#& the cut crystal glassware

[a-d-nox]

wyrd web: what to gift a person based these three numbers

this is just a theory of mine because these bubbles of the matrix should represent earthly desires. this is not to say that you can't enjoy things not listed in your category / under your energetic number. this is simply what i believe people with these numbers would enjoy receiving as a gift.

2 - the high priestess

things that support their spiritual practices, things that support feminine health (hum women's probiotics bundle, honey pot oral vaginal care probiotic, etc), bake goods / baking gear, barbecue sauce sampler / grilling gear (for the dads pt 2), bar in a jar (for those of drinking age) or really any beverage tester kit, bath/spa kit, beach vacation, boat, cruise, careof for brain support, truly nice melons boob butter, candles (it doesn't have to be yankee candle either - bent candles, spiced votive candle, etc) or candle making kit, imported cheeses, clothing staples (blue jeans, black turtleneck, etc), juice cleanse or other things that support digestive health, cooking classes or meal kits (hellofresh, homechef, etc), a tarot/astrology/mediumship reading, or outdoor cameras or other home security tools

3 - the empress

pillows, stuffed animals, rose quartz, personal celebrity cameo, clothing, tickets for an art museum tour, ballet tickets or classes, art supplies, makeup pallets and/or brushes, flowers, jewelry, candy/sweets, money, bells / wind chimes, clothing, designer pieces, cosmetics, dolls, a trip to a fancy restaurant, fruit basket / dried fruits, gardening supplies, jewelry, concert/orchestra tickets, poetry book, tickets to a play, a purse, lingerie (if y'all are close like that), trip to a vineyard (for those of drinking age), couples' dancing classes, or a wallet

4 - the emperor

skincare, rock climbing voucher or some other physical activity they enjoy, an adrenaline rush activity (skydiving, bungee jumping, etc), careof for brain support, crafted wooden objects (cutting boards, tables, etc), coffee trials/samplers, sunglasses, blue light glasses, hair care products/supplies, scalp treatments/care, oral health care (thera breath, whitening products, etc), meditation app subscriptions / in person sessions for meditation, or a planner

5 - the hierophant

moss agate (don't question how random that sounds this is some intuitive stuff), artwork, an architectural tour, beauty products/supplies, historically significant objects, pastries or sweets/candies, earrings, sour dough starter kit, jewelry in general, piano/organ lessons, singing lessons, a wallet, or any classes where they can learn something fun and new to them

6 - the lovers

car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), bicycle or bicycle accessories/gear, books (the more educational the better), briefcase / work tote, bus tickets for a day trip, gym membership or soulcycle classes, crystals, a standing desk / cute office supplies (for the work girlies both those who work in office and from home), hand & foot message, manicure voucher, newspaper subscription (i am a fan of new york times, washington post, and the new yorker), language classes or rosetta stone subscription, magazines subscription, merchandise from their favorite singer / group / tv show / movie, train trip, or we're not really strangers card packs

7 - the chariot

gardening supplies, hermit crab, baked goods, bath products / beauty products, boat, cruise, car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), truly nice melons boob butter, juice cleanse, gut health thrive market kit, glassware / blown glass, stuff they need / need for their home (security system, chest freezer, etc), hotel or bed & breakfast stay, kitchenware, lake trip, pearls, real estate / land, restaurant voucher / gift card, silver jewelry, shopping gift cards, a trip, or intention journal

8 - strength

amusement park tickets, supplies for their passion projects, ballroom dancing classes, tea sampler, games (video games or board games), movie theater gift card, personal celebrity cameo, flower garden supplies/seeds, stuff for their pet, or a belt

9 - the hermit

pet related gifts (if they have a pet that is), bookshelves (they probably need one), juice cleanse, gut health thrive market kit, a cat, clothing, oral health products (thera breath, whitening products, etc), stationary, emergency preparedness (ready to eat meals, fire blanket, etc), cook books, dining ware (new plates/bowls, cups / glassware, silverware, etc), food subscriptions (home chef, hello fresh, pickle of the month club, bokksu japanese snack box, etc), careof subscription, gloves, herb garden kit, a one way ticket to anywhere, or a hiking trip

10 - wheel of fortune

incense, cleansing herbs, bow and arrow, sapling, land, dried berries, budget book, gym/exercise membership, religious/spiritual/philosophical books, poker set, cloth (if they like sowing), wool (if they like weaving, crocheting, and/or knitting), wool clothing, a coat, trip to a country or place they have never been, oral health products (thera breath, whitening products, etc), etiquette classes/books (this is great for the traveler because they are often interested in learning customs before going on their trip), figs, fruit basket (like edible arrangements), honey sampler / royal jelly, horseback riding lessons, lottery tickets, merchandise from their favorite singer / group/ tv show / movie, shoes, really any game, any subscription they have not tried, things that support their spiritual practices, or book on positive mindset

11 - justice

personal celebrity cameo, tickets to a ballet or to an art gallery, air purifier, portable heating pad, spa voucher, cosmetics, lingerie (if y'all are close), closet organizational items (space saving hangers, linen bins, accessory hanger, etc), pastries and sweets, diamonds (perhaps propose to your lover), a dress, tickets to a fashion show or exhibit, flowers, a luxury chair, jewelry, concert tickets, poetry books, any quartz pieces, chocolates dipped strawberries, hair extensions, logic puzzles, a voucher for an escape room, or a kitchen/baking scale

12 - the hanged man

bar in a jar (if they are of drinking age), a book on angel numbers, a book on natural medical remedies, ballet classes or tickets to see a ballet, bath bombs and other bath goodies (salt, bath table, candles, sugar scrub, bath teas, etc), beach vacation, tea or coffee sampler, butterfly farm kit with caterpillars, disposable camera or a camera they would like (polaroid, filming, etc), scientific kits (geode kit, grow your own crystals, etc), cigars (for the dads in your life), unsolved mysteries or crime kit, dance classes, smutty/romance/fantasy books, fairy garden, a tarot/astrology/mediumship reading, budget book, makeup palettes or other cosmetic they enjoy, concert tickets, paint, poetry books, clue the board game, a pass to an indoor pool, a book on poppet making, meditation membership or a voucher for in-person sessions, or something to support their curiosity for new spiritual insight

13 - death

hermit crab, a jumping spider, a reptile, homeopathic books for natural cures and remedies, operation the game, butcherbox subscription, a book on how to cook and trim meats, beginners chemistry kit, a colon cleanse, sea monkeys, unsolved mysteries or crime kit, philosophy of death books, books on magic, magic the gathering the card game, period products (portable heating pad, the diva cup, etc), poisonous plants (belladonna, foxglove, lily of the valley, etc), a frog pond, a scorpion, a snake, a burr/boo basket (these people love seasonal stuff), or marie kondo's life changing magic of tidying up

14 - temperance

a hunting trip, bow and arrows, books on religion or philosophy, book of devotions, book on dream meanings (hello, freud haha), a certification course or college class, horseback riding lessons (for the newbie or a younger sibling or your child/niece/nephew), horse drawn carriage ride (for the couples *smirk*), logic puzzles, things that support their goals, or a book of angel number meanings

15 - the devil

a fan or air conditioning unit, if you have the land for it a cow/horse/goat, kinetic tape, arnicare bruise cream (this is a joke... unless...), coal or a diamond (this is also a joke... unless...), a clock or a watch, cuticle trimmer (and other nail care things), room darkening curtains, a happy lamp, lotion/cream, hat/scarf/gloves, hair products (extensions, shampoo subscription, etc), leather fashion-ware, gardening supplies, ice maker, or a juice cleanse

16 - the tower

tiger balm or other pain relieving ointment, acrobatic/gymnastic classes, homeopathic books for natural cures and remedies, first-aid kit, baking kits, barbecue sauce sampler, barbecue sauce sampler / grilling gear (for the dads), gift card for haircut, dollar shave club (for the dads pt 2), metal works (spoon handle rings, metal roses, etc), boxing lessons, boxing match tickets or monster truck tickets, butcherbox subscription, a book on how to cook and trim meats, crafted wooden objects (cutting boards, tables, etc), cactus plant, beginners chemistry kit, cookbook, pocket knife or leatherman/multitool, tool kit, jenga, emergency kit, food, first aid kit, merchandise for their favorite superhero(es), electric lighter, liqour or bar in a jar (if they are of drinking age), rock music (a vinyl or concert tickets), pepper plant, pipe for smoking (if they like to smoke that is - my grandfather had a collection), lego kit, or lincoln logs

17 - the star

friendship bracelets, a fan / ac unit, model airplane, flight lessons, compression stockings/socks, architectural tour, astrology reading, car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), club memberships (golf, racket ball, sam's, etc), electronic devices (a new phone, amazon fire stick, solar portable charger, etc), movie on blue-ray or dvd, movie gift card, a camera (polaroid or another type they have been eyeing), disposable cameras, camera gear, shadow work journal, aesthetically pleasing bluetooth retro radio, streaming service subscription, a book on health or mental health, or a book on positivity

18 - the moon

abstract art, bar in a jar (if they are of legal age), a fish, a fish tank, tickets to an aquarium, cocktail book (if they are of legal age), a fishing trip (for the dads), book of conspiracy theories, the conspiracy theory map, a crystal ball, unsolved mysteries or crime kit, a jellyfish, a tarot/astrology/mediumship reading, a camera (polaroid or another type they have been eyeing), disposable cameras, camera gear, poetry book, hydroponic starter system, games that involve bluffing (clue, poker, herd mentality, etc), shoes, sleeping eye mask, silk pillow cases, new bed sheets, bonnet, socks, a computer keyboard, typewriter, a book on shadow work, a puppy, or a book on dream meanings

19 - the sun

maine coon, autobiographical books, ballroom dancing lessons, poker set, oral health products (thera breath, whitening products, etc), card games, personal celebrity cameo, circus fruit basket, chocolate gold coins, classes that encourage creativity (create it and break it sessions, pottery classes, etc), jewelry or an engagement ring (if it's been more than 2 years y'all should know what you are doing at this point), flowers, indoor herb garden, tickets to race of some sort (cars, horse, sporting events, etc), sporting equipment, ivy plant, a pottery painting voucher / gift certificate, or something for their passion project / hobby

20 - judgment

a reptile, ant farm, a guide on astral projection, operation the game, the chameleon game, clue game, unsolved case files game, grand theft auto video game, assassins creed video game, dungeons and dragons the game, yahtzee, emergency preparedness kit, magician kit, poisonous plants (belladonna, foxglove, lily of the valley, etc), the divine comedy, puzzles, a rodent of some sort, or lingerie (if y'all are close)

21 - the world

gardening supplies, acoustic guitar, air conditioning or fan, architectural tour, teddy bear, snow globe, boots, calendar or planner, supergoop (sun protectant) products, wooden objects (cutting board, chest, box, etc), carpet, clay (air drying or via kiln), a clock or watch, compression stockings/socks, collectible coins, pain patches or kinetic tape, crystals, budget book, lotions for dry skin, dried fruits, gloves/mittens, hair care products, ice machine or ice making trays, ice cream subscription, pottery classes, rain coat, real estate or land, zen sand garden, sculpture, or snake

22 - the fool

flight lessons, model airplane, a flight to anywhere, car stuff (seat covers, cup holder coasters, etc), an astrology reading, bath products, biking gear, movie theatre gift card, clock or watch, club memberships (golf, racket ball, sam's, etc), mood lighting or strip lights, a train ride, fun magnets, motorcycle accessories/training, microphone (maybe they are filming or recording something), patterns for cross stitch / knitting / crocheting, a camera (polaroid or another type they have been eyeing), disposable cameras, camera gear, stuff for the tv (surround sound, sound bar, streaming subscription, etc), or classes for one of their interests

like what you read? leave a tip and state what post it is for! please use my "suggest a post topic" button if you want to see a specific pac/pile next. if you'd like my input on how i read a specific card or what i like to ask my deck, feel free to use the ask button for that as well.

click here for the masterlist

click here for more web of wyrd related posts

want a personal reading? click here to check out my reading options and prices.

© a-d-nox 2023 all rights reserved

[raihann1]

˚ ༘ ೀ˚🎄Christmas Dinner w/ the creeps🍽ˎˊ˗

-------------------------------------------

The snowfall outside the Slendermansion painted a serene portrait of the approaching holiday season. Inside, the warm glow of candles and the rich aroma of a roasting turkey filled the air. Slenderman had been meticulously preparing a feast for his peculiar guests. Each place setting at the long, dark wooden table sparkled with silverware and crystal glasses, and a festive garland of holly and ivy wrapped around the centerpiece. The quiet clinking of dishes and the muffled sound of a distant bell harmonized with the peaceful ambiance.Suddenly, the tranquility shattered like the delicate glassware on the sideboard. Jane and Jeff, seated directly across from each other, broke into a heated stare down. The tension grew as palpable as the steam rising from the mashed potatoes. Without warning, they both lunged at each other, their fists colliding with a ferocity that shook the very foundations of the house. The other residents looked on in shock, frozen in their seats. Sally, the youngest among them, burst into tears as Lucy and Lazari rushed to her side, trying to calm her trembling form.Masky, ever the composed one, took the chaos as an opportunity to excuse himself for a "smoke break." He strode out the back door, his trench coat billowing behind him as he stepped into the frigid night, leaving a trail of quiet dignity in his wake. Meanwhile, Laughing Jack and Laughing Jill, seemingly unfazed by the brawl, simply vanished into thin air, leaving their plates of food untouched. The suddenness of their departure sent a shiver down the spines of the remaining guests, who were already on edge from the escalating fight between Jane and Jeff.As the sound of their fists hitting flesh echoed through the dining room, the pitcher of water on the table trembled precariously. Toby, qho was rarely clumsy had been watching the scene with a mix of fascination. He tightly put his hands around his plate, his movements grew erratic until he lost his grip and tumbled to the floor, the pitcher following suit. The crash and splash of shattering glass and water added to the cacophony, and the room grew eerily silent as the water spread out like a dark stain across the floor.In the aftermath of the sudden commotion, Kagekao, the creature known for his dramatic entrances, took a tumble down the grand staircase. His elongated limbs flailed wildly, knocking over the banister and sending a cascade of ornaments and lights with him as he plummeted. The thunderous impact of his fall was matched only by the horror in his eyes as he lay there, unmoving. The tension in the room thickened, but Slenderman remained unfazed, his gaze never leaving the feast laid out before him.Clockworks, the resident with a penchant for the dramatic, took the opportunity to make her own exit. She stood up with a flourish of his coat and a dramatic groan, flipping everyone the bird before sprinting out the door. The sound of her retreat was quickly replaced by the echo of the slammed door, leaving a lingering silence in her wake. Jason, the stoic figure who usually hovered in the shadows, looked on with a mix of disgust and disappointment at the unfolding chaos. He was about to leave the dining room and the absurdity behind him when Ben, in a fit of mischief, stuck his foot out, tripping Jason in his haste. Ben's laughter was cut short, however, as he realized he had just made an enemy out of someone much more dangerous than himself.In the midst of the chaos, Homicidal Liu stepped forward, attempting to break up the brawl between Jeff and Jane. His eyes flickered with a mix of anger and concern as he grabbed Jeff's shoulders, trying to pull him away from the fight. "That's enough!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap in the tense room. Jeff, fueled by a sudden burst of adrenaline and the instinct to protect his sibling, broke free from Liu's grip and lunged at Jane again.

[lespetitesmortsde]

It's another regular, slow evening at the gay bar Imogen works at. Until a hot, tall, breathtaking stranger walks in.

or

A Gay Bar AU.

Day 17 of Imodnovember. 17 AUs down, 13 to go. Prompt: Lavender

Not to be a walking stereotype, but Imogen’s job includes polishing the glassware – so sometimes, when life-changing moments happen, she is, in fact, polishing a glass with a towel. It’s part of that bartender life.

It’s one of her favourite rocks glasses – one actually made out of crystal, hand-crafted, with rainbow coloured shards setting the classic cut pattern apart from other glassware. It’s a gorgeous glass, perfect for serving clear spirits and cocktails – or anything, really, if it was up to Imogen.

Plus, it’s subtle. Just in case someone didn’t know that walking into Lavender is walking into the gayest place in town. The town is kind of famous for the iconic gay bar, but, Imogen allows, that’s really only if you already run in those circles. She doesn’t even need to look at herself to know she’s playing her part to a tee: crisp white button-up, black suspenders, black slacks, and her company-issue lavender tie. The paper clip tie clip is hers, though. As is the black felt fedora – that one’s practical as well as aesthetic, though. It’s a sweaty job.

[Read the rest on AO3]

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

Panaceum deleted scene

A yo, I promised to post the part I cut out during the editing because it was bad for the narration flow. Essentially, at first instead of having the whole conversation with Angel via text, Valentino invited him to the studio, just to exercise his control and waste Angel's time. It would be in character. But storytelling wise it was an unnecessary complication that didn't do any favor to pacing.

So, yeah, I would say "enjoy" but it's just Valentino being a terrible person so I just say: tw // abuse

Valentino sneaks out of Vox’s apartment and heads to his office. Though the office might be a misleading label. This is the place of pleasure and power, not paperwork. Plush, velvet-upholstered sofas beckon invitingly, their curves accentuated by the soft glow of dimmed, amber lighting. A mirrored wall stretches from floor to ceiling, reflecting the room's decadent ambiance and adding an illusion of endless space. Against one wall stands a well-stocked bar, gleaming with crystal decanters and polished glassware. The rich aroma of aged whiskey and exotic liqueurs fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of incense and musky cologne. In the center of the room, a small pole dance platform awaits – an invitation for potential new stars, and a promise to Valentino’s guests.

As he waits for Angel Dust, Valentino puts on some music – one of his own albums – and methodically removes all the VoxTek cameras from the ceiling, one by one.

Their absence is the first thing Angel notices upon his arrival. Stepping through the door, he quickly surveys the room, likely gauging the level of danger he’s in, and immediately questions:

“No show today?” His tone carries a hint of challenge, but Valentino detects the undercurrent of curiosity in his voice. Understandably so – everyone in Vees' inner circle knows that Valentino is always under the watchful eyes of VoxTek cameras and has never expressed dissatisfaction with it. He’s a performer after all, always more than willing to put on a show for his biggest fan.

Valentino arches an eyebrow, his gaze piercing and judgmental as he ignites his cigarette. "Nothing worth watching. Jesus, look how fat you got. Giving up coke doesn't serve you well, Angel Cakes," he comments with a cruel smile, the smoke swirling around him.

"What do you want, Val?" Angel responds, his tone steady despite the tension radiating from his body. He holds Valentino's gaze, unwilling to yield an inch. Yet, beneath his facade of confidence he visibly struggles against an invisible force, as if he's constantly battling against the weight of Valentino's influence. He tries to convince himself that he feels nothing, but it's just pointless. Valentino has woven himself into every fiber of Angel's being, leaving an indelible mark of his control.

