#studded ornaments

[goldenhands]

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[chlmtsdoll]

Guys I loved writing the first short n sweet inspo fic so here’s more bc that ovulation album is too good <3

WHERE ART THOU ? WHY NOT UPONETH ME ?

౨ৎ Summary: your hosting a slumber party at Art’s mansion. But you can’t quite stay away from your pull to get the man in a room where there are no others. Inspo from Bed Chem by Sabrina Carpenter 🤍

+ 18 | very much smut !, unprotected sex, age gap, (reader early 20’s) dilf!Art, size kink, first daddy kink fic (omg) semi-public sex, oral (f) reviving, pet names, this made me feel a bit slutty just writing it, needy!reader, fatherly Art ;)

A/N: the fucking edits on tiktok of Mike to Bed Chem are making me go insane ! just when I thought there was no possible way for me to be crazier over this man omfg. So I had to give the girls a fic to go w it ofc <3

It was like fate. The day you met him.

Nothing could of been more perfect when the stars aligned to bring you to accompany your solid group of trust fund friends to one of his tournaments that evening. You were like most girls your age, makeup, pop music, nice ornaments for your wardrobe — you weren’t the kind of girl that could say she knew much about sports, and certainly little to nothing to be caught landing a seat at the us open... but eventually that grew to be a substantial part of what found him to be so drawn to you.

It was that day when you’d been in the bleachers watching the blonde play like it was his life’s greatest prophecy. For the first time in your still too little years of living, you’d never felt that aroused by a man you’d only saw from the mere view of him hitting a ball with a racket.

But he was unearthly.

Built like how men used to be. Face like it came straight from heaven. Serve like he knew a thing or two in bed.

You were drunk on want, need for him. You were damn lucky your friends were loaded enough to go to all the after parties with most of the star athletes. It was insane to you that you would follow the vip and your most sports driven friends (enthusiast if you will.) to where the elites spend their time. You wanted a nice hang out. Good food. Expensive drinks. But it was between you and the universe that you’d leave with so much more.

You were in a sheer dress and kitten heels when he spotted you. Just his star studded sly smile from across the event hall, when he saw you and your friends conversing in mostly a pretentious manner like most kids your age did when they could afford the lifestyle most people only dreamed of. But not you, you were entranced, pulled away. By his wide, blue eyes that you assumed filled with the same yearn you’d been struck with. And to your quick manifest, Art was gazing right back at you.

Only sharing a couple brief exchanges with the tall and stature, modest but kindly — beautiful and magnetic man around mutual friends, before you’d both been rushed to leave. Him with his team, and you with your entourage.

Like that you were tied to the tennis star in the blink of a moment. And Soon enough — being photographed with him around the heat of the city.

Games, athlete dinner parties, press events. Even photos of you two sharing more than a couple of words, maybe even kisses, behind menus at glamorous rooftop restaurants. Magazine outlets went crazy through the roof in just a few weeks time. Milking whatever they could out of Art Donaldson and his controversially younger girlfriend.

They didn’t have enough tabs on what you two had officially been to one another and that was perfect for the two of you. Because now that time has pushed you and the blonde closer and more into each other — you’d spend days and nights locked away with Art in his new found mansion post his former divorce. Home so beautifully articulated and big enough for you to be extra generous with your time with the dream boat of a man.

It would go down in history what the two of you had done in every room.

Now, a gorgeous weekend ahead of you after your week that was always filled with Art treating you to the finest cooked dinners, at home date nights filled with breezy smiles and full closeness to balance your dates out on the town. Going wherever you felt just to hold hands under umbrellas and traffic lights. With all the new adorned love in your life, and man with too much mystic taking up your time, it had been a good minute since you saw your girlfriends, caught up or shared a drink. You were just so wound up in Art and the way he treated you like a princess to, and in your own world.

So you’d asked Art if you could host a sweet little sleepover for you and your girls at the mansion — and of course he complied. It was anything for his perfect girl since the beginning.

“I could ask the chef to whip up some,” Art spoke into you as he held your hips in his vast hands running carefully over the hem of your satin bottoms as you stood in the middle of the spacious kitchen with him.

“That’s okay, I wanna do it.” You laughed softly, as you stared up at the man. “Nothing says fun girls night like making our own home made friandises”

Art had tilted his head in slight confusion with eyes in question to your tone when you’d practice what you’d been learning in your French courses on him. It was all the most adorable to you really. Your laugh echoed.

“Treats, baby.”

“I- - I knew that,” He scoffed and your giggles were infectious with delight to him.

“It’s gonna be fun. We’ll watch movies, paint our nails, share snacking tips. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the girls.”

Art grinned at the way you lit up with excitement, and his icy eyes looked down at your figure below him. He tried not to bite down on his lip at the way you were in the pajamas usually he only saw you in. Pink lace two piece jammies. Completely recognized because he got them for you. The transparency to them was way too easy on the eyes.

Arts tongue darted out to wet his lips before he questioned, “Is that what you’re wearing ? There aren’t gonna be any boys.. right ?”

“No, silly. That of course counts out you — if.. you wanna join us.” You looked up at him through your lightly mascara coated lashes, it felt as if the flirtatiousness through your gaze just hooked Art by the belt.

“No, no. I’ll give you and your friends your space, doll.” The blonde gave you a chary little smile, “I really doubt they’d want an old man around while you’re trying to have fun.”

“Quit it ! You’re not old. And they adore you.” You stood on the tips of your toes, Art met you so you could leave a sweet kiss on his cheek, with a blush to your own.

“Thank’s for letting me have this little party, baby.”

“Course, what else would be better use for all this space ? Other than for the amusement of twenty something girls.”

Art chuckled and you surely were in agreement, because when your girlfriends did arrive it was immediately shrieks of girlish camaraderie and chatter of awe as you brought them around the place of posh and eloquent nature. Your laugh could of been heard from the other side of the place where Art had eventually been stored away for the night while your hands were knee deep in cookie dough and rainbow sprinkles. Pj sets all from the brands you and your friends never stopped talking about. Having your night filled with reruns of classic movies to sipping champagne.. and the wine, red, (your pick) was certainly slipping through you as the moments went on.

You’d been with your best friend when you two had a moment alone to catch up in one of the halls of the buoyant abode. Whispers and giggles coming from between the two of you as a glass of wine hung from your palm.

“God, he was a such a cutie.” She coo’d as you two had found a very special wall of framed photos of Art from back in his prime tennis days. The blonde around your age who seemed filled with joyfully energetic faces and awards from across the globe. A smile woke upon your face as you folded your arm to admire the man you’d now call your own.

“Sometimes I wish I’d known him then,” you simpered. “But I’m beyond lucky now. Because he’s still cute, and sexier.”

You tittered fondly and your friend laughed with you as she playfully tugged on your shoulder. “You gotta lock that down, y’know… you’ll be like- - hella famous just from being a world class tennis superstars hot young wife.”

She announced as she sipped on something burgundy and you thought with a heightened grin. She couldn’t have been farther from right. And as the months go by you would fall farther and farther head over heels for Art every day. You’d be his wife in an instant. That was the dream after all, and you could certainly say you’d been living one.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait for him to put a ring on it..” You smiled with a dazed shrug as you embarked your wine glass to your lips again.

“He better.” Your friend chirped with a proud glint and you couldn’t help but stay stuck in your thought of your boyfriend who’s been just a few rooms away for the past couple of hours while you’d been enjoying all the perks of your girls making the most of their time with you. But you couldn’t help but want Art to be nearby now, and the red wine in your system maybe hit more than just your head — you couldn’t even try to fight it.

You missed your man.

So after you’d take in a few more drinks and a bit sensually themed games with your friends, you’d made your attempt escape off to find Art. Slipping away from the girls was easy when you’d have every necessity needed to execute a very graceful grown up girl sleepover provided for them.

You’d been walking down the hall heading to where his office and master bedroom would be at the end of the home, and as you passed by the lush kitchen area, to your surprise, there he was. Muscles looked enchantingly delicious in this light as they flexed to pull on the fridge handle and when he turned, his eye line met your glance staring back his way (of course you’d both arrive at the same time.) Arts lips began to curl in an amours grin when he saw your petite figure making it’s way over to him with the same like of smile across your face.

“Hi, baby. You having fun?” He glanced down at you through his blonde lashes to meet your nod, only following up with a soft titter as you stepped closer to the man. He almost immediately picked up on the lust laced within your eye and the way you slightly leaned onto the fridge door with your aura basically gooing with sex at him now. The blonde had an eyebrow furrowed as he chuckled just a bit and he sized you up.

“Are you drunk, princess?”

“No. No… no,” you shook your head.

It had been true. You weren’t drunk, but a little wine tipsy and horny ? Definitely.

Art hummed and put the back of his hand to your forehead gently as he observed your state. “Did you eat?”

“Mhm, did you ?”

“No. That’s why I came down, not to stalk you. I promise.” The man laughed, to which you did as well and you only raised your arms so they could embrace your boyfriend’s shoulders with a soft hum.

“Y’know, if you’re hungry, you can eat me.” Your finger tips grace Arts neck unashamed as you smile into the crook, and he took in a breath, proceeding to hold you close.

“Oh- -” his chuckle matched your giggle as he noticed you’d changed again. His hands were gliding up the ruffle of the even more transparent sheer cover on you’d been dressed in. Lime tinted. The shorts were near pantie like.

“Mmm, I miss you, I want you.” You peppered kisses as close as you could to his earlobe from your height and Arts breath hitched as he was weak to your slow but enticing touch to him. Fogging up his knowledge that you’d been right in the middle of the open kitchen that was just a few ways down from the living area your friends had been in.

“Here, sweetness ? Your friends- -” Art murmurs down to your ear, but you just locked your arms just above his shoulders without a care.

“And- - ? What about them ? I need you,” you whined. “I want your touch.”

“Yeah? You want me to touch you?”

You nodded again with a naughty giggle and the blonde was smirking now, his hands roamed your body. Large and groping your curves. As much as he knew what was rightful, Art just couldn’t deny your cling to him in that damn near lingerie that had him going almost unbearably hard beneath his jeans since you walked in. Feral even. It was beginning to get miserable as you pressed your dainty chest against his, he felt your nipples grow hard and sensitive against the cloth. So into his aroma, presence, like you were a moth to a torch.

He’d fallen into your pecks merging with his now. Kissing you against where the cupboards stand like your lips were candy. Your small legs stumbling as the man towered over you “Fuck, you look amazing in that set.” Art pulled away from your plump lips to view your gorgeously perfect petite body. You batted your lashes once. And his attain just couldn’t be stopped. Art slid his hands across your soft ass cheeks, massaging and kneading it in his palms before leading up to laying a solid smack which made you hiss out an excited squeal-like giggle. Your fingertips slid down his ample biceps brushed with virile bristles of hair.

“If I had known you’d like this set so much, I would of worn it much sooner for you.”

Art leaned into you and he held a sly smirk, “this was your plan all along, yeah? Wearing that to get my attention so I would come out here and fuck you in the middle of your slumber party.. you’re such a naughty girl.”

You only giggled more into his skin with a slow exhale, your freshly painted french tips exploring him as he explored you. Art took his sweet time just feeling the way your ass jiggled in his palms and you felt like you’d been going weak in the knees before his tender contact turned rough when he turned you around without warning, making you gasp.

Art made sure you could feel how hard you’d gotten him as he pressed himself to your core. Facing the counter, you lost yourself in complete bliss just to the feeling of not knowing where he’d pleasure you next — Arts restrained bulge against your clothed cunt was just something else. The blonde pushed up your sheer top just a bit and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, you made a soft noise with it.

“Feel what you do to me, pretty girl.” Art nibbled on your earlobe and you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip to subtle your smile. His hands bracing your hips as he stared down at your lacy panties and your minx-like eyes followed Arts famished expression while he licked his bottom lip.

