil filled your nostrils. Small metal tubes of colorful paint lay untouched in the box. Clean bristles and dirty brush handles scattered about, small rolls of blank canvas. All of which lay, unmoved, unbothered, from the last time you had used them. 

When you were little, you had complained to your mother once about the bore of your lessons. For your tenth name day, she had brought in a painter from Highgarden to tutor you. He had taught you how to mix colors and paint the prettiest flowers. As you grew older, he taught you more complicated things, like ladies in bushy skirts, and golden dragons in the sky. An odd prophecy of your future.

Taking some basic colors, red, blue, yellow, and white, some brushes, and a small roll of canvas, you set up shop at your dressing table. For the time being, altering it into a makeshift desk. Deciding to paint what you knew best, you began to sketch out a dragon among roses, with some charcoal that you had borrowed from Aemond.

He wouldn’t miss it, you thought. He had a small goblet full of charcoal and quills, hiding amongst the piles of books and scrolls on the table. Which he used to plot his war games, or occasionally take dinner with you. When you both grew tired of his family and their bickering. 

The dragon began to take form on the canvas, it looked slightly like Vhagar, large, old, and wrinkly. Her age showing in her face and eyes. Around her, you drew roses, peonies, daffodils, lavender, a great colorful bouquet. Once you had begun mixing the paints, on a makeshift pallet made of spare parchment paper. The other sounds of the world seemed to fade away, the monotony of the act being therapeutic. A much-desired mindless activity in the middle of the war you all found yourself in. You would never voice this to anyone, but it was silly to you. The hubris and hypocrisy of your husband's family was vast and great, and deadly at the worst. The blood of the dragon ran thick and hot, volatile and dangerous. 

You had become so absorbed in your work that you hadn’t heard the door open, the faint call of your name. Lost on the wind perhaps. Aemond stood, leaning a shoulder against the door frame, a small smile playing at his lips, watching you, intently. He knew and had seen you become absorbed like this in a book or some piece of writing, but he had never seen you do this before. Paint.

The colorful oils stain your fingertips and wedge themselves beneath your nails. The same stale smell of the linseed oil met his nostrils.

 An odd sort of smell, he thought. He crept a bit closer, as close as possible not yet wanting you to know he was there. He silently rested his sword on the bed, the sheets muffling any noise it may have made. You were humming softly to yourself. An old hymn your mother used to sing to you. 

As he crept closer, Aemond could make out the picture you were working on. The colors came to life before his eyes, the eyes of his dragon staring back at him. 

“Gevie (beautiful)” He muttered, under his breath.

Startled, you jumped a bit, smudging one of the petals on the peony you were working on. “Shit” you breathed out.

“Aemond, Husband, I had not heard you come in!” You stand, turning to face him, stepping in front of your work as if to hide it.

Aemond chuckled a bit, noticing the pink tinge to your cheeks, embarrassed at being caught. He lifted an eyebrow, and gestured to the painting behind you, 

“May I see it?” He asked, his gaze meeting your own. After a slight pause, you stepped aside. Aemond walked past you, placing a loving hand on your waist, holding you to him slightly. Aemond has developed a habit of always having a hand on you, as if scared you were going to be snatched away, stolen from him. 

Again, he muttered a “Gevie” under his breath. He turned to look at you, your face twisted in anticipation of what he may think. You had hidden the hobby from him not out of malice, but rather out of embarrassment. Other ladies and some lords of the court had mentioned that painting was a poor man's job and that someone of “noble blood” needn’t concern themselves with such silly things. You had been worried that he would have agreed with them, not liking it. 

“I didn’t know you painted. This is lovely,” The hand on your waist moved to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind your ear, it had fallen loose from your braids. 

“I was afraid you would disapprove –” 

“Why on earth would I disapprove my love? This is beautiful, you have a talent”. Your cheeks turned impossibly more pink at his praise and approval. 

“Actually, I would like it very much if you were to paint something on my sword. Vhagar perhaps –” He trailed off thinking, “Or maybe the seas or those flowers are quite lovely too–” You had placed a finger over his lips, laughing. Aemond stopped talking, kissing the digit instead. 

“Yes husband, I would love nothing more,” Your smile matched Aemond’s from before. 

“I would like to show it off–” He murmured against your finger, kissing it again. You moved your hand to his cheek, cupping it lovingly. This small moment of domestic bliss was needed, for the both of you. 

“Well then, go and fetch it, and I shall get to work,” With the excitement of a little boy, your husband retrieved his sword from the bed, unsheathing it, placing it on the desk in front of you. The previous painting moved to the windowsill, to dry. Aemond pulled up a chair, sitting beside you. 

He rested his elbow on the corner of the table, chin in palm. The only free spot on the table, not littered with paints and brushes. You began to work, and he watched you, with nothing but love and admiration in his eye. He could sit here, happily, forever, watching you work, with the setting sun twinkling on the ocean water outside of the windows. Your delicate hands painted the hard metal of his sword. He would let you paint the whole damn keep if it made you happy. And now, with the conqueror's crown resting upon his brow, maybe he would –

Tag List:

@helaenaluvr  @anukulee   @stuckinaf4nfiction

@darylandbethfanforever9

[allbark-no-bite]

the night shift.

jake seresin x bradley bradshaw (wc: 3k)

summary: jake’s a cop working the night shift and pulls over a mildly drunk (and very interested) firefighter. chaos ensues.

warnings: mature, *driving while under the influence of alcohol, some sexual references

*if this bothers you, just don’t read, simple as that. you don’t have to come into my inbox to tell me that it bothers you <3

author’s note: i’ve never written anything faster in my entire like. this was so much fun! i came across this post again and couldn’t let it go. all credit to @squiddosss for their amazing artwork

————————————————————————

It's slow nights like these that make Jake question why he prefers the night shift.

The gravel of the lonely backroad crunches beneath the tires of his cruiser as he makes the curve and slowly pulls to a stop. The sirens on his cruiser give one last whoop before he shuts them off. The back of the beat up vintage blue Bronco gleams in the shine of his headlights. He sighs and shifts the car into park before he tips his radio towards his mouth and mumbles his whereabouts, informing Javy that he's making a traffic stop.

"10-4. Keep me updated."

He climbs out of the cruiser and makes his way towards the vehicle, keeping one thumb tucked into the front of his belt, fingers ready to reach for his gun in an instant. The diver hadn't given him any trouble thus far other than what he had pulled him over for— swerving all over the road, but Jake had been trained to err on the side of caution. He runs his finger tips over the tail light as he passes it by, a habit he had picked up from working alone.

For being such an old model, the car is in pretty decent shape. It has what appears to be brand new tires and the powder blue paint job has been restored to perfection. It was obviously well cared for. He wonders briefly the story behind it being as he doubts you could buy such a car these days. This was the kind of car that you handed down.

The window rolls down just as Jake approaches it.

"How's it goin' Officer?"

Jake blinks.

The driver is a younger guy, probably close to his own age— Jake likes to think that thirty-one is still plenty young— with shoulders so broad that it's a wonder he even fits in the front seat. His skin is a dark olive, which is pretty typical for someone who lives around here, but what catches Jake's attention the most is the perfectly groomed mustache the guy is sporting on his upper lip. It's thick and matches the caramel color of his otherwise brunette head of hair.

"Is there something wrong?"

The guy smiles and his dusty rose lips frame his perfectly aligned white teeth.

Jake tells himself it's his job to notice these kinds of things.

Jake clears his throat and leans in to peer into the cab of the truck, doing his best to avoid the lingering stare of the guy's warm hazel eyes. When he's satisfied that there's nothing worthy of his immediate attention in the car, Jake focuses back on him.

"Can I get your license and registration?"

It takes him a moment of fumbling around in his glove box and then his pocket, but he hands both documents over. The guy watches him so intently while Jake reads over them that it almost makes him uncomfortable, and he's glad for the excuse to look away.

"You had much to drink tonight, Bradley?" Jake asks as his eyes skim over the name. Bradley Peter Bradshaw. He almost laughs. If Jake didn't know better, he'd think it was a fake.

Jake knows the answer before he asks it but he figures he'll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. He doesn't necessarily reek of alcohol but Jake can defiantly pick up the fermented smell of yeast on his breath. If the guy hadn't been staring at him so intently and Jake could look at him for longer than two seconds, he's sure his pupils would be dilated as well.

"Just a little, Officer. I'm sobered up now."

Jake has to hold back his disbelieving snort. If he had a dime for every time he heard that, he'd be rich. "Well, Bradley. I find that a little hard to believe. You were all over this back road here. You know you're only supposed to drive on the right side, right?"

Bradley's mouth twitches, as if he found Jake's comment more amusing rather than condescending. "I didn't, but I'll sure take your word for it."

Jake, on the other hand, doesn't share his humor. "You seem like a funny guy, Bradley. But unfortunately, I don't find drunk driving to be very funny."

And then his eyes land on the emblem on Bradley's navy blue t-shirt—N.I.F.D. —the one his swollen biceps are nearly bursting out of.

"You work for North Island Fire Department?"

Jake watches as Bradley's slightly drunk grin widens. "I sure do."

Jake hands him back his license and the rest of his paperwork. "I've got a couple friends down at the station. You know Trace, Fitch?"

If his pupils weren't already blown wide, Jake would say they lit up in recognition. "Yeah, actually. Natasha is the one who got me the job there. I just finished a deployment out in the Pacific."

It's then that Jake notices the dog tags looped around his thick neck and hidden beneath his shirt. "You're enlisted," Jake says aloud, and then to conceal his surprise follows with, "I was too."

That's the kind of thing that you do when you're eighteen and more scared of not living than dying. If anything it was exciting. Anything that meant getting the hell out of Texas was exciting. He misses it now, but at the time when he was standing alone in that recruiters office, he didn't think for a moment that he would. He felt like a man.

The navy made him a man, is what his daddy said. It was probably one of the only times the old bastard ever told him he was proud of him, and the only time he didn't feel bad for making his mama cry.

The reason he got out was for the reason most do. You realize you don't stay twenty forever and life doesn't wait around until you figure that out. He didn't want to retire one day and have nothing to come home to but an empty apartment. San Diego seemed as good of a place to settle down as any.

Javy's voice crackles through on the radio strapped to his chest, breaking up their conversation.

"Unit-16. Checking in on your traffic stop. You need back-up?"

He hadn't realized they'd been talking so long. Jake mentally reprimands himself for getting distracted and picks up the radio while pressing it to his mouth. "This is Unit-16. No back-up necessary. Over."

"10-4. Over."

Jake releases the radio and looks back up to Bradley. Get back on task, Jake. Bradley smiles coyly at him. Jesus, focus, Jake.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to step out the vehicle."

The hopeful look in Bradley's big hazel eyes falters.

"Look, Officer uh— " The Bradley leans towards his open window so that he can squint at the gold engraved name plate on Jake's uniform. "—Seresin." Jake watches as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he cocks his head a little to the side and smiles, looking up at Jake. "You look good."

Oh. Oh.

That's what this is all about.

It's then that Jake realizes that this guy has been flirting him the entire time. He'll admit it's not the first time someone's hit on him while on the clock. Jake is aware he's an attractive guy, it's just that this is the first time he's been tasked with turning down at very handsome, drunk stranger. But drunk or not, the compliment makes his cheeks burn. Jake prays that the red and blue lights of his cruiser are enough to conceal the way his face flushes.

Ignoring him, Jake grabs the door handle of the Bronco and tugs it open. "C'mon, pal. Outta the car."

A little begrudgingly, Bradley slowly steps out of the car. Jake doesn't miss the way he grabs onto the door to steady himself.

Now that he's out of the car and in the beam of his headlights, Jake gets a good look at him. Bradley is over six feet of lean tan muscle. His long legs are encased in blue jeans that fit a bit too snug around his narrow waist, but from there he only gets wider all the way up to his shoulders. He's got some height on Jake and if he weren't in shape himself, Jake would probably be a little intimidated.