“Sit down.” Commands Valentino instead of answering and Angel immediately sinks into the big, comfortable chair, almost pushed into it with the contract's bonding force. Valentino gestures toward the large, golden bowl brimming with cocaine. "Treat yourself."

Angel must be fucking crazy if he thinks that he can play tough with his owner.

"I'll pass," he retorts almost mechanically, though his lack of conviction is palpable. Despite Angel's efforts to project self-control, Valentino notices the way he clenches his fist, nails biting into his palm. The scent of his discomfort and craving hangs heavy in the air and Valentino savors it, inhaling deeply. That’s the best part of playing with addicts - no matter how good they are at the game, they possess one glaring weakness that can be exploited to devastating effect. It's this knowledge that crowns the man who deals in addictions as the true king of the city.

"You know I don't like to be denied," purrs Val, the smoke from his cigarette swirling around Angel's face like a sinister caress. "Maybe I should just..." With a swift motion, he reaches out and grasps a fistful of Angel's hair. Hard. "Put your ugly face into it?"

Angel doesn't even flinch. His breath trembles slightly, but there's a calmness about him that unsettles Valentino. Could he be on sedatives? It’s not possible his Angel has become so numb and boring.

"Wouldn't be a very constructive talk then, would it?" Angel suggests, prompting a cheerful yet deeply infuriated laugh from Valentino. Laughing it off is the only way he can prevent himself from succumbing to the urge to lash out and check how many hits to the table Angel’s head needs before it cracks open. It's maddening when his toys fail to perform as expected.

"Look at you, you grew some balls," Valentino remarks, releasing Angel's hair and ruffling it affectionately. "But you are right. I need you to arrange a meeting with the Radio Demon."

Angel frowns, adjusting his suit with a hint of theatrical irritation.

“Can't you like, do it yourself?” he asks and he fucking dares to be annoyed with Valentino’s demand.

“Oh what do you think I should do? Call his hell phone? Message him on sinstagram? Visit in person?” Velntino snarks, rolling his eyes. “You stupid bitch.”

Angel simply nods, acknowledging Valentino's response, and takes a moment to consider his own options. "Yeah, I can ask him," he concedes, probably realizing he has little to lose by doing Val this favor and perhaps even less to gain by refusing. "But you know how he is. Can't really force him to do anything."

"No need to force, though I'd like to see you trying," Valentino huffs, exhaling another cloud of red smoke that envelops Angel's body like a possessive embrace. "Just tell him I want to make a deal," he adds, noting the surprise in Angel's widened eyes as they once again dart towards the broken cameras.

"Me. No one else," Valentino clarifies before Angel can voice his unspoken question. It's amusing how his pet always skirts around mentioning Vox's name, as if uttering it could summon him, despite the fact that Vox's invisible presence has long been intertwined with their relationship. Or perhaps because of it.

"But if I do it, you can't tell him I had anything to do with it," Angel asserts, a hint of fear finally creeping into his voice.

“Fuck, I really was too soft on you if you are seriously more afraid of Vox than me,” Valentino scoffs, shaking his head. But honestly, understands. He has never been able to bring himself to finish Angel's miserable existence - both, out of sentiment and cruelty. Vox however, jealous of Valentino's attention just waits for the right moment when Val gets bored with his doll and he will be finally permitted to dismember it and burn what remains. He explicitly told Angel once, because that much Valentino allowed him. Vox is always so entreating when he lets his sadism to shine through the perfect mask.

"You know that if he learns that I helped you betray him—" Angel begins, anxiously nibbling on his sleeve, but before he can finish, Valentino smacks the table with such force that it cracks under his palm.

"I'm not a sellout bitch like you," Valentino growls, baring his teeth, like he was ready to rip Angel’s neck.

"Okay. Okay. I..." Angel takes a deep breath, desperately searching for the right words to defuse the escalating tension. He realizes a few seconds too late how badly he fucked up. It's enough to instill genuine fear of what he might have triggered. “Misinterpreted the situation.”

"Like hell," Valentino hisses, fixing him with a murderous glare. "Now fuck off before I make this meeting about you."

Angel doesn't need to be told twice. He scrambles off the armchair, finally released from Valentino's earlier command, and hastens out of the room. As the door closes behind him, Valentino sinks back onto the couch, lighting another cigarette in an attempt to quell his emotions. He knows he just needs to see this through to the end, and then Vox will be the one left worrying about plans and consequences. Oh, Vox. Vox would undoubtedly be ecstatic if Valentino got rid of Angel. Perhaps it would be the definitive proof to the Media Overlord that Valentino's heart belongs solely to him, finally securing Vox's confidence in their relationship. Though he definitely would be disappointed that he didn’t have a chance to turn the last hours of Angel’s life into some fucked up snuff movie. But one can’t have everything.

Valentino finishes his cigarette and decides to get to work. He must keep himself busy waiting for Alastor’s answer, and cameras must roll if he doesn’t want to listen to Vox whining when he will finally check the books again.

[pancakeke]

I always thought "crystal" was glassware cut all fancy to make it look like faceted crystal. nope, it is a different type of glass that has lead in it...

[boundlss]

IMIRAY LORE : PART 1 !

to be honest i've wanted to make a post like this for a while now for my mutuals who aren't involved in my campaign !! if you have looked at my ocs page, you might have seen a HUGE list of characters under the umbrella of the world of imiray, which is the name for my homebrew d&d setting!

imiray exists as a universe created by "champions" from the infinitely-leveled abyss (the d&d version of this with some variance to fit my lore). though it's now ruled over by a pantheon of gods, it carries magical and abyssal echoes from when it was a nascent world born from darkness.

much like in wuwa, the gathering of people in a place manifests the spirit of the population in the form of a dragon, except i swear i made this lore before i knew it was a thing in wuwa please just trust me.

the current landscape of imiray is controlled by six major powers with their own unique political relationships!

currently, the relationships between nations are as follows:

aiva and ephelion are engaged in something of a cold war following an attack on aiva that devastated its lands nearly a century ago, which ephelion has threatened to repeat should the upper areas of aiva become habitable again.

aiva, hanazira, and vaskal are allied with eachother.

ephelion and oskolda are allied with eachother.

miri has neither allies nor enemies; most people in the world are content to pretend it doesn't exist outside of its occasional exports.

each region will hopefully get its own post in the future but i'll elaborate a little bit on them here too.

slightly more detailed lore under the cut !

001 . OSKOLDA

The largest of the regions. Most of the land is covered by a sprawling desert, though the east side of the mountain range makes way for a hot but temperate environment. People in Oskolda are considered to be very wealthy in material possessions and mostly live in sprawling cities to escape the unnaturally scorching desert heat.

The population of Oskolda is twofold, as it is home to not only the surface-dwellers who view themselves as blessed and fortunate to be able to withstand the desert sun, but also vast and numerous civilizations located deep underground. The rulers of Oskolda claim dominion over these cavern-dwelling neighbors, but the people of the caverns reject Oskolda unilaterally.

CAPITAL CITY: Glima - Home to the dragon "Ziemon", who manifests as either a Gold or Red ancient dragon.

MAJOR RELIGIONS: Worship of the Wealth-Keeper. Worship of the Blinding Light. Worship of the Stoneshaper. Worship of the Darkness Everlasting.

LOCAL ANOMALY: The Three Mounds. Formations wider and more sprawling than ordinary mountains who cause mass confusion, pain, and nausea to all who step close. Said by some to be ancient hoards from past civilizations warded against interlopers, though nobody living aside from the Gods knows what they are actually protecting.

NOTABLE EXPORTS: Gold, diamond, art & music, glassware.

002 . VASKAL

An ancient nation that used to occupy much of Oskolda's land before a wide rebellion and conquering left it the smallest of the current nations. It is forested and temperate, and considered a secretive safe-haven against magical scrying.

Most civilizations in Vaskal are formed in or around the large "Kalmarin Crystal forests" that occupy a large portion of its land, as these crystals have a quality that repels all forms of magic. Otherwise, small groups of people exist near the coast or the colder southwestern plains.

CAPITAL CITY: Wyr - Home to the Steel and Green dragon, called Palia in its steel form or Molzyny in its Green form.

MAJOR RELIGIONS: Worship of the Darkness Everlasting. Worship of the Earnest Infatuation. Worship of the All-knowing.

LOCAL ANOMALY: A large mountain which rests on the Vaskali-Hanaziran border. The Vaskali call it "Naylas"; it is constantly shrouded in a thick fog, and all who have attempted to navigate it have ended up missing, dead, or mad.

NOTABLE EXPORTS: Books, weapons.

003. HANAZIRA

A large, sprawling plain home to a number of large and small civilizations that collectively refer to themselves as "The Free Peoples of Hanazira". Those in Hanazira are considered to be free-spirited and determined, but generally looked down upon by nations of conquerors such as Oskolda for their strange alliances.

Most settlements in Hanazira are nomadic and travel with food and weather, though there are many exceptions to this. They adapt around advancing technology, integrating it seamlessly into their lives but not changing their way of living to bend to its whims.

CAPITAL CITY: Tawzi - Home to the Silver dragon Daro, who lacks a chromatic counterpart. To be noted that Tawzi itself is an independent civilization that was elected leader of the council of Hanazira, and four other major civilizations (Meyin, Paoma, Senka, Lozani) govern the people alongside it.

MAJOR RELIGIONS: Worship of the Heart of the Old Forest. Worship of the Blinding Light. Worship of the Ever-flowing Blood. Worship of the Vagabond.

LOCAL ANOMALY: A large chasm known locally as the Home of the Beast. It inflicts debilitating nightmares on those who roam near it, and its area of effect spreads more every year. The mountain "Naylas" is also partly in Hanazira, though Hanazirans call it "Shiranako" in the common language of Hanazira.

NOTABLE EXPORTS: Grain, fruits, vegetables, game animals, cloth, furs.

004. MIRI

A strange place that behaves like a contained bubble of the Feywild. Nothing particularly makes much sense here, and travel into it is entirely forbidden because of the danger that is posed by entering its borders. Thankfully, the fey magic seems to have been completely contained within a set perimeter, but many people in Miri are trapped inside.

Most of Miri's population inhabits a city built into the structure of an unnaturally large dormant volcano, which erupts a strange, boiling pink liquid rather than Lava. Other civilizations exist largely unaffiliated to the capital of Miri known collectively as the Smugglers, though dissent is made difficult by the fact that Miri is ruled over by a God.

CAPITAL CITY: Lavanna - home to the Copper or Black dragon known as Riyva, who has been mutated to suit the environment around it.

MAJOR RELIGIONS: Worship of the Mischief-Maker. Worship of the Heart of the Old Forest.

LOCAL ANOMALY: Just about everything, but most prevalent is the liquid produced by the volcano which bleeds out into surrounding areas, which bolsters strength and removes inhibitions. It's a popular liquor, but drinking it too much or frequently can render a person essentially braindead, though they still move and walk aimlessly.

NOTABLE EXPORTS: None.

005. EPHELION

A desolate tundra. Its people are primarily seen as scholars, and it is known to have a high rate of technological and magical advancement among the nations, causing much unrest. Its people are considered very erudite, but generally about as cold as its climate. It has a notably strict regime, second only to Miri, though it doesn't have a monarchy.

Ephelion's population exists mostly in efficient, consolidated cities that are refined and minimal. Each city possesses multiple universities and reconstruction for better buildings is extremely common.

CAPITAL CITY: Olobel - home to the White dragon Blanca, whose metallic form has not been observed.

MAJOR RELIGIONS: Worship of Death. Worship of the All-knowing.

LOCAL ANOMALY: The Five Spires. Large obelisks that emit a faint humming and cause vertigo, dizziness, and memory loss to those working near them. A century ago, scholars in Ephelion unveiled the secret of the spires and unleashed a devastating attack that wiped out most of Aiva's population from the southernmost one.

NOTABLE EXPORTS: Magic items, marble, quartz, machinery.

006. AIVA

A temperate and tropical nation. Following a devastating attack from Ephelion, most of its population lives at the southern peninsula. Its people are generally seen as diverse explorers who rival Hanazira's sense of freedom, though this is largely only public perception.

Aiva's only thriving civilization is the crowded city of Aerath, which is split into three districts---the floating islands to the west, the land in the center, and the underwater civilization to the east. The rest of the country is still largely inhabitable.

CAPITAL CITY: Aerath - Home to the Blue and Brass dragon, called either Emiran or Sylna.

MAJOR RELIGIONS: Worship of the Watcher from the Waves, Worship of the Heart of the Old Forest (formerly), Worship of the Vagabond (formerly).

LOCAL ANOMALY: The blue wasteland. Caused by Hanazira's attack; all life was turned an unnatural glowing blue and summarily decimated. Anyone who enters the wasteland is afflicted with Fading, which progresses with contact. Fading causes memory loss both of the afflicted person and of the afflicted's memories in other people's minds, eventually causing the afflicted to be forgotten entirely, turning into a hostile wandering "ghost" with semi-permeability. Fading is contagious through wounds. A great act of sacrifice by the Vagabond saved a majority of those afflicted by way of the creation of Changelings.

NOTABLE EXPORTS: Fish, salt.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone : Limpany I

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem OC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Limpany I: Business, The Fine Institution

The story begins, as many do in nineteenth century America, with business magnates and robber barons.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Next

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done? I've fallen in love with a man on the run Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you, please Don't take that sinner from me Oh, don't take that sinner from me.

- The Civil Wars, “Devil’s Backbone”

--

“I do believe that this is the beginning of a beneficial partnership, Archibald.”

Crystal glassware clinks, as two men proceed to sip the amber liquid contained within. One of the men clears his throat, pulling slightly on his silken tie at his neck. “I agree. The output of the mines is too large at this point without having reliable transportation down the Lannahechee.”

“Good. My office will confirm the details, to include the stake in the mine.”

Archibald Jameson nods, knowing that he did not have much choice in the matter. The goblet of cut glass between his fingers glints back at him as if mocking him. Glancing back up to the man opposite him, Archibald smoothes his mustache as a waiter refilled his glass. 

“Leviticus, as I mentioned before in my letter, any sort of rumor of mismanagement or financial distress is simply that, rumor. Jameson Mining and Coal is operating at record capacity.” Jameson states, waving the waiter off from the table.

“Why, Archibald,” the greying man across the table leans back in his chair, a mischievous grin across his face, “I completely understand. Please don’t misconstrue my intentions. I simply am investing in a business I see as an opportunity for growth."

Jameson hid the grimace he wanted to give, knowing that the cash infusion that he was getting from the man across the table from him would stabilize the mining operation in the wake of strikes over the past year. He needed this, as much as he wanted to stay far away from the encroaching industrialist.

“Mister Cornwall."

A thin, middle-aged, bespectacled man in a grey suit approaches the table, carrying a small briefcase. He turns to Jameson, “Ah, Mister Jameson, it is a pleasure. Cameron Spence, Vice President of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar.” 

Jameson nods, extending his hand in greeting. “Pleasure, Mister Spence.” Spence nods back, taking a seat at the circular table. 

Leviticus Cornwall clears his throat, causing a suit-clad butler behind him to jump slightly, and rush to a cabinet to obtain another goblet. The young man places it on the table, filling it with the same amber liquor as the glasses on the table.

Jameson glances out the window, to scenery rushing past. Past the green trees, he could see the glint of the sun on Flat Iron Lake. The butler, a young man barely old enough to grow facial hair, pipes up. “G-Gentlemen, we will be arriving in Saint Denis within the hour, as we have just passed Rhodes.”

Cornwall waves the boy off, who seemed relieved to be dismissed. He nods, placing the decanter he had been pouring from in the center of the table. The boy moves toward the back of the rail car, opening the mahogany door and closing it again behind him.

“Jameson, have you met the mayor of Saint Denis? Lemieux?” Cornwall asks, grabbing his goblet, and taking a large draw. 

“Of course. My brother Heston spends a lot of time in Saint Denis, can’t expect him to spend all of his time on that godforsaken island.” Jameson replies, taking a sip from his glass. The expensive whiskey is smooth down his throat, with none of the burn of cheap swill.  Spence places the briefcase he was carrying on his lap, opening it and taking papers from it, putting them down in front of Cornwall. 

Cornwall gave a cursory glance, reaching over the paperwork to a box of cigars on the table. He opened the black lacquer box, grabbing one and offering it to Jameson with a raise of his eyebrows. Jameson accepts it, as Cornwall struck a match to light his own. 

He leans back in the chair as he pulls from the cigar, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. It plumed in the air of the railcar, dancing around the pretentious crystal chandelier sensually.

“He’s a feckless fool, but with enough persuasion ,” Cornwall gives a knowing look, “…he can be of use.”

“So, Mister Jameson, now that you’ve seen the Heartland Oil Fields, do you have any commentary?” Spence asks, raising his eyebrows as he moved papers in and out of his briefcase.

“I will not pretend to have knowledge of the running of an oil refinery. Had it been a coal mine, then I could give some commentary.”  Jameson states, diplomatically, as he lit his own cigar.

Cornwall smirks, chuckling to himself.

Cameron Spence brushes his forehead with a silk handkerchief, catching beading sweat. “Certainly we’ve arrived in Lemoyne…” He places another piece of paper in front of Cornwall, to which Cornwall seemed a little more interested than the previous stack.

“Ah, is this from Mister Varley? I’m glad we were able to convince him that his best option was to accept a purchase offer from us.” Cornwall places the cigar on the ashtray, picking up the letterhead and glancing it over. “Was the price good?”

“Couldn’t be beat, Mister Cornwall,” Spence replies, cooly.

The train car lurched, and all three men look toward the window. Green forests had given way to the brown waters of the Kamassa Delta, the engine slowing down as it passed over the bridges over the bayous. Smokestacks of Saint Denis approached rapidly as Jameson pulled on his silk tie that was quickly collecting humidity against his neck.

Cornwall grimaces, tapping the ash from the tip of his cigar into the dish on the table. “Can you believe that the city put up a statue of that pompous ass McKnight?” He points out the window with the cigar, as the slowing train car passes next to a brick warehouse emblazoned with MCKNIGHT & CO in blue and white paint. 

Jameson glances out the window, taking note of the warehouse. Gone unspoken were the plethora of other warehouses with Cornwall’s name on them - but Jameson knows not to mention that. He knows the rumors of Leviticus’ temper, and having spent the last few days in his presence, he isn’t itching to find out the veracity of those tales.

Spence takes a drink of whiskey from his tumbler. It seems he knows not to prod the raging bull.

Cornwall continues, “I guess Saint Denis was so desperate after the war she whored herself out to the first man with money to come in. Not as if he was the only financier to come in after this city was flattened."