“All yours, daddy.” Your sweet voice immediately made Art go nearly lightheaded and that was it. He melted.

The man tucked both his thumbs into the fabric and pulled your panties down clean with raucousness, followed up with him getting down on his knees before spreading you with his palms and your hands reached for the marble with a soft whimper.

“That’a girl, stay open for me.. Let me taste you.” Art huffed out before he pushed one of your legs up on the counter and you breathed out at the feeling of him making your body his toy for amusement. Art took his fingers and ran them up your folds, getting them wet with the slick of your pussy. Your cheeks turned scarlet just at the wonderful pad of his index running against your core like that , making you let out a soft, “oh..” by the way he moved to rub around your clit. Arts lips kissed on your exposed inner thighs, and your jaw became unlocked extraordinarily far when his tongue finally rolled on the soft tissue.

He was splitting you clean open on the counter as tiny whimpers escaped your throat. You were lost in the draw you had to the man making you feel surpassing of even the way you played it all out in your head. “Mmm, yeah- - yes” you panted and the man flicked his digit over your bud at the same time he’d been making out with your cunt. Letting deep groans flow throughout your opening. You’d been on the tip of your toes for him. Letting him suck where you pulsed till you’d been overstimulated if he wanted.

Your head had been spinning from the friction of his perfectly sculpted nose rubbing against your sensitive area. Art was known to be gifted with his mouth so much so, you almost wondered if your friends would have heard if you just couldn’t keep your moans level — but with the way Art held your hips, fucked his tongue into your cunt like you’d been his last meal, your anxiousness washed away. All you could do was let the shake of your thighs and Arts dripping oral member lead you to a crisp pleasurable cry.

“Shit,” Art took a brief exhale as he pulled away from your entrance, dampened lips of your juices going wide with a grin and he ran his palms over your slick thighs again,

“you’re so fucking wet for me, princess. You gonna take my dick? Let me make you feel good?”

“Mmm, please. Fill me up, Art. I wanna feel you.”

“You gotta be quite for me, baby.” Art stood to his feet.

You didn’t care. All you could think about was dick. Arts phenomenal dick. You wanted him to toss you over and split you open till you were sobbing on his thick member, your wine drunk friends would understand. A girl has her needs.

The risk made your blood pressure rise as the moment went on, when Art reached over you to tug your panties dangling from your thighs all the way down — he kicked them off to the side. Taking note of his own belt buckle and undoing it quickly, which you only grew more greedy by the sound of him unzipping his fly. The blondes aquamarine orbs swam with the need to pump you fuller than you’d ever taken him.

“Bend over for me, sweet girl..” Art breathed out softly as his slightly calloused hands ran from your hip up your spine while you did so, bending over fully and displaying your sweet dripping cunt for the mans lidded eyes. He sucked in his breath and his now aroused dick twitched when it unveiled from his boxers — going barmy with just how tiny and soft you looked beyond him.

“So fucking tight and small- - your amazing with the way you take me when I barely fit in, sweets.”

You bit down on your finger as you watched Art run his hands over your ass. Take your hips and line his cock up with your hole. He hissed at the way your soaking cunt wet his tip, you almost croaked out a deep moan at his gestures to tease your pussy. Just nodding along as you’d gone cock drunk before he’d even been in you. Your nails run at the marble counter as Art slowly burrowed into your drooling core. Working you open as his cock disappeared into your body inch by inch — he pushed your thigh higher onto the ledge as you whined at the stretch.

“Ah.. mmm- - fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groaned as you adjusted to the size of his warmth finally filling you full. Art was big. And he’d never want to put you, his sweet doll in discomfort for long, never. So when he started to plunge into you, he watched as your face scrunched up from ache to pleasure in time. His name sputtering from your mouth as you clawed at the counter top and he watched your pussy lips that were just throbbing around his erection like it was begging to be so sporadically fucked by him.

“That’s it baby doll,” his own groans heightened as his hips knock into your cervix, chasing that spot of yours till you were moaning and whimpering like a slut around him. Hole so full with yours and his pre-cum and you sucked in your bottom lip, tussled hair going wild on your back. You just had to look over your shoulder to watch him — see Arts gorgeous face as he snapped against you all shimmering with light sweat as he focused on the way a ring of your wetness pooled around his base.

“You love this, hu? Getting me to fuck you while your friends carry on without you- - At your party. But you just had to come.. looking for daddy’s cock, yeah? You love being a dirty, dirty girl for me.” Art rasped as he clenched his jaw with the overwhelming feeling of your tight cunt clenching him. It made your skin feel like it had been sparked with fire, so exhilarated. He put his hands in your hair to fuck into you as your jaw dangled open.

“Oh! F-fuck! I needed that big fucking dick, daddy… w-want you to cum all over me, mmm- -” you were choking out whimpers and your pretty little hole dripped with Arts pre-seed slipping from you, making it drag out when he pulled out of your pussy to turn you around and pick you up in one swift motion. Your high pitched gasp echoed as you wrapped your legs around the mans abdomen and Art set you on the counter. His lips curl up into a smirk and his eyes met your wide doe set ones. Slipping back into you he watched you cry out his name. Rutting into your heavenly body at this angle, hands go squeezing your thighs, and Art kept them apart as he took you at a wild pace. Hitting that gooey spot till you didn’t remember your own name. “Good fucking girl. That’s it- - such a sweet thing for me, taking all of my cock. It was made for you, doll.”

You couldn’t even catch your self as you’d leaned back on the counter and let Art pound into you. Your tits bounced with each thrust and you were shuttering as your orgasm ripped through you without warning. “Yes ! Ooh- - shit, yes yes yes…” you were whining out as you came on Arts dick. He held your legs spread as he grunted and watched you soak him uncontrollably. You loved it. Feeling like his perfect little gift. Art licked over his lips at the sight of your beauty, throwing your head back in bliss, he pulled out of you and pushed up your dainty little baby doll top — making space as he pumped his throbbing dick over your stomach till he himself came hard. Ropes shooting out on your candescent skin and making sure some got on your pussy just for the fun of it, he grinned and trailed his thumb up your gentle inner calf that had been dangling by his side.

You were whimpering like you’d gotten your brains fucked out to the sweetest soundtrack you’d ever heard. Art was so cinematic in moments like these, he leaned up to kiss at the nape of your neck, cheek, and lips.

“Pretty, perfect girl.. I love you.” Your gentleman muttered against your mouth. You smiled and sunk your teeth into your bottom lip as Art brought your panties up to help you slip them back over your thighs and to your feet as steady as you could. Dressing himself as well, he glanced down at you through his hooded eyes to see your impressively only slightly disheveled state. You were just always glowing, it was hard to make that go away anyways.

“You sleeping down here tonight?” Art buckled his pants again as he questioned you with a soft raised brow. You started to smirk at the way he was heading. You shrug.

“Maybe, maybe not… I’ll sneak into your room when they’re sleep, if you want.” You offered the man, the glint in your eye saying you’d suck his cock and let him have you in as many different positions as he’d like in a couple hours till you were all tapped out. The blonde only scuffed and towered over your presence that was still taken by your hoyden attitude, just to turn you back towards the door way.

“Go host your party.” he taunted almost fatherly, to then leave a light slap on your ass that made you giggle on the way out.

[stave-writes]

Sunday Oak x GN!Reader

Headcanons

A/N: I am SICK!!! of people making Sunday out to be an asshole who would cut you off from everything and everyone just to be selfish, especially if it makes you depressed. Sunday has more love in his heart for everyone and would let you break his heart just to see your smile, this man is sweeter than sugar. Sunday defender #1 is me fight me in my asks I'll win I've been a Zane MyStreet defender before he was popular  💯 💯 💯 💯 💯

Sunday is a gentle lover, he's always been delicate with you. Ghosting touches over the back of your hand, kisses like the brush of a feather on skin and smiles so soft it's hard to even see them when he locks eyes with you across a room. He's besotted with you, no matter what you do. The worst pain you could ever cause him is your suffering, and refusing to let him ease it for you. Hearing you cry makes his heart ache more than any of his own suffering, and he'll do anything he can to soothe you when you're struggling. Sunday sometimes finds it hard to understand what you want or need, being raised in such a way his own needs come second, so when you insist on looking after him...it's odd. He's never been his own first priority before, and it scares him a little. What if he desires too much? What if he's an issue for you? He loves you too much to risk causing you any amount of strife, so you have to beg him to be a burden. Beg him to be selfish. When Sunday is allowed to be selfish, it's cute. He'll plead with you to curl up in bed with him and sleep "Just a little longer, my love?" with those golden eyes of his shining in the early morning light. One arm will lay over you as he presses his face against your neck or back, unable to keep himself from chuckling due to just how lucky he feels having you right here in his arms. He couldn't ask for more of a blessing in love than to be able to behold you in all your glory (even if said glory is when you're drooling in your sleep or snoring so loud you could wake the dead). One of his "guilty" pleasures (damn catholic angel) is having you fussing over his piercings. He feels almost special when you toy with the little gold studs in his ear or the long dangling ornaments he likes to decorate his wings with. Sometimes he'll even ask you to pick which ones he should wear for the day and buy you something to match. If you don't wear jewellery, it'll be something like a matching set of shirt cuffs or a little keychain to match him. Anything he can do to spoil you just a bit. I'm a clipped-wing Sunday truther and so when he finally feels vulnerable enough, the priest-like coat is off and his clipped wing is shown to you, slightly mangled and clearly still sore and sensitive when you try to brush your fingers along it. You can see the twinge of shame and embarrassment run through him as you regard his incomplete self, the self left destroyed by the Dreammaster. Yet, if you tell him you still find him beautiful? He'll smile. He'll wrap you tight in his arms and cry into your shoulder, so relieved you aren't disgusted by him. That he isn't broken or unlovable, he's just...yours. Being able to read your thoughts means Sunday likes to tease you very lovingly when you're comfortable, he'll reiterate what you just thought out loud, or even listen to what you're thinking before buying you the exact thing you wanted and if you ask, he'll jokingly mention "Oh, a little birdie thought you'd like it." Before grinning and turning away, one arm settled on your waist or shoulder as he enjoyed your warmth.

[yeoldenews]

A selection of looks from the 18th Century equivalent of the MET Gala (aka The Queen's Drawing Room) in March 1789.

(To help with your mental images - this would have been roughly the court silhouette at the time.)

Queen Charlotte - "Was dressed in purple, silver and orange body and train; the petticoat likewise of purple and silver, richly embroidered upon crape. Her Majesty’s head-dress was the most superb and beautiful that ever appeared at Court. A bandeau of purple sattin was fastened around the cap, with a motto in diamonds of “GOD SAVE THE KING.

Round the Queen’s neck was a medallion, tied with a double row of gold chain, and across her shoulders was another chain of three rows of pearls, and five rows of diamonds fastened low behind, with a fine miniature portrait of the KING, studded with diamonds, hanging in front. The tippet was of fine lace, and fastened with the letter G. in diamonds."

The Duchess of Gordon - "White sattin, superbly spangled in gold, and drawn up with a bandeau of the most costly embroidery, imitating the sun [in] the fullness of its glory. The petticoat was festooned in a beautiful manner with branches of oak."

The Duchess of Devonshire - "A white sattin petticoat most superbly embroidered with wreaths of foil, flowers and stones, the gown of dark green sattin, richly embroidered with spangles; and a most beautiful diamond stomacher."

Lady Lloyd - "A crape petticoat, over one of white sattin, with stripes of purple velvet, ornamented with gold and stones, representing peacock feathers. The train purple, trimmed with crape.

Her Ladyship's cap had a painting, describing Britannia kneeling and offering praises to heaven for the recovery of the King, very richly ornamented with diamonds, blond, flowers, and feathers. In the front, "Dieu nous le rend," (God restores him to us,) embroidered in gold letters."

Mr. Pitt - "A green and rose striped velvet, richly embroidered with gold and silver stones; the waistcoat of white satin, embroidered as the coat."