Jake steps up to him. "Go ahead and turn around for me. Put your hands flat on the hood."

For a moment Jake thinks he isn't going to listen, but then Bradley smirks a little and does as he's told. "Normally I'd ask you to buy me dinner first, but whatever you say, Officer."

This time Jake is glad that he's turned around. He steps forward and uses one of his feet to knock Bradley's legs a little further apart so that he can pat him down. He's not surprised to find that there's nothing on him, but he always has to check.

"Are you always this forward, Bradley? Or just when you're drunk?"

"No, sir," Bradley promises him, refusing to flinch even as Jake's hands come dangerously close to his crotch. "Just when the officer is nice to look at."

Jake pulls away as Bradley turns around. He specifically remembers telling him to keep his hands flat on the cruiser but Jake is getting the impression that Bradley doing something that could hurt either one of them isn't something he needs to worry about so he lets it go. Typically a stupid decision but he trusts his gut.

Bradley leans back just slightly to prop himself up against the car and crosses his arms in front of his chest while giving Jake a smile. His big brown eyes are warm and dopey, his smile impish.

"You gonna cut me some slack?" he asks.

Habitually, Jake curls his fingers through the front of his belt. The familiar weight of his kevlar vest is heavy and comforting and somehow he finds that it settles his fluttering heart in his chest.

"You know it's considered an offense to flirt with an officer?" Jake tells him, trying to remain professional and stand his ground. If his eyes drop to observe the way the other man's pecks fill out his t-shirt, that's his business.

Bradley smiles, ducking his head a little abashedly. Jake doesn't miss the way his teeth release the pout of his bottom lip. "Does that apply to when you're off duty as well?"

Jake pokes his tongue into the side of his cheek to keep from smiling. It's not funny, and he shouldn't be flattered by the advances of a drunk stranger but he is. And maybe he does have some sympathy for the guy. He knows what it's like coming back to the states and trying to adjust back to civilian life. But that doesn't mean that he's above the law.

"Bradley," he begins, his voice firm but sympathetic. "You know you can't be driving around like this. As much as I'd like to, I can't let you go."

As far as he's concerned, Bradley doesn't seem to be hearing him at all.

"Y'know, of all the places I imagined myself being handcuffed, none of them were in the back of a cop car."

"Jesus Christ," Jake mutters, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Really, he has no words. "Okay, that's enough," he announces, giving up on getting Bradley to actually take this seriously. "Turn around for me."

Smiling as if feeling a little too pleased with himself, Bradley obediently shuffles around so that Jake can then walk up behind him and clasp his wrists together. He uses his other hand to retrieve his cuffs from his belt and clips them on.

They're a little tight but that's only because Bradley's broad shoulders prevent his wrists from fully meeting, his shoulder blades seemingly obstructed by the wide expanse of his back.

Jake is definitely not staring. 

If the cuffs are uncomfortable, Bradley doesn't say anything, and Jake walks him by one of his elbows to the cruiser.

"Watch your head," Jake instructs him as he opens the door for Bradley to step in. It's a tight fit but somehow he manages, scooting over the seat until he's sat in the middle, his long legs spread to either side in order to accommodate them. The denim of his jeans strain at the awkwardness of the angle and gives Jake a front row view of the bugle of his crotch.

Jake clears his throat, looking away. If it were for the fact that he was drunk, Jake would say he's doing it on purpose.

Before Jake can shut the door and leave with what little is left of his self preservation, Bradley's voice stops him.

"Wait, what about my car?"

When Jake leans down to poke his head into the backseat of the cruiser, the look on Bradley's face is actually concerned. That's a first, Jake thinks. "I'll call someone to tow it. It'll be impounded until you can come and pick it up from the station." When the worry on Bradley's face only increases, his mustache emphasizing the action, he follows with, "They'll take good care of it for you, I promise."

Bradley's eyes flicker to the old Bronco anxiously. "It's just that it's my dad's car. He, um, he died when I was a kid. So, y'know..." he explains, trailing off.

Of fucking course it is.

Jake sighs, hangs his head in defeat for a second, and then looks back into the car at Bradley. "Look, I'll make a deal with you. Promise me we won't meet like this again and I won't have them tow your car. You can just come get it in the morning."

Bradley grins. "Well I'd certainly like to meet you under different circumstances."

Jake slams the door shut.

The drive back into town is quiet. When he glances at the clock on his dashboard, he realizes he only has about an hour left to his shift. As he pulls into the little suburban neighborhood, having memorized the address on Bradley's license, he glances into the backseat through his rear view mirror.

At first he thinks that Bradley's knocked out in the backseat, head lulled back as he breathes slow and steady, but then he sees the whites of his hazel eyes illuminated by the occasional red and blue flash of his overhead lights. Their gazes meet through the mirror and the corner of Bradleys mouth lifts up in a half drunk smile. Jake shifts his gaze away to instead peer at the numbers on the houses. Finally he finds the address he's looking for and slows the cruiser as he pulls into the driveway.

He brings the car to a stop and slides out of the driver's seat, walking around the car to open up the side door. Bradley stares at him quizzically from the backseat.

"C'mon, hop out before I change my mind," Jake prompts, gesturing with his head for Bradley to get a move on. The tall brunette climbs out with as much ease as one can muster in a pair of handcuffs before he's once again standing face to face with Jake.

He's on the downside of his drunken stupor, more sleepy than buzzed if his drooping eyelids are anything to go by. His mustache lifts as he smiles down at Jake. It's still ridiculous looking but it makes more sense now that Jake knows his occupation. It's the only type of facial hair that's considered to be within regs.

Jake clears his throat. "You want me to take those off?" he asks, motioning towards the cuffs holding Bradley's hands behind his back.

"I might do something stupid if you do."

Jake freezes. "What?"

Before he knows it Bradley's kissing him. He connects their mouths with surprising ease. It's so smooth and he moves relatively quickly for someone who's mildly intoxicated that Jake doesn't even see it coming. Between Jake's surprise and Bradley's lack of hands, they're a bit top heavy and Jake has to fist the front of Bradley's t-shirt, his back hitting the side of the cruiser, to keep them from toppling over.

Bradley's mouth is warm, his lips pliant and soft, but he's firm in the kiss, unrelenting in the way that Jake couldn't have pulled away even if he wanted to.

He doesn't want to— he does— but he doesn't want to.

When he comes to his senses, Jake flattens a palm against Bradley's chest and shoves him away. Immediately his chest aches at the distance. He stands there, still half shocked, with his palm holding Bradley away at arm's length.

Really, he's not too sure what to do in this situation.

Bradley’s hazel eyes shine in amusement. He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

Again Jake clears his throat. "Ahem— um, glad you got that out of your system," he says with a pat to Bradley's chest. And before anything else can occur, he swiftly steps around the other man and uncuffs his wrists.

Bradley groans in relief, bringing his hands in front of him to rub at his sore wrists. “I think your bondage play needs some work. Not that I’m complaining—”

“Go inside. Get some sleep, Bradley.”

Taking the not so subtle hint, Bradley straightens and fixes Jake with a mocking salute before he turns and makes him way to the front porch. He watches as Bradley unlocks the front door and turns to give him one last look before he steps inside.

“Until next time, Officer Seresin.”

Jake just shakes his head in disapproval, but he can’t disguise his smile. “There better not be a next time,” he calls up the driveway.

He doesn’t pull out the driveway until Bradley’s shut the door and he sees the porch lights flicker off.

Maybe he does like the night shift.

[jaelaxies]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･

fluff; wc: 1.5 k..

Yeonjun x fem reader!;good sugary fluff; established relationship au!; domestic fluff!; tw: none.

Song recommendation: Delicate — Taylor Swift  (Reputation)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･

Was I always this nervous while being around Yeonjun? As I stepped into his apartment, my heartbeat started to fasten and my hands became a little bit sweaty; quickly brushing them through my jeans, I look at Yeonjun to find him fidgeting with his fingers and biting his lips, old habits die hard after all; he always does that when he is anxious. Somehow, a part of me relaxed, we were in a relationship now, after years of just being friends denying their feelings, we had reached this point and as ridiculous as it could sound, we were just expecting each other to make a move. I pondered for a moment; it was always Yeonjun who came to me first, who reached out first, so why couldn’t I do it this time?

With that in mind I reached for his hand, squeezing it softly to grab his attention too. His gaze finally landing on mine. I could notice the tip of his ears and the back of his neck, painted a dusty rose color. It was a match made in heaven with his newly dyed orange hair. — It’s okay, Jun.

His body finally relaxing and his shoulders dropping a bit, he gifted me a big relieved smile. — I was scared you were going to regret it.

—Regret what?

I said as I dropped my bag and took off my shoes, him doing the same motion. — Being here���

He stole a glance at my curious eyes, still trying to decipher what he was trying to get at. But when he let out an awkward laugh and reached out to ruffle the back of his head, a few ferocious strands standing up. I got smacked with a side of him I never knew existed but I couldn’t find it more endearing. — With me.

I chuckled out loud to his shock and found myself, wrapping my arms around his waist in a backhug; nuzzling my face into his scent; I could feel his body almost melting into my embrace and I loved it. He didn’t need to be worried about such things. I was sure and I felt safer than ever. — I’m not going anywhere. Last time I checked this was my….

—Boyfriend’s house? — I paused when he grabbed my hands from his waist and took them to his lips, kissing them while letting out a breathy chuckle, a genuine one. He was enjoying the teasing because if anyone could do better was him.

—Tell me more about it, princess.

I could sense the smile tugging at his lips when I snatched my hands from his pecks and ran to his room, giggling like a teenager in love. Maybe that’s what I was at the moment. He followed swiftly, trying to catch me but failed to when I reached the door; almost closing it, he stood there with a lovesick grin adorning his beautiful features. —Now, if you excuse me, sir.  I would like to change into something comfy.

He nodded, smile never leaving his eyes or lips; he waved his hand in amusement and then spoke again, trying to contain his laugh. — The house is yours then!

I closed the door and wondered what kind of reaction he would show when I started digging into his closet and found the treasure I was looking for. I grabbed the piece of clothing in my hands with so much care and went to the nearest cabinet to look for something to complete my set, as I expected. He still had my emergency cabinet here; he cared enough to let it be the same exact arrangement but ended up putting things he though I might need; this was the man I loved for years and never dared to admit it, and now it felt like a firework show every time I recall that he loves me the same, if not even more. Butterflies in my stomach and lavender haze blurring out all of the previous nerves, I strode happily to the bathroom.  

When I returned to the lounge, now in a pair of grey sweats, one of my old shirts and his plaid button up covering my shoulders and arms; I could have never expected the words that came out of his mouth in a failed attempt to not think out loud. — Wow…— His parted plush rosy lips slowly forming a big proud smile when he noticed my strawberry tinted face…— it really looks way better on you than I could have ever imagined.  

I really tried to not embarrass myself but this was the thing with him; I could just let my guard down and act like myself, in love as hell and enamored by his unending charm on me. I shook my head while smiling to myself and as he patted the sofa, I dropped right next to him. Unable to look him in the eye without having dilated pupils and a stupid smile, I could only hear him clearing his throat and then huffing. Curiosity killed the cat, so I took a look at him to find his pretty lips forming the most adorable pout and his hand patting the empty space in his lap. He took it as advantage and softly grabbed me to make me sit on his lap, happily humming like he just didn’t make my blood rush ten times faster trough my veins. Facing defeat, I let out a breathy laugh and let my head rest in his chest; his arms now hugging my figure and resting at my waist; I felt myself feeling more and more relaxed as I listened closely to his heartbeat and his body temperature enveloping me in warmth. This was like paradise. Tangled together like red strings of fate who finally were reunited again.