Jameson and Spence catch each other’s eyes quickly in the silence. The message was clear. Both men knew Cornwall came sweeping into the destroyed Southern city as well, to take advantage of cheap land, labor, and lax reconstruction laws after the war. McKnight was just the one flashy enough to get a statue out of it, but it was Cornwall with his name on every train, every trolley, half of the warehouse district.

The train lurches to a stop, its whistle pierces the tepid afternoon air. As the noise of the engine dies down, the hustle and bustle of the city outside replaces the metallic clanking and steam boiling. Horses and bells, the cries of seagulls on the docks, the comings and goings of thousands of people. A saxophone trills in the distance.

Cornwall stands, downing his whiskey, and extends his arm toward the door of the car. “After you, gentlemen.”

Jameson grabs his top hat from the butler who reappeared in the car. Spence gathers his paperwork, shutting it in his briefcase as he clicks it shut before following Jameson out.

The mine owner grimaces as he steps down from the car, the humidity and heat of Saint Denis hitting him like a furnace. He would never get used to it down here, especially after spending so much time north in Annesburg, and east in New York and Chicago.

Spence and Cornwall follow suit, Cornwall stepping ahead with conviction toward the station building. 

VICTORY STREET TROLLEY STATION

CORNWALL CITY RAILWAY

Spence opens the door to the station, holding it for Cornwall and Jameson. Jameson grabs it from him, bowing his head to a woman who had followed the trio in. Inside the ornately decorated station, people sat on the numerous benches, waiting on trains, trolleys, and stagecoaches. Cornwall blazes past them all, cutting across the waiting room to open the door to the street.

A carriage is waiting out front. The driver, who was leaning against the coach, nods to Cornwall and climbs the carriage, pulling on the reins of the horses. 

Leviticus Cornwall stops, turning back to the two men accompanying him.

“It certainly has been a pleasure, Mister Jameson. I will be sure to take you up on that offer to head up to Annesburg soon.” Cornwall thrust his hand out, Jameson grasps it.

“Absolutely, Leviticus. I look forward to working with you.” Jameson took his top hat and placed it on his head. “Mister Spence, it was nice to meet you.” He says, turning to Spence, "Gentlemen.” 

Archibald Jameson smooths his mustache down as he paces down Victory Street, heading toward the waiting trolley car that people are boarding. He boards, ignoring the hustle of people boarding behind him as he slides into a seat. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a worn piece of paper with an address on it, before refolding it and tucking it back in his jacket.

“Milyonne Avenue, Milyonne Avenue!” The conductor calls over his shoulder. Archibald brushes dust off the sleeve of his coat, straightening in his seat. The trolley lurches to a stop, and he moves to stand up, pacing toward the front of the car. He steps off, glancing at the street corner. Mansions line the street’s north side, with perfectly manicured lawns and black wrought iron gates. 

The well-dressed businessman crosses the divided street after the trolley jerks forward, its bell tolling in the afternoon sun, which gives no respite to overheated men in woolen coats. Dust in the air is choking, for even with the oppressive humidity, it has not rained in Lemoyne in god-knows how long.  He reaches the sidewalk, following it for a block before coming to a tailor’s shop. He strode past the shop’s door to a second one, an ornate mahogany polished to perfection. 

He knocks on the door, waiting several moments until the door swings open. A woman clad in black dress answers, nodding with recognition when she encounters the guest. “Mister Jameson… you’re expected upstairs. Please, come with me.”

Jameson follows her inside the door, following her up the staircase to the second floor. The staircase opens to a large parlor room, hazy with smoke.

“Archibald - what an honor for you to stop by and see your younger brother while in town. God only knows Annesburg keeps you busy.”

“Heston.”

Heston Jameson reclines in a leather chair, smoking out of a pipe. His black uniform top hung open, the silver buttons glinting down his chest. He reaches to the coffee table in front of him, picking up a cigar and offering it up to Archibald. 

The older brother takes the cigar, moving around the table to the matching leather chair, taking a seat while pulling a matchbook from his pocket. 

“Henrietta - pour a glass for my brother, will you?”

“Yes, Mister Jameson.” The woman who had answered the door nodded, curtseying slightly, before exiting the room.

“So, brother, what brings you to Saint Denis? ” Heston reclines back again, taking another draw from his pipe.

“Meeting with Cornwall, the new stakeholder in the mine” Archibald strikes a match, lighting his cigar with a retort. 

“Ah,” Heston replies, “Charming, isn’t he? I do know he has been involved with Colonel Fussar in Guarma, trying to put down those pesky rebellions,” He takes a puff, quirking his eyebrow, “Practicing for Annesburg?”

Archibald gives his brother a withering glare as he draws on his cigar. “I have been sending several of the troublemakers from the mine your way.  Are your reforms working?”

Heston smirks. “Law and order always prevails, brother. It may take more forceful tactics at times, but it will always prevail over savagery and brutality.”

“Well, for propriety’s sake, I can’t jail all of the striking miners and send them to you. That’s a little too on the nose.”

“Misters Jameson…” The woman, Henrietta, comes back to the parlor with a silver tray, two glass tumblers of whiskey upon it. She hands the first glass to Heston, moving around the table to Archibald with the second. Archibald nods his thanks.

“I thought you weren’t going to be living here, Heston.”

“I’m not - I only obtained this apartment for when I stay. I can’t spend all of my time on Sisika, the one place worse than Annesburg.” He replies, taking a sip from the glass.

“Or when a poker tournament is announced?”

Heston chuckles. “I will admit I have my vices.”

Archibald sips at the whiskey, rubbing at his temple. “Cornwall is quite the beast to deal with. No wonder he owns everything in the west.”

“Did he take the mine?” Heston asks, quirking his eyebrow, “Because if he did, you can come work at the Penitentiary.  I’m sure I could find you a position.”

Archibald glares. “No, dear brother, he did not take the mine. I still am the majority shareholder.”

“Bah, shareholders. I run Sisika exactly how I want to run it. There are no shareholders I have to answer to.”  Heston enunciates the noun with an air of disgust.

“Alas, I can’t run the mine like your kingdom.”

“Shame, you’d probably get a lot more done.”

Archibald downs the rest of his glass, and wonders to himself why he is agreeing with his younger brother.

—

Cornwall’s carriage pulls into the yard, past the open gate, waved in by armed men. After it clears the wrought iron, the gate is pulled shut again. The driver pulls on the reins, and the two horses whinny and come to a stop. The carriage door bursts open, and an impatient Cornwall disembarks before it has even come to a complete stop. Spence follows him out.

Cornwall paces toward the door to the warehouse’s office. Bursting through the door, he paces forward to the wall, which is adorned with a large map of the states of New Hanover, Ambarino, and West Elizabeth. Large swathes of the map are shaded in the Heartlands. 

Leviticus Cornwall takes a drag from his cigar, leaning back and blowing the smoke straight up into the air.  “Business, what an institution.” He remarks, wistfully.

“Speaking of which…’ Spence notes, fingering through several pieces of paper, “There is still the business of Limpany. Shaw has outright refused all offers. He has been most difficult to deal with.”

The older man frowned, his mood souring immediately. His eyes dart to the side of the map, where the Dakota River cleaves West Elizabeth from New Hanover. At a meander of the river, an area buffeted by cliffs is circled in red ink.

Spence continues, “I have been more than generous with monetary offers - but the man has been stonewalling everything.”

Cornwall turns to the desk in the office and smashes his cigar into the ashtray slowly, his aggravation rising.

“Take care of it. I don’t care for your excuses, Cameron.”

Spence bristles slightly. “Leviticus, this is not going to be as easy as a single oil derrick in the hills. Varley was alone, you’re talking about a town.”

“Sir, business doesn’t give a damn about some four-building town nor suffer the fools who impede,” Cornwall states icily.

The younger man pursed his lips, looking down at the paperwork on the table. He started to gather it together. 

Cornwall glares at him.

“Spence, I trust you will take care of this to my satisfaction.”

“Yes, Mister Cornwall.”

[piermanwalter]

According to self-proclaimed experts and leading crystal glass manufacturers online, apparently the answer to "Does this glass contain lead, and if so, how dangerous is it?" is "Go fuck yourself. If you don't buy from me, you deserve to die." I swear to fuck, the *ting* test must be a conspiracy to ensure that every resale hustler grindset shithead and every pretentious blue blood snob shithead will advertise lead crystal any chance they get. "Ooh the unmistakable lasting ring of true crystal-" It's a big bowl. Of course it will fucking *ting*. If I struck a mass produced cake cloche, it will *ting*. If you melted broken beer bottles and gravel into a big bowl, it will *ting*.

I also shouldn't have expected better from professional sources because of fucking course they will mangle all information into advertisements. "Timeless beautiful luxurious lead it contains is harmless unless you misuse it in which case we are doing the world a favour by ridding it of you crystal is softer than glass so it can be cut into intricate shapes crystal is harder than glass so it can be made thinnnnnnerr crystal is softer than glass so you must never put it in the dishwasher crystal is harder than glass so it will last forever unless you destroy it with your clumsy insensate undeserving ill-bred low-class subhuman paws-" Shut the fuck up. I'm losing more brain cells trying to comprehend this fucking shit than I ever will from lead. People like these are personally responsible for half of Earth's extinctions. If I don't get a straight answer soon, I will be personally responsible for half of their extinctions. "Skill issue" you may say, but the only "skill issue" here is how you don't know shit about lead glass either, and/or can't explain a single fucking thing in a way that someone who wasn't carried out of the maternity ward on a crystal platter can understand. If you can't explain everything online, at least have the humility to admit it.

The next time one of you hacks makes another smug asshole video where you *ting ting ting* lead crystal with no comparison with a similar piece of regular glass or posts a "new" article the same as sixty thousand other articles all competing with each-other to be the most useless piece of text ever formulated by mankind like grain entrapment except each grain is a Swarovski jewel that goes *ting* each time it moves, the last *ting* you hear will be my axe bouncing off your thick fucking skull. I hope you go into debt throwing every last cent into your twee Daisy-Fay-wet-dream-ass Etsy antique shop and then you get shut down for fraud and then you get investigated by government tax authority and then you get banned from doing business forever and then 500 vintage-collecting grandmas with no prior association beyond deep justified contempt for you specifically trash your name across every media platform and in-person social agglomeration in perpetuity. I hope every crystal artisan at your company is simultaneously possessed by the spirit of Hephaestus to march into your office en masse and bodily drag you onto the factory floor where they hoist you on their shoulders like the first Olympic athletes did with sacrificial cattle to drop you into the glowing crucible, but as your shoes melt they come to their senses and pull you out so you only have a few superficial burns, but then the glass formulation reacts to your shoes so badly that every batch coming out of that crucible is ruined, but even after the crucible is replaced, the curse of Hephaestus lingers so that every piece of glass produced in that factory is fucked up in some way, and then the company fires you and fines you for all damages and repair costs forever and the curse of Hephaestus follows you until you are living in a hollow tree planting onions in holes you dig by hand. I will throw you down an oubliette and feed you overnight oat breakfast bowls and juice blend sun teas prepared and served in whatever the hell random glassware I find at thrift stores and yard sales. If your own skill in identifying lead glass does not exceed what you deemed fit to share, I will feel no guilt when you die.

[elanorjane]

Rumbelle Fic: Screw The Roses, Send Me The Thorns

Gift for kelyon.tumblr.com @kelyon for @rumbellesecretsanta 2022 rumbellesecretsanta.tumblr.com

Prompt: Mutually horny at family event 

Read on AO3

A/N: This is fiction, not reality. The romance is compressed into a very short time period. Remember: safe, sane, and consensual, friends.  Warnings: BDSM talk and actions

“I’d like to make a toast….” 

Mayor Regina Mills raised her Waterford crystal toasting flute. The sleek, pulled stem of her glassware was intricately adorned with an eternal flame. Her captive audience, seated, had been given plain flutes. Regina’s eyes roamed up and down the long dinner table. The stark black and white decor of the table matched the rest of the stately manor. In a nod to the season, blood red poinsettias were sprinkled here and there to dramatic effect.  

“To family,” she began. 

The mayor’s dramatic pause failed to hide Gold’s snort of derision.

Her dark eyes cut to him down the table.  

Gold lowered his chin and held up a hand in a gesture for her to continue her annual speech, but he couldn’t quite erase the evidence of his smirk completely off his lips.  

He felt his son lean over his right arm, feigning straightening his father’s dessert spoon. “You promised,” he murmured, as Regina droned on. 

“I promised I would attend,” Gold replied. “You failed to make any demands as to my demeanor.”  

Bae straightened, shaking his head, “Always the technicalities with you,” he hissed. “Always have to have the upper hand. Even with your own family.”

These people were Gold’s family only in the loosest sense of the word. But Mayor Regina Mills, by a twisted series of events, was the adoptive mother of his biological grandson. A child Bae, and himself, had not known existed until fairly recently. Gold’s own son had correspondingly reentered his life after decades of estrangement. Gold came to these little gatherings as a favor to Bae. It was one of the few olive branches he could muster in their still fragile relationship. Unfortunately, rebuilding a relationship with his son included regularly coming in contact with the whole damn town. 

“If you, Emma, and Henry want to come over for dinner,” Gold countered, “I welcome you. But this,” he waved his finger up and down the dinner table dismissively, “is not my family.”  

Regina insisted on holding these mock “family” gatherings every holiday season. He’d rather be at home in his library slowly sipping a scotch. Or in his shop balancing his ledgers for the end of the year. Better company, either way.

Bae looked down at his lap, tugging knots in his napkin as he shook his head. He sighed, leaning back over towards his father. “Thank you for coming,” he said evenly. “I know you’d rather be at home in your library with the drink of a lonely man. Or locked in your counting house with your gold.” Bae made both options sound distasteful. 

“Counting house?” Gold echoed. 

“Yeah, you know, like in A Christmas Carol.” 

“Oh, I know the reference. I’m just impressed you do. I didn’t know you read Dickens.” 

“What? No,” Bae scrunched his face. “Mickey’s Christmas Carol was on last night.”

Gold’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Am I Scrooge McDuck in this analogy?” 

“I’m saying your Scrooge McDuck after he sees the three ghosts,” Bae placated. “See,” he waved his hand around the table, “you have family now.” 

Despite Regina’s accommodating table, the "family" seemed to grow every year, much to Gold’s dismay. This year the table was downright crowded. First Emma, his grandson’s biological mother. Then her parents, the Nolans, David and his equally insufferably sunny wife Mary Margaret. Then Regina and her idiodic sister, Zelena. In a display of her status as Mayor, Regina expanded these events to include Storybrooke’s most influential citizenry, at least by Regina’s standards. Besides the “family,” their gathering now included Jefferson, Regina’s stylist and decorator, Sydney Glass, her counsel, Dr. Archibald Hopper, town shrink, and a handful of other rotating characters, depending on Regina’s humor and who she was feuding with that season.

“You could use the opportunity to get to know people, like, network,” Bae tried again. 

“Son, I know everyone here. Half of them owe me rent and will use getting drunk at this event as an excuse for why they were late.” 

Bae, who dismissively shook his head through his father’s excuses, pressed, “I mean really get to know them. Let them know you. You could talk to David. He could be my father-in-law someday.” 

Gold considered Henry's other grandfather. David Nolan acted like they were friends every time he saw him, much to Gold’s bewilderment. But what Bae thought they had in common was beyond him. 

Gold glanced around the table, considering his other options. Occasionally his and the mayor’s business desires lined up and they worked in tandem when it suited Gold. But they could be at cross-purposes just as easily, which didn't inspire deep confidences. Beyond that, he didn't understand what sharing his personal life with these people had anything to do with his continued campaign to regain the trust of Bae, or Neal, as everyone else at the table called him. 

Bae elbowed him, “You could talk to Regina’s sister,” he wagged his eyebrows. 

Gold jerked out of his reverie, glancing over both shoulders in fear that Bae speaking her name would conjure her. 

“To what end?” he rasped, looking down past Bae to make sure Zelena remained in her seat well across the table and diagonal. While she was still seated, when Gold did locate her, she was looking straight at him. Accidentally meeting her eyes caused her to give him one of her wide smiles that made her look psychotic and him feel nauseated. Gold pressed back in his seat, thankful for Bae’s larger profile concealing him. He grimaced. That one accidental eye contact would cause him months of irritation while she took it for an invitation to try to engage him.     

Bae chuckled at his father's alarm. “It’s obvious she has the hots for you.” He shrugged, “Hey, some guys like crazy chicks. No judgment.” 

No judgment indeed. His son wouldn’t be nearly as tolerant if he knew what his father was looking for in a woman, if he was searching for one. But he gave up on finding companionship long ago. 

“If I wanted to interact with this many people I’d spend more time at Granny's eating overpriced hamburgers,” Gold grumbled.

A loud cough brought an end to their discussion. Regina had finally had enough of them murmuring to each other over her toast. 

“Fine, have it your way, Pop,” Bae whispered.  

“I always do,” he assured him. 

Bae scoffed at that, but the formal end of Regina’s speech kept him from retorting as everyone at the table raised their glasses. 

“By the way, I put your white elephant gift under the tree for you,” Bae told him over everyone's clinking. 

“My what?” Gold planned, as every year, to slip out right after dinner. “I don’t participate in that nonsense.” 

“You did this year.” 

Gold lifted his glass to his lips, “What, pray tell, did I contribute?” he asked before taking a long sip.

“A certificate for a month’s free rent.” 

Gold choked on his champagne. 

Bae slapped him hard on the back, smiling. “Very generous of you,” he shook his shoulder. “People are gonna love it. I bet it’s the most stolen gift this year.” He grinned at him. 

“I hope you are having a grand time at my expense.”

“I most certainly am,” he assured his father in his good natured tone. Satisfied, he turned away from Gold, being happily pulled into a conversation with Emma and Henry. 

The din of mindless small talk immediately rose around him. Hired wait staff reached at each guest’s left, placing the first course. Instead of dying down, the chatter increased to fawning over Regina's menu choices. The evening loomed long and tedious before him. As he avoided situations such as this at all costs, his ability to exercise control over his behavior for this long, or “behave himself”, as Bae would call it, had not been tested in some time. The room seemed suddenly more crowded than ever to Gold. He stopped short of pulling at his collar. He settled for smoothing a hand down his tie as he tried to focus on the meal in front of him. 

Later, when the waiters reappeared to clear the first course, Gold closed his eyes to momentarily block out the tiresome buzz around him. His right hand drummed against the tablecloth while his left hand twisted the stem of his wine glass in front of him. Under the table he struggled to placate his bad leg, which ached to be stretched. Worse than that, he was bored. And when he was bored, he was left to his own devices to amuse himself. He glanced at Bae, who was still smiling and laughing with his corner of the table. Only a quarter of the way through the meal and his restraint struggled to find a release valve. 

His eyes swept up and down the row of faces. Little pleasure was to be had at this table.

“Screw the roses, send me the thorns.” 

The low-pitched accent hooked his attention to the far end of the table.

