things boys should be able to do without being descriminated
wear skirts, wear makeup, have long hair, enjoy flowers, wear pink, be pastel-y, express emotions, wear dresses, cry, paint their nails, giggle !, do any actions considered feminine that could “break their masculinity”
Australia’s girl group ‘Marcie And The Cookies’ in London to promote their new record 'You Are My Kind’, London, 27th June 1969. The band consists of Marcie Jones, Margaret Cook, Wendy Cook, and Beverley Cook. Photo by Potter (Daily Express)
Percy hadn’t expected anyone to notice his new piercing.
After all, it was just another stud to add to the succession of silver rings that spiraled down his ear like a snake, leading up to the bright green gauge at the bottom, which he was inherently the most proud of. And out of all of the people who could have noticed the new accessory, he hadn’t expected it to be her.
“Another one, I see.”
The words were drawled over the top of a shiny, white iPhone that was covered by a bejeweled blue case, through pouty pink lips that were lined so perfectly they could’ve been done by a professional. As Percy struggled to form a response, he watched the way that she twirled a strand of curly blonde hair idly around her finger.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”
Annabeth shrugged, not looking up from her phone. “I see the same side of your beautiful face every other day, Jackson, of course I’d notice.”
It was true. Their chemistry teacher hadn’t changed the seating chart since the beginning of the year, so he and Annabeth had been lab partners for four consecutive quarters. They hadn’t talked much, unless to ask who should retrieve the phenolphthalein from the desk at the front, or whether the answer to question two was – in fact – twenty seven, and Percy was surprised that she struck up a conversation.
“We could switch seats, if you want,” he suggested. “That way, you can become acquainted with a whole new side of my face.”
“I’m fine where I am,” she stated bluntly, but Percy could’ve sworn he saw a small smile pulling at the edges of her perfectly sculpted lips.
And that’s when Percy had come to a very uncomfortable realization:
Mixed-gender fashion can be tricky. It combines traits conventionally seen as “feminine” with “masculine” traits. Here are some tips to it:
a. Start by adding one accessory from a different gender expression than the rest of the outfit. This can be done strikingly or quite subtly. Try these: high heels, a tie, tights, a watch.
b. You can upgrade from only adding one accessory to actually adding one clothing article from a different expression. Try these: a skirt, a suit blazer, a crop top, a button-down shirt.
c. Choose the form from one gender expression and the color/texture/pattern from the other. Try these: a floral business suit, pastel hiking boots.
d. Even though not a very useful tip for everyday wear, you can also divide your outfit between a feminine and a masculine half for special occasions. This division can be done vertically or horizontally.
e. Mixed-gender fashion can also be done by combining different aspects of personal grooming. Try these: facial hair and eye makeup at the same time.
Day 6 of 87 in Japan:
I got to experience of the amazing store Axes Femme and Sunshine City in Ikebukuro with some school friends. I will no doubt be wearing my finds in the next few days.
Lastly the latest sketch in my school notebook. A mori girl and what ended up being a bride and groom (though the bride and the groom are not who you’d think they’d be.) (i.e. The bride looks amazing in a tux)
Dress and Skirt: Ali express
Crochet tank: Thrifted
Draco experiments with cross-dressing and Harry finds it more than just a little sexy.
I’m not used to writing in the POV I used but I had fun with this one. Thanks for the prompt. You can find my story here at AO3.
Harry slouches in his seat, trying to keep his eyes open as Professor Binns drones on about something pertaining to the history of the Wizard’s Council… he thinks. He hasn’t really been paying attention for most of it, maybe it’s the Wizened Council, or perhaps the Witch’s Council – Harry will ask Hermione later when they have to write their papers. It isn’t as if he’s the only one, most of the class is dozing off in their chairs as the ghost keeps on in his usual monotonous way.
His eyes start to slip closed and that’s when he sees it. Well, Harry’s not really sure he’s seen clearly. Surely he’s just going insane and Malfoy’s not actually sporting netted stocking’s beneath his trousers. He inches forward in his seat to get a better look at the blonde sitting a few seats ahead and to the left of him.
There it is. A flash of the fabric catches his eye and his mouth gapes open. He’s completely entranced by the black fabric stretched over Malfoy’s pale, slim ankle. Harry shakes his head. Maybe it’s some sort of wizarding fashion.