The Hon. Mr. Edgecumbe - "A blue and brown shaded velvet, most superbly embroidered with diamonds and point lace, with beautiful bouquets of flowers; the waistcoat of white satin, embroidered the same"

Sir John Marriott - "Sea green striped velvet, with gold tissue embroidered waistcoat."

and my personal best dressed -

The Duchess of Rutland (who was making her first appearance at court since the death of her husband) - "The time allotted by the decree of fashion for customary suits of solemn black, and all the trappings of widowed woe, being expired, her Grace, lovely in her person, and attractive in her manners, came forward in all the fullness of splendor, and in imitation of the Heavens when they declare, by a rainbow, that the tears of the sky have stopped, wore a dress of embroidered crape, fashioned in such a manner as to resemble that variegated sign of an unclouded atmosphere. But we are at a loss to find out what was meant by the gold-spangled darts of lightning that appeared through this rainbow, unless that her Grace meant them as emblematical of what her eyes can do, now that the day of weeping’s over. To write, however, in more plain terms, we shall state exactly what her Grace had on. It was an embroidered crape, something in imitation of a rainbow, having variety in its colours, and being ornamented with gold spangles which really appeared like darts of lightning through the crape, and gave it a most superb appearance. Her head-dress of white crape, with a towering branch of ostrich feathers, and the motto of God save the King,  in white and gold."

(source: The Times, March 27, 1789.)

[rebelfell]

bells will be ringing

crush!steve harrington x fem!reader x fwb!eddie munson

The annual Harrington Christmas Party is an elegant affair, complete with decorations, fancy food and flowing libations. But when your friend-slash-fuck buddy Eddie tires of you and Steve dancing around your burgeoning feelings for one another…he offers a creative solution.

Part One┃Part Two

18+, MDNI 8k

cw: MMF, allusions to poverty and implied family strife, light alcohol and weed use, kinda mean/crass Eddie, semi-public fingering/oral (f receiving), r’s hair gets pulled once.

The Harrington’s were white light people.

There wasn’t a single inch of their stately home not adorned in festive finery for their annual Christmas party. It was all silver candlesticks with cream-colored tapers, deep red ribbons tied into bows and hung at perfectly spaced intervals, long garlands of rich greenery draped along the banisters—real as shit and smelling like a goddamn pine forest.

It was a far cry from what you and Eddie knew growing up next door to one another way on the other side of town. For you two, it was scrawny and half-dead trees purchased at a discount as close to Christmas as possible when their vendors were just trying to unload them, covered in a hodgepodge of homemade ornaments and faded multicolored lights, only about half of which worked half the time. When your families could afford a tree, that was.

The Harringtons’ own stood at the far end of the house, glowing bright as a nuclear reactor with seemingly endless strands of bright white lights wound around its branches. It was methodically decorated with matching red, silver and gold baubles, each one hung precisely in place and polished to gleaming perfection. 

Elegant. Proper. Pristine.

The party was already well underway by the time you arrived, Steve nowhere to be found in the sea of people. They all stood together in clumps, exchanging jovial smiles that pushed up rosy cheeks, the women cooing over each other's outfits and jewelry while the men swapped stories about their quarterly earnings. Weaving through the throngs, cater waiters floated past carrying trays loaded with hors d’oeuvres and tall glasses of shimmery, bubbly liquid.

It made you and Eddie glance around, furtive and unsure as you skulked into the foyer. The two of you might as well have been invisible for all the attention anyone paid you.

“See Steve anywhere?” you asked, peering deeper inside the house.

The former stud of Hawkins High had always been easy to spot in the hallways of his former domain, seemingly towering over everyone even after he stopped sporting that gravity-defying bouffant hairstyle. Those days were long gone now, but an occasional glimmer of his old self would still shine through, reminding you of when King Steve reigned supreme.

“Nope, nowhere,” Eddie grumbled. “I told you this was a mistake.”

His warm breath on your ear as he leaned in to whisper in it had your head snapping to the  side. Some of the snow that had just started to fall outside dusted his dark, unruly curls and he still had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, as though he wanted to be ready to turn heel and run at the first opportunity. You’d seen him look more relaxed about to shoplift.

“What do you mean?” 

“Look around, sweetheart. See if you can spot what doesn’t belong.”

It was kind of irritating how right he was. Everyone else in attendance tonight looked perfectly at home in this pretty picture. It was all business partners and their wives, clients who probably made more in a year than you or Eddie would hope to see in your entire lifetime, other miscellaneous friends and fellow members of the Hawkins upper echelon.

To call you fish out of water would be putting it lightly. You were like fish on a space station.

“What were we supposed to do?” you whispered back. “We had to come.”

That was debatable. Steve had invited you, yes, but he also practically tripped over himself to assure you it was totally fine if you couldn’t make it. He’d sat on the edge of Eddie’s sofa running through all his most blatant tells—hands pushing through his hair, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose, foot jiggling non-stop—as he told you about the party.

“It’s all my parents' friends, so it might be kind of lame. But I’m allowed to invite people if you guys want to come. It’d be really great to see you.”

He’d worked himself up into such a state, it almost felt cruel to say no. You weren’t sure what it was—something about the earnestness with which he asked, and the way his eyes shone so hopefully when you smiled and told him you thought it sounded like fun.

Eddie’s gruff voice sounded in your ear again.

“Think we’re just here to piss off daddy?”

You followed his eyeline to the living room, gaze promptly drawn to the imposing frame of John Harrington as he reached out to grip the hand of someone important. Or at least someone who seemed to think they were. Even never having seen or met him before, he was easy to pick out as Steve’s father. They had the same square jaw, the same perfectly angled nose and rich, light brown hair. Although, John’s was cut shorter and tamed into a much more manageable style than his son’s long locks that lived in a near-constant state of tousled messiness.

“Steve wouldn’t do that,” you said firmly. “He asked us to come because we’re his friends.”

The words still felt strange to say. It made you wonder, yet again, if it would ever stop feeling so surreal that you now hung out with Steve “The Hair” Harrington on an almost daily basis.

When you were in school together, you never even landed on his radar. Eddie had some notoriety as the town’s supposed demon summoner, but you were just…around. A plain face that blended into the crowd; a background extra with no lines in the scene; wallpaper and set dressing for the popular kids who were living out their exemplary lives.

If this was only a few years prior, he probably would be spending this evening sneaking drinks with Tommy H. and Carol, or parading around with Nancy Wheeler on his arm to show her off to all his dad’s colleagues and brag about her getting into Emerson. Instead, his falling out with all of them and his subsequent fall from his high-school throne had led him here—to an unlikely friendship with The Freak and The Invisible Girl.

Whenever he came over to Eddie’s to smoke, or you three piled into his car to go to the movies or drive the winding back roads that snaked along the edge of town, it almost felt natural. And the more time you spent with him, the harder and harder it became to remember why he’d always seemed so…untouchable.

“So, what should we do?” You wondered aloud as you glanced around again, still hoping Steve might materialize somehow. Behind you, Eddie’s head shook and his shoulders shrugged.

“How should I know? You were the one begging to come tonight.”

“I wasn’t begging.”

“Oh, really?” He scoffed as he leaned in close again, raising the pitch of his voice in an overly breathy imitation of you. “Please, Eddie? Please, can we go to the party? I’ll let you eat me out from the back if you—”

“Stifle,” you hissed, jamming your elbow into his stomach.

He grunted at the sharp jab, but his lips remained curled in a sly smirk. “What’s wrong? Worried your little crush will find out what I’ve been doing to you after he goes home?”

“I don’t care if he knows,” you sniped. It’s almost convincing, but the flash of alarm in your eyes told a different story. Not that it mattered, Eddie didn’t buy it for a second anyway.

“Well, that’s good,” he tutted. “Because he already knows we’ve fucked.”

“Wait, what?” You whirled around fully now. “How?”

“He, ahh…” Eddie fought to contain his grin as he scratched at the short stubble on his cheek. “He saw that picture you let me take.”

Your eyes went wide, both horrified and enraged as you shoved his shoulder—hard. 

“You showed it to him?”

“No, he found it,” Eddie hissed. “We were looking around for some weed I had stashed and he happened to open the drawer it was in.”

Your whole body—your very being—surged with white hot shame. If it wouldn’t have given Eddie so much satisfaction, you might have run straight out of the party right then and there. The thought of Steve seeing you like that…

It was almost unbearable.

The details of you and Eddie’s attachment had always been strictly under wraps. You weren’t exactly keeping it a secret, per se, but most people weren’t super accepting of the idea and you’d learned to play it close to the vest. And with how much time the two of you had started spending with Steve, you didn’t want to risk making him uncomfortable.

It had been going on for ages. Pausing, albeit briefly, if one of you found yourself in a relationship, and picking right back up when said relationship inevitably fizzled or if it tipped into the dangerous territory of getting too serious. He was one of the few people in your life you trusted intrinsically, and it wasn’t like guys were banging down your door as it was.

The picture was a one-time thing—a polaroid you’d let Eddie snap as a belated birthday present because you’d been too busy to find him something real.  You had made him swear upon pain of death it was for his eyes only. And now he’d shown it to the last person on earth you wanted to see it? Oh, you were going to garrotte him with tinsel in his sleep.

Also, Steve wasn’t your crush. He was…a preoccupation. A distraction. A vague interest.

You couldn’t even say for sure when it had begun. All you knew was just last spring, there was a month of Friday evenings where you found yourself back in the Hawkins High parking lot pulled in alongside Steve’s distinctive maroon beemer. He was leaning on the hood, waiting for Hellfire to let out so he could drive home his little horde of nuggets, and you had shown up acting as Eddie’s ride while his van was out of commission.

And that night, for the first time ever, you had a real conversation with Steve Harrington.

A fairly illuminating one, at that.

There was a sweetness to him you never would have guessed was there. And a dorkiness that brought light to his eyes when he did his elaborate handshake with Dustin Henderson, or the way he exalted along with the kids when the group burst through the double doors leading out of the school, whooping and cheering from a successful campaign. It warmed your whole body from the inside out, the feeling only growing stronger the more time you shared.

And now he’d seen your bare tits covered in Eddies cum. Perfect, just perfect.

“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered through gritted teeth. “That’s so humiliating.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie said, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I think he kinda liked it.”

“He…he did?”

“I mean, he was staring at it pretty hard. I think he needed some alone time with it.”

You rolled your eyes and gave his shoulder another shove for good measure, muttering a you're disgusting at him under your breath, hoping it would hide the nerves creeping across your face. Unfortunately, it only seemed to add fuel to Eddie’s fire. He leaned in one last time, his voice a gritty rasp in your ear that made shivers run down your spine.

“So you don’t wanna know what he said, then?”

Tension seized your shoulders as you glared at him, jaw clenched, ready to spit back a vicious comment—or maybe just spit—only to stop short at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Hey, guys! I’m so glad you made it!”

Steve was beaming as he came over, his bright hazel eyes shining, the golden flecks in them brought out by the color of his sweater. He drew you into his embrace, his strong arms curling securely around your body and his gourmand scent filling your nose as you breathed him in.

Your hands smoothed over the planes of his back, relishing in the softness of the knit he wore and the solidity of his broad chest pressed against yours. Your pulse quickened, blood pounding in your ears as you did your level best to force what Eddie had just told you out of your head.

“I’m the coat check tonight,” Steve explained, tipping an imaginary cap. “There’s a guest room upstairs we can put them in.”

“I gotta take a leak,” Eddie said, already shrugging off his leather jacket and pushing it into your arms. “Take care of that for me, will you sweetheart?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but Eddie just grinned back at you with a suggestive bounce of his brows behind his curled bangs. Steve pointed him in the direction of the bathroom and then turned straight back to you as he tilted his head upstairs.

“Shall we?” he asked.