The newest addition to the “family” met his eyes, revealing a bewitching pair of cerulean orbs. They danced with playful light, as if sharing a private joke. Miss French, the town librarian. Well, she will be if she ever got that mess of a library up and running properly. For week he’d watched her carry boxes and push bookcarts back and forth across the library in those ridiculous shoes she favored. His shop had an almost direct view across the street to the library and the constant motion had been very distracting.  

Despite their close vicinity, he’d never been this near to her before. He was amused to see the dark rimmed eyes and the throaty voice were in direct contrast to the rest of her cherub face. Despite the innocent and amiable energy radiating off her so strongly he felt it across the table, her eyes said she’d read some books in the restricted section. Her voice suggested she’d like to try some of the things she’d read. 

She was seated diagonally from him, next to Gaston LeGume. The librarian and the pet shelter caretaker, how quaint. As members of the community running town services under Regina’s purview, they warranted an invitation. They sat at the end of the table because that’s where Regina sat the newest, least politically savvy of the gathering. Regina wanted to either impress them or intimidate them. The librarian, he noted, looked neither. 

LeGume was prattling away next to her, but Gold didn’t register a word he said. Neither did she, judging from the open curiosity of her stare. Her remark was obviously in response to something LeGume had said, but the librarian regarded Gold across the table, like she was daring him to enter the conversation. Gold raised an eyebrow at her continued attention. Usually that was all it took to make a misguided townsperson scamper away. Instead of turning back to her dinner partner, the insolent little creature arched a thin shapely eyebrow right back.

The phrase that had piqued his interest was one he hadn’t heard in a very long time. She was too young to know the classic guide she’d inadvertently referenced, subtitled The Romance and Sexual Sorcery of Sadomasochism. Considering sadomasochism as “sexual magic” had always resonated with him. It was delicate, like he imagined a spell would be. It required the precise blend of trust and sensuality. Get it just right and BDSM could be intensely erotic and deeply intimate. Many years ago he was active in that community. He hadn’t dipped back in in a number of years. Mostly because he couldn’t find the right partner to join him in the dark, to make the formula he sought complete. It was always off, somehow, despite his efforts and care he took considering partners. The frustration over not being able to conjure the correct combination of elements forced him to abandon the community altogether and he’d begun to suspect the incomplete desire would haunt him for the rest of his life. 

It was Bae’s mother, of all people, who introduced him to the lifestyle. Ironically, at the time, he was neither a dominant enough dom or a submissive enough sub for her liking. It ultimately didn’t matter. The demise of that relationship, of wanting to understand what she’d wanted him to be, led him to exploring and discovering what he truly desired…power and control. Becoming a master dom had been the answer to all of his problems. He’d become known in the community as being the best. People came to him to get what they needed. They begged to spend time with him. The potency he wielded was heady. But he had never gotten what he truly wanted in return. In the moment, yes, but not long term. 

He’d thought he had it once, with a woman who shared a lot of the same hurt and a lot of the same ambitions as he. But in the end she’d wanted power and control more than she’d wanted to be with him. Love proved to be a weakness for both of them. He had been completely open and vulnerable with her and she took his love, along with his instruction and his training, and used it against him. First by trying to top from bottom, and then ultimately taking what she learned from him and applying it as a dom elsewhere, with other people.

But she’d taught him a more valuable lesson. That having anyone know what he truly wanted and needed, and why, was a vulnerability he could not afford. No one could understand, let alone accept, his complete need for control, inside and outside a scene. He'd been out of control too early and too often in his life. That’s why BDSM had appealed to him in the first place. He had to protect himself. He had to feel in control in order to feel safe. His buffer against the past - his father, his failed relationships, his own mistakes as a parent - were money, power, and control. And his need for those things started with his wardrobe and extended to the bedroom. 

While uninvited memories flickered through his head and the familiar weight of old aches settled in his chest, Miss French was being pulled back into conversation with LeGume. Her chin swiveled towards LeGume but her eyes hung on him. The spark he had seen there dimmed when he did nothing but passively regard her in return. The mischievous uptick to her lips visibly downturned. Just as her blue, uninhibited eyes were turning to LeGume and, he intuitively knew, abandoning him forever, something new emerged from the discomfort in his chest. A fresh, sharp pain, like an invisible string being pulled taut. The question came out of his mouth, unbidden.   

“Read any good books lately, Miss French?” 

It came out in his usual indifferent and condescending manner. He focused on smoothing a wrinkle in the tablecloth in front of him, as if her answer didn’t matter to him in the slightest. 

He’d interrupted LeGume’s blathering, who blinked and gaped at him like a fish. He shot Gold a look that he supposed was meant to be threatening. Gold markedly ignored him. 

Miss French wasn’t offended by his intrusion or tone. Instead, her eyes widened for just a moment before quickly recovering. Her entire body shifted to face Gold full on, incidentally giving LeGume the back of her shoulder. With a lift of her eyebrows and a subtle tilt of her head, she conveyed her triumph, her smile holding a hint of mischief. 

It was his first time experiencing the verve of her full attention. He sniffed, looking down to brush away a crumb on the tablecloth, waiting dispassionately for Miss French’s answer.  

“In fact I have, Mr. Gold.” It was the most words they’d exchanged since she arrived in town. Her being new could be the only explanation for her insistence in pulling him into conversation and the ease in which she conversed with him now. “It’s one I’d never considered until recently, but based on positive recommendations I finally tried it out.” 

He idly rearranged his silverware as he waited for her to name some romance or current fiction title. 

“The Story of O.” She was all politeness and formality as the French erotic novel rolled off her tongue. His eyes shot up in time to catch the perfect round shape of her lips. Her mouth lingered there until a sly grin spread across her face. “Have you ever read it?”

She’d tried to shock him, ostensibly in response to his resisting her efforts to pull him into conversation for so long. But he was satisfied to know that he’d judged her right. She did read books in the restricted section. He felt an involuntary twitch in the corner of his mouth at her, thinking him capable of being scandalized. Unlike her, he hadn't just read about it. He’d seen and done things she wouldn't find in any book. Even in the restricted section. 

“It’s an old favorite,” he volleyed back, making direct eye contact with her and letting it settle there authoritatively. “Though I haven’t had reason to revisit it in some time. Are you finding it,” he let the word hang in the air, “satisfying?” 

“Oh yes,” she answered readily, not even blushing. “Like any good book, it’s…” she leaned across the table, mimicking his cadence, “arousing some new ideas in me.” 

“As all good books should,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, emphasizing his words. He sat back in his own seat, his leg settled and his hands resting on the table. “You may have inspired me to pick it up again.” 

“I have it on my bedside table if you need a refresher,” she offered casually. 

The extra glint to her eye told him that she registered the suggestive meaning of her words, commanding his unguarded brain to produce a hazy picture of her lounging across white sheets on a brass bed, reading her one-handed novel, taking her bottom lip between her teeth when she reached a particularly racy excerpt. 

His gaze tightened with suspicion. What was she playing at? He inspected her glass. The wine in front of her wasn’t even half gone. Her eyes still shone clear. Her voice was controlled, not loud and obnoxious like Regina’s sister at the other end of the table. 

Memories stirred in him. Belle was being polite, respectful…and a brat. She reminded him of rebellious submissives he used to know. He’d refused to work with cutesy, teasing, playful subs who pushed back on his dominance and challenged his authority. But, he reminded himself, these were obviously empty words from a girl who read too much. 

She was playing a game with him, obviously. She’d led LeGume on long enough and thought she’d amuse herself by torturing him next. She thought she would be charitable by giving a lonely old man a thrill. Well, Miss French had vastly overestimated how far one little book and her feminine wiles, while admittedly bountiful, could get her. He set the boundaries. He set the rules. He set the expectations for behavior. And he’d never been known for tolerating blatantly rebellious submissives. 

"I hardly think that would be appropriate, Miss French" he replied, his tone cool and calculated. "Lending without a library card? How do you know you can trust me with your...prized possession?" His words were laden with subtle implication, matching her innuendo with a cold demeanor. 

“You misunderstand, Mr. Gold,” she placed both hands at the edge of the table, leaning as far as she could without leaving her seat. “I wasn't suggesting it leave the property.” 

With that, she added to the previously formed image, her laying across his lap in said bed, reading her favorite passages out loud in her smokey voice. That she would be so blatant in her attempt to provoke some reaction told him that she was getting desperate. She most likely never had to take her teasing this far before, because what man wouldn’t follow her instructions right into her bed? She’d never experienced loneliness, surely. But she’d never come across anyone like him, period. He massaged a thumb across his right palm, settling an itch that had started there. 

"One must be cautious about who they share their treasures with, Miss French," he finished with unwavering composure. 

His condescending and dismissive response succeeded in rattling her coquette act. Her sharp inhale was audible across the table, as if he’d stung her cheek with his palm. Her pale skin even reddened there as he stared at her impassionately. After which her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw visibly tightening. 

Gold inwardly smiled and sat more relaxed in his chair. Miss French had been a diversion, even if she was not a worthy opponent. How could she even pose a challenge, given how transparently expressive she was? He could effortlessly decipher her every emotion. Unlike with most people, whom he found inscrutable and untrustworthy, Miss French telegraphed her feelings to the back row. As she struggled to rein in her emotions, he couldn't help the deep satisfaction he felt at her following his subtle command to cease her behavior. The weight of his limbs settled and grounded him. His breathing deepened and slowed. He felt more at ease at this table than ever before. Though, only being on the soup and salad course, Gold found himself perhaps regretting correcting her so quickly. There was still a long night ahead. 

“What book are you talking about?” Mary Margaret chirped from the other side of Belle, having caught part of their exchange. “My book club is always looking for recommendations.” 

The idea of virginal Mary Margaret reading the erotic novel by Pauline Réage was preposterous. He looked at Belle to see how she’d handle it, positive now she regretted her recklessness. He vowed to only step in if she lied about the title. Let the humiliation teach her a lesson for being so forward with him. 

She surprised him by looking to him to save her from embarrassment. He retained eye contact as he slowly picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip of wine, letting the flavors rest on his tongue. If she was looking for a knight in shining armor to come to her rescue, she’d have better luck with LeGume. Watching a gorgeous woman be publicly humiliated was rather mundane to him. Though he had appreciated the respite from the dullness of the evening, she’d better trifle with someone else. She squirmed in her chair, which just made the berry notes of the wine burst on his tongue. She wasn't made for BDSM, obviously, but watching her writhe in mortification was delicious. He smirked at her across the table. Who was having fun at whose expense now? 

He watched panic, annoyance, anger, and surrender flicker across her features in quick succession. But then, just as quickly, they were all replaced with grim determination. She shook back her shoulders, her chin lifting. 

“The Story of O,” Belle repeated for the benefit of the table, matching his challenging stare. “A French novel from 1954.”   

The title was met with silence. 

“Oh,” Mary Margaret said. “I’ve never heard of that one. I’ll have to look it up.” 

He knew it was more polite, empty words. Nobody at this table would look up the book. For one, Regina made them put their phones in a bowl on their way in. (He had kept his. He knew how to conduct himself at a dinner table.). Second, he'd be surprised if anyone in this town knew how to read. From what he could tell they seemed to spend the majority of their time running around like idiots.

Further veiled discussion on the matter of sadomasochism came to an end when several waiters appeared and dishes were cleared to make way for the main course. 

With the back and forth with Miss French finally subsided, Gold found himself searching for the relief he thought he’d feel. Instead, each clink of silverware and murmur of conversation at the table seemed amplified to his ears. He played with his ring. It twisted easily now with his damp palms. The banter with Miss French had stirred something deep within him, resurrecting a side of himself he thought long buried. He shifted in his seat, feeling the old familiar surge of adrenaline begin to trickle through his veins, like a damn that had sprung a leak, the pressure building behind the wall. But he had no outlet for it. Frustrated that this girl had done this to him against his will, he wiped his palms on his pants. His gaze searched for a safe place to rest. His plate would be the obvious answer, but none of the dozen side dishes before him looked appetizing now. Despite the turmoil roiling within him, there was a flicker of something akin to anticipation in him as his eyes inevitably found Miss French.

The image he found was a stark contrast to her earlier persona at the table. She poked at her food with her fork. The people around her made polite conversation but her expression remained vacant when called upon to respond, which was rare. Her chin wasn’t lifted in the haughty way she’d demonstrated earlier and her eyes stayed downturned. Rather than “corrected”, the word “unmoored” floated through his head. He investigated the people seated around Miss French. Perplexingly, no one else at the table seemed to notice her lack of engagement. LeGume and the surrounding guests made conversation and passed plates around her. Gold glared at all of them as he waited for LeGume or one of her friends to come to her aid. 

"I've always admired the intricate knotwork in table decorations,” he found himself saying to no one in particular. He picked up his napkin that was in an artful yet simple knotted fold. He rolled it around in his hands, then gave both ends a tug, “Adds a certain charm, don't you think?"

At the cadence of his voice, Belle straightened in her chair, her posture shifting from dejection to anticipation, hands resting delicately in her lap as her eyes lit up with renewed interest, fixating on Gold. A spark cracked down Gold's spine as he couldn't help but notice the immediate and eager reaction she had to him.

Just then the main course—a turkey—was placed in the middle of the table with much pomp and circumstance. The legs were crossed and tied over the bird’s cavity with kitchen twine.

“Yes!” She readily agreed with him. “Don't things look so much more delectable trussed up?” she chirped across from him. 

His gaze lingered on Belle, tracing her features as if attempting to decipher the hidden layers of meaning behind her words. The idea that she could possess any knowledge of his past felt unfathomable; in this town, his history remained a well-guarded secret. Yet, since their conversation had begun in this public setting, an unsettling sense of vulnerability had crept over him. A sudden rush of warmth swept through him, accompanied by the unnerving sensation of being under scrutiny from every corner of the table. However, a quick survey revealed that everyone else remained engrossed in their meals, utterly indifferent to their dialogue. Despite this, he couldn't shake the regret that had settled in, as their interaction stirred up memories that left him deeply uneasy.

As side dishes circulated around the table, he remained indifferent to the dinner companions seated on his left and right. Yet, under his observant gaze, Belle seemed to bloom. Her eyes sparkled with lively conversation, and her smile radiated warmth and charm as she engaged with those around her. With graceful movements, she effortlessly passed plates across the table, her gestures imbued with a natural elegance that drew his attention.  

"Oh Regina, these potatoes are delicious!" Mary Margret said. "Like..." she looked thoughtfully.

"Silk," Belle supplied, catching the unspoken challenge. She looked into Gold's eyes with a playful glint. Her eyes brightened even more as if she found herself incredibly clever. In that instant, she seemed to believe they were playing a clandestine game together, testing the boundaries of outrageous remarks in polite company.

"Exactly!" Mary Margaret echoed. 

“And whipped to satisfaction,” Miss French added. "Getting the perfect blend of flavors is all about command in the kitchen, isn't it?"

Her latest remark bore an uncanny resemblance to how he perceived BDSM as a form of enchantment or magic. Gold swiftly reminded himself that she wasn't a submissive; she couldn't possibly be. Despite her audacious words, she exuded an innocence that rendered her oblivious to the intricacies of BDSM. Moreover, she appeared too young to have delved into such experiences, although he had encountered his fair share of young individuals within the community. Unfortunately, most of them had proven to be naive. A safe word, some aftercare, and a hasty farewell usually marked the end of their brief foray into the scene. Miss French, with her eagerness to flirt with danger, seemed oblivious to the potential consequences. Gold, however, was keenly aware of how easily he could ignite her curiosity, leading her into uncharted territories where desire and danger intertwined.

He watched as LeGume offered her something rich and savory from a bowl. 

“Not right now, thank you,” she declined civilly. “I’d like to try a little restraint.” Instead she took a spoonful of something gray off her dish. He couldn't help but notice how she allowed the spoon to linger on her tongue longer than necessary before releasing it with a soft pop. "But this is delicious,” she countered. “I’ve never tried anything like it. Won't you try a bite, Mr. Gold?"

Offering him such a direct invitation to him in a public setting, he could take her over his knee for such impertinence. Turn her ass ruby red while she squealed and struggled in his lap. He’d punished teasing subs for much less. The pleasure he would take in wiping the cheeky smirk off her face and transforming it from shock to eagerness to please and then, finally, after she’d shown proper remorse, sensual gratification.  

LeGume confusedly exchanged his bowl for the bowl of gray stuff, lifting it between them. Gold didn’t spare it a glance. 

Instead he tilted his head with a faint smile, "Ah, Miss French, your enthusiasm for experimentation is quite intriguing. However, I've always found that some things are best left untested."

"I’d have to disagree in this case, Mr. Gold,” she boldly insisted. “The flavors in this dish are so intricately bound."

LeGume continued to hold the dish suspended between them, his eyes volleying between them. 

“Some would describe it as an artform,” she continued. 

“I would be inclined to agree with them,” he responded coolly, not moving his arms from his sides. 

With agitation evident in her movements, she swiftly snatched the dish from LeGume's grasp, her arm extending across the table in a decisive gesture. It was clear that she wasn't about to drop the issue, and Gold could sense the growing attention their exchange was attracting, a subtle buzz at the periphery of his vision. As his fingers closed around the opposite end of the dish, she didn't release her grip right away. Instead, she waited until their eyes met once more across the table. Her eyebrows raised expectantly, silently waiting for a response from him.

"Thank you, Miss French," he stated firmly, his tone carrying a sense of finality.

Satisfied with his acknowledgment, she released the dish, her expression turning more subdued.

"Yes, sir," she responded quietly, her voice holding a hint of deference.

The dish slipped from his fingers, upending half of it on the tablecloth and splashing some of its contents onto Dr. Hopper. The sudden noise and commotion drew curious glances from others at the table, including a puzzled look from Bae as Gold abruptly stood up.

The screech of Gold's chair echoed through the room as he pushed it back, a sharp contrast to the otherwise calm ambiance of the dining room. Taking a moment to collect himself, Gold drew in a deep breath to regain his composure. With deliberate movements, he retrieved his cane from where it rested against the back of his chair.

"Excuse me," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he turned and swiftly exited the dining room, leaving behind an unsettled atmosphere in his wake. 

As he walked down the hallway, the sound of talking faded and the oppressiveness of the dining room began to lift. But he itched. 

He knew where the bathroom was, the one reserved for guests and people who came to the house on business. Gold bypassed that one in favor of the larger one in the private living quarters of the house. He took his time, having sat with his bad leg too long. His cane clicked as he walked down the hallway, the lights dimmed to discourage guests from wandering into the private residence.

His footsteps reverberated sharply against the high ceilings, a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet surroundings. Gold came to an abrupt halt, his narrowed eyes scanning the space behind him. The echo ceased as he stopped, and after a moment's pause, he attributed the noise to the tapping of his cane. Shaking his head slightly, he realized that the combination of the pressure to behave in front of Bae and Miss French's teasing remarks had left him more on edge than he had initially realized.