—You were really waiting for this one, weren’t you? — I said while shifting a little bit to brush my lips into his neck, giving him a quick peck. He was ticklish so of course, he shivered and let out a playful chuckle. He wasn’t backing down.

—Because this is not a dream anymore…you are finally mine too.

Meeting my gaze, I was absorbed into his deep dark irises, shining with the slightest reflection of the light; I didn’t even notice when his face was inches away from mine, our lips barely brushing. He caressed my cheek with his free hand and I melted into his touch, letting his lips find my jaw first, then the curvature of my lips and then my smile and after giggling himself; he sealed his lips with mine, soft and sweetly. I could feel how comforting and peaceful my heart was, while he moved his lips in syntony with mine. Separating himself a bit, he pecked my nose as we both slowly opened our eyes; both short of breath and with my body feeling light as a feather, I could feel his loud heart beating in his covered chest. It was like the first time, except this time, we no longer had doubts or questions roaming our minds, it was precious. So precious, that after sharing an intimate smile and another set of sweet short kisses; we returned to our respective positions.

—Don’t ever let me go. — I said as I caressed his hand, drawing invisible stars in his soft skin. The stars that felt like were just shining for us tonight. The way I was never so sure about something until he appeared in my life. — Not after I fell for you like this, Junnie.

Kissing the crown of my head, he spoke in a sweet tone. Sweet like honey and velvety like silk. Words of reassurance melted into a sweet lullaby — I’m all yours…

—I’ve always been, and forever be… yours. — With another short kiss and his last whisper; I closed my eyes and felt like the world stopped and breathed for a second; his chest starting to match my rhythm, sleep taking us under its spell and the moon embracing our morphed silhouettes.

Because after all this time, our hearts still belonged to each other. Ached and longed, until they were together again and when the stars aligned and the time was right, fate saw us begin again.

Walking hand in hand through campus; basking in the scent of his shirt hanging on my shoulders and his intertwined fingers locking our hands tightly, I couldn’t be happier. I could feel the proud grin on his face as we headed towards our friends. It was this strong bond that kept me grounded ; just enjoying this new path that we walked alongside together.

—Finally, huh? — Taehyun winked at Yeonjun, who look back at me and as cliché as it sounded, just the sound of his laughter was enough to make me gaze at him in full adoration.

—Finally. —  I said as he caught me staring, his smile reaching his eyes, and his toothy grin in full display, the one I adored so much. I bashfully smiled back and as he planted a quick peck on my forehead; I allowed my head to rest on his shoulder, feeling the instant wave of peace that his body, close to mine, gave me.

Joy. Butterflies. Expectations. Happiness. They were all ahead of us, tugging at our heartstrings that accepted these new emotions with intimate devotion. Wasn’t it oh so pretty to think that there was an invisible string tying you to me?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･

I'm sorry but i had to write about orange haired Jun even one time before saying goodbye to that majestic look omg ( the way he can pull any color off is insane) Also these pics omg Choi Yeonjun my heart could only take so much😭

As always, feedback is really appreciated and I’ll love if you could reblog or comment if you really liked this one! Taglist is open!

With love, *°࿐Stella🤍

[galtips]

This is Hime Gyaru/himekaij

Hime Gyaru (姫ギャル) is a substyle of Gyaru with an overall princess-like atmosphere with floral patterns with many ribbons, frills, lace, and pearl details. It was mainly popular around the late 2000s to the early 2010s

Hime gyaru makes heavy use of floral patterns with roses being the most common motif and pink, white, and beige as its primary colors. Coats are generally in solid color and feature big fur collars and cuffs as well as decorative bow and lace details. The headwear usually consists out of large hair bows or flowers with pearl chains as accents for a more glamorous vibe. Mule shoes featuring ribbons, flowers, and fur are a popular choice but high heels and mary janes are worn as well

Large beehive-style hair, often with curls

Hair is often bleached blonde or dyed brown

Long nails, often with heavy deco

Lots of pink and white clothing

Sweet patterns like flowers or gingham

Makeup is very classic gyaru, with a focus on eyes and soft lip colours

Heavy deco on accessories such as cell phones

Lots of lace and bows

Oversized hair accessories are very common

Hair still remains big in general but more and more gals are seen with long curls down without the beehive. In addition to this development in hairstyles, black and dark brown hair colours are seen more often than they used to.

There are a number of brands that are still immensely popular with hime gyaru, such as LIZ LISA, JESUS DIAMANTE, and Princess Melody.

Himekaij: What is Himekaji fashion? Princesses are commonly referred to as Himekaji. It is a less formal and less upkeep Hime Gyaru version. Despite how much it resembles Roma Gyaru, there are some differences, including more lace and more pink. Despite commonly being confused with Hime Gyaru, the style can be recognized as distinct. Hime Gyaru girls frequently wear Himekaji for more casual occasions for a more laid-back and comfortable appearance.

Himekaji:

The characteristics of this trend are fairly similar to those of its father and sister trends, with a few minor exceptions. The hair can be either long or short, even though it is often curled and bleached blonde or light brown. Instead of wearing a massive bouffant, the majority of Himekaji devotees opt to dress down their curls.

The Himekaji dress still has dominant pink coloration and familiar designs like hearts and roses, but bows and frills are subdued in comparison. The nails are still long but not as elaborately painted as its sister style, and there are fewer ornaments than the typical Hime Gyaru. If so, it’s not quite as inflated and overdone.

The Himekaji fashion trend also has affiliated brands where fans frequently shop for clothing and accessories, similar to Hime Gyaru. Liz Lisa is a well-known and popular brand for Himekaji, and it is an online retailer of kawaii and princess-themed apparel, shoes, headgear, and accessories.

Himekaji’s entire aura revolves around appearing charming and sassy. From the clothes, mainly, but also from the hair, cosmetics, and makeup. Searching and styling the Himekaji outfit is not difficult. Since the majority of Himekaji design is casual princess attire, a pastel dress can easily pass for Himekaji attire with the addition of a few accessories and the ideal footwear match. Here are some tips on what to look for in clothing that Himekaji devotees typically wear in order to make it simpler for you to get in on the trend.

– Dresses, blouses, and skirts in pastel and light neutral colors, such as dusty pink, beige, baby blue, and whites, are perhaps the most popular. The most distinctive clothing accents typically include frills, bows, ruffles, flowers, and ribbons, which are dispersed naturally and subduedly throughout the garment. One of the main distinctions between Himekaji and its sister, Hime Gyaru, is this. Although the specifics and rules may be the same, keep in mind that for Himekaji, it’s all about being casual and reining in excess.

– Additional characteristics of Himekaji clothing may include corset or lace-up dresses, jumper skirts, and ribbon ties that help define and constrict the waist. Knitted cardigans and sailor collars are two additional features that could be understated but still complement the Himekaji style. The current fashion trend also favors pastel-colored clothing with plaid or checkered patterns. Wear matched tops and bottoms as well.

Himekaji is still well-liked today, both as its own Himekaji fashion style and as a component of the Hime Gyaru fashion style, just like Hime Gyaru. This is due to the fact that more garments are available to ladies who want to start dressing in a Himekaji manner, as well as the fact that the current Hime Gyaru still wears Himekaji attire. In terms of patterns and colors, fashion hasn’t evolved all that much since its inception, much like Hime Gyaru

Style books/make up tutorials: 

[itselriel]

Sarah J Maas HERSELF said that “It was obvious.”

Azriel and Elain liking each other and longing for one another for FOUR WHOLE BOOKS.

Elain wearing Cobalt Blue when her and Azriel first met at the Archeron Estate. The exact color of Azriels Siphons. (Before Elain turned fae)

Azriel being the only one at the table during her and the IC’s first meeting at the Archeron Estate that she was comfortable enough to talk to. (Before Elain turned fae)

Feyre saying that Elain would cling to Azriel to have some peace in Pand quiet and then saying how handsome they would be together. (Before Elain turned fae)

Azriel being the one to carry Elain to the townhouse in Velaris. No shadows around him (meaning he was comfortable). He sets her down gently and Azriel asks her if she would like to see the garden. She says yes and he offers her his arm. She see’s his scarred hands and calls them beautiful. He blushes and takes her to the garden to sit with her.

Feyre looking out the window at Elain and Azriel in the garden and asking Rhys why the cauldron didn’t make them mates. Believes Azriel is a way better fit for Elain than Lucien. Brings up how Rhys and Tamlin’s parents were both mated and how wrong for each other they were. Looks back to Azriel and Elain in the garden and says “What if - That is what she needs? Is there no free will?”

Feyre and Azriel both saying “What if the cauldron was wrong” regarding pairing Elain and Lucien together. (Azriel says it in his bonus chapter)

Rhys mentioning that “a mating bond can be rejected” and that Elain and Lucien could have been paired up as mates just for the reason of “who will produce the best offspring” and that it’s “perhaps only that.”

Azriel going still when he see’s Elain dressed in a dusty pink gown.

Feyre asking Elain if she wants to help set her up in the garden, when Azriel immediately says that he will help her instead. No shadows around him (again, he was comfortable)

Azriel being the only one who truly sees Elain and what she needs. Was the only one that knew she wasn’t going crazy and was the only one to figure out she was a Seer.

Azriel stopping at nothing to save Elain when she got kidnapped by Hybern. Not even when Nesta said that he could possibly die. He simply said “I’m getting her back.” Once he finally got to Elain she said “You came for me.” Once they were back at the camp and Elain was still safely in Azriel’s arms, he didn’t want to put her down. Rhys was the one to had to gently take Elain out of Azriel’s arms because he refused to put her down. He wanted her to stay in his arms.

Azriel was severely injured and all he cared about was getting the chains off of Elain. He didn’t care about any of his wounds. He just wanted to make sure that she was okay. Elain rose up on her toes and kissed Azriel’s cheek.

Azriel has never once in over 500 years allow anyone to so much as touch Truth-Teller, let alone use it. But he gave it to Elain to use during war without hesitation.

Feyre saw the shock on everyone’s faces at Azriel giving Elain Truth-Teller and wondered how often he gave it away. Rhys silently answered her through their bond and said “Never - have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife.”

Feyre watched Azriel and Elain and saw the beautiful picture of them in her mind and turned it into a painting. “The lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and Dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection…that knife.”

Azriel helping Elain with carrying food and not letting anyone take food or eat until Elain was seated at the table. He physically stopped Cassian from grabbing any food before Elain was seated.

Azriel lightening the mood at the table to make Elain more comfortable and smile when there is tension from anyone else in the IC.

Rhys, Cassian and Azriel talking in Rhys’ office and Azriel goes to the lone window overlooking the garden peering into it, to hopefully see Elain.

Azriel being the first person to wish Elain a Happy Solstice and Elain giving him a present that is meaningful to him. Azriel laughing and being so grateful for the gift Elain got for him as no one has ever gotten him as meaningful as a gift before.

Azriel staying up with Elain into the early hours of the morning on the couch listening to her talk about her hobbies and interests.

Cassian mentions to Azriel nonchalantly that there was an argument between Nesta and Elain and Azriel goes still asking “What happened to Elain?”

When Nesta and Elain were arguing in front of the rest of the IC and Nesta said something hurtful to Elain, Azriel’s shadows were “gathered in the corner of the room, like snakes preparing to strike.”

Elain being happy and laughing with Nesta during Solstice when Azriel “stood in the doorway, monitoring them. As if he’d heard Elain’s sharp laugh and wondered what had caused it.”

Nesta watched as Azriel’s gaze shifted to Elain and she watched as something “charged went through it. Between them. Elain’s breath caught slightly.”

Nesta asking Azriel why he won’t sit near the fireplace where there is a vacant seat. Azriel says “My shawdows don’t like the flames so much.” Nesta knew that was a lie. She saw that Elain and Lucien were in the room with everyone else close to the fireplace. She understood then and thought “His secret to tell, never hers.”

AND THESE ARENT EVEN ALL OF ELRIELS SCENES THERES MORE !!!!!!

