#How to Build a French Drain

[weathertek]

How to Build a Simple French Drain?

Water drainage issues can wreak havoc on your yard and foundation, leading to costly repairs if left unaddressed. One effective solution is to install a French drain, a simple yet efficient system designed to redirect water away from problem areas. This guide will walk you through the steps of building a French drain, whether you’re tackling yard flooding or protecting your home’s…

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

How would someone like Miko, Ei, and other high ranking officers react to an S/O with a long list of titles like Settra the Imperishable, King of Kings,-

(Genshin Impact) Yae, Ei, Sara, Kokomi, Furina, Jean, and Xianyun's S/O with an absurdly long list of titles

I've been building and painting a lot of Bretonnians lately, so dear readers, you will now become aggressively French.

By the Archons above, nothing was worse to Yae than having to be so serious during a ceremony,

Of all the things she could be doing, literally anything would be better than having to listen to some stuffy noble read their title.

So it was by chance S/O had to be present. She recognized their title was of Fontaine descent.

'The Red Hand of Brionne', 'The Red Duke', Something something Red.

...Wait, their titles were still being read off?!

(Yae) "My goodness, just how many titles with the color red can one have?"

Yae internally sighed as the list kept going. And going. And going.

All the while S/O stood perfectly still and respectful, not even batting an eye at the list of titles that probably would stretch from the top of the shrine all the way to the bottom.

Yae's head looks up to the sky momentarily, wondering how of all the people in the world she could have as a lover, it was the one who had to bore her to tears.

No doubt there were interesting stories of how the titles came to be, but this is not the way she wanted to find out.

And here Yae thought Ei had a lot of names to go by...

(Yae) "...Why is it still going?!"

Ei doesn't react too much at the titles being read off for S/O's form of address at first.

She had to deal with similar situations of people reading off her own titles, so it was only proper etiquette.

"Water-Knight," "The Holder of Secrets", "Keeper of the Way"

(Ei) "...Hm."

It was only now she noticed that the list actually exceeded her own titles.

Which surprised her more than anything.

As far as she knew, S/O was just a mortal. How many feats did they achieve in Fontaine during their short life?

She made a note to ask later, but now the list was starting to become a bit absurd.

...Maybe she should implement a law where only the most notable of titles are read off, because they would actually be here for eternity if this continued.

Sara gets jealous fast.

Not because S/O has more titles than her, she couldn't care less about that.

What really irked her, was they had the gall to own more titles than Her Excellency, the Almighty Narukami Ogosho!

Sara masks her annoyance well as she keeps reading off the list.

Line after line, name after name.

...Okay, who the hell even gave her this list, this was way too many!

(Sara) Leader of battles...? What kind of title even is that?!

She made that comment in her head as she droned on with the names.

With every single title read off, Kokomi's energy drained.

She loved her S/O dearly, but by the Archons, how the heck did they get that many titles while living in Fontaine?!

(Gorou) "Lionheart, The Lionhearted, High Paladin of the Breton Court-!"

As far as she was aware, there wasn't even any Knight Houses like this in Fontaine!

...Then again, this was Fontaine she was talking about. They did have their theatres.

Kokomi doesn't mention anything about their stupidly long list of names until after the formal ceremony.

She drops her head onto their shoulders, sighing loudly.

(Kokomi) "S/O...why did we need to have all your names read out...?"

The AUDACITY S/O had!

To have more titles than HER, FURINA?!

This transgression would never be forgotten!

...But they were some pretty cool names, she did have to admit.

'The Golden Paladin',' 'Lord of the Lance', 'Roi Breton'

(Furina) "Hmph, and where exactly did you acquire such names, S/O? More importantly, how does it nearly rival my own?! Hmph! Perhaps I should read all of mine so that we are on equal footing!"

Honestly, some of those were starting to sound like stage names, which wasn't fair at all!

If they could do that, then so could she!

Needless to say, the ceremony the two were attending dragged on for way too long.

By Barbatos, those were some extra titles.

'The Green Knight', 'Knight of the Glade', 'Heart of the Lion'

Though, she only had a few titles under her own belt, the sheer number S/O had was honestly staggering.