That’s why he liked BDSM, he thought, it required total honesty or someone could get hurt. It was the “real” world where everyone put on masks and facades. He hadn’t truly been himself, he realized, since his time as a Master dom. The true essence of himself had been deemed unacceptable by society, leading him to retreat into hiding. The weight of this realization bore down on him, weighing heavily on his bones and leaving him feeling aged and weary.         

And then there was Miss French. Ironically, she’d enjoy the kink community. It was all about curiosity and continuous learning, something a librarian could appreciate. However, she would never receive such knowledge from him. Hopefully she was smart enough to do her research and find the local community and learn from them and not from some fumbling idiot who fancied himself a sadomasochist because of some problematic porn he watched. The mere thought of Miss French being misled sent a bolt of anger through him. She was a pampered pet who needed a certain kind of handling. Not by him, obviously, but someone with experience. Nevertheless, his mind couldn't help but wander into the realm of how he would guide and educate Miss French, an idea that brought a subtle sense of satisfaction to his thoughts.

Regina’s bathrooms were just as ostentatious as the rest of the house, with the white and black color scheme continued. Leaning his cane against the vanity, he steadied himself against the counter and studied his reflection in the mirror. His appearance remained unchanged from when he’d left the house that evening. Although his tie didn't require adjustment, he found himself straightening it nonetheless, a subtle attempt to regain composure. Yet, he couldn't shake off the sense of dishevelment that seemed to linger. Was it a consequence of passion, agitation, or perhaps both? These unfamiliar emotions felt out of place and uncomfortable within his own skin.

He turned on the faucet and ran his hands under cold water, then used them to blot his face and neck. He looked at himself in the mirror again, his gaze tracing the contours of his face with a mixture of detachment and introspection. The reflection stared back at him, a dual image capturing the essence of who he once was and who he had become. In the past, emotions flowed freely, unchained and unrestrained, revealing a vulnerable yet authentic version of himself. But the present brought a facade of coldness, control, and composure, a mask carefully crafted to conceal the tumultuous memories and lingering emotions stirred by the evening's events. As he stood there, the mirror became a portal to his past and present selves, each vying for recognition in the stark reflection before him.

"Enough," he muttered to himself, frustration evident in his tone. Enough with this endless dinner. Enough with Miss French's playful provocations. Enough with tormenting himself with memories of the past. He had endured the majority of the meal, and that would have to suffice for Bae. The boy wouldn’t understand, but there was no way he ever could, not without learning things about his father he most assuredly would not appreciate. Gold met his own gaze in the mirror once more. Despite not feeling it within, a sense of unwavering determination flickered in his eyes, a silent promise to walk out the door and away from Miss French, despite his inner dom telling him to take her firmly in hand. 

The door behind him clicked open quietly, followed by a soft snick as it closed. In the mirror's reflection over his shoulder, she appeared as if a figment of his imagination. Perhaps she was a manifestation born from his suppressed desires and self-imposed restraint. A flawless end to an arduous evening, he thought bitterly. He hesitated, reluctant to turn around and face potential disappointment if she turned out to be nothing more than an illusion. Yet, Belle's image persisted in the mirror, as if waiting for a command, or was that merely his own subconscious projecting onto the reflection? The tormenting thoughts that had plagued him throughout the evening spilled out. 

"Who are you?" he asked the mirage, his voice barely audible.

She responded with a serene smile, "Someone like you."

He snorted derisively. "Not likely, dearie," he retorted.

With a decisive pivot, he turned around, fully prepared to dispel the illusion and face the disappointment of his wishful thinking. He was unnerved by the resurgence of emotions he had long suppressed, all because of some bright, shiny young woman. Best to bring them to a halt with sharp disappointment than continue this torment. 

But there she stood, unnervingly real. Alone with him in Regina's bathroom, in a secluded corner of the house.

He observed her, standing composed and immaculate in her skirt and blouse. Despite her mischievous nature, there was an undeniable aura of brightness around the girl. Her eyes sparkled with innocence, her smile was infectious, and her laughter seemed to fill the small room with warmth. Everything about her seemed out of place in this dark, shadowy setting with him. If she had any inkling of who he truly was, she would surely take off down the hallway. He had never invited someone like her into his world of BDSM. She couldn't possibly comprehend the intricacies it demanded—submission, trust, honesty— especially in association with him. The moment he allowed his dominant side to fully surface, she would undoubtedly flee from the room she had so foolishly locked herself in.

His narrowed gaze bore into her, filled with suspicion. 

"Why are you here?" dropping any pretense of playful banter or games, his tone was now serious and demanding.

Her bravado faltered under the weight of his ruthless stare. She glanced down, momentarily losing her composure. If she struggled with a simple question, she surely wouldn’t be able to withstand a little punishment. 

Toeing her heels together, she managed to mumble, "I'm curious." Her eyes met his briefly, but the uptick at the end of her response told him there was a flicker of uncertainty in her. 

His bark of laughter caught her off guard, causing her to wince. He shook his head ruefully, a mix of disbelief and resignation crossing his features. So, this was nothing more than a fantasy for her—an attempt to step into a world she didn't truly understand, believing she would be safe with him. He chuckled inwardly at their shared foolishness. In his darker days, the old him would have relished such an opportunity—a naive and innocent ingénue coming to him seeking an arrangement. He would have used contracts, negotiations, manipulations—all to extract every ounce of desire and compliance from her. He felt a surge of excitement at her words, a temptation he fought to suppress.

She looked at him expectantly. How could she ever understand? For him, being dominant was not a mere roleplay or fantasy—it was an integral part of his identity that he couldn't switch on and off at will. The enormity of it had been suppressed for over a decade, but it still lurked beneath the surface, dangerously close to emerging over the past hour. This was real to him, and that was something no one else would ever truly understand.

“This isn’t one of your books, dearie,” he told her plaintively. “I’m not a knight in shining armor.” 

Her lips pursed, more comfortable with the exchange now that the topic had turned to her area of expertise, and she tilted her head. “You don't know what books I read.” 

“The kind with happy endings, surely,” he countered.  

“You’d call the ending of The Story of O happy?” she challenged.

He tipped his chin, conceding the point. “O being abandoned by her lover? Well, Miss French, I’d call that realistic.” She had the audacity to roll her eyes. “Everything that comes before that,” he trailed off, referring to the fantastical depiction of an underground society that in no way represented the actual kink community. Which begged the question…. He studied her in a way he didn't dare before. He rationalized it to himself that it was his job as a dom to be acquainted with her body. His inspection started at the top of her auburn hair, over her thin brows, expressive eyes, and thinly curved lips. He skimmed over the petite curves under her blouse, the belt that cinched in her waist, and down the vast expanse of exposed leg, the muscles shaped and lengthened from the height of her heels. The shoes, he thought, were the only thing about her that objectively did belong in a scene. She shifted as he boldly acquainted himself with her body. What could such a girl find exciting in The Story of O? Was it the submission, the whipping, the bondage? 

He could be a cruel dom. He could embarrass her. Demand her into the most depraved blowjob, make her cry, scare her, scar her. He’d done it all before and could do it again. But he took his position as Master seriously. BDSM was meant to provide personal freedom, self-expression, and above all, pleasure. In real BDSM, no one got truly hurt. From him, they got exactly what they asked for, even if they regretted it after the fact. 

“What are you so curious about exactly?”

When he looked deeply into her eyes, which he dared to now, he didn’t see hurt or desperation or trauma. She wasn't running to BDSM to escape. But what could her life possibly be lacking? What made her think he could offer her what she needed? And what made her believe he wanted to give it?   

He stepped closer to her, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “If you don’t know why you're here,” he warned, “by staying in this room, you’re asking me to help you find out. And my methods are untraditional, to say the least. So, I’ll ask you again, why are you here?”

In response to his intimidation, she gave him that defiant chin again he admired and found foolish in equal measure. Her eyes narrowed in a way he’d come to recognize as not anger, but sheer determination and force of will. 

“I think you’re lonely.” 

He blinked. He didn’t think he was capable of being shocked by anyone anymore. But her answer truly left him speechless. Once the stupor faded, anger was quick to rise in its place. First she teased him throughout dinner, drawing him out against his will. Then she pursued him to a private room. Her biggest offense, by far, was now pretending she knew anything about him. 

She thought she knew him and…pitied him for it? He ceased being a man deserving of pity many years ago, he’d made certain of it. He didn’t need her pity. He needed nothing from her. She had come to him. She’d played her games, gotten a rise out of him, and he’d kept a reign on his dominance throughout. The stress of repressing his true self over dinner, of trying to be a better man for Bae over the past few years, of never being good enough for anyone, come to a boil. And he only had one antidote for that. He felt another version of himself, long discarded, rising to the surface of his skin. 

“Turn around,” he commanded. He didn’t have to reach far for his alpha voice. It was low, slow, and precise. He didn’t, and wouldn’t, repeat himself. 

Her eyes grew wide at his tone, but she quickly spun on her heels so she faced the wall. Her swift response to his order satisfied him. Given a momentary reprieve from her eyes, he lingered just over her shoulder. He let the anticipation hang there. In response, she tensed and her breathing sped up. 

She believed she was stepping into a scene from one of her romance novels, those sensationalized portrayals of BDSM that tarnished its true essence. In her mind, she controlled this narrative, playing the role of a submissive because she viewed him as pathetic and easily manipulated. He was determined to shatter her illusions. He wouldn't allow Miss French to think she could outsmart him or take charge in this space. No, she had overestimated her own knowledge and underestimated him. This encounter would end swiftly, with him pushing her boundaries just enough to make her flee back to the comfort of LeGume’s arms. She wanted to play games? Fine. She could consider this her first lesson. He doubted she’d make it to a second.

He briefly scanned the room. In front of Miss French a hand towel hung through an ornate black ring on the wall. A string of decorative holiday bells dangled over the towel. 

He reached around her front and she jumped. He smiled to himself. Over before it begins, he thought again. He whipped the towel and bells out of the ring, tossing the towel on the vanity and shoving the ribbon and bells in his pocket to muffle them. 

“Bend over. Hands through the ring,” he ordered. 

He paused, waiting for her to balk and push back. A little discomfort and she’d be telling him to stop and reaching for the door handle. 

It was an awkward height, but she slowly hinged at the waist, reaching out her arms and draping her wrists through the towel ring. She self-consciously spread her legs and wiggled her hips to get in a more comfortable position. He watched predatorily as her skirt rode up with her movements. He allowed the pleasure he felt from a beautiful woman following his command to wash over him. It brought a calm he couldn’t get anywhere else. She took a hesitant breath and looked back at him.

In response, he moved to her side and splayed his fingers on her lower back. He held her eyes as he firmly pressed down so her back was flat. Her legs stumbled to adjust. She looked up at him apprehensively. He hooked her chin between his thumb and forefinger and and faced her back to the wall. She let out a breath and her eyes closed. The tenseness in her shoulders eased. Being firmly corrected produced a positive response, he noted. 

“Eyes down.” he reminded her, something she should already know if she was experienced and involved in the scene. Despite her ignorance, the dom in him urged him forward, to not let this opportunity go to waste. She had come to him. He controlled the scene. That relaxed him. 

“Your safe word," he demanded, watching her carefully.

She hesitated, a moment of uncertainty flickering across her features. 

“Did that not come up in one of your books? Tut tut, Miss French. I expect Storybrook’s resident librarian to be better read than that,” he chided, his tone tinged with disappointment. 

“If I can’t trust you to speak when required,” he whipped the discarded set of bells from his pocket. He tugged one from the ribbon, shoving the scrap ribbon and other bell back into his coat. He reached around her to where her wrists hung over the towel ring. He forced one hand open and pressed one of the bells into it. His fingers closed tightly over her hand. He paused to take in the feel of her soft skin under his. He was tempted to run a hand up her leg, from ankle to thigh, to compare the smoothness there. 

He squeezed her hand hard, so she knew he meant his next words. “Then this is your safe word. You ring it, the scene ends. You understand the rules?” 

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Funny she didn't struggle to find those words. Her reply soothed the dom in him, assuring him that she could submit when necessary.

“Repeat them.” 

“If I want to stop, I shake the bell and it ends. It…it all ends.” Her voice broke at the end and he again questioned how ready she was for what was about to happen. 

“Perhaps you’d like to leave now and go do a little more studying?” he prodded, though inwardly, he regretted providing such an easy escape. It was a departure from his usual unrelenting approach. 

She replied with a simple, "No, Mr. Gold." 

Her hair had fallen to the sides of her face and from behind he could see her neck muscles strain to hold position. He could sense her eyes flitting about the room, trying to find a place to rest. The dichotomy of her struggle and determination to comply enraptured him. Despite her initial reluctance to divulge her motives, it was evident that she was here by choice. Her persistence conjured something within him, allowing his dominant side to settle more comfortably.

“In that case,” his tone darkened, “I suggest you keep your eyes down when speaking to me in this space. I won't ask you again.” 

Giving demands was like an incantation to summon the submissive in her. Her eyes went to the floor and she stilled. Miss French required a firm master. 

Now that she was in position, he hesitated. He’d never topped someone like her and he didn't believe she would last much longer. He wasn’t going to lay a hand on her, he decided. That way, when she inevitably went screaming from the bathroom, he could rightly claim that he hadn’t touched her. 

Her body wiggled in anticipation of what he would do next. He reached behind him where his cane rested against the vanity. He hefted it in his hand so he held the bottom and ran the gold hooked edge down the nape of her neck. 

She shivered from the cold metal, the marked weight, or both.  

“So what is it, Miss French?” he asked languidly, the cane taking a similarly slow trail down her spine. “What do you come to me for?” 

She exhaled and swayed in response. Something akin to euphoria bubbled inside him and he had to close his eyes to keep it from boiling over. It had been too long since he’d had to key in so intimately to the reactions and feelings of another person. The experience ensnared him in a mystical web of control and pleasure.

“To learn?” he questioned. “I don’t take on inexperienced students anymore. And I thought, based on your cleverness at the dinner table, that you’re learned everything you needed to know from your books.” 

The cane reached her ass and he let the weight of it press down on her. 

“Or do you come to me to be punished?” he hissed. His words evoked a shifting of her legs where her thighs rubbed together. His eyebrows rose at her response. He lifted the cane and let gravity bounce the heavy handle off of her bottom. She jerked but held position. “I can’t imagine what for,” he taunted. “Forget to renew someone’s overdue book?” 

He tilted his head and studied her. Could it be possible Miss French wanted a stern, disapproving master to punish her? True, she had surpassed his expectations by lasting this long. But if things progressed further, she would have to relinquish control completely. If he touched her, there would be no going back without her safe word. 

“Do you know what you’re playing at, little girl?” The cane hooked over the end of her skirt and slowly lifted it until it bunched on her back. She trembled and her breath became audible, but he didn't hear even a whisper of the bells. In fact, her fist tightened over them, as if to still them further. 

“I suspect you don’t,” he continued, admiring the midnight blue panties stretched over her ass. For the first time his control wavered and his cock twitched. He had kept himself firmly in check, prepared for her abrupt exit. Now his own needs as a Master demanded to be met. Enough with slowly brewing her submissive tendencies to the surface. The invocation of the dom/sub roles urged him to teach her the essence of their relationship: That her body was his to decide what to do with. 

“I’ve seen you, you know,” he growled. “Through the window of the library. Perched on your little stool. Reading your dirty paperbacks. Swiveling back and forth, back and forth.” He ran the handle boldly over her panties, between her ass cheeks, up and down. “Does it give you any relief?”  

She pushed back against the cane, trying to force him closer. When that didn't work she tried to lift up on toes, to dip the handle lower to the apex of her thighs. 

In response, he pulled the cane away completely. “Answer me,” he demanded. 

“No, Mr. Gold.” It came out in a rush. 

“What is this about?” he asked again.  

The words stuck in her throat, but she knew the answer. It was evident in the way her body twisted, her wrists rubbing against the ring, that admitting the truth was more uncomfortable to her than what he was doing to her body. She was thinking, not feeling, which meant she wasn’t in the proper subspace yet. 

She struggled to find the words. “I don't kn–”

The smack of his palm on her ass reverberated off the walls, the noise making her jump as much as the feel of his hand against her. She gasped in surprise, tipping to the side before catching and righting herself, but her wrists stayed constrained. 

“That’s for lying,” he told her seriously. “You never lie to me in this space.” It may look like just a bathroom to her, but by coming to him, by initiating this, she’d instantly transformed it into a sacred space. It was for her own safety. He’d hurt her as much as he needed to, but only if she followed the rules. “If you plan on doing so again, I believe you know where the door is.” 

She stayed where she was, but her body undulated, taking in the new stimulation. 

“If you want to continue I need to hear you say it.” He craved hearing her admit she wanted to stay in this scene with him, to let him do to her what he wanted, needed, to do. “What do your books tell you to say, dearie?” he prompted.  

“Please,” she responded immediately. “Please, Mr. Gold. Sir. Please. More.” Consenting words tumbled out of her mouth. When he was austere and patronizing, goading her to push past her limits, she responded beautifully. But she needed to be in harmony with him if this was going to work. 

“Very good, Miss French,” he praised. “But I’m afraid bratty, dishonest, teasing girls earn more punishment than that,” he said darkly. 

This time he slapped the back of her thigh. She lifted up on her heels, but came back down. He spanked her again, this time on her other cheek. As she swayed in response, he kept a steady rhythm on the meatiest parts of her ass and thighs. He left ample time in between each smack to allow her to explore the sensations, as well as read her response. Her hands weren’t draped through the ring anymore. Instead her fingers were wrapped around it, anchoring her as she twisted and shifted with each blow, the bell still clutched in one hand. 

“You hold position sloppily, Miss French,” he noted absently. “You are in desperate need of proper training.” 

She gasped at his evocative words. He moved to stand beside her. He faced the vanity where the mirror not only reflected himself but the pinkened thighs of Miss French. He hooked his left arm around her waist to hoist her spine straight and hold her in place. With his right hand he rained light stinging slaps down on her, including the sensitive place where her ass met her thighs. That elicited sharp intakes of breath and soft moans. Her head thrashed but he let that go in favor of admiring his work in the mirror. Her thighs were turning red in places now. He continued with quick, close slaps. She shocked him by opened her legs, inviting him to slap at her core. He pointedly moved further away. She hadn’t yet earned a reward. On the contrary, her continued efforts to top from bottom pissed him off. He grabbed the edges of her panties and shoved them between her ass cheeks. He smoothed a hand over her ass. Her skin was hot and silky under his palm. She hissed. He had no salve with him here. She’d bear his marks and the lingering pain from his correction for days, and that pleased the darker aspects of dom. His emotion was reflected in the quantity and intensity of his punishments because her adrenaline had kicked in and she was now gasping for breath.  