[greyskyflowers]

You know how there's the soulmate AUs where people leave spots of color where they touch you? Like that but with blood.

I like idea of the people you love who bleed on you leaving marks. Not necessarily romantic soulmates but soulmates in the sense of I think we come from the same stardust.

Maybe it just lasts until that person heals, then it fades away.

Wounds that scar leave colors that never truely disappear but instead just water down to pale colors so both people are permanently marked.

All the hands stained from pressing on wounds.

All the shoulders and backs dyed from carrying someone.

All the knuckles covered, fights forgiven and forgotten but the skin remembers.

All the arms painted from relieved hugs.

The reminder of a kiss that left a mark like lipstick.

The lingering of a handprint so perfect it looks intentional.

All the fades spots on you that mark the places your loved ones have scars.

The stories you could tell, the memories that would linger.

Luffy: Crimson, burning sunsets and glowing embers fading into dusty rose

Zoro: forest, fresh ivy and week old bruises dimming into grey sage

Nami: Citrine, orange peels and fall leaves sliding into muted april

Usopp: Dandelion, flower pollen and honey combs settling into neutral cornsilk

Sanji: Cobalt, fish scales and sea glass washing away to pale celestial

Chopper: Rouge, spring flowers and winter sunrises easing into sweet blush

Robin: Wine, fresh blackberries and humming bird feathers drifting off into dusted heather

Franky: Cyan, open ocean and clear skies cooling into arctic blue

Brook: Obsidian, night skies and storm clouds weakening to sea mist

Also consider:

What if it was the people who love you that leave color? The surprise of color on your skin from someone you didn't realize loved you.

What happens if the love fades? Could you be covered in color from someone you love who now hates you?

What happens if it was never there at all? Do the marks show if you're trying to fool yourself into loving someone?

Could you bleed on someone you supposedly love and both of you are stunned into silence when nothing happens?

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Here's a colorful 1965 Mid-century modern home (can you tell by the electric blue exterior?) in Yucca Valley, California. 3bds, 2ba, $488,888.

Walking into a typically standard living room of the late 60s, there's an oversized emerald green sectional and tri-colored walls of gray, green and pink.

They have extended the green wall into the dining area and painted over the dated oak cabinetry in the same green.

The walls then change to yellow.

The smallish galley kitchen has pops of ruby red.

Notice that they like tri-colored walls. In the family/game room they have a combo of lime, cantaloupe and a dusty Victorian rose. Kind of odd choices. They also like emerald green sofas.

This looks like a sunroom done in gray, beige and gold.

Bathroom #1 has a softly muted muraled wall in dusty tones and a gray tiled shower.

The guest room has a mural feature and is in desert tones.

The primary bedroom in blue, gray & purple geometrics.

Shades of gray with a feature wall.

Bathroom #2 has an ocean theme.

The fenced in yard has a professionally painted mural around the perimeter of the house.

The pool area is enclosed.

Colorful patio around the pool

I don't know if the chess set and balloon dog sculpture convey.

More murals done directly on the house.

I never saw an outdoor shower like this, enclosed with actual tile.

Nice big pergola.

Outdoor dining area and a hot tub.

And, finally, back here are 2 dinosaur statues.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/7099-Plasse-St-Yucca-Valley-CA-92284/2077598478_zpid/

[thatliminal-wanderer]

Pastel Rainbow Dog ID Pack

Requested by Anon

Names:

Aero, Akita, Amber, Amitola, Anuenue, Bea, Blossom, Blue, Blush, Brittany, Cain, Cairn, Canine, Capri, Celeste, Champagne, Coral, Crayon, Daffodil, Daisy, Dane, Dog, Doggie, Dusty, Goldie, Gordon, Green, Hina, Iridiana, Jack, Kaleido, Kelpie, Lab, Lavender, Lilac, Mal, Malinois, Manzat, Marigold, Mauve, Mutt, Orange, Pascal, Pasty, Paw, Peach, Peaches, Pearl, Periwinkle, Poly, Pooch, Pup, Puppy, Purple, Rain, Rainbeau, Rainbow, Red, Rose, Rosie, Rott, Russell, Scottie, Shepherd, Soft, Softy, Spitz, Splatt, Splott, Summer, Tosa, Tulip, Yellow, Yip

Zi don’t normally do noun names but did try a bit here? Sorry if it’s underwhelming!

Pronouns:

arf/arfs, bark/barks, blu/blue/blues, bud/buddy/buddys, canine/canines, col/color/colors, cor/coral/corals, cyan/cyans, dog/dogs, fluff/fluffs, gree/green/greens, ind/indigo/indigos, or/orange/oranges, paint/paints, pale/pales, pas/pastel/pastels, pastel/pastels, paw/paws, pup/puppy/puppys, pup/pups, pur/purple/purples, rain/rainbow/rainbows, re/red/reds, viol/violet/violets, wag/wags, woof/woofs, ye/yellow/yellows, yip/yips, ❤️/❤️s, 🌈/🌈s, 🌫️/🌫️s, 🍡/🍡s, 🍬/🍬s, 🍭/🍭s, 🎉/🎉s, 🎊/🎊s, 🎨/🎨s, 🏳️‍🌈/🏳️‍🌈s, 🐕/🐕s, 🐕‍🦺/🐕‍🦺s, 🐩/🐩s, 🐶/🐶s, 🐾/🐾s, 💙/💙s, 💚/💚s, 💛/💛s, 💜/💜s, 📒/📒s, 📕/📕s, 📗/📗s, 📘/📘s, 📙/📙s, 📚/📚s, 🖌️/🖌️s, 🖍️/🖍️s, 🦄/🦄s, 🦮/🦮s, 🧡/🧡s, 🩵/🩵s, 🩷/🩷s

Titles:

A Barking Rainbow, A Dog of Pastel Lighting and Colorful Hues, That Pastel Dog, The Colorful Puppy, The Dog of Pastel Colors, The Light Rainbow (In The Shape of A Dog), The Pastel One, The Puppy Covered in Colors, [prn] Who Barks in Many Shades

Genders:

Caninaesic, Dogstimmic, Kiddiepuppic, Pastelcutic, Pastelgender, Pastelpixelgender, Pastrasea, Puparciel/Pupaurciel, Pupgender, Pupsleepyic, Rainboscarfcloudic, Rainbowaesic, Rainbowgender, Rainbowquartzic, Rainbowsquish, Somnollisgender, Yellowdogplushic

Other MOGAI:

Alderainbow, Caninevesi, Canivior, Dog Omninoun, Dogperspesque, Dogvesi, Pastelaestelic, Pupperspesque, Puppyperspesque, Pupvior, Rainbowvesi, Rainbowvior/Rainbowalius/Rainbowperspesque, 🌈 Omninoun

[mikeysbabygirl]

𝑩𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒅𝒂𝒚, 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚 <3

Warning : Minors DNI, 18+. Smut, friends with benefits who fall in love, Rindou being 100% a dom ( but he got a lil soft spot for you <3 ), his friends are pissed off 😬, unprotected sex.

Happy birthday to the man who makes my p- heart beat faster <3

AND OMG HAVE YOU SEEN HIS BIRTHDAY ART ??

Sun was long gone now, roads emptied for the beasts to walk out of their dens, but it was a rather peaceful night in that old dusty frame. The moon was at its highest peak, above the wolves walking in the parking lot of their hideout.

-" Just leave it there, i'll drive " Ran gestured toward Rindou's Mustang, and immediately, that one froze, what didn't went unnoticed by his brother. " Or you... ?"

-" Haitani ?" That was Haruchiyo this time, who initially chose the backseat of Ran's car for their guy's night, who frowned seeing Rindou's confused expression.

-" yeah uh, I'm actually kinda tired ".

Haruchiyo was the first to answer, Ran started curling a knowing sly smirk that made his brother want to wipe it off his face.

-" Ya kidding right ? It's past midnight bro, it's your fucking birthday! Hoes are waiting at your brother's club !"

Just from Sanzu's facial expressions, he could see he was pissed off. Work has been suffocating them lately and he saw in Rindou's birthday nothing but a chance to let it all out, yet that one's confused face gradually shifted into a more convinced one, and Haruchiyo already knew it was a lost cause.

-" No way, thanks bro, but I've been carburating on caffeine and four hours of sleep. "

Opening the door to his car was his last word for them, as Sanzu kept expressing his frustration by muffled words, Ran winked at his brother in a playful manner that got him rolling his eyes.

-" Have a good time " he emphasized, Rindou only ignored his obvious remarks and Haruchiyo mumbled a " you suck " before they finally left that parking lot.

The trees on the side of the road were painting the first sketches of his evergreen new favorite frame, then the outlines of your little rose colored glasses-world appeared, chasing away his blues.

Isn't pretty now, no matter how many speeches were engraved in his mind before those three usual knocks at your door, you open it, and they just fly away butterfly-in-the-tummy-like.

-" Hey you "

-" Hey you "

And isn't it pretty? You may not share the same worlds, but those mouths stole each other's words. Some stray seconds were stolen from him while you laughed slightly, and honestly he couldn't tell how it happened, but soon he found himself inside your house. The big, strong Rindou Haitani following you through your kitchen like a lost puppy.

-" You said you wouldn't come " you teased, hands on the counter and pressing your back against it. The man who faced you made a step toward you, hands in his pockets with an impassive face.

-" You said you didn't care ".

Another step toward you.

-" You told me not to ".

And through that sugar coated throwing of blames, your little smile and cute face drew him even closer, arms behind you on the counter, caging you in between his biceps.

- " Did I ?" His deep voice dropped few octaves lower, just like his purple hues gliding up and down your so close face.

-" You did. Cause you said you wouldn't come back. "

-" I won't. "

And then, you just raise your head confronting that Yakuza like nearly no one did in his whole life.

-" Then you're at my door again, insisting that friends do this, all the time. "

Rindou's finger flies to your lips, eyes wondering either does he want to kill you or to kiss you. It's been a month or two, running away from the shadows of stolen heartbeats and thoughts full of you, and now almost out of breath, his eyes look back at yours, and you steal the words away from him again.

-" Don't they ?"

You thought you didn't heard it well so much his question was whispered, and as you went for asking him to repeat, Rindou parted your legs with his knee, making room for himself between them.

-" I might be fucked up, then ?"

Your smile widens slightly, as you tease him with a " took you this long to realize ".

-" Why'd you always forget who the hell you're talking to ?" His hands previously caging you gripped your thighs, you thus found yourself sitting on the counter, trapped by his body between your legs.

-" So you always have to remind me " you shrug, and he thinks that thin line he was walking on might break anytime, under the weight of your hands now behind his neck.

-" Then remember. " And that smirk on the corner of his lips would eclipse as fast as it shone, back to that old face, cold-stone.

Rindou would brush his lips against yours, purple in his eyes burning indigo, drawing circles on your bare thighs and whisper.

-" You wanted it."

Back to watching it unfold again, like a familiar movie, or a dance learned by heart, the moves will repeat. Except, it never disappears, the magic you insufflate into his mouth, right into his beating heart, and he hates it because he feels like a teenager, but here you are again, laying on your mattress with your discarded pajamas long gone, and every fiber of his weary soul is singing now.

In all his greatness, Rindou towers above you. That Louis Vuitton shirt slowly undresses his tattooed torso, pants end no different either, and soon you're laying under that tall tattooed man whose eyes express only one thing.

You should run, you should really run.

-" somethin's wrong, love ? "

Ah yes, master in keeping his victims well tied to him, he leans over you, asserting that dominance by pinning your two struggling hands above your head.

-" Got my baby scared ?"

And you know he couldn't care less about that, lips already exploring every inch of your neck, his slightly messy hair tickling you.

-" Friends don't do this, Rin' " you're almost out of breath as you whisper, and he knocks the air even more out of your lungs when he rolls his hard on above your naked thigh.