But it was also admirable.

It made her want to keep up, and wondered if she could ever live up to Vanessa, and apparently S/O.

Because at this point she was wandering in her mind, the list was still going, and probably outnumbered Vanessa herself.

(Jean) Well...I suppose we did say we were to refer to all forms of address...Maybe we should revise that.

Xianyun was no stranger to titles.

She did indeed go by many, but S/O seemed to go by even more.

Which both impressed, and honestly annoyed Xianyun.

How did a mortal go by more names than Rex Lapis?!

'The Sacremor', 'The Soul-Killer', 'Duke of Couronne'-

(Xianyun) "One has to wonder why you must have all your names read aloud? We could be doing something much better right now..."

Granted, she did recognize a few of these titles, but that was no reason for dinner to get cold now!

Xinayun pouts, adjusting her glasses as she tries to get comfortable as the reading continued.

One found this situation inane...

[throneofsmut]

Bleeding Love

Poly!Feysand x Reader || WC: 2k || Warnings: Injury & Smut

Summary: Reader comes back from a mission with Azriel and got hurt and Feyre and Rhys find them and take care of them. Based off this req.

****

Azriel and you stumble as you winnow the both of you onto the street in front of the House of Wind. His chest rising and falling as he pants. Yours doing the same.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to fly you up?” He asks breathily.

Shaking your head, moving to lean against the bottom of the building. So exhausted that you were fighting not to slump down against it.

Opening your eyes when you hear leathers that weren’t yours rustling—he was leaning against the House of Wind now too. “Yeah,” you answer. “I can make it. Can you?”

He glances at you, bloody and bruised too. “My shadows can.” His shadows not his wings meaning he was too exhausted to fly.

“All right.”

“Sure you don’t want to come with me to see Madja?”

“Nah, it looks worse than it actually is,” you breathe, pressing your hand against your side. You’d healed your broken ribs, but were too drained to actually close the wound itself.

Azriel had a hand pressed against his own side and then let out a pained wheeze, “All right.”

A moment passed before both of you rose to your full heights—slightly swaying—and nodded to each other.

Then Az’s shadows swallowed him up and you winnowed.

It wasn’t possible to winnow into the House of Wind, but you could winnow onto it. . . sort of.

You winnowed ten feet above one of the balconies—the one that leads to your old room—and dropped, landing ungracefully onto it.

You’d meant to land on your feet. But, as soon as your feet touched the ground, your body gave out and you fell to your knees and then collapsed onto your side.

Pained groans slipping through your lips as you lay there on the ground, clutching your side, feeling something warm coating your fingers.

Looking down to find your hand covered in blood and beneath you on the floor of the balcony it was pooling swiftly. “Fuck,” you sigh under your breath. Followed by a wet wheezy cough that made you clutch your side tighter.

Your eyes closing as you continue to lay there trying to get the motivation to move. The steady drip of your blood and your heavy breaths echoing into your ears. Along with the voices of the people of Velaris on the streets below.

It could’ve been minutes or hours when you finally grit your teeth and roll over on your knees, a hiss escaping from you as you stand. Stumbling to the french doors of the balcony leading into your room.

Staggering in before leaning on the nearest wall to catch your breath and take in your surroundings. “Cauldron boil me,” you grumble when you see that you're actually in the dining room.

Blowing out a sharp breath, you push off the wall and make your way to your old room—the one before you started sharing one with Feyre and Rhys—stumbling and cursing the whole way. The walls being your only support.

You hope they’re not home right now. The townhouse is being renovated and they just started building the family home so Feyre, Rhys and you were currently staying in the House of Wind.

When you got close to your door, the house opened the door for you, letting you in, “Thank you,” you said to the house. And then the house lit, the fireplace and the door to your bathroom opened too. “Thank you, Windy,” you repeat again, this time using the nickname you gave to the sentient House of Wind.

Stumbling all the way in until you made it to the en-suite bathroom and held yourself up with one hand on the counter, the other still clutching your side. “Mother save me,” you sighed with your eyes closed.

Then you heard the soft clatter of a chair landing on the floor behind you and without opening your eyes you sat down. “Oh, how I love you, Windy,” you murmur affectionately.