“Time for some truth,” he reminded her. “What do you come to me for?”As her dominant, his role was to delve into her psyche, uncovering her desires, fears, and needs. She hovered on the edge of surrender, on the brink of soaring freely, yet clung fiercely to this guarded aspect of herself. But the bell remained firmly silenced in her fist. The realization ignited a surge of anger within him. He raised his arm, intent on delivering a forceful blow. It was then that she seemed to anticipate the impending strike.

“I’m lonely too,” she blurted.   

His hand stilled at his shoulder. Sensing there was more inside her, he leaned forward and ran his hand up the inside of one shapely leg, a move meant to entice more information out of her, to communicate that he could give pleasure, not just pain. 

“More,” he demanded. 

“You’ve been watching me?” she panted when his fingers danced over the tissue paper thin skin of her inner thighs. “I’ve been watching you too. You’re as alone in this town as I am. But you’re so,” she struggled for the right word, “in control all the time.” 

His mind raced as he mulled over her words, the implications sinking in with each passing second. Her admission that she had been watching him, observing him closely, sent a jolt of realization through him. Their encounter, he realized, had been brewing beneath the surface long before this insipid dinner, waiting for the right moment to come to fruition.

“I’m not,” she continued. “People tell me I’m impetuous.” 

“I’m shocked,” he replied dryly. “Have you ever done this before?” 

“No,” she shook her head, proving all his suspicions correct. “But I’ve read about it. Extensively. I was…intrigued. I wasn’t lying,” she rushed out, sensing that her punishment was not yet over. 

It was a rare moment of vulnerability from her, a glimpse beneath the carefully crafted facade she presented to the world. Her admission brought to light the depth of her curiosity and the extent of her interest in him, surprising him with its intensity. This revelation added a new layer of complexity to their dynamic, a dance of power and submission, revelation and concealment. Each word, each action, revealed layers of their desires and vulnerabilities, weaving a complex tapestry of intimacy and control in the brightly lit bathroom of Regina's mansion.

He took everything he knew about her and reframed it in his mind. She desired deep, penetrating connection—a bond that went beyond the surface, one that delved into the depths of understanding and intimacy. But she didn't seek safety in the conventional sense. She craved adventure, excitement, and unpredictability, yet she also desired a sense of security and trust. These were contradictions that challenged him, and in that moment, doubt crept into his mind of whether he was truly capable of fulfilling the complexities of her desires and giving her the connection she sought without compromising either of them.

“No one understands me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with vulnerability. She paused, hoping for a response, a sign that he was still listening, still willing to understand. “Please. Please understand me. I’m alone. I’m always alone. Make me not alone, please.”

To his shock, he found that he did understand. In that moment, he saw beneath the layers she used to shield herself from the world. She was hidden, pent up, yearning for connection and understanding. Despite her outward appearance of confidence and control, she didn’t feel truly connected to anyone. 

Finally grasping what she needed, he realized that she sought release, a chance to spread her wings and fly freely. For her, BDSM would not just be a means of physical pleasure but also a path to personal growth and empowerment. Through BDSM, she could learn skills that would translate into every aspect of her life: how to claim her desires, negotiate for what she wanted and needed, set boundaries, and communicate limits.

She was hyperventilating, the physical sensations along with the vulnerability of what she’d just shared overwhelming her. He didn't spank her, just rested the weight of his full palm onto her bare ass. 

With gentle care, he gathered her hair in his hand and let it cascade over her right shoulder, revealing her profile to him. As he smoothed the strands away from her eyes, his touch conveyed a silent message: he was there to look after her, to bear the weight of her burdens, and she could trust him to do so. Then he rested his hand on her back, not pushing, just anchoring her. 

“Deep, slow breaths,” he instructed. Then he began spanking her again. This time he kept a steady pace of heavy, solid blows. Not hard enough she would need to stop, but strong enough that each time he struck her something inside her began to shake loose. Together they built a pace. She’d breath in deeply, he spanked her, and her breath would release in a whoosh. 

When she acclimated to that, he rachetted up the strength of his slaps but kept the steady, punishing pace. She grunted and moaned, her body and mind fighting the punishment as adrenaline, endorphins, and natural painkillers flooded her nervous system to soothe her. Surrender, he demanded, never relenting, surrender to me. Finally, she quieted, her eyes open and unfocused, in a deep trance-like subspace. A single tear escaped her, slipping down her cheek to land on the floor. 

“Good girl,” he praised and a soft sob escaped her. 

The hand resting on her back ran up and down her spine, the gentle touch in contradiction to the solid, punishing blows. 

“Let go.” 

The dam broke. Wracking sobs escaped her. He thrashed her all the while and he didn’t begin to let up until every last ounce of tightness in her body was released. When her sobs transformed to sighs and her wrists hung so loosely she dropped the bell he finally ceased. Her head came to rest on her arm, too heavy for her to hold up any longer. 

"Stand," he murmured gently, and supported her to rise and lean against the wall. With care he tended to her wrists and hands, massaging the circulation back into them. His touch was soothing and deliberate and the last tears of relief washed down her face. Her eyes were dazed yet full of vitality, her body slack but simultaneously buzzing with energy.

Suddenly, she flung herself across the small space between them and wrapped both arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. The strength of her embrace caught him off guard and he swayed slightly under its force, momentarily stunned. A delicate fragrance of roses enveloped them, reminiscent of her—sweet, fresh, with a hint of spice.

Pulling back, she wiped her tears with one hand, the other fisted in his lapel. 

“Sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Just overwhelmed.”

Unable to resist, he brushed the wetness from her cheeks with his thumbs. 

“You apologize for nothing in this space,” he told her, “except not being honest with me.” 

She had performed brilliantly, navigating the complexities within her mind like a firestorm, emerging on the other side freer and more authentic. He suspected both of them felt a sense of release, intimacy, and freedom in the moment. He knew he felt more at ease here than he ever did at the dinner table.

Relaxed, she leaned into him, her eyes heavy. Twisting both hands in his jacket, she sought his support as he leaned against the vanity, gently holding her elbows and rubbing his thumbs along the silky skin on the backs of her arms. Though outwardly unchanged, inwardly he mirrored her relaxed state, loose and at ease.

“You're really good at this,” she sighed contentedly. 

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You should see what I can do in a proper dungeon and leather pants.”

Her laughter joined his, the sound carrying warmth and shared understanding.

She released a long, slow breath, her body swaying slightly in a dance of contemplation. "You're right, you know. You're not the hero."

His muscles tensed like coiled springs, every fiber of his being laser-focused on her, anticipating her next words with a mix of dread and anticipation. So she had finally seen through him, pierced through the layers of his facade to uncover the truth. She knew exactly who he really was now, and he braced himself for the inevitable recoil, the rejection that had become all too familiar. He swallowed hard, the weight of her newfound understanding bearing down on him like a looming storm.

"But you're not the villain either," she observed, her head tilting to the side as she studied him with an intensity that made him squirm. "You're far more complex than that."

Under her perceptive gaze, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if she had peeled back layers of his carefully constructed armor. He was exposed, vulnerable, in a way he hadn't allowed himself to be in years.

"You're exactly who I thought you were," she concluded softly, a warmth seeping into her words. "And I'm glad." Her gaze held a depth of understanding that left him feeling seen in a way he hadn't expected.

As their breaths mingled in the air, a soft glow seemed to envelop them, casting a spell of warmth and intimacy around their figures. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his, a tender touch that sparked a rush of sensations akin to a magical potion coursing through his veins.

In that moment, he glimpsed a future intertwined with hers. He envisioned waking up beside her, the morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting patterns of light and shadow across her serene face. With her by his side, he saw himself becoming more adventurous, embracing new experiences, and breaking free from the confines of his solitude. She was not one to sit back and let life pass her by. Constantly engaged, always testing her limits, she would challenge him in ways he had never imagined. But then, amidst the enchantment of the moment, a torrent of insecurities flooded his mind.

No one could ever truly love him, he thought. Not the real him, with all his flaws and scars. This connection they shared was nothing but a trick, a fleeting illusion born from a surge of endorphins and shared vulnerability. Once the magic wore off, she would see him for who he truly was—a broken man, unworthy of her affection.

She would undoubtedly use what she discovered about herself during their time together and blossom into a confident and empowered woman, no longer reliant on him for validation or fulfillment. The thought that she might eventually outgrow the need for his presence in her life, just as his past lovers had done, sent a chill down his spine. He had witnessed the cycle before. The deception, like a slow poison seeping into his soul, eroded the fragile trust he had dared to build. And then, the abrupt ripping out of his heart shattered the illusion of security he had clung to, leaving behind a hollow ache of betrayal. The thought of her wielding such power in their relationship terrified him. 

The way she looked at him, he realized with alarm, could only be described as adoration. No one had ever looked at him that way. Not even his wife. The prospect of Belle wielding such transformative power within their relationship was both exhilarating and petrifying. On one hand, he admired her growth and strength, but on the other, it stirred up his deepest insecurities. As her lips pressed against his with a newfound urgency, he realized that surrendering to her would be the ultimate act of bravery. 

“Dagger.” 

She stumbled backward with how hard he shoved her away. His grip on her shoulders tightened, a painful paradox of pushing her away while desperately holding onto her, as if trying to distance himself from the pain while refusing to let her slip from his grasp.

His safe word, he belatedly realized. His safe word had, unbidden, slipped from his lips. He had never used it before. The safe word, an unexpected intrusion in their charged exchange, hung in the air like an unspoken truth. It was a word never meant to breach their sanctuary of intimacy, yet now it stood as a stark reminder of their shattered connection.

"What?" Belle's voice quivered, the remnants of a smile fading from her lips, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern.

"You’re not going to do this to me," he hissed, his gaze searching her face for signs of deceit, his emotions a tempest of confusion and betrayal. "You think you can make me weak," he accused, his grip tightening as if trying to shake her from her supposed manipulation. "I knew it was too good..." His voice trailed off, the weight of disappointment heavy in the air.

"What are you talking about? This was working—" Belle's words faltered as she tried to reason with him, to salvage the unraveling threads of their bond.

"Shut up," he snapped, his desperation bordering on anger as he refused to be swayed by her attempts to explain.

"We work together!" Belle pressed on, her voice tinged with disbelief and hurt.

"Shut the hell up!" he retorted, his resolve hardening against the vulnerability threatening to break through his defenses.

"Why won't you believe me?" Tears welled in Belle's eyes, a stark contrast to the freedom they had shared mere moments ago. He had wounded her deeply, and a twisted satisfaction stirred within him at the sight.

"Because no one," he declared, forcing her to meet his gaze with an intensity that brooked no argument, "no one could ever, ever love me." His words hung in the air, final and heavy with the weight of his self-imposed isolation.

With a swift motion, he snatched his cane from the vanity and unlocked the door, rushing out of the bathroom and into the safety of the hallway. The door shut behind him with a decisive thud, sealing him away from the intensity of the moment he had just shared with Belle. As he hurried away, a knot of apprehension tightened in his chest, fearing that she might follow him, her presence a potent reminder of his own vulnerability.

Yet, even in the solitude of the hallway, he couldn't shake the turmoil raging within him. Their encounter had been electrifying, unlike anything he had experienced before, and yet he had held back, unable to give her what she desired. The realization left him feeling exposed, as if she had unearthed a weakness he had long buried.

Lost in self-reproach, he almost stumbled upon the entrance to the dining room, where the remnants of dinner lingered and conversations ebbed and flowed around him. A sudden clarity washed over him, a stark realization that he didn't belong in this room, surrounded by people and their casual interactions.

His shoulders turned instinctively, leading him back towards the hallway, but as he paused, he realized that it only led back to the bathroom. He stood there, caught between two worlds, suspended in a moment of uncertainty and introspection.

He hesitated at the threshold of the dining room, a wave of discomfort washing over him, being in such close proximity to all these people who didn't want or need him, leaving him adrift in a sea of purposelessness. He had left something meaningful behind only to return to this emptiness, a stark reminder of his own insignificance in this world of superficiality.

His thoughts drifted to Belle, to the warmth and connection they had shared, now replaced by a sense of guilt and regret. Had he hurt her? Was she in need of comfort, of the aftercare he could have provided? But he had denied her that, shattered the delicate balance of their scene and left her, and himself, broken in its wake. If he was capable of being any more broken then he already was, he thought ruefully. He’d failed Belle, like he had so many people in his life.

The decision of which direction to take was made for him as he realized he needed to retrieve his coat and escape the suffocating atmosphere of the dinner party. He had caused enough damage, both to others and to himself, for one night. It was time to retreat to the sanctuary of his counting house, a place he should never have left.

As he made his way towards the foyer and the promise of a hasty exit, he was intercepted by Bae, who tugged at his arm, urging him to join the gathering around the Christmas tree. He opened his mouth to object.

"Just ten more minutes," Bae implored, a touch of warmth in his voice. "It won't kill you, Pops."

He wanted to argue that ten more minutes might indeed be his undoing—it already felt like it had been. After experiencing a rare moment of authenticity and connection with Belle, he now felt hollow, a mere shell of himself. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be guided towards the towering pine tree, his gaze instinctively searching the crowd for Belle. If he had to endure this evening, he reasoned, he might as well bear the weight of her silent reproach.

But Belle was nowhere to be found, and his hopes for self-flagellation were dashed as he realized she was absent. Only then did he tune in to the conversations swirling around him. No one mentioned Belle's absence; instead, they were engrossed in debates over the rules of the gift exchange game. Not a single person turned to him for an explanation or inquired about her whereabouts. He scanned the room once more, his heart sinking as he realized that no one seemed to be searching for her.

As the first gift was selected, he strained to peer over the heads and past the throng of guests, searching desperately for any sign of Belle. Why hadn't anyone noticed her absence? Even LeGume appeared entirely unconcerned as he laughed along with the festivities.

What kind of friends were they, he wondered, a sense of unease settling over him as he grappled with the realization that Belle had slipped away unnoticed. The monotonous game dragged on, each gift selected and unwrapped with forced enthusiasm. A cashmere scarf, a vintage board game, a gaudy piece of costume jewelry—Gold barely registered the items as they passed from hand to hand, the game's triviality gnawing at his patience. Why was he still here, enduring this banality?

Arguments erupted over stolen gifts, strategies debated over the optimal time to choose or steal. Gold grew increasingly restless, his discomfort simmering beneath the surface as he vaguely acknowledged a gift being put in his hands, being taken, and a new one put in its place.

Then, a sudden disruption—a puzzled inquiry from Regina about an extra gift left unclaimed. Regina scanned the people circling the tree and the dwindling number of gifts. Everyone looked at each other, perplexed. Gold's irritation flared, ready to unleash a scathing remark, but before he could, a soft voice spoke from behind them.

"I haven't gone yet," Belle's voice cut through the tension, and the circle parted to reveal her presence. She appeared composed, her attire restored, but Gold noticed the subtle dimming of her usual radiance.

He scanned the group, expecting someone else to acknowledge Belle's return, to question her absence or offer concern. Yet, to his bewilderment, no one seemed to notice the change in her demeanor. Belle avoided his gaze, a telltale redness around her eyes betraying her recent tears.

A prickling discomfort spread over Gold's skin, a primal urge to protect and comfort her as her dominant. He couldn't ignore her distress, couldn't bear the thought of her suffering in silence while the oblivious crowd carried on around them.

He shifted restlessly, grappling with how to communicate to her across the crowd. A weighty presence in his pocket drew his attention, his hand instinctively reaching inside. A jingle, amplified in his ears, resonated from his jacket—the leftover bell from their scene. Heat surged through him, an acute awareness of the personal and sacred nature of the bell clashing with the public setting.

Yet, despite his unease, everyone remained engrossed in the game. A giant inflatable pool float emerged from the wrappings, likely his son's contribution, followed by LeGume's bold theft of Belle's book from another guest. The pet shelter caretaker caught her attention and wiggled his eyebrows at her. Gold’s palm, which had so recently been on her ass, tightened on the bells. 

Gold looked down at the cheap bottle of alcohol in his other hand that he didn’t remember someone putting there. His gaze darted around the group, quickly calculating how to get Belle’s book into his hands. Amidst the chaotic unwrapping and stealing, he spotted the rectangular box with its familiar haphazard wrapping—the one Bae had placed there for him. It had been overlooked momentarily, nestled inconspicuously in the folds of the tree skirt. With practiced nonchalance, he meandered over to the tree, his fingers deftly palming the box as the game continued behind him. A quirky, artistic hat was unwrapped and stolen for a few turns. 

Returning the box to its place, he looked up only to meet the smug gaze of Regina's sister, her victorious smile igniting a wave of irritation. Ignoring her, he focused on the unfolding game, tension simmering beneath the surface.

When it was her turn, Zelena pounced for the pile under the tree, her hand closing around his gift. Gold felt a surge of possessiveness, every fiber of his being screamed to lunge forward, to reclaim what was not meant for her. But he held himself back, his glare directed at her instead. Unfortunately, his silent challenge only seemed to embolden her. Everyone else eagerly stared at the gift, all vying for a new twist in the game.

Zelena's expression fell as she lifted the ribbon from the box, revealing the dangling bell. A ripple of disappointment and confusion spread through the group. Gold felt his son eye him in suspicion and pointedly ignored him. The gift looked unnatural in Zelena’s hand and Gold had to force himself not to snatch it away from her and put it back in his pocket. 

“I thought I said there was a ten dollar minimum,” Regina grumbled. 

As Zelena shook the bell, its chime seemed to echo a silent tension that had settled over the gathering. Gold's gaze instinctively sought out Belle, their eyes locking across the room. But this time, he found her unreadable, her emotions veiled behind a mask he couldn't penetrate. It was a defeat more profound than any other—they were closed off to each other, locked in a silent standoff of unspoken feelings.

A voice broke the tension, asking if the game was over, but Regina's annoyed response clarified that Belle, having joined late, would be the final participant. All eyes turned to Belle, who appeared momentarily overwhelmed by the sudden spotlight. Clutching her current gift—a luxurious cashmere scarf—she seemed unsure of how to navigate the attention now focused on her.

“Belle, you can keep your gift or steal,” Regina reminded her. “Not that we don’t know what you’re going to do,” she grumbled, eyeing the gift greedily. 

Belle's gaze locked with Gold's across the circle, a chasm of unspoken words and unresolved emotions stretching between them. She caressed the soft folds of the cashmere scarf in her hands, the most coveted item now that the month's free rent certificate was safely tucked away in his pocket. In that moment, Gold's eyes pleaded with her, a wordless entreaty for forgiveness and understanding. His gaze was a mix of regret and longing, a silent admission of past mistakes and a fervent desire for reconciliation. "I'm sorry. I am an idiot," his eyes seemed to say, the unspoken words hanging between them like a delicate thread waiting to be woven into a tapestry of redemption and renewal.