The sounds of the party became distant and muffled as Steve led you upstairs to the designated dumping ground for all the furs and wraps of the numerous guests. It was dark inside, lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the window and the warm glow of the lights strung on the outside of the house that cast across the heap of coats on the bed.

You laid Eddie’s jacket down on a chair in the corner before you began to undo the belt of your own tied around your waist. As the thick, gray poly-blend slid off your shoulders, you shivered at the cool air hitting your heated skin for the first time that night.

When you turned back around, Steve was much closer than you remembered. 

His eyes studied you with a kind of reverence that made your body tingle with excitement in a way you didn’t dare to name. The way he looked at you sometimes…whether it through a haze of pot smoke in Eddie’s trailer, or in the flickering light of a screen at the multiplex, or beneath the harsh amber wash of a single streetlight in an empty parking lot…

It made you wonder.

“You look really nice,” he finally said, his voice as soft as his eyes.

The dress you’d worn was fairly simple, made of maroon velour with a burnout pattern of leaves you thought looked a bit like holly. It was loose and flowy, but had laces in the back you had pulled tight so it cinched in your waist and pushed up your chest, not unlike a corset. The neckline was just low enough to flirt with impropriety and it nicely complimented the length of the pendant that sat in the center of your clavicle.

A dainty (fake) gold snowflake you thought was festive.

“Thanks,” you replied, your voice even softer than his as you folded your arms in front of your stomach. “I hope it’s okay. I don’t have a lot of nice outfits.”

Steve shook his head, captivated eyes still scanning over you. They landed briefly on your legs, the black stockings you’d worn in an attempt to stave off the cold now prickling warm on your skin as if it was his hands running over them instead of just his gaze.

“You always look perfect,” he said.

It’s not just the words that made you falter, but the plainness with which he states them. As if it’s something obvious. As though he thinks it all the time and he just happened to say it this time. It makes your stomach twirl and all at once, you feel like an empty-headed teenager standing at her locker, dizzy from being complimented by the cutest boy in school.

“So, this is quite a spectacle,” you chuckled, glad for the dimness of the room that somewhat hid your reaction to him. “Are there any poinsettias left in Hawkins?”

Steve smirked and took a careful step forward. There was only about a foot of space between you now, if that. “I think if there were, my mom would already have a guy on it,” he said.

Your eyes met his and you shared a soft laugh. “Well, it’s really beautiful,” you sighed. “It must have taken her ages to do all this.”

“Not really,” Steve chuckled. “She has, like, a whole team that comes in and puts it all together.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Your gaze dropped and you gave a regretful shake of your head. Rich people stuff, you thought a bit bitterly. No wonder that hadn’t occurred to you. “But…you must decorate the tree together, at least. Right?”

“No, they do that too. I’ve, uh…I’ve never actually never decorated a tree for Christmas. I kind of thought that was just something they did in movies.”

He huffed out a laugh, trying to hide the sadness that had started to pollute his smile, and rubbed the back of his head, tugging at the hair there that curled along the nape of his neck.

All you could do was stare.

You thought about that gleaming, twelve-foot behemoth downstairs with its dazzling lights and ornaments all spaced and hung so perfectly. It was stunning—looked like something straight out of a magazine. But now it was tinged with something hollow and unsatisfactory. 

Cold. Fake. Empty.

It was you who stepped closer this time, the muscles in your arm tensing as if fighting against your brain’s instructions to reach out and touch him. He was close enough now you could feel the warmth coming off his body and smell the spice of his cologne and the clove cigarette he must have smoked. Your lips trembled, parted slightly, still searching for what to say.

But words refused to come.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Steve soothed, flashing you that easy and charming smile you’d grown to love and loathe in equal measure. “I just meant, like, Christmas really isn’t a big deal to me. And neither is this party, honestly, but…”

He fell silent as his hand reached out to squeeze your elbow, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing gently across your forearm. You stared mutely at his hand where it rested, already dreading how cold it would feel there when he let go of you. Except he didn’t.

“I’m really happy you’re here, though,” he said.

Steve’s chest rose with a sharp inhale and the tip of his tongue swiped along his bottom lip to wet it. His head tilted towards you, a few stray pieces of hair falling into his eyes that were bright and shiny with the string lights around the window reflecting in them. 

It made your own breath catch, praying you weren’t imagining it as he started to lean in.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

You and Steve flew apart like shrapnel, both of you too wrapped up in the steady draw of your bodies together to notice the heavy thump of Eddie’s footsteps in the hall. Steve’s hand came up automatically to run through his hair, dragging up the bottom of his sweater and flashing the briefest glimpse of torso as his arm lifted. It made your mouth dry as a bone.

“I just realized I forgot about my hostess gift,” Eddie said.

His brow cocked at you and yet another little smirk curved along his lips as he brushed past, nudging you ever so subtly back in Steve’s direction. He then started to rifle through the inside pockets of his leather jacket until he exhumed a plastic bag with a few joints inside.

“Got it!” he chimed, holding it up triumphantly. “Merry Christmas, Stevie.”

The little baggie sailed through the air, crinkling when it hit Steve in the center of his chest. 

“Oh! Thanks, man,” he chuckled, fumbling to catch it. “That’s great.”

Turning it over in his hands, he paused, mulling in silence as he stared down at the joints and glanced over his shoulder at the open doorway. From downstairs, you could now hear the faint tinkling of a piano being played and Eddie noticeably winced at the first few warbled notes of an unrecognizable carol being sung by a particularly drunk chorus.

“You know,” Steve said slowly. “We could bail on the party. Take this out to the pool house?”

As soon as he asked, his eyes darted up to meet yours—interrupting your intense study of the side of his face. Round and hopeful, they shone with his earnestness and you felt dizzy all over again. It made your brain scramble, trying to act like you weren’t just consumed by thoughts of what might or might not have been about to happen. You smiled.

“What are we waiting for?”

Steve left the lights off in the pool house, not wanting to draw too much attention if someone wandered onto the patio for some fresh air. The three of you made your way out in shifts—you with a plate of decadent treats you’d filled from the long table of desserts, Eddie with one loaded with food he’d swiped from the circulating trays, and Steve with a bottle of champagne he’d snuck out of the kitchen while the caterers were distracted.

The satisfying pop of its opening bounced off the walls that were mostly windows, sounding all the more illicit and clandestine in the darkness. The contents of the bottle fizzed as he held it out, offering you the first swig, and you took it with a nimble grasp.

Bubbly liquid splashed on your tongue and the dry, almost acidic, taste of it surely would have impressed someone with a more refined palette. But it made you wrinkle your nose as you squinted to read the French name scrawled in a loopy script on the shield shaped label.

“Gross, right?” Steve chuckled as you handed the bottle back. “But it gets the job done.”

He took a deep swig, head tipping back and giving you a long, long moment to study his neck as the muscles flexed with his swallow. You stared shamelessly, transfixed by the pairs of moles that sat along the line of his strong jaw, head empty of thoughts except how much better thechampagne would taste if you were licking it from his lips.

Eddie coughed, all loud and fake, drawing both of your eyes to him where he sat on a rattan sofa in the center of the room. He stared at you expectantly as he slouched down further in his seat, his knees spread wide and his arms draped across the back. He’d wasted no time making himself more comfortable, loosening the evergreen tie you’d made him wear and rolling up the sleeves of the dress shirt he normally only broke out for funerals or the odd court appearance.

“Don’t I get some of that?” he asked with a wry smirk.

Steve hurried to offer him the champagne, wiping away a little dribble of it that had started to trickle down his chin. You followed behind and slotted into a chair adjacent to Eddie’s as Steve handed off the bottle, making your brain short circuit when you saw the way his wide grasp nearly engulfed the entire bottom. It didn’t restart until he settled in the seat next to you.

After taking his sip, Eddie sparked up one of the joints and started it in a rotation along with the champagne. After only a few pulls from each you started to feel the effects, your head getting all light and floaty, your body warming from the blood pumping through you, your skin buzzing from the way your fingers kept brushing Steve’s whenever you passed him the joint or the bottle. 

Or maybe it was from the way his eyes lingered on yours when you did.

Eventually, you dropped out of the rotation and sank back in your chair to gaze up at the house. The whole thing seemed to glow with the warmth of the party within, its windows bright yellow, the lights twinkling on the eaves. And the snowfall had remained soft and steady, dusting everything with a fine layer of white like powdered sugar.

The picture was immaculate, like a life-size snow globe. If Steve’s mother had somehow managed to pay Mother Nature as a decorator, it wouldn’t surprise you in the slightest.

“Seriously, Harrington,” Eddie snorted, evidently sharing in your bewilderment. “If all this is just the weekend before, I’m scared to ask what your family does for the main event.”

A deep chuckle bubbled out of his chest as he took a long swig of the rapidly draining bottle. He’d said it mostly as a joke, but Steve’s reaction revealed a nerve had been struck. He began to cough, sputtering out his words as he pulled the smoldering joint from between his lips.

“Oh no, it’s not—they aren’t, uh…they won’t be here.”

His eyes darted to the floor as he shook his head and stammered out his non-answer, wearing that same look on his face you’d seen in the guest room. Half-sad and trying to hide it.

“What do you mean?” Eddie asked. Steve just shrugged.

“They always go away for Christmas. I think it’s St. Barts this year. Maybe Turks and Caicos? Their flight is sometime tomorrow night.”

“Wait, so…they just leave you here?” you asked. “By yourself?”

Steve shrugged and shook his head again, the move almost reflexive, like flinching away from the sting of alcohol cleaning a fresh wound. “A nanny would stay with me when I was little. But from the time I was old enough…yeah, pretty much.”

You and Eddie’s eyes met, the same unthinkable thought seemingly crossing your minds. You actually felt bad—not just bad, but sad—for Steve Harrington. 

“It’s not so bad, seriously,” he said, all flustered trying to salvage the mood. “I just hang out and watch movies and eat pizza. It’s fun. Honest.”

Despite his attempts, you can’t help but frown as you think what Steve’s Christmas will look like. His big house that was bursting at the seams with people right now being cold and desolate; him sitting all alone at a long dining room table eating leftover appetizers for every meal.

The thought tugged at something buried deep inside you. Something you’d packed away long ago and shoved into the furthest recesses of your mind. A box wrapped and taped and stapled and tied shut and then shoved behind a closet door. It made you turn to look at Eddie and he nodded knowingly, needing no words to know what you wanted him to say.

“You should come over,” he said, speaking so suddenly it came out loud in the tense quiet.

Steve’s head lifted. “What?”

“To me and Wayne’s,” Eddie supplied. “For Christmas Eve. We have dinner together and watch old movies and play games and shit. With this one.”

He jerked his thumb at you and you smiled as Steve’s eyes flitted over to meet your gaze.

“Only because they can’t cook to save their lives,” you said, shooting him a wink that made the corners of his mouth curl upwards.

“It’s not gonna be like this,” Eddie assured. “But it’s something, you know?”

“That, um…” Steve looked down at his lap, his long lashes fluttering as he tried to blink back the beginnings of tears. “That sounds really nice.”

Your hand moved without permission, reaching out to close around his wrist and squeeze. Steve’s head turned, staring at it like he thought he was dreaming. And as your brain suddenly caught up with the action and your body flooded with embarrassment, you started to pull it back only to feel the warmth of his palm covering your hand to hold it in place.

The only sound in the room was yours and Steve’s soft breathing and you swore you could feel the way both of your pulses were racing in time. His eyes lifted to meet yours and you became entranced all over again by his handsome face, the freckles that dotted his tanned skin, hazel eyes that shimmered as he scanned your expression, the deepness of his cupid's bow.

“I, um…I should check in with my mom real quick. You guys, uh…sit tight.”

Steve sputtered out his words as he rose to his feet, leaving your skin cold as he pulled his hands from yours. He looked around, his eyes searching to land on anything besides you or Eddie as he turned and stumbled towards the door. Eddie watched you watch Steve leave, an expression on his face as bemused as it was mocking.