-" won't you shut up ? Jus' lemme love you".

It only takes his steely glare, and you're cotton between his bruised hands. It's always about how your skins melt together, how chests have to keep the hearts beating against each other, how your hands never leave your fleshes even once.

And he actually figures it out when he opens the condom, and those eyes raise to look at yours, hesitation as obvious as bare in them.

-" I... Wanna feel ya 'round me. I need you. "

-" then don't. " You take the condom out of his hands and throw it away, somehow you seem not to realize you're doing so with all his fears and insecurities.

But now he's inside, inch by inch, and you think you've never seen something prettier than Rindou Haitani, throwing his head back, eyes half-lidded from bliss.

-" You're too much " you gasp at his length stretching you, and you could practically feel his grin on the kisses he lays on your neck.

-" You say that every fucking time. " And he kisses you even more when you chuckle, in fact he knows nothing of what he's doing, you seem to enslave his senses and he seems to take it perfectly. And that's why, when you ask-

-" Rin', oh fu-... Slow down ! "

He wishes he could, but you just-

-" Babe, fuckin' can't. Look how tight your pussy's taking my cock "

Not like you ever wished he would, his hips mold into you ever so perfectly, hitting a spot that soon sends you to overdrive.

-" looks... Just so fucking good when you cum 'round me, shit- quit clenching baby. "

It really is a bliss, he thinks. Watching you slowly coming down, and him, gradually flying until his hips are stuttering, until his head's nuzzled in your chest, and he's panting with your hand in his messy hair.

-" That's it, that's my man "

This must have made a mess of him, considering how he immediately wraps his arms around your hips. In fact he thinks it doesn't hurt that much when roles are switched and he's the one being taken care of.

And oh that moment again, the afterglow and the daybreak. Rindou knows when it's time to go.

The morning peeks, the light seeps and you would be asleep.

Yet... now the gap between fucking, and making love collapses in the space between your arms where he never feels too much, or not enough.

Now he's the last to fall asleep and the last to wake up, and he lasts to leave because he's got no more goodbyes up his sleeve.

And man, he thinks he doesn't know when it's time to go anymore...

In that idyllic, idiotic love story that neither of you dares to call a relationship, Rindou's the man in charge, but he's also the one running scared like a little boy, whenever you're too close to break those walls down.

He swears he tried, his bed full of someone else, dreams full of you, your scent.

Yet today, the holy morning comes and he won't go anymore, the little boy grew, tired of running away.

But the man wakes up to an empty cold bed.

If he wasn't that pissed, he would actually find it ironic...

-" where the fuck-"

-" I see the sleeping beauty never actually needed a kiss. "

It's an arcadian, picturesque sight indeed. A little cliché, it might be, but not the less breath-stealing.

You approach him, his Vuitton's shirt hanging lose on your bare shoulder with a platter of what seems like a tasty birthday breakfast, and you seem to find it funny, the idiotic fool you made of him.

-" you seem to forget that friends don't stay for the morning " you mimicked, putting the tray on the nightstand. And you barely hear his grunt before you're being pulled back on his toned bare thighs. Rindou presses you against his morning erection, and smirks hearing your small gasp.

-" you're not getting bold on me, aren't you ? Cause I'd love to tame you into the perfect lil slut for me"

He thinks he really might do, when you roll your eyes as if he sounds futile. But you just nuzzle into his arms ever so naturally, like those strong bullies are none but your comfy home and Rindou thinks he might be tamed.

-" just do. So I'd be enough, and you won't need no other slut " you playfully smile, straddling his hips.

You seem not to realize, where he could be, the thrill of giant parties and giant hangovers. But now he thrives for this stillness, the lazy morning, your soft thighs on each side of his hips, and a birthday breakfast because you remembered.

-" ain't ya cute ?" He rolls his eyes slightly. " Acting like you don't know no other bitch got me on my fucking knees. "

Another scoff of him follows. -" As if you don't know I've been dying to get ya outta my skin, but I'm so down bad for this damn smile. "

See ? That smile you're making, exactly what he was talking about. And though he's not the type to open up, finally , he lets go of the wheel, because he's done driving now.

Safe, peaceful, he found home now.

And against his lips, hands behind his neck, another heartbeat of him strays aw you whisper.

-" Happy birthday, baby. "

Help, I didn't realized how rushed and stupid this sounds until I did the proof head, but now I can't take it all back.

ANYWAYS, how you doing ? Hope you're all fine, drinking enough water and staying healthy <3

[beautification-tales]

Rhoda vs. Stella

As Rhoda sat in front of her small television set, the news anchor's voice droned on and on about the heroic feats from the amazing Stella. She'd saved a bunch of people from a collapsing building, apparently. Rhoda couldn't help but let out a little sigh. "Another day, another news segment all about Stella," she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible even to her own ears. The room was dark and dank, the only light filtering in through the curtain-covered window, and the air smelled stale, like old socks and cheap perfume. It was the kind of place you'd expect to find a character in a particularly depressing Russian novel, not a twenty-seven-year-old woman like Rhoda.

She flipped through the channels, hoping to find something else to watch, anything else, but it was as if Stella had taken over the entire television network. Every channel was showing replays of her latest heroic exploits, interviews with people who had met her, or experts discussing her superpowers. Rhoda scowled, growing increasingly frustrated. "Come on," she grumbled, "there's got to be something else going on in the world besides that self-centered brat."

Just then, the news anchor switched to a live feed from the scene of the rescue. There was the Superheroine Stella herself, perched atop a pile of rubble, a group of grateful citizens crowding around her. Beside her, an attractive male witness was raving about how beautiful she was, how her every move was grace under pressure, how she'd saved his life and the lives of countless others. The camera lingered on her perfect features, her sculpted physique, her glowing skin. Rhoda gritted her teeth, feeling a familiar mix of anger and envy rise up inside her.

As the male witness continued to gush, Stella winked at him coyly before taking flight, soaring effortlessly into the sky, leaving the stunned crowd in her wake. Rhoda turned off the television, unable to stand another second of the nauseating spectacle. She rose from the dusty old couch, stretching her stiff limbs, and glanced around the room, taking in the clutter and the peeling paint. There was a time when she'd thought this was all she'd ever have, but now, hearing about Stella everyday just made her feel worse.

With a sigh, she headed down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, her movements listless and slow. As she reached the bathroom door, she paused, taking a deep breath and steeling herself. She hated the bathroom, with its small, dingy mirror and its drab, institutional colors. It made her feel even more invisible than she already did. But there was no avoiding it; she needed to wash her face.

Rhoda splashed her face with cold water, trying to wake herself up. She scrubbed her face vigorously, wishing she could scrub away the feelings of inadequacy and self-pity that seemed to cling to her like a second skin. Finally, she reached up and put on her glasses, taking a step back to survey herself in the mirror. Her short brown hair looked dull, her face framed by the round, wire-rimmed spectacles. She looked... ordinary.

Her thoughts drifted back to Tim, her cute coworker at the local coffee shop. They'd worked together for over a year now, and she'd been harboring a secret crush on him for almost as long. He was tall and handsome, with a killer smile and a witty sense of humor. He was always nice to her, but she suspected he didn't see her as anything more than a friend. It didn't help that every time she'd tried to make a move, she'd chickened out at the last minute, leaving her feeling even more pathetic than usual.

"You're just jealous," she muttered to herself, trying to convince herself it was true. Maybe she could learn to be more like Stella, to be more confident, more outgoing. Maybe then Tim would notice her. But then again, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. After all, Stella was a superhero, not a real person. It was one thing to admire her from afar, but trying to emulate her was setting herself up for disappointment.

She sighed, running her hands through her damp hair. There had to be another way. Maybe if she could find some kind of outlet for her own unique talents, something that made her feel special. Something that didn't involve trying to be someone she wasn't. She glanced back at the mirror, hoping for some sort of inspiration, some glimmer of an idea. But all she saw was her own reflection, looking back at her with tired, resigned eyes.

And then, suddenly, there she was. Stella. Not the news anchor, not the image on the television screen, but the real Stella, standing beside her in the mirror. Her perfect features were marred by a frown, and there was a curious expression in her eyes. "Why are you so jealous of me?" she asked softly.

Rhoda started, then turned to face Stella. "I'm not jealous," she said defensively. "I just wish people would see me for who I am, not just some stupid superhero."

Stella raised an eyebrow. "And who do you think you are?" she asked, her voice soft but steady. "You're just a shy quiet invisible girl. You can’t possibly compete with me. And maybe people would notice you if you weren’t so pathetic."

Rhoda felt a sting of hurt at Stella's words, but she knew there was some truth to them. She took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. "I know I'm not perfect," she said, "but I have my own strengths. I can be kind, and caring, and I'm good at my job. I just wish people would see that."

Stella studied her for a moment before speaking. "You know what they say about nice girls?" she asked quietly. "They finish last. You have to stand up for yourself, Rhoda. You can't keep playing the victim, waiting for someone to notice you. You saw the news! Everyone is talking about me…about us!”

Rhoda felt a spark of anger ignite in her chest. "Us?" she asked incredulously. "You mean me and you? I'm not like you, Stella. I don't have powers. I don’t wear a white leotard.I'm just an ordinary girl trying to make her way through life."

Stella stepped closer, her expression softening. "But you do have a power, Rhoda. You have the power to make a difference. You have the power to choose how you want to use your gifts. You could be me, using your abilities to help people. Or you could keep hiding behind your glasses and your shyness, content to be invisible."

Rhoda felt her resolve wavering. She knew that Stella was right, that she did have a choice. But it was so much easier to just go along with things, to be the quiet one in the background. "I don't know if I could ever be like you," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I mean, did you see how you flirted with that guy on the news?”

Stella smiled, a small, wistful expression. "Yes, I did," she replied. "And I enjoyed it. I like having the power to make men swoon.” Stella flexed her right arm bicep triumphantly. “You’re such a prude Rhoda. Did you see how tall he was? Did you see how… big he was?”

Rhoda felt her cheeks flush crimson, but she didn't back down. "Well, I'm not interested in using my abilities like that," she said, her voice steady. "I want to use them for something more important."

Stella raised an eyebrow. "Like what?" she asked, her tone challenging. "You think you can change the world, Rhoda? You're just one person. And even if you could, so what? You'd still be stuck in this life, living in the shadow of someone like me. Stop fighting what you are! What you’re meant to be just let me out. Let me play!”

Rhoda felt a surge of determination rise within her. "I can make a difference," she insisted, her voice firm. "I don't have to be like you to matter. I can be plain old me to help people without showboating." She paused, meeting Stella's gaze unflinchingly. "And I won't let you control me anymore. I'm going to be who I want to be."

With renewed confidence, Rhoda turned and strode back into the living room. She took a deep breath, steadying her nerves, and began to pace around the room. Her thoughts raced as she tried to formulate a plan. She knew that she couldn't continue to live in Stella's shadow, but she also didn't want to give in to her dark desires that Stella represented.

She stopped in front of the TV, her eyes glued to the screen as she watched the news. Another building was ablaze, and she could feel Stella's energy coursing through her veins, begging to be let loose. The reporter spoke of the destruction and the chaos, but Rhoda couldn't help but focus on the people.

Rhoda could hear Stella within her screaming for release. Rhoda felt as if she had no choice as she took the gold ring off her necklace and placed it on her ring finger.

The change was instantaneous. Her body began to stretch and contort, her bones popping and cracking as her muscles grew and her skin stretched. Her height increased as her spine lengthened, her hands and feet elongated to fit her new larger frame. Her hair turned long and blond and her eyes glowed with an ethereal light. The large sweater and sweatpants disappeared as a white leotard and white gloves appeared on her body. The old sneakers replaced with white matching boots as her impressive legs and arms were bare.