For him, it wasn't just about the scarf or the bells; it was about the choice between clinging to old wounds or embracing a future fraught with uncertainty but filled with the possibility of healing and love. It wasn't about relinquishing control; it was about sharing it with someone who had the strength to handle it. And perhaps, in the magic of their union, he would find the courage to let go, to trust, and to love without reservation.

“Well,” Regina prompted.

Regina's prompting brought Belle back to the present moment. With a determined yet vulnerable expression, Belle stepped out from the group, extending the scarf towards Zelena, a gesture that spoke volumes about her decision and the path she was choosing to tread.

“A bell for Belle. How…quaint,” Zelena commented, confused but not asking questions as she grabbed the more expensive gift. She held the bell’s ribbon between her index finger and thumb distastefully as she dropped it into Belle’s awaiting cupped hands. 

Belle's eyes fell to the bell, the brass catching the light and casting a soft glow in her palms.

“It’s perfect,” she announced, looking at Gold. In that moment, as the bells exchanged hands, a silent understanding passed between them, a promise of second chances and the courage to choose love over fear.

With the game concluded, the group dispersed, their reactions ranging from groans to cheers depending on the gifts they held.

Alone by the tree, Gold watched Belle with a mixture of awe and gratitude. Her simple gesture spoke volumes, signaling her readiness to release old hurts and embrace the possibility of a fresh start.

He took a step towards her, his heart brimming with newfound hope and determination.

"Gold!" Jefferson's arm draped heavily over his shoulders, a gesture he only dared when the alcohol had loosened his inhibitions. He knew Gold's aversion to physical contact, yet somehow, Jefferson always managed to push past that boundary with a mix of familiarity and charm. "Don't be the party pooper. A few of us are taking the festivities outside. I raided Regina's stash and struck gold, no pun intended," he said with a wink. With his other hand he reached under his coat and flashed a series of hidden inner pockets bursting with purloined cigars and a bottle with a Glenmorangie label. 

Gold's eyes, however, were fixated on Belle, who had been pulled into conversation with Mary Margaret. The bronze bell he had gifted her now hung gracefully around her neck. To others, it might have seemed festive and sweet, but to Gold, it was a declaration of something far more primal, something that stirred the depths of his being in ways he hadn't felt in ages.

As Belle's gaze met his, a wave of heated intensity surged between them, reigniting the flame that he feared had died. The way she wore that bell, with a blend of defiance and surrender, spoke volumes about the unspoken desires and emotions that tethered them together.

It wasn't just a bell; it was a symbol of her choice, her willingness to be marked by him in a way that transcended mere trinkets. The resonance of its chime echoed their shared longing and the unspoken desires and tangled emotions that now bound them together.

In that fleeting moment, Belle became more than just a woman he desired; she was his anchor, grounding him in a reality where love and longing converged with an electrifying intensity.

With a subtle nod and a warm smile, Belle silently conveyed her assurance that their journey was far from over, encouraging him to embrace what lay ahead.

So he allowed Jefferson to momentarily tug him away from Belle. 

“I thought that might convince you,” the designer said, thinking it was the label on the bottle that had been the deciding factor.

As they ascended the winding staircase to the balcony, Gold felt a rush of anticipation mingled with a hint of trepidation. The crisp night air greeted him as they reached the open window overlooking the front garden. David Nolan and Bae peered at him from the balcony on the other side of the window, cigars already lit, beckoning him through. With a clap on Gold’s back, Jefferson vaulted over the ledge. Pulling out the purloined bottle, Jefferson cracked the seal and held it out to offer Gold the first taste. With that invitation, Gold threw his good leg over the low window ledge and propelled himself out onto the balcony to join his family.  

[invis-here]

this is based pretty closely on a dream I had the other night so... make of that what you want and enjoy.

(710 words, cults, ssc, lesbians, ocs/self-insert)

Klara stepped into the grand hall of the desecrated church and let her eyes wander. Next to her she could hear the awed mumbles of her coven sisters and she had to agree. Never before had they been surrounded by such lavish decorations, long tables lined with plush chairs and laid in gold and crystal. Red and black velvet were swallowing the noise as acolytes in all black robes hurried around.

The sisters were guided to their seats by one of the robed figures and even though they were seated between other guests and acolytes, Klara didn't feel nervous or scared. She was perfectly calm as the person to her left struck up pleasant conversation. Their face was covered by thick black fabric, leaving only their eyes and mouth free, but it didn't register as odd to her. Everything Klara had learned about the temple so far had prepared her for this evening.

Caught up in pleasant conversation she hadn't even noticed the grandmaster appear on the steps before the alter but as Their attendant announced Them with the chime of a silver bell, the room was quickly blanketed with silence and all eyes were laid on Them. They were robed in blood red silk and velvet, Their face covered by a horned, silver devil's mask with a leering expression.

Their voice was pleasant yet awe-inspiring, maskuline yet feminine. They took great care to welcome the visiting covens that had eagerly followed Their invitation to the feast.

While They had been speaking, the tables had been laid with exquisite delicacies from all corners of the world and once Their speech had concluded, delightful conversation among guests and acolytes picked back up, now underlined by the clinking of silver- and glassware.

The smells of good food wove around a hundred voices and pearling laughter, making the first part of the evening fly by in no time.

Soon Klara found herself standing at the edge of a table, nursing a glass of juice, watching the people around her. As was her nature, she was keenly watching her surroundings, so she immediately noticed the elegantly dressed lady walking up to her.

She was dressed in a flowy gown that bore the same red shade as the grandmaster's, though hers was cut much simpler. The colour alone marked her as an important figure within the Temple, but Klara couldn't place her other than that. The woman's face was slender, framed by grey locks that had fallen from the braid that was draped over her shoulder. A small silver pendant was nestled between her collar bones.

"Good evening, dear," the woman said, holding a hand out that Klara easily graced with the incline of her head and a curtsy as she returned her hand.

The stranger introduced herself as Marice, a name that rang beautifully in Klara's ears. Marice, Klara learned, was kind, intelligent, and an excellent partner in conversation.

Eventually, Marice offered Klara a hand again and asked: "Would you like to dance with me?"

Klara was happy to agree to being led off by the gorgeous woman, she felt safe following her away from the tables and towards the cleared space in front of the altar.

When Marice didn't stop to integrate with the other swaying couples, Klara was confused for a moment but it all made sense, when she was led to the pews that were placed against the far wall and Marice gently pulled her onto her lap, face to face.

"Would you like this?" Marice asked, as she rocked up the leg Klara was straddling, making her intentions clear.

"Please," Klara didn't hesitate to agree, grinding herself back against Marice, making her eagerness clear. She would have never in her wildest dreams hoped to have this but now that it was almost in reach, she wanted to please her gorgeous partner. Even just the small question, obtaining her consent let Klara know that she would be safe. She had absolutely no doubt about that.

"Good girl," Marice rewarded her. "Come here." She gently placed a hand on Klara's neck, pulling her into a kiss. Klara had never been kissed like that. She had never been kissed, period. But this felt so right. Marice was so patient with her and in return Klara was putty in her hands. She could feel how she was soaking through her underwear, the fabric makind the friction against Marice's leg even more intense and Klara wanted more.

----------------------------

idk if I will ever continue this because right around this part is where I woke up lol. I'm also not sure if I'll put this on ao3 but for now, it's for y'all heathens <3

[thewholecrew]

@headstrongblake said: ❛  please just let me help you.  ❜ / trin & nick immortal

"no! just stop!" trin snapped at him as he crouched down to help clean the mess that had been created by the fight that had broken out. a fight in which nick had started well against her will. she didn't know him very well, sure he visited her diner every once and a while, sure he flirted with her, sure he'd walk her home sometimes -- but they weren't anything and she didn't need him standing up for her. yes, the guy she had been serving was getting far too handsy, yes he was becoming an issue but she had been just about done with him, had him paying for his meal to head out when nick lashed out.

did she want that man to touch her? to reach out and fucking smack her ass? no, but that wouldn't have caused as much trouble as this now was going to with her boss. half a dozen dishes broken, the table and chairs tipped over, all the napkins and coffee and food a mess on the floor. not to mention she doubted that man would ever come back now that he could barely limp his way out of the cafe. "you've done more than enough!" she huffed, wiping up the broken glassware and liquids with her napkin. "i was handling that, you didn't need to do that," she scolded him despite the way her heart had skipped the moment he had stepped between her and the man. despite the way she secretly enjoyed him giving the man what he deserved.

"now my boss is going to kill me," she muttered, knowing she was going to have to stay extra late now to finish cleaning all this up. "ouch! fuck!" she then cursed, raising her hand as a shard of ceramic cut her finger, bringing it to her mouth. please, just let me help you, nick then asked as he knelt down to take her hand. she resisted at first, glaring up at him but the look he had in those beautiful crystal blue eyes had her caving. she frowned harder at him but as he reached for her hand again she slowly gave in, watching as he wrapped it. slowly, her frown faded and she was tempted to touch his face. instead as he held her one hand delicately, her free one lightly touched along the bruised knuckles he was now sporting.

".....thank you," she murmured, taking her hands back as she rose to her feet with him, "...but next time can you at least take him out of the cafe first?" she asked him as a small smile broke across both their faces before he stayed to help her clean up.

[patowrd]

anyways, dando fic snippet pt. 2 (slight nsfw warning but i've left out most of it here 😌)

they stumble through the marble-floored lobby to the kitchen, and daniel feels like electrified, his whole body thrumming as he follows lando. lando hoists himself up on the kitchen counter, daniel smirking as he examines the labels of various liqueurs and bitters with furrowed brows. “what’s this for?” he asks, picking up daniel’s zippo and letting it dance between his hands as he observes its cold steel case.

“smoking aromatics” daniel says, “orange peels, the like.” and he trails off as he turns to the glassware he’s started polishing: currently, two highball crystal glasses worth enough to cover a third of his rent back home.

“god, my dad had one of these when i was a kid,” lando says, still in awe at the silver lighter, “i always used to want to learn tricks,” and daniel watches the lighter twirl in lando’s palms and between his fingers before he lights it momentarily, leaving him wishing to be as pliant for his touch, as receptive to his fondling. 

he extends a hand and smirks, “come on, sweetheart, hand it over.”

he knows it’s dangerous, this game he’s playing, but he’s too satisfied with himself to stop. the nickname seems to give him an upper hand, to make lando blush more than he knows what to do with. and what’s the use of a secret weapon if he doesn’t get a bit of fun. 

“what’re we thinking as a starter?” he leans back against the island and watches lando, sat on the counter opposite him. he notices the golden edge of his tan, the way his thighs under his trunks go from gold to white in the places where he has not let the sun linger. there is something bitter about how sunkissed lando looks, something tantalising about the way he peers into daniel’s eyes and smirks before he talks.

“you’re the boss. surprise me, bartender.”

it knocks the wind out of his lungs. daniel obliges.

for himself he churns out a quick g&t, something crude and boozy which he knows will at least be halfway sippable. it doesn’t matter what he drinks, he’s there to serve, to observe. it’s lando who’s being treated to a tasting course, to a class in what’s good on the tongue, what’s pleasurable.

for him, he makes a paper plane. it’s bittersweet in the mouth, amaros and lemons sticking to the palate as you sip. he thinks of it as emblematic, a portrait in a drink. 

he sips at his own glass and watches, amused, as lando tentatively tastes, his red tongue darting out to lick his lips. daniel clears his throat. 

“your girlfriend won’t mind me stealing you, i hope?” it’s tentative, a little something to gauge how lando reacts to outward flirting, but it sends daniel’s heart flying as if he’s just finished a double marathon.

lando chuckles, and takes a slow (so slow! daniel thinks, so cruelly deliberately slow!) sip of his drink before he answers, “i don’t even think she’ll notice i left”

daniel’s eyes widen, his fingers nearly slipping off of his glass as the condensation pools beneath his fingertips, “how?” and after a sip, “i’d be glued to you if i was her.”

“god, i wish you’d let her know that.”

for a moment it’s silent, the only thing cutting through the static being the muffled noise of the music on the beach, and then lando takes another sip and smiles at daniel, “s’not bad, really, kinda sweet.”

daniel smiles with all his teeth, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he laughs, “ah, see, i knew you’d like it.”

for the second drink, daniel twists a lemon peel in a way that makes lando gasp (“you can see the spray!) and scrunch his face into a grimace (too bitter, too strong). it’s endearing how expressive he is when he lets himself unwind a bit, how eager and excited he gets watching daniel use the shaker “like a real bartender” or make up fancy descriptions for rum and cokes and vodka sodas. soon enough they’re both a little gone, the alcohol tinting their cheeks matching shades of ruby red as they giggle about incomprehensible jokes. it flows easily, the conversation, and daniel barely registers the way that he positions his body, always inching towards lando’s, or how he climbs up next to him on the counter, or how, while laughing, he sets his hand down on lando’s inexplicably bare shoulder.

the room smells sweet and earthy, the remnants of various drinks lending their aromas to the air and to lando’s scent. it’s something sandy, salty, like he’s been sweating under crystal clear waves. it shouldn’t be so wounding, daniel thinks, shouldn’t make him want to put his fist in his mouth and bite down hard. he moves his hand away from lando’s shoulder, and he’s about to jump down from the counter to start polishing glasses with his back turned again when he feels lando’s hand gently press into the top of his thigh.

it takes a minute for daniel to settle down, but when he does he notices the shift in the atmosphere, the way that everything feels hot, the way his blood feels as it rushes past his ears with every quickening beat of his heart. he marvels at how warm lando’s touch is. searing, he thinks, something like a brand he’ll wear forever on his skin. 

“god, you make this so difficult,” daniel says. it’s barely above a whisper, the words sticking to the back of his throat even as he says them. all possibilities now feel too distant yet too near. if daniel wanted to, he could bend down and place a kiss in the crook of lando’s ear, or where a mole adorns his sweaty collarbone, or… daniel realizes the options are endless, that he knows precisely what he’s feeling, and for fear of calling the feeling lust he’d rather not name it at all

“do i?” and lando’s fingers start tracing the outlines of daniel’s tattoos, inching delicately towards the flower on his inner thigh. “don’t you?”

both are looking down at daniel’s thighs now, lando’s pale fingernails tracing circles across his skin, stopping only to tug at the hem of his black shorts.

“i just do what you’re thinking,” and pressing his hand flat against daniel’s skin he smiles, the tips of his fingers just barely beneath the black fabric, “no one else is home, you know? they’re all down at the beach.”

daniel inches closer, now looking deep into lando’s eyes. he’s breathless, wordless, unable to think critically about the fact that the door is unlocked, that the others could come home at any time. he’s focused, mostly, on the rich pink of lando’s lips, on the way that his lashes gently flutter as he blinks slow, his pupils dilated wide. lando’s gaze is innocent now, almost reverent, as if he’s asking daniel to show him something good, something holy.

so daniel obliges and leans in.

[gothdaddyissues]

In The 20s

Welcome to the Church - Available on Ao3

or under the cut (~3300 words)

SUMMARY: Welcome to the Church - the biggest, swankiest speakeasy in town. Terzo has a plan, and he's setting it in motion. But first, he must comfort his girl Evie, and make sure Copia is on his side...

TW: for physical/mental after-effects of physical/sexual violence/abuse

TAGS: Terzo, Copia, Ghoulettes, Original characters, aftermath of violence, implied sexual violence, language, Google Translate Italiano

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Yes! Yes, I was just here the other night. Trust me!”

The red and black Model T trundled down an unpaved road on the city's outskirts, the driver and his 5 friends packed in tight. The three in the back seat were giggling, passing a small flask of moonshine back and forth between them. Finally, the car turned off the road in front of a large, weatherbeaten church.

“We’re here!” the driver announced.

“This?” the female in the front seat scoffed. “This ain’t no gin joint. It’s a church!”

“Nuh-uh,” the driver said. “You’ll see!”

He drove the car along the side of the building, through a passage partially overgrown with trees, wide enough to only allow a single vehicle through. It led behind the building to a large plot of land used as a car park, well obscured by the foliage. He parked among the dozens of other vehicles already there.

“C’mon, cats and kittens, let’s go!”

The group entered the church from a side entrance, which led them down a hall and directly into the main chapel. “Are you sure about this, John?” one girl whispered, grabbing onto his arm and holding close to him.

“I sure am, Ruthie. Just watch.”

Standing in the chapel in front of the altar was a man in a long, hooded priest’s robe, his face obscured by a black masquerade mask. He turned to them when they entered. “Greetings, my children. How may I guide you this evening?”

“Um, we’re here for confession,” John replied.

The masked man nodded. “Of course. Right this way.” He led them to the confession booth along the side of the chapel, pulling the curtain away to reveal an opening in the back wall and a staircase leading down to the basement.

“Go in peace,” the priest said.

The group hurried past the mysterious ‘priest’ and into the stairwell. The steps were rough-hewn wood planks with a wide, well-worn groove down the center from the sheer amount of foot traffic. The further down they went, the cooler and darker it became as they made their way deep underground. The sounds of laughter, glasses clinking, and music grew louder and louder the closer they got to the bottom. Another man stood at the end of the stairwell, bathed in the warm light emanating from an open doorway to the left. “Welcome to The Church,” he greeted, “The show starts at 1 am. Blessings be upon you.”

Stepping through the opening revealed an enormous speakeasy, easily the biggest and most elaborate in the whole city. It was already teeming with well-dressed patrons, most holding wine, whisky, or cocktail glasses in their hands. Gilded crystal chandeliers hung from a tin ceiling over the large seating area. Along the length of the wall near the entrance was the bar, heavy dark oak, with arch-framed shelves behind it housing a generous array of glassware and liquor bottles, and tended by two distinguished-looking gentlemen in pinstripe waistcoats. There was a wide variety of seating: stools, tables for two, four, and six, and benches and banquettes along the wall across from the bar. The carpeting was plush and the upholstery rich and luxurious. At the far end of the room sat a grand piano on a large stage hung with lights and deep red curtains trimmed in gold fringe. And in front of that, a roomy dance floor, already in use by several couples frolicking and doing the Charleston in time with music coming from a Victrola in the corner. The area on the far opposite side of the stage was a raised dais that held two extravagant private booths, each within carved wood arches, and with heavy gold drapery hanging in front of them to obscure those who sat there from view. The entire establishment was as ostentatious as the notorious gangsters that owned it.

John grabbed Ruthie’s hand. “Let’s get us a drink, sugar.”

The group made their way over to the bar, and as they stood in wait Ruthie noticed one of the private booth curtains flutter open, a man dressed in a shiny black suit and pristine white spats emerging from within. He was hard to ignore - his face painted white, with deep black markings on his eyes, nose, and cheeks, reminiscent of a skull. His black hair was slicked back which enhanced the face paint and his dual-colored eyes, one green and one white… the birthmark of the Emeritus clan.

He sauntered across the room, greeting and shaking hands with the patrons he passed until he caught sight of her staring starry-eyed at him. She tried to look away but it was too late. He looked her up and down with a flirtatious gaze, gave her a nod and a wink, and walked off before her companion noticed.