“Jesus Christ, you two are exhausting.”

He shook his head, laughing to himself as he stuffed the last of the appetizers in his mouth. You glared back at him as he chewed and tried not to think about how your hand still burned where the ghost of Steve’s warmth remained.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on. If I knew I was gonna have to watch you make googly-eyes at each other all night, I could have stayed home. I get enough of that as it is.”

“We’re not—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Eddie scoffed. “You are. He is. Just make a move, already.”

It was actually painful rolling your eyes as hard as you did. “Right. Sure. And what kind of move am I supposed to make? Considering how he ran out of here just because I touched his arm?”

“You’re not serious, are you? You’re pulling my dick, right?”

Eddie hunched forward as you deadpanned him, answering with a slow blink of your eyes and humorless expression until he threw his head back in a loud laugh.

“He had a fucking boner, smartass!” he cackled.

It’s not only your cheeks that warm now, but your whole body igniting like a bonfire. The feeling grips your shoulders, it’s talons digging into your flesh, threatening to pierce it to the bone.

“Bullshit,” you whispered, your mind reeling.

“You think I don’t know Steve well enough to know when he goes from six to midnight? It happens literally any time you touch him.”

Eddie was still snickering to himself as he took a final puff of the joint that had been smoked down to a nub. You stared at your hands in your lap, thoughts going into overdrive. Because this wasn’t just some random guy at the Hideout or an ex-classmate hitting on you at a house party. This wouldn’t be just a fumbled touch, grabby hands groping blindly in a dark closet that you would recount to Eddie before he gave you the orgasm you’d sorely been denied.

This was Steve. This would be something. Wouldn’t it?

“Only one way to find out,” Eddie said, as though he could hear the question you were asking yourself. “Anything’s gotta be better than this.”

“But what if he—”

The rattle of the doorknob cut you off, your eyes darted to the door just as Steve pushed it open to slip back inside. Eddie’s dark curls fell forward, sliding off his shoulders as he leaned in.

“Just follow my lead,” he whispered.

Your eyes bulged in your skull, but before you could retort or argue, Steve had plopped back down in the chair next to you and your lips were effectively sealed.

“So the singing is still going on,” he chuckled. “But I think everyone will head home soon. We aren’t missing much.”

“That’s okay.” Eddie groaned softly into a stretch as he settled back into his reclined position. “I’m sure we can think of something to do.”

Heat flooded your core at his insinuating tone and you sat up a little straighter. He let his head loll to the side, his eyes finding yours automatically, dark irises glinting in the scant light.

“Hey…c’mere, doll.”

Eddie shifted down in his seat, rubbing his ringed hand across his thigh as an invitation. Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the fancy, and surely expensive, champagne you’d been sipping all night. Maybe it was the way Steve’s gaze followed you so intently as you stood and walked over to where Eddie sat on the wicker sofa. Whatever it was, it was working.

You laid your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as you kneeled on the cushion next to him and went to straddle his lap. But his hands came up to grip your waist and stopped you.

“Uh-uh,” he said, motioning his index finger in a circle. “Other way.”

You hesitated, glancing from your crouched position over at Steve. His eyes smoldered in the darkness as he watched you—leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, his long fingers laced in front of him. With a hard swallow, you stood and turned.

Eddie jerked you back against him, roughly pulling you flush with his chest. His knees pushed between your own and he spread them wide so your legs were held open, draped over the tops of his thighs. It made the skirt of your dress glide upwards, hem skimming the tops of your stockings, threatening to reveal the strips of bare skin between them and your panties.

His words from earlier still rang in your head. Follow my lead.

Well-worn hands splayed wide across your stomach, squeezing at the softness of your waist. Beneath you, his hips began to shift and the beginnings of his hard-on pressed insistently into the fat of your ass. It made you shiver all over, a gasp falling from your lips.

“So well behaved,” Eddie hummed, tracing the line of your jaw with his fingertips, suddenly gripping your chin in his hand to turn your face towards him. “She’s such a good girl, Stevie…. and we have so much fun together…”

The words and the deep timbre of his voice sent more shivers down your spine as he bumped the tip of your nose with his own. He pecked lightly at your lips until they opened up for him, his tongue probing the warm cavern of your mouth until you were moaning into his kiss.

It was lazy, but punishing. He nipped gently at your top lip, his own feathering with a tiny snarl as he revered back to his conversation with Steve.

“Why don’t you tell her about that photo you found?” he asked, hot breath fanning across your cheek. “Tell her what you thought about it.”

Your gaze flashed to Steve’s and you wondered if there was more light in here whether you’d be able to see a rush of scarlet covering his cheeks. His eyes had gone round with nervous energy, but they remained locked onto yours as he spoke.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he rasped, his voice almost cracking his throat was so tight. “I wish I could see it again, I…I wish it was me she’d done that for.”

The pit of your belly burned at his words, a breathy sigh fluttering in your chest and an exquisite ache now radiating between your legs. Eddie’s fingers trailed along the center of your body, over your sternum, tracing the dip of your navel through your dress until it quivered under his touch.

Slowly, he drew up the bottom of your dress like a curtain to reveal your core and the black lace your arousal had begun to seep through. The tips of his fingers stroked your entrance, mercilessly teasing your second set of lips.

“You wouldn’t believe how good she feels, Steve,” Eddie husked, his fingers holding their pace, making you grind into his lap. “Way better than that prissy cheerleader pussy you’re used to.”

The room filled with the sound of your breath and the wet schlick of Eddie’s fingers in your folds.

“Oh, sorry,” Eddie snickered. “I should say honor society pussy.”

Steve’s nostrils suddenly flared, his gaze tearing away from you and your body as if coming out of a trance. You looked back over your shoulder with a horrified look.

“Eddie—”

“Shush,” he snapped, cutting you off by plunging his fingers inside of you. They hooked upwards and your back bowed at the sudden stretch, a broken moan slipping past your lips. Steve’s eyes were drawn to your face at the sound, Eddie’s mention of his ex flying right out of his head.

“You want a taste, Harrington?” he asked, all dark and leading.

A little whimper escaped you at the thought and Eddie grinned wickedly. He smiled as he kissed the back of your neck, his teeth flashing as he nipped at your racing pulse.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart? You’d like his tongue?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your eyes darting to find Steve’s. “Please.”

At your plaintive mewl, the very moment you asked, Steve instantly rose to his feet and hurried to kneel between yours and Eddie’s spread legs. His long fingers wrapped around the gusset of your underwear and he wrenched them to the side to reveal your dripping core.

He licked his lips as he stared at it, practically salivating. Your own lips trembled, fighting back the urge to cry out for him as you let your head fall back to rest on Eddie’s shoulder.

The wet heat of his tongue met your pussy in long, languid swipes. He nodded his head with each motion, dragging it through your folds as he inhaled deep and needy breaths of your scent like you were his air. His eyes burned with lust as he looked up from between your thighs, gauging your every reaction in the way you fluttered around his tongue.

With a trembling hand, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along his brow, skimming the stray pieces of hair that had fallen forward into his eyes. The intensity of his stare, the depth of his gaze, made you glow brighter even than that behemoth of a tree inside.

He sped up his movements, working you up, the tip of his tongue pointed to swirl in a pattern as magical as it was maddening, flicking it teasingly over your clit and making you clench with each too-quick pass. At the same time, you felt Eddie’s hand creep up between your shoulder blades, fingers weaving into your hair to grasp it at the root. He gave it a firm tug and pulled your head back, bringing his lips to your ear so he could whisper to you—deep and rough and just loud enough for Steve to hear.

“Why don’t you tell him how long you’ve wanted this, huh?”

Another pitiful whimper left your lips as Eddie’s other hand squeezed a little more intensely at your chest, tweaking your nipple through your dress, loving how it made you tremble.

“Si-since Junior year,” you panted. “When he w-won the state swim meet…”

Just the thought of that day nearly has you flooding Eddie’s lap and Steve’s mouth. Your mind filled with the memories of it—visions of him in a Speedo that confirmed just about every rumor you’d ever overheard in the girl’s locker room; his arm and back muscles rippling as he pushed himself out of the pool; water spilling over freckled skin, droplets collecting on his shoulders and running down, down, down to where the small of his back met the fullness of his ass.

You had sat in the stands, thighs pressing together, feeling almost perverted staring while he celebrated with his teammates and whipped off his swim cap, his wild hair exploding out of it and making you wonder how he’d even managed to fit it all underneath in the first place.

The mere mention of his glory days seemed to have a similar effect on Steve. The movements of his tongue and lips turned more fervent, more determined to unspool you as he moaned like he’d never tasted anything as good as you.

Tremors began to roll through your body, making your thighs twitch and spasm.

“Tell him how good it feels,” Eddie husked, hips now punching up to create some friction against his own cock as it strained inside his dress pants. “Tell him how much you like it.”

“Yes, Steve, fuck—I love it so much,” you whined. “Keep going, I need it.”

The pretty lilt and waver of your voice had Steve unraveling before your very eyes. Another low groan rumbled from deep in his chest and he buried his face further, more eagerly, in your heat.

“God, you taste so fucking good, honey,” he moaned. “I could do this all night.”

The thought of having his mouth on you all night is enthralling, but there was no way you would last. You were barely going to make it another minute as it was. Steve was too good. 

Every flick, every swipe, every swirl of his tongue you could feel in your entire body. Pleasure rushed across you in waves, a torturous winding upwards, that burning feeling deep in your gut coiling tighter, tighter. Your breaths grew shallow and your pulse raced until you were shaking in Eddie’s lap, fighting so hard to keep your legs spread apart that they shook from the effort.

Steve’s hands came up to grasp at your thighs, his fingers squeezing at the meat of them as he kept you pried open for him to ravish. Like a man possessed, he lapped and sucked and kissed at your entrance, his whole body seeming to move along with the motions of his tongue and lips. Beneath you, the wicker couch suddenly slid backwards and you realized it was because he had tried to grind against it—desperate to feel something, anything, against his cock.

Wishing it was you.

“C-close, close, I’m so close. Steve, I’m co—oohhh—”

Your orgasm rushed in, plowing through your body, making you lose all sense. You squirmed wildly in Eddie’s lap, almost having forgotten he was there until he reached around to give both of your nipples one last pinch—knowing how it always pushed you further over the edge.

Steve’s lips never left your clit and his eyes never left your face as he ushered you into your climax. He stared up at you, his eyes all glassy and round, searching for your reassurance as he rose from between your legs. His face hovered in front of yours and he lifted a hand to cup your jaw, his massive palm warm on your flushed skin as you panted to regain your breath.

“Good?” he asked. Hushed, like a prayer.

“So good,” you exhaled, chest still heaving. Your voice wobbled as you spoke, so overwhelmed with all your buried feelings being dredged to the surface. “Steve, that was—”

“Steven? Are you out here?”

Every hair on Steve’s head went flying as he whipped his head around hearing his mother’s voice. Through the sheer curtains, he could see her as she stepped outside onto the porch, peering into the darkness, wrapping a fur stole tighter around her elegant cocktail attire.

Panic struck his face like lightning, his mouth hanging open, his lips and chin still shiny with your spend. He looked back at you, his cheeks nearly as deep red as the velvet ribbons hung all over his house. You scrambled off Eddie’s lap to stand, frantically straightening your dress and hair, nervously wiping at your lips that were swollen from biting down when you came.

“I, um…the party’s probably over,” Steve said. “I just have to say goodbye to some people.”

He ran his hands through his hair a few more times as he strode towards the door, even though any damage you’d done grabbing it must have been righted by now. You looked over at Eddie, your own eyes swirling with questions you were terrified to hear the answers to.

His shoulders bounced, standing to tuck his shirttail back into his dress pants.

“Well, that’s one way to do it.”.