He let’s out a loud snort and Ron elbows him hard in the ribs, the red-headed boy jolted awake by the noise, eyes dopey and confused.
“Is class over?” Ron asks with a wide yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth.
“No… no, go back to sleep, Ron,” Harry placates, not even tearing his gaze away from Malfoy’s leg. He is unable to stop looking at the criss-cross pattern peeking out from under the hem of the boy’s trouser leg, staring until class ends, his curiosity eating at him from the inside out and leaving Harry with a rather odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Flinging his padding to the side as he strips the muddy outerwear from his body, Harry strides into the change rooms, annoyed with his team. He’s been training them hard over the last few days, trying to whip them into shape for the upcoming match against Slytherin, but none of them are performing as well as he’s hoped, himself included.
He sighs and removes the rest of his clothes, heading to the showers and reaching out to turn the water on until it’s hot enough to redden his skin. He sees blonde out of the corner of his vision. Was that Malfoy? What is he doing in the change rooms?
Harry huffs. There is no reason for the blonde to be here, his team doesn’t have practice at all. He hopes the prat hasn’t been spying on his practice session.
Leaning far over to the side, no longer under the spray of the shower, he tries to see into the other section of the change rooms, gulping when he spots Malfoy’s form. Oh gods, is that a skirt? Harry quickly resumes showering, pretending he hasn’t looked at all, rubbing the grime from his body as quick as he can so he can get out of there as soon as possible and trying to ignore the fact that he has, for some reason, become half hard.
Hopefully Malfoy has left by the time he’s done. Snatching a towel from the cupboard he wraps his waist with it and heads to his locker. He’s not gone. Harry shuts his mouth tight to stop the shocked noise that wants to escape and Malfoy looks up at him with a queer, startled expression.
“D'you like my skirt, Potter?” Malfoy asks, pouting his lips at Harry and bending his knees into an elegant little pose as he smooths the midnight blue fabric down his thighs.
“I-I-I… uh, I-” he tries, eyes roving over Malfoy’s shapely, soft-looking, bare legs.
“Potter? Potter, you okay there?”
Harry just nods, swallowing hard at the flooding of saliva in his mouth. He realizes he’s probably blushing. His cock noticeably twitches beneath the towel and this mortifies him. What if Malfoy sees this rather obvious response to his skirt? Turning away, Harry grabs his clothing and flees the change room, not caring that he’s outside with nothing but a towel on and it’s kind of cold.
The chill air is good. It calms him down. He hides behind the quidditch shed where no one can see him and slips his clothes on. Harry’s fine. Really. He’s just losing his mind - it was bound to happen at some point.
Harry avoids Malfoy for days. It’s more difficult than he’d figured it would be as he has classes with the Slytherin. But, he determinedly doesn’t look his way. Okay, maybe once or twice. But Malfoy is wearing eye make-up, or something that gives the same effect that make-up would, his lashes long and dark, and making his eyes look like beacons that call out to Harry from afar.
He shakes his head and studiously continues taking notes. Potions class is not the time for ogling Malfoy. Or any boy for that matter. And Harry really should stop looking at Malfoy anyway, any minute now; he’s not gay at all, it’s just that Malfoy looks so very feminine…
“Mr. Potter! Pay attention,” Professor Snape snaps, standing directly behind him. Harry hadn’t even noticed the man’s presence. He immediately turns red in embarrassment and stutters out an apology.
The Slytherin’s snicker and Harry lowers his eyes to the table, listening to Snape proceed to drilling the the rest of the class with questions pertaining to the potion they’re about to make. Malfoy turns to stare at him, his eyebrow arched and a small smirk gracing his features. And Harry starts to perspire, feeling it bead along his upper lip, his heart beating so hard he thinks everyone will start to hear it pumping along in his chest. Eventually the boy turns away and begins preparing his ingredients. Harry wipes his sweaty palms down his trouser leg and does the same. He just hopes he doesn’t manage to blow anything up.
He isn’t the only person to notice. So he isn’t going crazy after all. It’s just that, other than the skirt that Harry supposed only he bore witness to the blonde wearing, everything he’d worn had been rather subtle, so no one had bothered to comment.
“Is that a corset?” Hermione suddenly asks, sitting across from him at their usual table. They’re at the library, working on their school work… well, in his and Ron’s cases it’s more like fighting with it.