Chuckling to himself, he made his way across the dancefloor and slipped behind the stage. It would be showtime soon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Terzo made his way down the small corridor beyond the cluttered backstage area. It was a short distance to the dressing rooms, the first open room filled with the male members of the club’s band preparing to take the stage, going through their warm-ups, and tuning their instruments. Terzo greeted them as he passed through: “Good evening, fellas.” Across the room were two doors. One was Copia’s dressing room/office, but the other - the ladies’ dressing room - was where he was headed first. He knocked and stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

He shut the door behind him quickly, leaning his back on it and standing in admiration of what he saw before him. Three lovely women, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, in various states of dress. “Buonasera, ladies,” he purred.

The women continued their preparations unbothered, quite immune to Terzo’s flirtatious behavior. The blonde even rolled her eyes at him as she pulled on her stage dress over her silky undergarments. The brunette was threading a feathered headband through her waved hair, while the redhead - dressed in a black pantsuit matching what the men in the band wore - was standing before a large mirror, busy rimming her eyes with a dark black liner.

“She’s here?” he asked.

“Of course,” the blonde said motioning to the other door in the room, “She’s been holed up in there for an hour.”

“I hope she’s okay,” the redhead said, while still concentrating on her makeup application, “She’s been awful quiet.”

“Allow me to check on her then,” Terzo volunteered. He made his way through the room, seductively taking each woman’s hand and kissing the back of it as he passed them. First the blonde: “Lovely Cumulus.” Then the brunette: “Sweet Cirrus.” Then, as she finished her makeup, the redhead: “Fiesty little Sunshine.”

They weren’t falling for it. “Just go cheer up your girl, ya goon,” Sunshine sighed, ushering him away.

Terzo knocked twice, this time waiting until he heard a reply before entering. A soft “Yes?” came from within and he let himself in, shutting the door behind him.

The room was no bigger than a large closet - it was, in fact, a storage closet before they converted it into a singular dressing room for their star songstress. It was big enough for only a chair, a rack filled with fringed, sequined, and sheer stage dresses, and a vanity table placed in front of a large, lighted mirror. It was there she sat, already in costume, black hair in a sleek bob, putting the finishing touches on her stage makeup. The beautiful Evelyn Stewart, or Evie as they called her.

Her back was to him, but he could see the reflection of her face in the mirror. He noticed redness around her eyes, puffiness on her lids that she was futilely trying to hide with creams and powders. She glanced at him in the reflection, just briefly, before returning to her work. There was no joyful gleam in her eye, no rosy cheeks dimpled in happiness as they usually were. There was only sadness there, heavy and dark, rolling off of her as she sat slumped at her table. He hated seeing her like this. He had seen it before, in her and in so many others. He knew the cause of her despair: Papa.

His father, Papa Nihil, the head of their family and the leader of their gang. Almost 100 years old, he was an ancient relic of a time long past. He was old-fashioned, resistant to change, too comfortable in his role as patriarch. He ruled through intimidation and fear, and no one dared to cross him. His two eldest sons, Primo and Secondo, had tried. They challenged his way of thinking - they challenged him - and their only reward was to be shunted out of the hierarchy, pushed down the line of succession due to their insolence. Now Terzo was the heir apparent, and he played along, doing everything his father wished and more to gain his trust… while at the same time taking initiative and making new connections behind his back, laying the groundwork for the future. It was a dangerous game and he was preparing his final play: pushing the old man out for good. His brothers had his back. It would be all for the sake of the family business.

Until then, they all had to take the knee and kiss the ring.

Poor Evie never asked for this. She was never looking to be a mobster’s girl. All she wanted was to sing and entertain. But once Papa got a look at her, there was no going back. Evie was his, whether she liked it or not. He kept her on his arm as a trophy, as a symbol of his power, and there was no way he would give her up willingly. Terzo had seen Papa be cruel to her, knew he would force himself on her for his own pleasure since he was too old to ‘perform’ in any way that would be satisfying for her. Not that her needs mattered one bit to him. She was beautiful, talented, and clever, but essentially, she was Papa’s prisoner. She deserved better. Terzo tried to be the one to give that to her and he felt no guilt in doing so. He wanted her to have all the attention, all the affection, and all the orgasms she desired. Papa’s increasing possessiveness was making that more and more difficult.

“Hello baby girl,” he murmured. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, giving a light squeeze before leaning down to kiss the nape of her neck. The kisses continued downward, past the pearl embellishments draped across the back of her dress, until he knelt behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging her tight, he rested his head upon her shoulder, making eye contact with her through their mirrored reflections.

She smiled back at him then, a genuine smile. She melted into his touch, leaning her cheek against his. “Hello handsome,” she replied. “What’s with the face paint tonight?”

Terzo scoffed: “Papa wants us to start wearing it again when we’re here. He says it makes us more intimidating, shows everybody who’s boss.” He kissed her cheek softly, belying his menacing appearance. “You okay? Anything I can do for you?”

She slid her hands down to cover his, entwining their fingers. “I’m okay,” she said, a small tremor in her voice. “Better now.”

Terzo studied her face in the mirror. “Did he hurt you again?” he asked, scowling in pre-emptive anger.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “No,” she said. She wouldn’t look at him again.

He sighed. Her reticence told him she was lying. He laid a string of gentle kisses along her neck. “My sweet girl, you deserve so much more than this. You deserve a man who will worship you like the goddess you are.” His hands slid up from her waist to her breasts, cupping them in his grasp ever so reverently, while his kisses continued. “Mmmm… I’ve missed you,” he hummed in her ear.

“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered, sliding her hand up the side of his face to tangle in his hair.

“C’mere baby.” He spun the stool around until she was facing him, and he wasted no time, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, pulling back momentarily to nuzzle his nose alongside hers. He felt her smile, heard her soft giggle. He kissed her again, his tongue gently slipping past her lips. He pressed himself into her, his passion taking over as the kisses continued, his hands moving to her legs, parting them, pushing the hem of her dress up past the satin garters adorning her thighs. His fingers danced along her bare skin…

Evie abruptly put her hands over his, stopping him in his tracks. She pulled her lips away, reluctantly, pressing her forehead to his instead. “Terzo, no,” she protested, “Please. I don’t have time. I have to finish getting ready.”

“I’m sorry, dolcezza,” he apologized, “I can’t help myself, you are so irresistible. So delicious..” His lips were back on her neck, the other side this time, sucking and nibbling at the sensitive flesh until he felt her tense up. A mewl of pain escaped her lips.

He pulled back, his brow furrowed in concern. He could see the bruises on her neck now, a column of angry fingerprint-shaped marks on her pale skin. His fingers ghosted over them. “Evie,” he gasped, “You said he didn’t hurt you…”

Evie pulled away and spun back around to face the mirror. “It’s fine,” she said firmly, going back to her preparations. “You need to stop worrying about me so much. Fussing over me. Papa’s getting suspicious, he knows something’s up. We gotta be more careful. You’ll probably be in big trouble if he finds out you came back here to see me.”

Terzo stood up, coming around to lean against her vanity table so he could see her eye to eye. “Actually, he’s the one that sent me. He has a message for you.”

She glanced up at him while powdering her face. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“He wants you to sing ‘his’ song for him tonight.”

Evie made an annoyed face. “Again? The band is sick to death of it.”

“But he’s not,” Terzo said, “And what Papa wants, Papa gets. We know that all too well, both of us, si?”

She sighed. “It’s not on the setlist. I’ll have to tell Copia.”

“No, no,” he tutted, “You leave that to me. I have to speak with him anyway.”

“Fine.” He watched as she struggled to cover up the marks on her neck. There were tears welling up in her blue eyes, but she blinked them back, steeling herself with a determined huff of breath. She put up such a brave front, keeping that tough-as-nails exterior of hers from breaking. He was one of the few people who knew just how sweet and vulnerable she was on the inside.

Terzo went to the jewelry box on the table, rummaging for something big enough to cover her wounds. He found a multi-strand pearl choker with a large faux-diamond pendant dangling from the front. “Allow me,” he said, placing it around her throat and moving behind her slightly to fasten it for her.

She examined herself in the mirror, satisfied that the necklace would conceal the bruises. Her eyes met his in the reflection once more. “Thank you, Terzo.”

He turned her around again, taking her hands in his and placing soft kisses on them. “I wish I could stay longer, tesoro. But I will let you finish getting ready. And after the show, I will take you back to my place, hmmm? Pamper you. Candles, a bubble bath, champagne?” He nudged her chin with his fingers, running his thumb along her bottom lip while staring into her eyes.

Evie placed her hand around his wrist, caressing small circles around his pulse point with her finger. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby, I promise.”

“Be careful, Terzo. You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” she warned.

She was right, but he was damn sure going to try and keep that promise to her. Terzo smirked as he pulled away, heading for the door. “Are you calling me a liar, cara?” he teased, trying to at least make her smile on the way out. “How dare you…This is the most honest face you’ve ever sat on and you know it.” He winked and slipped out of the room.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

“20 minutes to showtime! 20 minutes!” the stagehand called.

Terzo knocked on Copia’s dressing room door and opened it enough to poke his head in. “You got a minute?”

Copia was standing in front of a mirror, pulling on his red tailcoat. He took a quick glance at his watch. “I have a couple, but not much more than that. Why?”

Terzo stepped inside and shut the door behind him, giving Copia a glance up and down. “Going with the red suit tonight, eh?”

“They’re still trying to get the blood stains out of the white one,” he retorted, giving Terzo a sideways look. “Thanks to your brother and our little policeman friend.”

“Actually, turns out he was Imperator’s little policeman friend,” Terzo revealed as the flopped down into Copia’s desk chair. “One of our inside guys told us he was on her payroll.”

“She couldn’t come for us with someone better than a rookie? She’s going to have to try harder,” Copia said, adjusting his collar.

“No doubt she will,” Terzo agreed, “Especially after what I found out today.”

Copia turned to his friend: “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Capone is coming to town.”

“When?” Copia was wide-eyed. This was big.

“To be determined,” Terzo said, “But it’ll be soon. And I’m going to arrange a meeting with him, make him a deal.”

Copia scoffed. “Your father won’t like that.”

Terzo leaned over the desk. “I don’t care,” he stated, punctuating each word by jabbing his index finger onto the desk. “The game has changed and Papa doesn’t get to play anymore. It’s our time now, Copia. Partnering with Capone will make us stronger than ever. And if we don’t do it, Imperator will! Then we’d really be fucked, right? I’m not taking that chance. Papa doesn’t have to know until the deal is done.”

For a few moments, it was silent except for the faint sound of the girls doing their vocal warmups in the room next door. Copia adjusted his cuffs and smoothed down his lapels, his brow furrowed in worry.

Terzo stood and approached Copia with his arm outstretched. “You’re with me, aren’t you fratellino?” he asked. “I can count on you, si?”

Copia took hold of Terzo’s forearm in a Roman handshake. “Of course, you can,” Copia said, their arms still locked, “I’m always with you, Terzo, you know that.” He put his other hand on Terzo’s shoulder, gripping him tightly. “But I hope you know what you’re doing. We’ve seen what Papa is capable of when he’s angry. There’s been a lot of funerals… I don’t want to have to go to yours, you understand?”

“Have some faith in me, Copia,” Terzo smiled, clapping him on the back affectionately.

There was a knock on the door. “10 minutes ‘til showtime!” the stagehand announced.

The two men separated, Terzo heading for the door. “Oh, speaking of angry Papa, I almost forgot,” he said, turning back to Copia, “He wants to hear his favorite song again tonight so you’d better put it back on the setlist, yeah?”

“What?! You tell me this now?” Copia groaned.

Terzo took his leave, as quickly as he could. “In bocca al lupo!”

[heschoking]

AI constructed outline, written by me.

The elegant dining room exuded an air of sophistication, illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight and the sparkle of crystal glassware. Sarah and her closest friends, a diverse group of professionals, gathered at their favorite steakhouse to celebrate a recent promotion. Laughter and animated conversation filled the air as they settled into their plush leather chairs, eagerly anticipating the feast ahead.

As the waiter approached their table with a silver platter, Sarah's eyes lit up with excitement. She had been dreaming about sinking her teeth into a juicy steak all day, her mouth watering at the mere thought. With a flourish, the waiter revealed the perfectly seared steak, its aroma tantalizing her senses and igniting a fierce hunger within her.

With a gleeful grin, Sarah wasted no time in cutting into the tender meat, savoring each succulent bite as if it were the last meal she would ever taste. Around her, her friends indulged in their own culinary delights, their faces alight with pleasure as they sampled the array of mouthwatering dishes spread before them.

Amidst the clinking of silverware and the hum of conversation, Sarah felt a sense of contentment wash over her, grateful for the opportunity to share this moment of joy with her closest companions. Little did she know, however, that their evening of revelry was about to take a dark and terrifying turn.

In the midst of her enjoyment, Sarah suddenly felt a sharp pain shoot through her throat as a large piece of steak became lodged in her windpipe. Panic surged through her veins as she gasped for air, her eyes wide with fear as she struggled to draw a breath.

"Sarah, are you okay?" one of her friends exclaimed, reaching out to her in concern.

But Sarah could only shake her head frantically, her throat constricted by the obstruction as she fought to stay conscious.

As the gravity of the situation dawned on her friends, a wave of panic swept through the table, their voices rising in alarm as they realized the severity of Sarah's condition.

"Someone call an ambulance!" one of them shouted, already fumbling for their phone in a frantic bid for help.

In the chaos that ensued, Sarah felt a sense of helplessness wash over her, the world spinning around her as she struggled to stay upright. Each passing moment felt like an eternity, her vision blurring as she fought to keep the darkness at bay.

With trembling hands, Sarah attempted to dislodge the obstruction, pounding on her chest with all the strength she could muster. Tears streamed down her face as she gasped for air, her body wracked with coughs as she fought to expel the deadly morsel lodged in her throat.

But despite her best efforts, the steak remained stubbornly lodged, its presence a suffocating weight on her chest.

Just when all hope seemed lost, a voice rang out above the din, calm and authoritative amidst the chaos.

"I know what to do," Sarah's friend, a former paramedic, declared, springing into action with a sense of purpose.

With practiced precision, he positioned himself behind Sarah and began to administer the Heimlich maneuver, his hands moving in a rhythmic pattern as he applied pressure to her abdomen.

And then, miraculously, the obstruction dislodged with a wet, choking sound, sending Sarah gasping for air as she collapsed into her friend's arms, her body trembling with relief.

As Sarah caught her breath, she felt a flood of emotions wash over her: relief, gratitude, and a profound sense of awe at the fragility of life. She clung to her friends, their presence a source of comfort and solace in the aftermath of the harrowing ordeal.

In the quiet moments that followed, Sarah and her friends shared a moment of reflection, their bond stronger than ever in the wake of the near-tragedy. Though shaken, they knew they would carry the memory of this experience with them always, a reminder of the precious gift of life.

As the tension ebbed from the room, Sarah's friends surrounded her with love and support, grateful to have her safe and sound. And with that, they continued their meal, savoring each bite with newfound appreciation, knowing that life was too precious to waste on trivialities.

[sacred-owl]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Pinwheel by Crystal Clear Industries - Two Vintage Cut Crystal Candlesticks 6”.

[thewineglassslipper]

Finding the Perfect Match: Glasses That Pair Beautifully with Your Glass Slipper

Looking to treat your loved ones—or yourself—to The Glass Slipper, the ultimate wine and cocktail glass stabilizer? It’s a chic and practical accessory designed to keep your glasses steady on uneven surfaces, but you might be wondering: Which glasses work best with it? Let’s explore the types of stemware that pair perfectly with The Glass Slipper and highlight some renowned brands that produce them.

Types of Glasses That Fit Snugly

The Glass Slipper is designed to accommodate a wide range of wine, flutes and cocktail glasses. Here's what you should consider:

Standard Wine Glasses

Most red and white wine glasses with medium stems fit comfortably. These are the classic choices for wine enthusiasts.

Recommended brands:

Riedel: World's largest wine glass producer offers a varietal-specific designs and also owns Spiegelau, which are machine-blown and less expensive than most Riedel glasses. Riedel's Vinum series received top marks by Serious Eats for Best Universal wine glass.

Schott Zwiesel: Provides durable, break-resistant glassware, widely trusted by winery tasting rooms for its reliability and elegant presentation. Recently featured and recommended by Food & Wine for its sturdiness and style.

Champagne Flutes

The slender stem and base of flutes are well-suited for The Glass Slipper, ensuring stability during celebrations.

Recommended brands:

Waterford Crystal: Luxurious and timeless.

Baccarat: Epitomizes luxury and positioned as premium investments for luxury dining or gifting​.

Lalique: The brand's Champagne crystal coupe garners high praise from world-renowned wine critic James Suckling. 

Cocktail Glasses

Martini glasses and Gin Tonic glasses with slender stems are great matches. The Glass Slipper ensures these stylish yet top-heavy glasses stay secure.

Recommended brand:

RCR Cristalleria Italiana: A standout in the world of barware, blending cutting-edge design with exceptional functionality. The Glass Slipper ads a nice touch on the Alkemist Gin Tonic, which is the top-of-the-range glass for all gin lovers.

Everyday Stemware

Glasses used for casual dining, such as smaller wine glasses, are equally suitable.

Recommended brands:

Libbey: Affordable and some original designs glassware for cocktail, flutes and wine glasses. Though we haven't personally tried it, Libbey's Signature Kentfield Estate All-Purpose glass has recently garnered praise in a NYTimes review article and would make an excellent pairing with The Glass Slipper.

Luminarc: Popular for modern, everyday settings with large selection.

Trudeau: Highly popular brand, especially in Canada, known for producing innovative and functional kitchen and barware.

Pairing Style with Stability

Not all glasses are created equal! While The Glass Slipper fits most stemmed glasses, some with unusually wide bases may pose challenges. For instance, we've personally tested the Riedel Winewings series, which is a beautiful large wine glass with an expansive base, and while it fits, the substantial base limits its ability to benefit from the enhanced spill-resistance that other glasses might experience.

If you’re unsure about compatibility with your favorite glassware, our team is always here to help. Simply reach out via our website chat, and we’ll assist you in finding the perfect fit!

Treat Yourself or Your Loved Ones 🎁

With the holiday season approaching, The Glass Slipper paired with elegant glassware makes for an unforgettable gift. Explore premium glass options from these top brands to ensure the perfect pairing for every occasion.

Start shopping today and make every sip stylish, steady, and spill-free! Check out our collection at Glass Slipper. 🍷🍸🥂

We’re proud to have a growing community of cocktail and wine lovers who appreciate the innovation and style of The Wine Glass Slipper. Stay connected with us by following our journey on Instagram, Facebook, TikTok, and Pinterest.