Stella's arrogant grin spread across Rhoda's face as she stepped out from behind the couch. She flexed her bicep enjoying the show, her muscles rippling with power. Her voice was deep and confident as she spoke, "Oh, don't worry, Rhoda. I'll take it from here."

She walked gracefully towards the burning building, her long strides effortlessly carrying her across the distance. People gasped in awe as they beheld her stunning beauty and unearthly strength. Stella reached the building and without hesitation, ripped the burning doors off their hinges. The flames licked at her skin, but she seemed unbothered.

With her enhanced senses, she could see inside the building, feel the heat and sense the panic of the trapped people. She moved through the smoke like a ghost, rescuing one person after another with ease. Her gloved hands were gentle yet firm as she helped the terrified occupants out of the inferno. The firefighters, impressed by her abilities, watched in silence as she worked.

The fire grew more intense as she continued her rescue efforts, but she seemed unbothered. She could feel the flames licking at her skin, but they did not harm her. She was in control. She was unstoppable. She was Stella.

“That is everyone in the building chief!” Stella proclaimed as she flashed her gorgeous smile.

The firefighters rushed forward to help her tend to the last of the survivors, their expressions a mix of awe and respect. They had never seen anything like it. A woman, a mere mortal, who had single-handedly saved everyone in that building without even breaking a sweat.

As they worked together, the crowd around them began to swell. News crews rushed to the scene, their cameras capturing every moment of Stella's heroics. She was a goddess among mortals, a beacon of hope in the midst of chaos.

The reporter from earlier pushed his way through the throng, microphone in hand. "Stella!" he exclaimed, his voice full of awe. "Is it true? Were these attacks on the buildings meant to draw you out?"

Stella's eyes narrowed, her expression growing cold. "I cannot speak for those who would commit such heinous acts," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "All I know is that when I heard the cries for help, I could not turn a blind eye. I had to do something." She turned back to the firefighters, her expression softening. "You all have my gratitude for your bravery and your service."

Stella walked away as she levitated off the ground about to fly home. Stella hovered in the clouds as she refused to give Rhoda control again. She was free and she wanted to have fun. “It’s time to show Rhoda that it’s more fun being me.”

She flew to the coffee shop where Tim was closing up. She slowly landed giving Tim an amazing view of her body.

"Oh my god, is that Stella? She's here?" Tim asked one of his coworkers.

"Yeah, it's her," the coworker replied, eyes wide with surprise and admiration. "So you think she wants coffee? ."

Stella looked at Tim with a playful grin, "Why yes, I wanted a cup but it looks like you’re just closing." She glided over to Tim, her movements graceful and fluid.

"Oh, uh, hi Stella," Tim stammered, his heart racing. "I mean, we're not really supposed to have anyone in here after hours, but I could, I mean, make you a cup really quick if you'd like."

Stella smiled at his nervousness, her emerald eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, that's so sweet of you, Tim. But don't worry about it. You've got to close up, right?" She glanced over her shoulder at the coworker, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes.

“You… you know my name?” Tim asked in shock, feeling even more flustered.

Stella laughed, the sound melodic and pleasant. "Of course I do, silly. You still have your nameplate on.” Stella was relieved at how quickly she covered for herself.

Tim turned a shade of red that was almost as vibrant as Stella's hair. "Oh... uh... right. Well, you know, if you change your mind..." he trailed off, not quite sure how to continue.

Stella gently grabbed Tim’s shirt as she lowered his head slightly into a kiss. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest as she pushed her powerful frame into his body. She could feel Tim melting into her as she pushed her tongue into his mouth. Stella felt his stiffness in his crotch as she slowly broke off the embrace.

"That's for being such a cutie," she whispered huskily, running her fingers through his hair.

Stella took a step back, giving Tim a moment to catch his breath. "I'm serious, Tim. If you ever need anything, just call me, okay?" She leaned in close, their noses almost touching. "And if you ever want another kiss like that... just find me. I'll be waiting."

With one final wink, Stella lifted off the ground, her arms spreading wide as she glided gracefully out of the street and into the night. The coworker stared after her, his mouth hanging open.

Back in the apartment, Stella floated to the bathroom mirror. She stared at her reflection, admiring the yellow fire in her eyes. She had never felt so alive, so free. It was as if she had shed a layer of skin, revealing the confident, powerful woman she was meant to be.

"Hello, Stella," Rhoda's voice said softly, her tone devoid of any of the condescension it once held. "You had your fun, now give me my body back."

Stella turned around slowly, her eyes narrowing as she studied her former self. "And why would I do that?" she purred, her voice a sultry purr. "I'm having too much fun being me." She lifted her chin defiantly, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Rhoda's eyes widened in surprise. She had never expected Stella to react like this. "But you don't understand, Stella. I need my body back. I have things I need to do, people who depend on me."

Stella's yellow eyes glinted with mischief. "Oh really? And what about me, Rhoda? Don't I deserve to enjoy being in this body for a little while longer? After all, it's not like you were using it to its full potential." She stepped closer, invading Rhoda's personal space. "I can promise you, Rhoda. If you let me keep being you... well, you might just find that you like it."

With that, Stella slipped her hands under her top, cupping her breasts in her hands. She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of them, the softness against her palms. She gently massaged her nipples, watching with satisfaction as they hardened under her touch. Then, slowly, she lowered her hand to feel her warm wet slit.

Rhoda watched, shocked and aroused, as Stella began to explore her own body. She felt a wave of desire course through her, an urgency that she hadn't experienced in years. She had forgotten what it was like to feel so alive, so present in her own skin.

As Stella's fingers found their way to her clit, Rhoda gasped, arching her back involuntarily. The sensation was almost too much to bear. She felt herself growing wetter, hotter, more and more eager for release. "Oh god, Stella," she breathed, her voice shaking. "What are you doing?”

Stella looked up at her, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "What does it look like I'm doing?" She gave her a sultry wink. "I'm enjoying myself." And with that, she circled her finger around her clit, harder and faster, until they were moaning in unison.

“Just give in Rhoda. Let me finally be your true self. I can give you everything you want. Tim practically came in his pants just from kissing us.” Rhoda gasped at the thought. “No more being invisible, no more boring routine. Please Rhoda … fuck it feels so good.”

Stella's words reverberated in Rhoda's mind as she felt Stella's fingers expertly tease her body. She had never experienced such pleasure, such raw desire. It was as if a dam had been broken, releasing a torrent of emotion and lust that she hadn't known was there. She wanted this, she needed this.

Rhoda moaned in ecstasy as she screamed in unison with her superhuman side “I am Stella!”

[liminal-storage]

IV- The Emperor

Prompt: Halcyon

Characters: Cygni Marlowe, Florian Marlowe

Content Warnings: None.

"Grand-père? Are you in here?"

"Back here, Cygni. Have a care where you step." The workshop was a marvel, a wonderland of modern innovation. Crowded and cluttered and smelling faintly of mechanical grease, and a six-year-old Cygni Marlowe's favorite place in the entire world.

Stepping past spinning gears and winding spirals of copper tubing, and careful not to kick the boxes of bolts and spare parts, little Cygni sought out the back of the shop where her grand-père Florian sat. Light streamed in through a massive, gorgeously-fashioned window. Half regular clear glass and half a deep, emerald-stained glass, Florian liked to take afternoon tea at the window and watch the birds flying over the street below. And it just so happened that he always had a spot open for her.

Weathered but sturdy hands lifted stacks of papers and books out of the way so that his little granddaughter could sit, skirts tucked properly and demurely into place. Her white-blonde hair caught the warm afternoon sunshine, bright eyes dancing with happiness as her grand-père fixed tea in a delicate cup painted with pink roses.

It looked out of place in the dusty workshop full of copper piping and model dirigibles. Small and dainty and very floral, the teacup nevertheless bore signs of wear, use, and love. A tiny chip in the ceramic near the handle. Flecks of missing glaze. A small crack in the matching saucer. Like the girl they belonged to, the cup and saucer had their own special place in the workshop.

Florian presented little Cygni with a tin, which upon opening revealed a colorful variety of baked culinary masterpieces. She made her selection and set it upon her saucer...not entirely appropriate, but Florian was never one to scold his grandchildren. In this space and in these moments, he would give them what little peace he could offer.

Cygni lifted her tea with her pinky raised, and grand-père mimicked her.

"So, little swan. Tell me about your day."

[mistydeyes]

aesthetic tag game :)

aww this was so cute!! thank you for tagging me @hxad-ovxr-hxart :))

tag game rules: favorite: movie, hobby, animal, character, color, place, season, album, food

movie: everything everywhere all at once! ive literally never felt so seen by a movie before and plus i love michelle yeoh and ke huy quan, seriously please watch their acceptance speeches for the movie- literally brings me to tears

hobby: painting! i love making them as gifts for friends or just having silly ones around the house :) cats and flowers are my favorite things to paint! and the picture is actually a beer pong table i painted last year

animal: pikas! discovered them when i was hiking in yosemite but they're like little plush squirrels

character: i've been on a teen titans and harley quinn (hbo) kick and i forgot how much i LOVED dick grayson/nightwing

color: ooh this is a hard one but i love dusty rose pink!

place: florist shops! i love the ones that have the pick your own flowers where you can make your own bouquet

season: fall! i love the leaves, the hot apple cider, and all the comfy outfits

album: mt joy's live at red rocks! i saw them recently and this album has made me relive through the concert + its a no skip kinda album! it’s funny bc sky picked one of my other favorite albums- we were friends by backseat lovers

food: soup! chicken corn chowder is my current fave

tags💌 @mockerycrow @katz-chow @sofasoap @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot + anyone else that would like to participate!

[passivenovember]

A commission for my good friend strangerdeans over on twitter!

--

punisher

--

Dustin's monster falls through the freezer door and things change. 

Steve's got a bruise on his face the size of a steel-toed boot. Ugly purple and red swirls span from hairline to jawbone, and he can hardly walk once the sky starts to turn pink. 

But there's a silence draping over them. Words stranded in the slick coil of their throats, now that ink dries on a second promise to eat themselves alive before they speak of this night.

Against everyone’s will, new players spring forth. 

Steve feels guilty about that, too. In spite of what's inherently right or wrong, paying no mind to what he’s ready to bury in the past, Steve lies and gets his face punched open and still believes that Hargrove might be a starting member of this new team. 

He’s strong and resilient and the first thing he says when Steve comes to is I’m sorry about your face.

Steve doesn’t mention that Billy’s probably doing him a favor. He’s been a slave to his cheekbones, the coil of his lips, the blush on his cheeks for as long as he can remember, and now. 

For a while, well.

Steve slaps a bag of frozen bananas on his jaw and decides that Billy doesn’t have anything to apologize for.

And maybe the science experiment Dustin should've killed and kept on ice is the one that happens when Steve fills a dusty glass full of water and limps his way to the porch, ready to own his shit.

I’m sorry I dragged you into this. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t swallow my fear and answer the goddamn question.

I’m sorry I dragged you into this because I couldn’t answer the goddamn question so you flew off the handle. I would’ve. Anyone would, to protect their sister. I’m sorry a monster fell onto your lap and changed the color of the world.

Hargrove sits with his boots hanging into Ms. Byer’s rose bush. 

It’s dead and dying, and his back congeals to the paint-chipped pole that holds that sloping awning in place like he’s trying to disappear into the woodgrain. Steve wonders if Hargrove gets the irony in that. If he’s staring at the waning stars and thinking, a stamp of red in a waving sea of death-bed milkweed and dogwood, that they should consider themselves lucky.

They made it out alive.

“For your throat,” Steve says through his molars. It scrapes on the way out. He spits onto the concrete, expecting sheets of red. He holds the glass in front of him. Counts to ten.

Hargrove doesn’t seem to notice he’s there.

Steve shrugs. Throws the water out onto the dead yard in front of him, imagining that what happened might be washed up. Cleared away. 

The glass clinks softly when Steve bends to set it on the porch, and Hargrove turns to look at him.