“What?” Harry asks, confused, pushing a large tomb aside to look for the one he needs. He nudges Ron when he realizes his friend has been using it as a pillow.
“Malfoy. I think he’s wearing a corset. That’s…” Hermione’s brows come together as she tilts her head to the side to contemplate Malfoy’s look, “rather strange. But it looks oddly good.”
Harry twists his head around as far as it can go to look in the direction of Hermione’s gaze. It isn’t weird that he wants to see what she’s talking about. He’s not that interested, really. His pulse speeds up as he takes in Malfoy and his - he licks his lips - corset, sitting two tables behind them. It’s dark grey, an intricate design of some black pattern covering nearly every inch of it, and cinching his waist into an hourglass shape with little clasps in the front.
“Fuck,” Harry says, forgetting himself and instantly hardening underneath the table as he stares at Malfoy. His eyes trail along Malfoy’s bare shoulders, lingering in the curve of his collar bone, up his long, slender neck, and into light, amused eyes. Oh shit. Harry abruptly turns away, back to Hermione giving him an awkward look that bores straight through him. He gives her a sheepish smile and gathers his papers to escape.
But he can’t escape the torment. He lies awake at night trying not to let his mind imagine Malfoy and his sudden wardrobe change. Except it does any way and he stares up at the ceiling, ignoring his erection and listening to his room mates snore instead.
Harry has this melded image in his mind now, of Malfoy, wearing that corset and, merlin help him, also that pretty skirt, showing off those stockings and his pale legs, and batting his eyelashes at Harry seductively. This image of Malfoy is always seductive, giving him sultry looks and licking his lips. Harry rolls over and groans into his pillow.
He thinks that maybe Malfoy’s intentionally trying to drive him mad. Harry grinds himself into his bed, eyes shut tight as he tries to picture anything but blonde hair and grey eyes. It doesn’t work. It never works. He bites his pillow as he comes all over his sheets.
The world is against him. He doesn’t know why he’s been partnered with Malfoy in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but whoever instigated this was a very cruel person. Harry glares at the back of his Professor’s head nearly as much as he stares at Malfoy.
At least Malfoy doesn’t seem to be wearing anything that variates from their normal school wear. Although the dark red lipstick staining his mouth is rather distracting. Harry finds his eyes drawn to that mouth and he misses the Slytherin’s wand movements so many times that he’s consistently hexed instead of blocking like he’s supposed to.
Malfoy tuts at him, shaking his head and waiting for him to stand again. Harry just wants the class to end. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. Malfoy’s not supposed to get this kind of reaction from him, isn’t supposed to make him feel anything but hatred. Damn him.
And the unnerving thing is that he remains half-hard the entire time, even as Malfoy is hexing him… and Harry sure is glad that his robes cover him in the front enough to hide it. He squirms every time Malfoy bites down on his bottom lip or sucks it into his mouth in concentration. But it’s when Malfoy smirks at him as he lay sprawled across the floor, mostly in pain from the spells he’s taken, that makes his erection spring to complete readiness. He’s doomed.
It had been a big mistake. He shouldn’t have let Ron and Hermione, and the rest of his Gryffindor mates talk him into attending. At first, Harry has an alright time, talking with his friends and enjoying a drink or two, completely ignoring his recent problem to the best of his abilities. The distractions are actually quite nice. But then the Slytherin’s have to show up. And who gave them the directions to the party anyway?
Harry looks to Hermione, sipping his drink as he glares at his friend. It was probably her, she’s always talking about house unity… traitor. He sits and sulks, something he’s found he’s rather good at. But, his eyes trail Malfoy throughout the room any way. Harry doesn’t even try to stop himself, because the blonde Slytherin has had the gull to wear that skirt again… and the corset, along with those net stockings, with black, leather ankle boots that show off his lovely calves. Harry gulps his drink down. Maybe he can slip away, go back to Gryffindor tower… wank for a couple hours.
And then Malfoy turns around, flipping his medium-length hair over his bare shoulder and looking right at him. Harry’s body goes completely still. Malfoy winks at him. What the-? He feels like he’s suddenly choking.
Well, he apparently is actually choking. Dean pats him on the back sympathetically and gets up to get him another drink. Harry thanks his friend, trying to regain something of his composure back. But, Malfoy’s heading his way. Why is he coming over? Harry starts to panic, breathing heavily through his nose, trying and failing to stay calm.