Steve was waiting in the foyer with you and Eddie’s coats when you snuck in from outside. His parents, thankfully, were too occupied giving the caterers instructions for clean-up to exchange any pleasantries at the door. You could only imagine how that would go…

Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. I’m the girl your son made come all over his face in your pool house. What a lovely party, thank you so much for inviting us.

There was still a smile on Steve’s face, though it felt almost pasted on now compared to his expression when you first arrived, sort of forced in an attempt to look more normal than he felt. He handed off Eddie’s leather jacket and then held yours open, his eyes remaining glued to you as you turned and pushed your arms through the sleeves. His fingertips trailed along the nape of your neck as he helped straighten the coat on your shoulders, his index tracing its curve all the way to your hairline in a way that felt so intentional it made your skin buzz.

With your ears pounding from your heartbeat thundering in them, you spun around to face him, your lips parted to speak only for no words to come. Because what was there for you to say? Or for him to do? Kiss you? He hadn’t even done that during, would he do it now to say goodbye?

Steve’s handsome face was as conflicted and contorted as your own. A faint blush still dusted along his cheeks and his eyes shone bright from the candlelight coming off the tapers that had burned almost all the way out. At last he drew a breath, and you felt your heart stutter.

“Thank you for coming,” he said softly.

Eddie could barely contain the snort that burst out of him, even as he slapped a hand over his crooked smile and your eyes shot daggers straight into his chest.

You couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

There was only silence as the pair of you trudged along the driveway to the street where Eddie had parked his van, the snow on the ground having melted into slush mottled with gray where it mixed with excess oil on the road. Without the glow of the Christmas lights coming off the rest of the houses in the neighborhood, the darkness of Steve’s street now felt oppressive. 

It made you walk a little quicker to the van, your hand curled tight around the passenger side door handle waiting for Eddie to unlock it. As the two of you climbed inside the cab, he cranked the engine and flipped open the air vents for the heat to blast, finally breaking his silence as you yanked your door shut behind you with a sharp tug.

“Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I thought I was helping,” Eddie muttered, his hands gripping tight around the steering wheel. “You were being so fucking obvious, I thought you needed a push.”

His chunky rings glinted in the street light as he busied himself messing with the radio, static scratching in your ears as he searched for something besides Christmas music.

“Are you really mad?” he asked, still fiddling with the dial, barely able to look at you. 

You shook your head.

“I just…I don’t know, I feel like it’s weird now.” You let your face fall into your hands and shook your head furiously. “I mean, was that totally fucked up? To do that?”

“Nah, that wasn’t fucked up,” Eddie said assuredly. 

He sounded confident enough that you let your shoulders actually relax and finally expelled the breath you were holding. The relief was short-lived though, when Eddie piped up again.

“I’ll tell you what might be, though.”

With a heavy sigh, you looked over at him warily. “What?” you asked.

Eddie sighed as he slumped back against the seat. His foot rested on the gas pedal and he pressed it down lightly, barely revving the engine to get some hot air flowing from the vents.

“When he comes over for Christmas Eve.”

Thank you so much for reading, I appreciate any time taken to read/comment endlessly ♥️

Started on this last year in December so that should tell you everything you need to know about my writing process. Enjoy some Christmas in whatever-month-you’re-reading-this. 😉

[optikestrav]

The Tara Brooch/ Dealg na Teambrach C8th CE, found in County Meath 1850

It is made of cast and gilt silver and is elaborately decorated on both faces. The front is ornamented with a series of exceptionally fine gold filigree panels depicting animal and abstract motifs that are separated by studs of glass, enamel and amber. The back is flatter than the front, and the decoration is cast. The motifs consist of scrolls and triple spirals and recall La Tène decoration of the Iron Age.

A silver chain made of plaited wire is attached to the brooch by means of a swivel attachment. This feature is formed of animal heads framing two tiny cast glass human heads.

Along with such treasures as the Ardagh Chalice and the Derrynaflan Paten, the Tara Brooch can be considered to represent the pinnacle of early medieval Irish metalworkers’ achievement. Each individual element of decoration is executed perfectly and the range of technique represented on such a small object is astounding.

text: National Museum of Ireland

(2023)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Grey Zone 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, age gap, bullying, toxic parental figures, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your parents has never been good, and that with a family friend takes a strange turn(goth!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: This is what happens when I decide to say fuck it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

The scent of matcha dampens your corset. Lucky for you, it’s black and won’t stain. That’s the one worry you rarely face in your life; stains. Dark fabric does more favours than just slimming you.

Still, that sunny side isn’t enough to brighten your mood. Your day has been shrouded in dark clouds. Your wasted Starbucks matcha and spoiled study sessions weigh down your feet, the thick treads of your boots clomping down the pavement. And on the bus, you nearly fell right on your face with no seats free to sit.

You look up as you approach your father’s ranch house style home. He didn’t take much pride in you but the house was always a gem for him to show off. Almost all your life, it was under one renovation or another. He was always trying to fix things up, including you.

Your mother enabled his endless ‘improvements’ so long as he bribed her with something pretty. That was her thing. He builds, she decorates, and you are the one ornament that doesn’t fit. At least, that’s what it’s felt like since your turn towards black nail polish and fishnets at thirteen. Seven years later and there was still the same angst woven into your parental relationships.

You tramp up the steps of the porch, not noticing the figure sat on the handcrafted bench near the large squared paned windows. Mr. Hansen sits with a can of craft beer in hand, arching a brow at the can as he reads it skeptically. He glances over, not so surprised by your sudden appearance. 

You take your earbuds out as the racket scratches from the tiny speakers. You thin your lips, smiles not exactly your forte. He sits up and puts the can down on the bench.

“Tastes like fermented socks,” he says coolly, “your dad never has anything good.”

“Mm,” you grumble as you grip the leather strap of your studded knapsack. “Yeah…”

“You want it? Just don’t tattle on me,” he offers as he taps the aluminum brim.

You shake your head.

“I won’t tell,” he smirks.

“You’re right, it tastes like socks,” you say dully.

He chuckles and brings his hand up, smoothing his palm across the buzzed side of his head. He looks at you, a bit longer than usual. You have the urge to take out your phone and check your reflection. 

“I should–”

“That new?”

You speak at the same time. Awkward. Mr. Hansen isn’t usually that out of sync. He has a confidence that makes you feel even more clueless.

“What?” You blink and twist your toe into the wood.

“That shirt.”

You look down at the boned black corset with the violet trim, over a plain black turtleneck. You got it from a vintage store years ago. You’ve worn it so much, the boning holds the shape of your body. You shake your head and shrug.

“Hmm, looks nice.”

The compliment catches you further off guard than his solitary presence. He’s blunt and to the point. The only person you’ve ever heard tell your father the truth. And you know your style is not to everyone's taste.

Looking at him, it's definitely not his. Cream coloured pants, burgundy loafers with golden buckles, and polo striped in shades of goldenrod and garnet.

“Thanks,” you keep from sucking your lip in, not wanting to smear your lip stain. “I should… go.”

“Sure,” he sits back, leaning against the window frame, “if you see your dad, send him out. He ditched me like fifteen minutes ago to find some nonsense sports card.”

“Right,” you continue across the porch.

In your peripheral, his head turns but you don’t meet his gaze. You pull open the screen door, innately aware of him watching you. Why?

The interior door is ajar. You step inside and the spring of the screen snaps it shut behind you. You put your bag on the console table just inside, and lean on it as you unlace your boots. Your mother would subject you to her shrill disapproval if you leave dirt on the runner again.

As you stand, you check your reflection in the round mirror hung on the wall, a frame of golden oak leaves around it. You don’t look that bad. You fixed most of your smeared eyeliner before you left the mall and your lip stain has stuck pretty well. You might be a bit shiny from sweat but nothing egregious.

Before you can grab your bag, the screen door opens. You wince and look at Mr. Hansen as he enters. He is close as he lets the door shut softly and you quickly snatch your knapsack and move away from him. 

“Second thought, gotta hit the bathroom,” he explains but pauses and wiggles his nose, the gesture made more obvious by the trim of hair beneath, “smells like grass.”

“Uh, yeah,” you sling your bag from your elbow, “spilled my tea.”

“Probably a good thing if it smells like a lawn,” he scoffs and kicks off his velvet loafers.

“Probably,” you agree glumly and turn away.

“Too bad though. Hope you didn’t burn yourself.”

You stop again, at the bottom of the stairs. You glance back at him. He’s being strangely nice. This isn’t the same man who called you Wednesday Addams and teased you how he was certain that you must sleep in a coffin. Is something wrong? Is your dad okay?

“Hey,” your dad’s voice booms down the stairs above you. You spin and look up at his descent. He carries the old cigar box he keeps his collectibles in, “home early. Thought you were studying.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m just going to do it here–” you say.

“Your mother wants you to help with dinner tonight,” he doesn’t let you finish. As he nears he stops, looking you up and down like he always does. You have to know that he hates everything about you. “Colourful.”

“Dad,” you whisper a weak plea.

He doesn’t answer you as he shoulders past. You frown but don’t look back. You don’t want to show how much it hurts. Even if it happens every day, it still crushes you. It’s just clothes, why does he care so much? You remember the day he stopped taking you to car shows with him, the day you refused to take out your earrings. That was the switch.

“Studying, huh? Boring, but admirable,” Mr. Hansen comments, “think most dad’s would love to hear that from their daughters, huh, Ray?”

Your father just huffs, “depends what they’re studying.”

You keep on up the stairs. You won’t argue, not in front of company. Especially not in front of Mr. Hansen.

“Degree isn’t worth much when you dress like that,” you hear his remark before you get to the top. 

You peek back downstairs but can’t see the landing below. Funny, you got a job and they don’t care what you wear, they just want you to show up. If only you had the courage to say it out loud. If only it would make a difference.

You shuffle to your room, just down the hall from your father’s. He occupies the primary room and your mother sleeps in her studio, just the next doorway. They can be amiable, given they don’t spend too much time together. Their relationship is more transactional than affectionate.

You wouldn’t know much about that, though. You’re only guessing. The closest you got to a relationship was when Travis invited you under the bleaches… that’s a memory worth forgetting.

You close your door before you can get carried away. You stopped worrying about your parents’ marriage right before high school. You realised then, there wasn’t any use in fretting in it. In fact, you became almost hopeful that one day they would split.

You put your bag on your bed and look around. The vanity you painted black stands beside the dark curtains. Little bat stickers decorate the edges of the mirror, your collection of antique vials and painted bottles line one side, and your make up chest sits on the other. It’s your little cave, the one place no one can tell you who to be.

You turn on the lamp in the shape of a crystal ball. You undo your corset and peel off your turtleneck, leaving the damp clothing in the hamper. You pull on a black and white striped sweater instead. 

You unpack your laptop and climb up on your high queen. The frame has curling iron posts, a particularly gothic design with a peak at the center of the headboard. You love it even if it scratches the paint off the wall.

You pile your pillows up, building a cosy nest to catch up on your work. It’s maybe ten minutes before there’s pounding on your door. Your mother doesn’t wait for an answer. You’ve learned not to expect her to. You look over as she flips on the overhead lights, ruining the subtle ambience of your bedside lamp.

“Uh, hello,” she snips, “your dad said he told you about dinner.”

You frown, “it’s only four–”

“Yes, and? I’m making a bouillabaisse. It needs lots of time,” she retorts, “besides, the table will need to be set for our company.”

“Company? You mean Mr. Hansen–”

“Er yeah,” she sniffs, “don’t be so dumb and stop asking questions.”

“Just curious,” you close your laptop and push yourself across the bed, “coming…”

Your voice trails off as your mother’s already gone, your door left slightly ajar. You huff and follow her tracks, her steps on the stairs as you get to the hallway. You pull your door shut behind you, checking to make sure the fault mechanism catches.

You continue downstairs and follow the impatient clanging of your mother. She’s never very subtle. She already has a glass of red on the counter. She’ll bark at you over it as she tells you exactly how to cook and refuse to do any of it herself.