For a rattlesnake he’s harmless. For a while. For now.

He’s got tear tracks on his cheeks, licking a path through Steve’s blood settled over his skin. His arms and legs are loose. Weighted. He slides his head along the pole until Steve sees the opening in that stupid red shirt. 

Everything, red. 

Everything.

And Hargrove says, “I’m high.” Like it’s something to laugh at. 

Steve leans against the other beam. Has never felt less like laughing. “Max pricked you with something strong.”

“I deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Steve says lightly, not wanting to go for round two. “You did and you didn’t.”

Blue eyes squint, working to understand the meaning from the height of whatever cloud he’s perched. 

“I should’ve answered your question,” Steve clarifies. “You asked me. About Max, you said–”

“There’s a monster in your fridge.”

I’m sorry you can never go back. 

I’m sorry you’re stuck here. I’m sorry–

“‘S not my fridge,” Steve points out, and. Hargrove’s still crying when they look at each other, but it’s almost an unconscious movement. Like he’s used to it, the feeling of tears on his face. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” Steve tells him. 

If only to get Hargrove to stop. 

Fighting. Smearing snot down his chin. Looking at Steve like–

He doesn’t. He wipes at his nose, and says, “That why you lied to me?”

The sky is starless, again, the moon a shivering, waning crescent that loses its battle to a bank of thick storm clouds. Steve tries to count them, anyway. Imagines that when he says, “We wanted to keep you safe,” It doesn’t sound so much like Steve pegs himself as the hero.

Billy’s not crying, anymore. “I busted your ass for it.”

“You thought I was a creep,” Steve snaps–and deflates. Popped like a tired weather balloon over his desire to defend this asshole. To wrap gauze around Billy’s knuckles and watch the red seep through. 

Hargrove frowns. Rolls his neck. “You are a creep.”

“Look–”

“Way freakier than I thought you’d be, though. Way worse.”

Steve chews on the inside of his lip. Watches the treeline toss in a silvery breeze, and then hunts through the darkness for shadows that don’t belong. His muscles are pulled tight, still coiled, ready to spring at the slightest noise that chitters beyond the pooling soft yellow light overhead.

The blacksnake to Billy’s rattle.

Steve lowers himself onto the porch, having to use both hands so he doesn’t sit too hard on one hip. 

He’s useless.

His martyr complex is covered in holes. He’s sinking, in so many ways he can’t–

“You should go home,” Steve hears himself say. “Max is exhausted. Your parents–”

“Every time I blink I see that monster,” Hargrove mutters, in this. Tiny, scraped-thin voice, and. 

Steve looks over. Holds steady when those pools of blue flood and spill. 

“It wasn’t even alive and I turned bitch.” Hargrove says. 

His eyes. 

They hunt over Steve’s. Dig through him, clearing away fog and smoke like the bulb from a lighthouse, nailed high at the edge of before and after. 

I’m sorry your life is over. I’m sorry you can’t speak about it. I’m sorry it’ll take you to your grave–

“I’m never gonna sleep again. I wasn’t sleeping much before, but this.” He shakes his head, turning to glare out over the misting grasses. “Place really is a shithole, Harrington.”

The world feels heavy, the sky swollen pink and tender with something that will tear its way out, someday. 

Steve swallows. Digs around for his cigarettes. 

He can feel those eyes on the side of his face. Burning right through him. 

When Steve finally gets his fingers jammed into his rumpled pack of smokes, he bites down on a fresh one and watches the smoke curl and reach toward the cloudy gray sky. 

Without thinking he hands the cig over, and Billy takes it. 

Their fingers brush. 

Steve watches Billy inhale, feels the burn in his own throat. 

Hargrove rolls his neck along the pole until their eyes meet, and they consider each other for a long, quiet moment. “Your face looks like that portrait of the screaming bald man,” He points out. “You know? The one where the field is on fire.”

It’s a theme. It’s stained glass in the summertime. 

It’s swirling clouds of red and monsters trying to stick their claws in dimensional barriers made of goo and half-baked images of people Steve just met, lying dead on the floor. 

It’s the knowledge that disaster is always lurking, kept at bay by the ebbing, complicated things you’ll do to keep everyone alive even when you don’t like them all that much. 

Steve doesn’t know why, but. He knows that Billy understands. 

“How’d you kill it?” Billy asks suddenly.

As if reading Steve’s mind. As if their NDAs aren’t drying in some stiff’s briefcase on his way to Washington and for just a moment, Steve wonders what they’re talking about.

Complication. 

Killing love. Killing sleep. Killing his reputation, and his self-image. How did Steve kill..

The monster, he decides.

How does he stop from dying a thousand little deaths, now that everything has changed again. How does he keep Billy alive, when. 

Steve doesn’t like him all that much.

Steve feels naked. Wants to cover his face with his hands, like a child. “I didn’t kill it,” He says. “But I didn’t run, either.”

Billy chews on that for a moment. 

He hands the cigarette back across the little stretch of sagging porch between the past and the new dawn.

Steve takes it and wishes for a million impossible things. 

He wishes Nancy didn’t hate him. He begs the stars that Dustin will let Hop bury the monster. He hopes that Will can adjust, free of his shadow. 

Most all, Steve. Wishes that when Billy looks at him, eyes blue and intense and afraid, they could talk about it. 

They can’t.

Steve’s head is a pounding tribal drum taking root between his ears, and he wants to go home. Wants to stay here forever, too, while the sky starts to turn purple overhead. 

–

The chime of his mother’s coo-coo-clock makes him piss his pants.

It’s involuntary. 

The gears grind along Steve’s grand entrance, billowing like smoke clouds until the ceiling is huge and dark, and when the bird pops out of its house and sings its doomsday song, Steve’s nail bat clatters to the floor and he feels something warm bloom wet across the front of his pants. 

If he wasn’t alone he’d be embarrassed.

If his face wasn’t cracked open and ugly with bruises, liquid with blood, he might bury himself under the split of his fingers. He might cry.

But the tears don’t come. They didn’t the first time, chasing monsters in someone’s living room, and they hide, now. Ever the same. Under exhaustion and skull-splitting ache, and bone-deep gratitude that he made it out alive.

He almost didn’t, so.

The piss isn’t half bad, all things considered. 

It’s a welcome feeling. Sticky warmth reminding Steve that he’s really here. That the gate is closed. That despite everything, he still has the capacity to be scared of something as simple as the chime of a wooden bird.

–

On Monday, Nancy gives his stuff back.

Why she thought this couldn’t wait until the New Year is beyond him.

The world still has teeth. Steve’s toting his shit around like concrete boots, he hasn’t slept in seventy-two hours and he’s pretty sure he has spinach in his teeth from the omelet his mom made him choke down this morning.

There Nancy is. Before first period, frowning with bright cheeks and beautiful, clear green eyes that can’t quite stave off an overcast of pity. 

“Hey,” Steve says because he saw this coming. A premonition of their love-train barreling off the tracks.

She has a cardboard box in her hands and Jonathan Byers shifting nervously over her sleeve cap and all Steve can offer as a follow-up is, “You should’ve waited until after Christmas.”

But he takes the box, anyway.

Nancy says, “I’m sorry,” like she had no choice.

But she did. It's eight o’clock on Monday morning and Steve’s going to have to live through the next lifetime without her, even though she’s the only person he can talk to. 

Steve takes the box.

Nancy says, “Are you okay?” Like that’s even a possibility.

They saved the world this weekend. Steve’s a hero, but Hawkins High is another planet and everyone’s watching Harrington get exiled from the spaceship.

He’s stuck.

He’s alone. 

“I’m fine,” Steve says. The box is heavier than he thought it would be. A year’s worth of love that won’t fit in his locker unless he takes it apart with his bare hands. 

“You’re a good guy, Steve.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sorry it had to end like this.”

“It’s alright, don’t apologize,” Steve tells her. But it’s not alright. It could’ve been if she had waited until the New Year or dropped the box at his house on a Saturday morning–

But everyone. 

Everyone is watching.

The bell rings. Because that’s what bells do.

Life doesn’t stop moving. Not for the death of a Radio Shack employee, not for the plight of a missing child, not for Steve. One of those things is not like the others, and. Steve’s guilty for that, too.

Nancy peers over her shoulder at Jonathan. 

Steve dies a thousand deaths.

“Shit, I gotta run,” Nancy looks at him, eyes wide and sad like broken dinner plates. She chews on her lip. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

The lid of the cardboard box is scrawled with black ink. Spring sweaters. 

Nancy rifled through her closet for this. She made room, she threw out cardigans and she threw out Steve.

He nods. Can’t look at her, while the hallway swirls and drains around them. 

“Okay,” Nancy says. She steps closer, so near that Steve can smell the White Diamonds perfume she dabs behind her ears every morning. Her hands close around his shoulders, rubbing warmth into his skin. 

When Nancy kisses his cheek, right over angry purple bruises that serve as a reminder of Steve’s end of beginnings, pain shoots like a star illuminating every smile they ever shared.

He wants to flinch away. He yearns to pull closer and live under Nancy’s ponytail. His nose hurts. His eyes burn. His skull might as well crack in two.

Nancy steps away and when she goes, her fingers entombed in the protective hand of Jonathan Byers, Billy watches from the other end of the long, empty hallway.

–

The idea of taking a bat to his mother’s coo-coo-clock seeps through the back of his mind like flood water.

It isn’t the bird’s fault, but Steve’s been through this enough to know that grief spills out in the strangest ways, his fingers aching and snapping for a hold of something. Anything.

He doesn’t like sudden movements. He flinches. He recoils. 

The coo-coo-clock sings its song and it’s groundhog day, a horrible time loop of death and blood-rain skies, and exile. 

Steve can’t undo the last two years. 

He can’t change his American History grade or trump his three-point average from last season. He can’t make himself like tomatoes and he can’t jimmy his split skin back together and he can’t force Nancy to love him and it’s not the bird’s fault.

Nancy’s cardboard box stares up from the shoe rack by the front door and asks How’d you manage to kill it. 

It’s not the bird’s fault.

–

On Wednesday, Billy sits with him at lunch.

It starts there. 

Unwanted mashed potatoes plop themselves onto Steve’s tray and after a century of hesitation, time lurches toward acceptance. The loop is broken.

“Face looks worse,” Billy tells him. 

Steve’s hungry. He’s going to starve to death.  “That’s ‘cause it’s healing.”

“It’s not healing.”

“Okay.”

“Looks like someone built a chemical factory in the field that was burning,” Billy leans forward, elbows on the table, to get a better look at the vessel-burst painting on Steve’s forehead. “It’s green,”

“Probably.”

“You’re not taking care of yourself.”

“Looked yellow in the mirror,” Steve says, stomach swooping low and hot because Billy noticed.

He’s been watching. 

“It’s puke yellow,” Billy admits, wrinkling his nose. “It looks like someone–”

“Beat the shit out of me. In this case, we know it’s true.” Steve looks through his eyelashes at the rising tide of guilt that laps away at Billy’s features until he’s flat, toe-pressed sand.

He expects another apology.

Instead, Billy’s teeth draw back into a snarl. “You’re not icing it like you should,” He says, “Gotta sleep with your skull on a raised surface and ice twenty minutes on, twenty off until it’s gray.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Should,” Billy tells him. “If you don’t wanna spend the rest of your life looking like you just got mauled.”

“Why should I listen to you?” Steve wonders, “Why should I believe a single fucking thing you say?”

“Because I’ve had worse.”

Steve tucks a wad of mashed potato into his cheek. Wants to believe that Billy’s talking about fist fights over girls at spring ragers, and not. 

Whatever’s got him white-knuckling his lunch tray.

Steve sits funny on his left hip. He doesn’t have it in him to think about action. Putting one foot in front of the other until he’s limping away from the wreckage. Healed bruises mean everything is over. It’s time to move on.