He opens his mouth to respond and nothing comes out. Harry tries again. He blushes when all that comes out is an undignified ‘meep’. Malfoy doesn’t look impressed and smiles at him in a feral way, his perfect white teeth showing from behind his reddened lips, looking like he’s about to gobble Harry right up… and now he’s completely hard.
Harry gulps, locking eyes with his rival.
“Potter, come with me,” Malfoy demands, reaching out his hand for Harry to take. Harry automatically takes it, not sure what the hell he’s doing, or what Malfoy thinks he’s doing either. For all he knows this is just some giant prank. Well, if it was it was one hell of a prank.
His friends don’t even say anything as he gets up and follows Malfoy out of the Room of Requirement. He looks back at them for a second and only sees smiles on their faces, amusement clear in their eyes. And then his eyes are all for Malfoy again, watching his skirt clad arse as he pulls him from the party and into the corridors. Harry has no idea where they’re going or what will happen when they get there. And right now he couldn’t care less.
Apparently Malfoy knows the way to the Gryffindor tower. He leads Harry through the Fat Lady’s portrait, past the common room almost completely empty of the lower years, and up the stairs to Harry’s bedroom. Harry goes along with him, wondering how the blonde knows which room is his, his brain still not processing the fact that they’re heading to his bedroom.
Malfoy. Harry. In his room. Together. Alone.
And then he doesn’t have to think any more because he’s being pushed into the room, hearing the door slam behind them as Malfoy pushes him onto one of the beds. Harry doesn’t know whose it is… doesn’t care at all, because Malfoy is following him onto the bed, straddling him, capturing Harry’s mouth in a bruising kiss as he grinds his arse down against Harry’s lap.
Harry’s head is swimming. He brings his hands up to clutch at that perfectly rounded arse, groaning indecently when he cups warm flesh. His finger tips brush a little piece of fabric at the top.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asks, voice desperate and straining as much as his cock is against his trousers. Malfoy’s wearing a thong. A lacy scrap of fabric nestled between his arse cheeks… Malfoy pulls back from his lips and grins down at him wickedly and then bites down on his plump lip, batting his eye lashes demurely at him as he reaches down to slowly undo Harry’s trousers.
Harry’s eyes roll into the back of his head as, in an agonizingly slow manner, Malfoy pulls his hard length free from it’s confines.
“Oh gods. Malfoy you’re such a fucking tease,” Harry says without thought, squeezing his handful and thrusting his hips up roughly as he brings Malfoy down against him.
“You like it,” the Slytherin replies, licking his lips and smearing the red stain across his mouth making him look kind of debauched. It turns Harry on even more. He has no idea what the hell he’s doing but he can’t make himself stop.
“Do you want to fuck me, Potter?” Malfoy suddenly asks out of nowhere, pulling Harry’s head to the side by yanking on his hair, his dirty mouth trailing along Harry’s outstretched neck and most likely leaving smears of red on his skin.
He makes a strangled noise and tries to nod, his fingers digging into Malfoy’s skin as he thinks about that tight little arse sinking down on his cock.
“Is that a yes?” Malfoy questions, smirking at him again. Harry wishes he would stop doing that as it makes his cock throb and twitch. He manages to say something that sounds like ‘yes’, watching, his eyes wide, as the blonde slips two fingers into his mouth, licking and sucking them sloppily.
Malfoy leans forward, fingers popping out of his mouth, wet with saliva and almost dripping onto Harry’s chest. He can’t speak, can’t move, can’t even breath as he watches Malfoy reach behind himself. He really wants to see what Malfoy’s doing but he watches his face instead, watches his mouth go slack and his eyes darken as they start to flutter shut. The blonde hisses for a second, shifting around, and Harry pulls him down for a kiss.
A hand is lifting his penis straight up from his body, stroking him three or four times before Harry feels Malfoy’s saliva slick opening against the head.
“Oh god,” Harry hears, barely, blood rushing past his ears so that he can’t hear much of anything other than his own panting breath.
And then he’s sliding slowly up into a tight warmth. So very tight - clenching around him so hard it almost hurts – he gasps, arching up and grabbing Malfoy’s hips tightly. There’s this rocking motion as he slips further inside, nails digging into Harry’s chest. It doesn’t matter, it feels good. Harry’s inside Malfoy. Buried deep in his pulsing channel. The Slytherin is making these cute little mewling noises, his thighs tirelessly working himself down on to Harry’s length.