“Oh, honey,” she says dramatically as she slams the soup pot on the burner, “you look so grim. What happened to that new gloss I bought you?”

“The pink stuff?” You utter as you pick at your sleeves.

“It went so nice with your complexion,” she preens, “it would look so nice with a new dress. I was online shopping today–”

“Mom,” you cross your arms.

“Don’t be a brat. You know, when I was your age, I would’ve loved if my mother still bought me clothes. She made me work for everything I had. She wouldn’t even buy me tampons.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“Don’t be sorry, get the fish out. Don’t forget the mussels…”

You do as she says. You take out the vast array of fish along with the vegetables she lists off. She empties her glass by the time you start adding ingredients to the blender for the base. You’ve never been a fan of the dish but the last time you tried to convince her on something similar, you went to bed with a stinging cheek. She pours a second glass as you run the motor, holding it extra long to override her nagging.

She leans on the counter, swirling her glass. You can smell her cabinet-laced breath. She’s tipsy already. You add oil to the pot and wait for it to heat up.

“You look so dreary in black,” she mopes, “what happened to my little girl?”

“I’m twenty,” you offer flatly.

“Oh, you started this long before that,” she snarls, “you never wanted to be pretty for your mama.”

“I…” you look down, “this is pretty. To me.”

“You look like one of those girls on the internet…” her head wobbles and she slurps from her glass, “I’ve seen the type. They wear tights like yours and nothing else. What are you always doing on your computer, anyway?”

The accusation scalds you. You shake your head and add the chopped onion, fennel, and leek to the hot oil. This isn’t the first time she’s made the insinuation. Like that time she found certain websites saved on your father’s iPad. It couldn’t have been him, he wouldn’t look at those things. And there was only one other person to blame.

“Schoolwork,” you sigh, “mom,” you look at her wine glass, almost empty again, “how about some water–”

“How about you don’t tell me what to do,” she points at you with a long red nail, “I am your mother, not the other way around.”

“I know,” you grab a rubber spatula and push around the veggies and oil. The fragrant aroma rises in the air. It stokes your appetite.

“Mmm, something smells delicious,” Mr. Hansen’s voice enters ahead of him as you glance over.

Your mother turns and leans her elbows back on the counter, pushing her chest out. You know this part too. Not just with him but the gardener and even the garbage man. Your eyes flick to Mr. Hansen’s before you quickly return your attention to the pot.

“Looks delicious too,” your mother slithers as she leers at him, “Lloyd, I didn’t even get a chance to thank you for the merlot!” She raises her glass sloppily, “there’s enough left for you.”

“Ah, Connie, that’s nice of you,” he replies as he nears, “but it’s cabernet, actually. And my stomach was turned by that craft bullshit.” 

He comes close to the stove, standing beside you as he peers down into the pot. The heat from the stove couples with that of his proximity. Your mother drains her glass and pulls away from the counter.

“More for me,” she chimes and grabs the bottle.

You feel a warmth on your lower back as Mr. Hansen’s cologne mingles with the scent of your cooking, “what’s for dinner, sweetheart?”

You realise he’s touching you. His hand slips under the wool of your sweater and his thumb rubs the skin along the top of your pants. You freeze and keep your hand steady as you simmer the veggies. You peek over at your mother, she’s too distracted with her glass.

“Bouillabaisse,” you answer in a brittle voice. You shift and his hand falls away, grazing the top of your pocket, a tickle on your ass. 

“Mmm, fish,” he purrs, “I’m starving.”

“Shoo, shoo,” your mother waves her hand at him, “won’t cook faster with you hovering around.”

“Fine, fine,” he raises his hands defensively, “don’t burn yourself, Connie. I see you doing all this hard work–”

“Oh, you,” she sneers and grabs the dish cloth from in front of you where it hangs from the oven handle. She whips the end in his direction, “no wonder you and my husband get along.” She snaps him with it again, “you’re a bunch of jackasses.”

He cackles, unbothered by her anger, but retreating nonetheless. You keep your head down and your mother takes another thick gulp. She scoffs.

“Men,” she slurs, “no good. If you won’t listen to me about anything, you take that in, hon. They’re all trash.”

You refuse to look after Mr. Hansen or think about the shadow of his touch on your skin. Men are confusing, that’s enough to keep you away.

[wri0thesley]

wriothesley isn’t one for ornamentation; most of what he wears and has serves a practical purpose. his chains simply make his punches harder; he wears a stud in his ear so as not to tempt fate. down in the fortress, it’s better not to flaunt his wealth if he truly wants the prisoners to respect him as administrator and not some fop in over his head.

he is helpless to resist dressing you up in flamboyant fancies; not when you look so lovely in pretty colours and fine fabrics, not when you so desperately deserve to be dripping in jewels and lace and frippery. you pout at him and pull at his arm and coax him to try finer fabrics and nicer things, but . . . he holds firm. he would rather you be the beautiful butterfly, and he will stay firmly behind you in the shadows to ensure that people only look at you and do not touch.

well.

he does make one concession to your desire to ornament him.

one single silver band, unadorned, that rests upon his ring finger - and has your name engraved inside.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Who in Elephant is the most unexpected person to have any piercings? Who has the most, or the 'weirdest' one? And, of course, who has the most ostentatious jewellery, regardless of where it is or whether anyone actually sees it.

@brighteyedbadwolf and I share a headcanon that once he started running out of tattoo room, Renji got into body piercings in a big way, and also learned the value of moderation so he's gotten some interesting piercings done, but has learned to savor them and only get one done every few years.

His most recent ornament is a tongue piercing and 9/10ths of the fun has been seeing how long he can keep it a secret. It's surprisingly easy- he's picked up Byakuya's habit of not moving his lips much when speaking at an interpersonal distance, and only raising his voice when people are actually far enough away to warrant yelling.

Several people noticed immediately but didn't say anything because it's not, strictly speaking, their business what Renji recreationally does with his body unless he needs medical attention for it, and because Retsu also wants to see how long Renji can keep it a secret and what the fallout will be like when it inevitably gets out.

Ikkaku was the first to call him out because his little kohai was looking just a bit to smug about something, and when he refused to say what, Ikkaku took a shot in the dark that squarely hit its target. Ikkaku is now also seeing how long before it really gets out, but has perhaps been selectively hastening the process by telling certain people.

Shuuhei didn't call Renji out, but during a lieutenant's meeting, Shuuhei heard the rather distinctive *click* of metal on Renji's teeth, and fixed him with a nonjudgmental, but extremely knowing stare.

Renji is... pretty sure Byakuya hasn't noticed yet. He's hard to read at the best of times, and Renji is privy to the bizarre oceans of stuff Byakuya has somehow remained ignorant of, like dinosaurs. He's sure his boss will have something to say about workplace-appropriate attire when he finds out.

Pretty sure.

Byakuya is also not a snitch- he saw Ichigo's hollow mask transformation and kept his mouth shut tighter than a bear trap about it.

Actually.

Byakuya keeps his mouth shut all the time both figuratively and literally. Almost doesn't move his lips when speaking, and only opens his mouth maybe half an inch, even when he raises his voice. Renji has never actually seen his molars, let alone most of his boss and prospective brother-in-law's tongue.

Could he..? No, that's much too scandalous for him.

...right?

Rukia has managed to remain oblivious to not only all of Renji's hardware thus far, but is actually ignorant of the lower 56% of Renji's ink as well. As emotionally close as they are, she doesn't actually spend that much time in close physical proximity to him anymore, and her mental image of Renji is about six major changes out of date.

She *has* noticed that Byakuya gets a small dessert- something soft and meant to be savored, like a single slice of cheesecake, every year on April 6th, which isn't the anniversary of anything she can find. Nobody he knows was born, got married or died on that day, she knows he and Hisana started "courting" in the middle of July so it's not that, and it doesn't seem to be a sad date for him- if anything, he seems ever-so-slightly pleased, perhaps even a bit smug, whenever he sits down in the garden and takes three hours to eat that tiny wedge of cake. According to the house staff, he's been doing this for over fifty years now, and this befuddles her, but Byakuya is a singularly inscrutable man sometimes, and she is not about to deny him whatever small, harmless joy this is.

For his part, Byakuya is very pleased with how well his two stainless steel studs have held up over the years, enjoys taking some time to really savor the feeling of them by taking a long time to enjoy a bit of dessert on the anniversary he got them, and is still deciding on the funniest time to ask Renji where he got his piercing done, so that they may compare notes.

He's tentatively considering the day after Renji and Rukia inevitably announce that they are expecting their first child- a date some time off as the two are not, strictly speaking, engaged yet, but Byakuya is as certain of that event's coming as he is of the sunrise- both because it will be a humorously long time to have kept that secret, and Byakuya estimates that at that point, Renji will be in the first throes of impending fatherhood panic, and could probably use a distraction.

Byakuya is very fond of his prospective brother-in-law, and thinks this is a good way to demonstrate his affection.

[bbcphile]

Thoughts on character and costume?

I really love how the respective characters have different colour palettes, silhouettes but in particular material/textures to their costuming. Fang Duobing is a little princess so he gets pale pastels, fancy ornamentation and transparent gauzy fabrics which I find so cute, he’s not just rich he’s *expensive* and *pretty* it’s pretty funny that he matches the actual princess in the red leaves mountain case

DFS gets your wide shoulder bad guy rich deep colours with thick layers and lots of metal detailing but it veers towards grand instead of pretty. Hot topic young DFS is leather and studs lmao. Brocade and fur & shit.

LLH is a linen boi and he almost never has any metal on him, we all know his natural material hair ornament meta etc. Interestingly, he does share some colour palette and fabric overlap with FDB, we se him with his tits out transparent outer layer sometimes. No structure all flowy silhouette

someone on here made a post abt their differing sleeve styles but I can’t find it!

I wanted to gush but also do u have any extra costume thoughts + how they relate to one another? You have a great knack for finding good photos of the show too 😅

Thanks for the ask, @lei-llustrations , and I love your analysis of the outfits! I'm so sorry it took me forever to respond! I had grand plans for a full essay analyzing DFS's costumes, and then I ran out of spoons for doing that. (The short version of the point I was going to prove is that his a-Fei outfits have elements of what seem to be his favorite details from his fancier alliance leader outfits, so it seemed like evidence of LLH trying to make up for making him be in disguise and without his power. I'm thinking of the maroon-red one with studs in the sleeves in particular, but there are echoes of his preferences in the other ones, too.)

Since I'll never actually respond if I wait to put that meta together, here's a shorter one, with my thoughts on DFS's official Alliance Leader robes (screenshot taken from ep 40, when delivering the wangchuan flower).

LLH and FDB both call him Di mengzhu in the wangchuan flower scene, because he's clearly dressed in a way that makes this an Official Visit. I find it fascinating that he wears his alliance leader outfit instead of his grey, maroon, and gold outfit that he wears for non-alliance matters (aka. the wedding room outfit, which he also wears for such Xiangyi-related purposes as the reunion duel that doesn't happen and grieving for him in the middle of the night). After all, he's giving LLH a gift to save his life and issuing him a friendly anniversary honeymoon challenge, so you'd think that would call for his dating outfit, not his official garb.

BUT! What if he's using his official Alliance Leader regalia as a way of saying that not only a-Fei/Lao Di, but also Di Mengzhu and the Jinyuan Alliance want him to live? It's more than just essentially creating Peace Treaty version 2.0, and trying to get life back to what could have been if SGD and JLQ hadn't ruined everything: their people at peace, and the two of them meeting for friendly duels rather than death matches. Yes, only LLH and FDB are there to witness it, but by showing up in his Official Capacity, he's also correcting all the narratives about the enmity between himself and Li Xiangyi, and in giving him the flower, he's officially declaring that Di Mengzhu wants Li Lianhua to heal and have his strength and power back more than he wants to gain martial arts power himself.