“Look,” Billy says, “Just  because your girlfriend lost her mind and dumped you doesn’t mean you get to take it out on the rest of us.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Probably,” Billy stares at him, limbs coiled like they were in the rose bush. 

He looks sorry. He’s furious.

He’s been watching Steve and he’ll spend the rest of his life tracking pangs of guilt about the Byers and the monster in the fridge and the ugly pea-colored wings blooming across Steve’s eyebrows.

Steve sniffs, tongue poking his cheek until pain shoots through to his fingertips, and Billy shakes his head. “Gotta stop doing that, pretty boy.”

“Fuck you, I’m not pretty.”

“You are,” Billy says, so earnest that Steve almost believes him. “Listen, I already said I was sorry. If you wanna harp on it until the end of fucking time, be my guest–”

Steve shoves his tray to the side. “Twenty minutes on and twenty off?”

Billy freezes, eyes searching Steves for the gnarled hint of a trap poking through his words. He must not find one. He must throw in the towel because he deflates. 

“Twenty on twenty off,” Billy says, “Lots of water.”

“Got it,” Steve says.

Billy nods sagely. “Good. On your long list of shining attributes, your face is top-billing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Billy snaps harshly, and that’s the end of it. 

They’re both tired of repentance. No more crawling on their knees toward forgiveness. Steve dusts his hands and puts one foot in front of the other.

–

He walks headfirst into something he can’t name, and maybe that’s worse than where he was.

When it comes to Billy, Steve had imagined that the bull-dog routine was an act. That really, Hargrove’s softer than all the fleshiest parts of himself. 

He is, and he isn’t.

Billy’s funny in the way guys only are when the shit they’re joking about has power enough to destroy them. He makes Steve laugh so sharp and sudden that Steve knows his ribs are going to fracture and poke through his skin. 

They never do.

Steve has a sneaking suspicion that Billy would stitch him back together.

And that’s another thing. Billy’s smart. He could perform open heart surgery on the lunch table and Steve would live. 

Billy’s good at math and English. He spends the majority of their time together talking about AP assignments and wondering about Steve’s life, in the here and now. In the future, too. 

Billy asks what Steve wants to be when he grows up. If he slept well. If there’s anything Billy can do for him and when Steve waggles his eyebrows, not really knowing if it’s a joke, Billy throws gum wrappers and words sharp as knives until the moment passes.

Steve finds himself wanting it to stretch on forever.

Their unsteady alliance toes the edge of friendship for so long that when Steve’s boundaries start to blur. 

With each of Billy’s shining, dawning smiles, He can’t remember a time before this.

He was never alone, never worried, never stuck. 

And as Steve’s face starts to mend itself, split skin coming back together, he almost wishes to have Billy’s mark where everyone can see. To hold on with both hands, hard enough to bruise.

–

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Steve squirms on the couch, feet knocking into Billy’s where they form a bridge to the coffee table. “You don’t believe in–”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not logical,” Billy says. 

There’s an ashtray on the center of the table, as big and orange as Saturn. It’s dirty. Overflowing with remnants of a long night here on the couch. 

And maybe Steve’s just higher than he’s ever been in his life, but he snorts hard enough that his nose almost starts bleeding, because, “That’s so stupid,” Steve pats his face, feeling like he’s made of Jell-O. “How can you not believe in Heaven?”

“I never said I don’t believe in Heaven, I said I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you believe in Heaven?” 

“No.” Billy’s hand falls, swift as an autumn leaf, to rest on Steve’s ankle.

It’s tethering. It’s warm and solid and Steve pushes into the touch. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” Billy says, “Heaven is just a concept people invented so they can have power over others.”

Steve blinks at him. A little wide and owlish, if the flush on Billy’s cheeks is anything to go by.  “But,” He tries, grasping at straws. “But what about love, and. And God–”

“God and love are not the same thing,” Billy says. His practiced, clever fingers reach for the wrinkled Marlboro pack he keeps his joints in. Steve almost whines at the loss of contact. “I know people who live godless lives and accept others for who they are, just like I know Christians who think they know everything.”

Billy sparks the joint and hands it over, eyes pretty and expectant.

Steve almost doesn’t want to smoke more. He feels light, like a hot air balloon. But–

He takes it anyway and chews on the smoke as he wonders, “What about the soul?”

Billy frowns. “What about it?”

“Didn’t someone prove its existence in the 40s or something?”

“It was 1920 and they alleged that the soul weighs between twenty-one and twenty-three grams,” Billy takes the joint, grinning when Steve whoops loudly.

“A-ha! So you do believe–”

“I believe that we shit when we die. There goes twenty-one to twenty-three grams,” Billy says. His free hand falls to Steve’s ankle, where he rubs tiny, soothing spheres into the skin. 

Steve shivers. He tries to remember back to any time before this, before Billy and his mirrorball smile and his warm, strong hands. 

He tries to picture Bob Newby, shitting himself as he died on the laboratory floor. If this were before Billy and before junior year, Steve would crack a smile. Maybe even laugh but now.

Billy’s hand rubs over his knee. “You alright, pretty boy?”

He tries to remember Barb.

Barbara, but. He can’t. Not even her face. “So,” Steve says, gulping around the sudden lump in his throat. “So what happens to us when we–”

Billy leans forward to ash their joint. “Okay, that’s enough of that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Billy says gently. “We don’t have to talk about this if it’s going to upset you.”

“It’s not the death talk that’s upsetting me, it’s.” Everything else.

It’s ink on drying NDAs, it’s punctured clouds, it’s missing boys and slimy monsters and flowers with teeth and beautiful ex girlfriends passing along boxes of who Steve isn’t anymore and–

Billy takes his hand away. “You know. We’ve never talked about it,” He says, as if testing the tide of dark, murky waters. “All the useless shit we’ve talked about and we’ve never–”

“We aren’t allowed to.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Billy tells him. Steve can feel Billy’s eyes on his face, burning a hole through his cheek bone and he still can’t bring himself to open his mouth and speak. 

“You’re really not going to talk about it?”

Steve breathes through his nose. Tries to sober up. “I’m really not going to talk about it.”

“How is that possible?” Billy tugs at his hair. When he doesn’t get a response, he stands and paces the floor, and. 

He’s a caged animal. 

Steve’s face throbs in phantom memory. He’s hard in his shorts.

“We’re just supposed to carry it around with us until we die?”

Steve counts the threads in his mother’s capet. “Yeah.”

“That’s bullshit,” Billy says suddenly, and. 

His voice.

It’s cracked in two. Right down the middle. It reminds Steve of Nancy, that day in study hall. The blinds closed against the soft flourescents and the truth, because Steve was afraid. He was worried that They had planted wires in the potted plants at school and his shoe rack at home and he was terrified that if he uttered a single word about what they had seen, the world would come to a shrieking, bright red crescendo. 

It hadn’t. 

At least not then. Not yet.

And Steve gets the sense that he’s supposed to say something. Do something, to remedy the cosmic trail left behind from his failure in showing up for Nancy. 

She needed him and he ran, and Billy.

Billy stares out the window with his back coiled tight. Rattlesnake. 

“No one explained anything to me, that night,” Billy mutters. “No one even knew I was there. My old man sent me to get maxine with a knife in my stomach and everyone. Everyone just stepped over me, while I was laying on the floor like that, and. I was so confused, Steve. Everyone kept looking at me like they couldn’t figure out why I was still there. They didn’t even flinch when the monster–”

Billy’s voice cracks and it’s the worst thing Steve has ever heard in his life.

Upside down shit included. Nancy falling apart included. Joyce breaking the news about the lab included, and.

“I should’ve done better,” Steve tells his mother’s carpet. 

Somewhere, past the blurry line of the coffee table, Billy turns from the window. 

And maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the weight of a million words silenced a thousand times over by warning stares from people who just want things to go back to normal. Maybe it’s the residual fear that even through the promises that everything will be okay, it doesn’t feel like it.

Maybe Steve’s lost hope.

Steve’s going to shake apart. “I should’ve kept you safe.”

It’s that and something else, too. It’s old bruises singing to be heard. It’s complicated feelings for a boy he never really liked all that much until recently. Until right now.

It’s everything and then some.

Billy frowns. “What are you–”

“It’s my fault,” Steve says, and it’s like a dam has opened to flood the living room, spinning them both in the swell like angel fish. “That night. Everything before that, too, there were so many things I could’ve done different. So many things I should’ve said.”

“Steve–”

“It’s weird. I got my lights knocked out the first time, too. By Jonathan. And no one explained it to me. How Will went missing and showed up half-alive. Where the bald girl came from, how she could move shit with her mind, what happened to the monster, I had to figure it out for myself. The only thing that kept me from losing my head was the blood on my face, you know? The bruises. It was almost a relief. The ground could split into canyons and monsters are real but boys will be boys, at the end of the day.” 

Steve rises from the couch on knees that won’t hold him for long. Billy watches, frozen by the window. He’s like a statue carved from stone. He’s the face of God.

He’s the tether.

Steve gets close enough to feel his warmth, to see Billy’s heartbeat thrumming in his neck.

“When you beat the shit out of me, I was happy. With bruises I don’t have to think about anything else,” Steve tells him, silent as a prayer, “Nothing else. Just you.”

Billy looks afraid. He breathes out through his nose, harsh and sudden. “I deserve to be shot for what I did to you, Steve.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes tracking the wet puffpuffpuff of Billy’s lips. “You were trying to protect your sister.”

“I’m a monster.”

“I’ve seen monsters,” Steve tells him. “You went around that night. You apologized, you’ve kept your word–”

“Maybe you should talk to someone.”

“Someone who?”

“A therapist. I do.” Billy snaps, and he’s shaking. “You can’t be serious, right now?”

“I am,” Steve mutters. He doesn’t like the way Billy’s looking at him, like he’s grown an extra head, or something. Like there’s a million things wrong with him and this is just the worst. 

Steve doesn’t admit that this isn’t the half of it. That things don’t feel real until he’s bled. The book doesn’t close, doesn’t land on the shelf, until he’s in pain. 

And maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe Billy should walk out the front door and never come back, but.

He’s watching Steve.

He’s staring at his mouth. Steve wets his lips and starts to beg–

“I’m not going to hurt you, Steve. Never again.” Billy moves away. He tugs all ten fingers through his hair. “I’m going to bed,” He says.

And then he’s gone.

–

The coo-coo-clock sings its song and Billy dreams upstairs. 

Steve doesn’t piss his pants, this time. 

He’s embarrassed. Shame chokes like wool down his throat. Indignity flashes bright against the ceiling when he lights a cigarette, illuminating every shadowy corner Steve neglects.

He’s gotta face himself.

There’s no bookmark end to this chapter. His bruises are healing, Billy’s asleep upstairs and Steve’s ruined another good thing because it’s just who he is.

He can’t help it.

Even when he’s being honest it’s not what anyone wants to hear and the coo-coo-clock chimes Midnight.

A new day.

Before Steve knows what’s happening, he stalks into the entry way and yanks it from the wall. The cardinal pops out at him, peek-a-boo just like the dogs in the junkyard. 

His head is throbbing.

He smashes the birdhouse against the banister, remembering that once upon a time all he wanted was to get Nancy Wheeler upstairs and moaning sweet. 

He smashes it again, remembering red hair.

Thick, yellow glasses.

“Steve–”

He stops on the cardinal’s grassy pin trigger. His feet hurt, they’re bare and something’s bleeding and someone’s crying. Barbara’s begging Nany not to go.

“Steve, baby, you’ve gotta stop now.”

Steve dives for the coo-coo’s pretty blue roof. He throws it against the wall and it shatters, like the surface of a swimming pool. 

He remembers black ichor.

He’s in the tunnel, he’s throwing fire, he’s shaking apart–

Billy catches him before he hits the ground. “It’s okay, you’re alright, I’m here.”

–

They bury his mother’s clock in the garden.