He notices that he’s been chanting 'fuck’ over and over again and he bites his lip to stop. Malfoy moves above him, rolling his hips, his arse rubbing against Harry’s pelvis and making them both moan. Harry’s hands go back under that little skirt, grasps that fucking amazing arse, helping to lift him up and down his aching cock.
Malfoy is the hottest thing Harry has ever seen. His undulating hips are heaven. His arse pure bliss. Those grey eyes stealing his very soul from his body. Malfoy’s kissing him again, gasping against his lips, his fingers curling into Harry’s messy hair, sucking on his bottom lip like he owned it.
They pick up speed, because how could they not, and they’re fucking frantically, Malfoy bouncing so quick and hard onto Harry that there’s this loud slapping noise of their skin meeting.
Harry scrabbles to comply, bringing a hand around Malfoy’s front and yanking at the tight fabric covering his red, leaking erection. It rips away and the skirt bunches up as Harry takes him in his hand. He can see it, Malfoy’s thick leaking cock, and it’s beautiful. Harry’s gone now, replaced by this exquiste need – a need to make Malfoy come and a need to do so himself, to pump Malfoy full of his release.
“Yes. Yes, just there. Right there, Potter. Fuck me right there.”
Obscene words and noises fall from Malfoy’s lips in a long string of incoherency after that. And Harry has to close his eyes, can’t keep looking at the blonde in his black corset with his short skirt hiked up to show Harry’s fist around his dick. It’s just too much.
He’s clutching Malfoy to him now, grinding his hips up hard… so hard, as deep as he can go. Harry comes with such a force that he sees shimmering shapes behind his eyelids. He’s coming and coming, feeling like it’s never going to stop… and Malfoy’s chanting his name – no longer Potter any more, but Harry, falling perfect from his lips like a sweet and sinful symphony.
He feels Malfoy’s hole tighten around him. Release than tighten. Again and again, milking the last of his strength from him.
“Harry, yes, yes… fuck… please, yes,” Malfoy shouts, working himself up and down unsteadily. Come shoots across Harry’s stomach, pulsing out to cover his hand and part of that blue skirt in a sticky mess. Malfoy collapses against his chest, breathing heavily, mouthing Harry’s skin as he sucks in large gulps of air.
“That was-that, that… that was-” Harry attempts to describe something of what he’s feeling. He’s just fucked Malfoy for merlin’s sake, been up his arse, screwed him silly. There has to be some sort of words for this momentous occasion.
“Just shut up, Potter,” Malfoy tells him, kissing him quiet. He stays laying on top of Harry, pulling the covers up to keep them warm, like he’s going to stay. And somehow Harry’s still inside him, all snug and perfect, feeling like he belongs there. Harry swallows the painful lump in his throat and opens his mouth to say something when the door to his room opens and his room mates come in.
“About fucking time, Harry,” Ron comments, taking in the scene of him and Malfoy under the covers. Harry freezes in shock.
“Oh thank god,” Seamus says, entering the room behind Ron, heading toward his own bed like nothing is amiss, like Harry doesn’t have his school nemesis in bed with him.
“Finally,” Dean adds, doing the same as Seamus and getting ready for bed.
Harry looks completely confused and stares at Malfoy looking for answers. The boy winks at him and shifts around to bring the blankets up even higher.
“Oh gods, why my bed, Harry?” Neville whines, looking around the room with a lost expression. And now Harry knows whose bed they’re in. He can feel Malfoy’s face against his shoulder as the Slytherin chuckles.
“Quite you,” he tells Malfoy against the curve of his shaking shoulder. He hesitantly presses a kiss there, relaxing as Neville takes his bed for the night. Harry kisses his way up Malfoy’s neck until his lips caress the skin behind his ear.
“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry whispers.
“What Potter?” Malfoy whispers back at him, eyes gleaming at him in the dark.