This is a HUGE deal. DFS formed the Jinyuan Alliance as a way of climbing the ranks of the jianghu, because his goal was to gain strength so he'd never be helpless or forced to do someone's bidding again. And yet, he wears the outfit that symbolizes that striving and his place at the top of it to GIVE AWAY THE FLOWER THAT WOULD CEMENT HIS PLACE AT THE TOP OF THE JIANGHU. He wants Li Lianhua to not just live but also to regain the strength SGD and JLQ stole from him, which would mean that Li Xiangyi would quite possibly defeat him, and he would welcome that, because it's not about self-protection anymore: now, what he wants more than anything else, is for Li Xiangyi/Lianhua to live.

If that's not enough of an emotional gut punch, try this: Di Feisheng told Li Xiangyi at the start of the show that swordsmen shouldn't have weaknesses. Di Feisheng has only really had two "weaknesses" (vulnerabilities might be more accurate): his desiring the wangchuan flower (which led to SGD and JLQ incapacitating him) and Li Lianhua. It feels like a monumental shift to me that, at the end of the show, Di Feisheng hands one weakness to the man who is the other: essentially, he is announcing to the world that nothing is more important to him than Li Lianhua's recovery, and he doesn't care who knows it.

It also feels very pertinent that his official outfit is wedding red, and he's essentially showing up in his fanciest remaining outfit to offer Li Lianhua his heart on a platter priceless magical flower in a box the way someone might show up at the house of their beloved with boxes and boxes of betrothal gifts. Not that DFS explained that or LLH picked up on it, because that would involve better communication skills than either of them had.

[harekrishna108]

☀ SHRI NARASIMHADEVA ॐ ☀

"The Lord has four arms, and His limbs are very soft. He is decorated with golden earrings. His chest is resplendent like the lotus flower, and His arms are decorated with jewel-studded ornaments."~Sri Narasimha Kavacha

[chasingthedragons]

Lord Larys Strong attires

1 - Blue leather hunting suit, short sleeves, with golden brooches along the left side and silver studs at the joints. Underneath, a blue garment with embroidered pattern. Brown leather gloves with the emblem of House Strong and silver studs on the edges. With a large gold necklace with small rubies, a brown leather belt and a small cloth bag hanging from it.

2 - Accompanied by a reddish fabric cape with embroidered lines.

1 - Gala suit in shades of bluish purple and reddish, with embroidered separations in golden color along the chest, shoulders and wrists. The arms of embroidered cloth, accompanied by a leather belt and a small cloth bag hanging from it.

2 - For the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor, accompanied by a large gold chain.

1 - Brown everyday suit with scaled and opaque fabric, with buttons along the chest, an ornament on the collar and a gold necklace.

1 - Brown everyday suit with embroidery and wide sleeves. Lined fabric bulging shoulders, and light brown fabric along the chest with buttons. Accompanied by a large gold chain. Under a brown shirt with embroidered pattern of flowers in dark brown.

> Vaemond Velaryon > Hobert Hightower > Lyonel Strong > Harwin Strong

[molkolsdal]

Head Ornament

Attributed to India (Kashmir, Punjab, or Rajasthan), 19th century

Gold, glass, turquoise

This head ornament would attach at the top of the head, and the flower and bell-shaped ornaments known as karnaphul jhumka would hang along the side of the ear. The karnaphul, or floral stud, is a typical shape for an ear ornament, referencing the natural world so favored in Indian jeweled arts. The hanging bell-shaped jhumka pendants would move gracefully as the wearer walked, moved, and danced.

[indignantlemur]

My dear Indi, I need your expertise !

Do you have any ideas or headcanons for Andorian outfits, from lighter to warmer? What would they look like in general, what texture is most appreciated or considered fashionable ?

Thanks ! 💙

Hello Zier! Let's see what I can do for you! Fair warning, this one is going to be image-heavy.

For the most part, Andorian fashion in my headcanons isn't unified. Different folks prefer to wear different things, same as Humans, but there are broader elements that are quite common.

Firstly, we know from ENT and subsequent appearances in the modern Treks that Andorians tend to wear a lot of leather, often embossed or tooled to have a particular sort of feel. The samples below from Discovery give me powerful 2009-2013 Gareth Pugh vibes.

Beyond that, the only other time we see Andorians is when they're in Imperial Guard or Starfleet uniforms, which mostly just gives an overall impression of leather, suede, and future-kevlar.

The Andorian ambassador in "Terra Prime" had a very different feel from these, of course, and that shiny outer robe ultimately inspired Thoris' official get-up.

By contrast, some super early screen tests and comic book depictions for everyday Andorians look rather different, however. We've got draping fabrics, robes, tunics, some thigh high boots, and what looks like bits of armoured studding and chainmail. That's quite the departure from the other depictions!

And then, of course, we have Shran's post-Imperial Guard coat. This one gets its own mention, because that coat is fabulous.

Honestly, this isn't a lot to work with. It's better than nothing, of course, but the different depictions feel very disjointed and all over the place. There's no sense of unity in the designs across the board.

So, from there I looked to real-world fashion to help me build a better idea of what I wanted my Andorians to actually look like outside of a uniform. As much as their depictions would lead us to believe that Andorians have an oddly prevalent leather kink, that's really not practical. Leather is a useful material, and certainly a heavily carnivorous population would end up with quite a lot of it, but surely that can't be everything they wear. So, I started looking around for things that felt like they fit the vague aesthetic we were given to work with.

Below are some samples from the ungodly huge pinterest board I keep for ideas and references for Andorian fashion. I think these mostly hit all the key notes for my headcanons.

A lot of these images are very bland in terms of colour, particularly by Andorian standards, but I think you should be able to see what I've drawn inspiration from.

What I ended up with was a combination of future-fashion elements, and influences from places like Japan and India - with a heavy slant towards using leather, silk, velvet and occasionally soft, drapey fabrics. Heavy ornamentation, such as embroidery, is very common but lacework on clothing is actually quite unusual. Andorians tend to find it catches on their chitin and tears too often to be worth the fuss.

In particular, I really like the idea of layers, off-set or asymmetrical necklines, and elements of structural/architectural fashion for Andorians. Tooled leather is very popular, as well.

Another detail about Andorian fashion that I've mentioned a few times in other posts is that they like to show off their chitin patterns. Often this is done using leather as the medium, but embroidery is also a perfectly acceptable option. Often times, these articles of clothing (usually outerwear but not always) will have a Clan sigil somewhere on it as well, but it's not at all a requirement. These practices accomplish a couple of different things:

Firstly, it offers prospective playmates a tantalising 'preview' of what's underneath. Andorians are not shy about these things, nor do they understand why aliens think they should be. Some Andorians find particular types of chitin patterns very attractive, while some are averse to partners with what they perceive to be too much or too little chitin - or worse, chitin patterns that are far too similar to their own, which would suggest a shared lineage somewhere.

Secondly, it shows off Clan affiliations, especially for Clan members who were not born with their Clan's 'typical' chitin pattern. (Married individuals will often wear things that show their affiliation to both their birth Clan and their marriage Clan, as well, though these are usually ornamental items such as jewellery or hair pieces.)

Thirdly, wearing one's Clan affiliations stamped on their sleeves can sometimes serve as a conflict deterrent. Some Clans are just not worth picking a fight with, and knowing who's who ahead of time instead of after someone says something spectacularly stupid tends to save lives. Since the Unification, the need for these sorts of deterrents has dropped substantially, but it's never entirely gone from Andorian society.

This is not to say that I imagine that all Andorians wear the same things. Being able to express individual preferences is very important, especially in a society where most other individualistic pursuits are seen as counter-productive to the harmony and unity of a community.

Shral, for example, deviates from the norm by preferring dark colours and minimal ornamentation. To other Andorians, his sartorial choices are almost conspicuously bland. On the other end of the spectrum, Thelen adores vivid colours - neon oranges, shocking yellows, acid greens - and fully embraces the bombastic colour palettes his people are known for. Thoris is doomed to be trapped in billowing robes he'd much rather burn in a steel drum behind the embassy under cover of darkness, but he prefers layered tunics, boots, and breeches that don't inhibit his movement. Vrath is in the middle of the road, favouring bold colours and practical clothing but never quite able to resist bits of ornamentation that give her wealthy Tha'an Clan allegiance away. Miraal, on the other hand, adore soft, draping fabrics and wears very little leather, or any other similarly heavy materials, and she prefers to wear minimal ornamentation so as not to distract from her wares.

In terms of seasonal clothing, Andorians can tolerate very broad rangers of temperatures, and they have thermal regulators built into much of their clothing. They can get away with quite a lot, in terms of weather, but a heavily cultivated sense of caution generally prevents them from wandering out into surface conditions wearing anything less than full winter gear - though, naturally, their idea of full winter gear is rather lighter than what a Human would go in for. In extreme heat, Andorians have no problem wearing as little as possible - often to the consternation of other species who do not share their total lack of nudity taboos.

Regarding colours, I headcanon that much like how Vulcans view green as a traditional mating colour owing to the hue of their blood, and Humans view red much the same way, so too do Andorians with the colour blue. Just wearing blue alone isn't an invitation for anything, but it is very noticeable and considered a very attractive colour. Wearing a particularly fetching shade of blue while lurking in a bar and being very noticeably single, however...

Andorian silk is a luxury item, and one in high demand. Made from cocoons harvested from a domesticated relative of the infamous Andorian ice borers, it's ten times stronger than Terran silk, rendering it resistant to slashing and piercing damage. It can be woven into heavy brocades or crafted into a diaphanous, organza-like material, or blended with other fibres. It almost always has a slight iridescent or even metallic shine to it, a highly coveted property, and it is ludicrously expensive.

Hope this helps! <3

[optikestrav]

Ardagh Chalice

The Ardagh Chalice is one of the greatest treasures of the early Irish Church. It is part of a hoard of objects found in the 19th century by a young man digging for potatoes near Ardagh, Co. Limerick. It was used for dispensing Eucharistic wine during the celebration of Mass. The form of the chalice recalls late Roman tableware, but the method of construction is Irish.

The bowl and foot of the chalice are made of spun silver. The outer side of the bowl is decorated with applied gold, silver, glass, amber and enamel ornament. The underside of the foot is also highly decorated and contains a polished rock crystal at the centre.

The bowl is attached to the stem and foot by a bronze pin. The names of eleven apostles and St. Paul are inscribed below the band of gold filigree and studs encircling the bowl. The letters are seen against a stippled background. Incised animal decoration can also be seen below two handle escutcheons, which are decorated with elaborate glass studs and filigree panels.

The Ardagh Chalice represents a high point in early medieval craftsmanship and can be compared in this regard to the Tara Brooch and the Derrynaflan Paten.

text: National Museum of Ireland

c8th century, silver, gilt copper, gold filigree, gold, gilt bronze, silver, polychrome glass, amber, rock crystal, 18 cm high, 19.5 cm in diameter at the rim, found in a hoard in the ringfort of Reerasta, near Ardagh, County Limerick, Ireland

https://smarthistory.org/the-ardagh-chalice/

[arthistoryanimalia]

For #NationalMothWeek:

René Lalique (France, 1860-1945) Papillons de nuit (Moths) bodice ornament, c.1906-7 Gold, enamel, glass, diamonds On display at Musee Lalique

"Along with the female figure, flora and fauna were René Lalique’s favourite sources of inspiration. The winged creatures he chose to portray included such noble species as the peacock and the swan, but also humbler specimens such as beetles, wasps, butterflies and moths.

René Lalique chose the materials for his jewellery pieces to suit the required shape, independently of their more or less precious nature.

With its audacious marriage of materials, this piece is a tribute to the moth, generally seen as an indesirable creature of the night. Its diamond-studded gold setting forms a base for the bodies of the insects made of glass and translucent enamel.

By the way: This ornament could be fixed to the wearer’s bodice thanks to the pin on the back, but its two rings indicate that it could also be worn as a pendant."

#ArtNouveau