I am Rashaun and I go to the school district of Elizabeth
Board of Education and last week I really had the desire to wear a skirt. This
is my first time wearing a skirt and upon wearing it, I felt really comfortable
in my skin. I felt like I was finally able to express the real side of me. I
decided that the next day I would wear the skirt to school. Now, I was fully
aware of the blatant bigotry and side comments of me wearing the skirt but I was
prepared. So I came to school with pants on (I wore the skirt underneath the
pants so my parents weren’t aware of it.) During homeroom I went straight to
the bathroom and wore my skirt. As soon as I opened the door to leave the
bathroom, I was exposed to some people giving me an side eye. I walk to my
class and out of nowhere I am being hugged by a girl who commented,
“You are so brave for wearing the skirt.” For once I felt
welcomed for being who I was. Throughout the day I was receiving various
compliments and as well as the negative comments. Comments like,
“What the fuck are you wearing.” Or “Why are you wearing
that skirt, you’re a guy!” Though I felt slightly saddened by the lack of
understanding a millennial would get for a guy wearing the skirt I just
proceeded to go to my classes. I should address that I am gender fluid so I
have no problem with the pronouns I receive. Continuing on towards the end of
the day, I change back to my black pants and used my locker. This is by the
time the vice principal came to me to say,
“Are you the guy who wore the skirt?” She asked accompanied by
the security guard on that floor and then I realized what the conversation would
start. I calmly said yes and then she continued to say and this is not precisely
“ I understand that you are trying to express you
individuality, but you are posing a distraction to the other children…
(Something of the line of don’t wear the skirt again)”. I proceeded to calmly
say yes I won’t wear the skirt ever again and sorry.
not understand where I am posing a distraction to other kids for wearing a
piece of fabric. I was clearly following the schools uniform code which clearly
says black pants or a black skirt and so I did not by any chance break any
rules. I would understand if I was clearly posing a threat to a person’s
education but I wasn’t, I was just wearing a skirt and continuing my life. After that I went home and felt extremely
embarrassed. Why wasn’t I allowed to wear the clothing that made me feel
comfortable and that was appropriate. It wasn’t like I was wearing a skirt of a
color other than black, I was wearing the uniform.
I go to
a school of art and the population is mainly people of the LGBT spectrum. I
would expect a school that focuses on a person’s individuality and diversity to
allow and fully support a person’s desire to wear clothing that is socially the
clothing of the other sex. I was unexpected at the lack of support in the
school and how the school didn’t allow me to feel comfortable. I am at a point
in time where I am discovering myself and a skirt can simply make me identify
myself a little more. To others it may just be a simple thing as a skirt but to
me and many others a skirt can be a gateway to finally coming to terms with
yourself and feeling like you’re free to express yourself while feeling comfortable.
(Picture of me in the skirt.
Posing no threat to someone’s education.)
She doesn’t pull away, and it feels like a big deal, that they’re having a conversation like this in his room, alone. And she’s not putting distance between them. “It’s not a big deal. Richard calls me by name, as do most of my other suitors.”
Heat shivers across his skin, turns his blood to fire. “I’m not one of your suitors.”
Nessa shifts on his bed, turning more fully toward him. Her leg is all the way crossed in front of her now, her other knee pressed to the corner of the mattress. Her expression is obstinate, but tentative. A warm, stubborn glow about her. “Is that too forward of me?” she asks softly.
Oliver squeezes her hand. “Probably.”
She shrugs and he watches in awe as she turns cherry red in the face, eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned into a pout. “Okay. You can forget I said that, then. I guess. Sorry. I didn’t…I mean, I didn’t - Nevermind.”
“Nessa,” he murmurs, and her eyes widen. For a moment, he’s worried that he said the wrong thing. That maybe he’d confessed without thinking about it. Its entirely possible, with how deeply he feels for her always sitting so close to the surface. His heart stops briefly at the look on her face before he realizes that it was just her name that had fallen from his lips.
It hovers in the air between them, the tone of his voice having given it a dark, warm inflection, like candlelight and chocolate. The lantern glow flickers against her freckled skin, her golden hair, the lavender color of her skirt. Her expression slowly closes off, and he forgets to remember how she had looked at him without her walls up.
“I should go,” she says, drawing her hand away. He knew it had been inevitable, just as he knew he probably was just as close to her as he would ever get. Nessa stands, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, averting her gaze. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your evening, Your Grace. Thank you for lending me your ear.”
“My ear is yours whenever you need it, my lady,” he says, scrambling to regain his mental footing.
She bobs in an awkward - yet adorable - curtsey that almost has her tripping on the hem of her skirt. “Thank you. Goodnight.” He watches as she nearly seems to run from the room, her gown swishing behind her, the door almost slamming behind her. Oliver blinks at the door before letting out a groan of frustration and tossing himself back onto the bed.