Finally you open your eyes and take in your appearance in the mirror above the sink, “Gods, I look terrible.” Your left brow is cut and so is your bottom lip. Bruises are beginning to bloom on the right side of your jaw and your left eye. You’ll have a black eye for sure in a couple hours, even if you apply a healing balm.

And your knuckles are all cut up and bruised. Your legs are probably bruised up too and not to mention that your ribs are tender even though they’re not broken anymore. But, you do still have a large cut on them. “Fuck, I’m definitely gonna need stitches,” you say as you assess your side.

You clutch a hand to your wound again and with the other start to rifle through the cabinets in front of you under the sink.

Cursing under your breath when you can’t find the antiseptic you usually keep stored there. “Windy, have you seen—“ the House cuts you off by placing a bottle of rubbing alcohol on the counter in front of you. “Thank you, Windy.”

Dropping your hand from your side, you grit your teeth and inhale sharply. When you exhale you pull off the top of your fighting leathers in one quick motion. Your undershirt with it, leaving you in only your bra.

Before you lose your courage you unscrew the top of the rubbing alcohol and pour it directly over your side. A soundless scream ripping from your throat at the feeling. You don’t waste another second before threading the needle in your first aid kit and begin stitching yourself up.

Tying off the final stitch when you hear two sets of footfalls approaching.

The door to your bedroom swings open moments later, the door to your bathroom following soon after, two pairs of wide eyes pinned on you. One violet and one blue-gray.

Feyre and Rhys.

You give them a lazy grin, “Hello, my loves,” you say to both of them. And without missing a beat you pick up the bottle of alcohol again and pour it over your freshly sown stitches. Turning your face away from them, “Fucking hell,” you grit out through clenched teeth.

Feyre comes to stand by your side and brushes your hair away from your face, “You’re hurt.”

“I’m all right,” you reassure her, closing your eyes and leaning into her touch.

“You’re bleeding,” Rhys says from your other side. His voice deathly soft. His power filling the room.

You cut a glance to him, giving him a soft smile, “Relax, love.” Your voice is a gentle—soothing—command.

“How the fuck am I supposed to relax when. . . when your bleeding?”

“Because they’ll never hurt me or anyone else ever again.”

He visibly relaxes and places a kiss atop your head. But, then Feyre asks, “Are you sure?” Her voice sounds strained as if she’s holding back. And even though she hasn’t stopped brushing your hair back with her hand, her other, is curled into a fist.

“Yes, darling. Az and I made sure before we left,” you swear.

“Good.”

Without another word you get up and make your way to the shower and peel off your fighting leather. Slowly. Teasingly.

Feyre and Rhys remain by the sink as you continue to strip, then turn on the water, and finally wash yourself clean. Their eyes flick between yours and your body as the water and soap cover every inch of you.

Violet and blue-gray eyes that were once darkened by violence were now darkened by something else entirely.

Finally rinsing off the last of the soap, you dry yourself off and drop your towel on the floor, before making your way to your bed.

Half way into the room you stop, looking at Feyre and Rhys over your shoulder and that’s all they need before they follow.

You lay in the middle of the massive bed, holding yourself up with your elbows as the High Lady and High Lord of the Night Court make quick work of ridding themselves of their clothes. They all but ripped them clean off their bodies.

Rhys was already at attention when he started pumping himself in his large hand a couple times.

And Feyre’s tits were already tipped in hardened peaks. Her arousal made her cunt glisten in the firelight.

A bead of precum seeped from the head of Rhys’s cock and your tongue swiped out wanting to taste it, but before you could Rhys’s thumb swiped over it. Making you lick your lips instead.

His violet eyes gleamed as he continued to stroke himself, his thumb swiping over the head again, “Do you really think you deserve a taste, sweetheart?” He coos mockingly,

You opened your mouth to answer him, but Feyre beat you to it. The obscene noise of her playing with herself filled the room. One hand played with her tit while the other rubbed her swollen clit.

All of you letting out moans as you rubbed your thighs frustratingly together and they continued playing with themselves.

Feyre’s the first to speak, pinching and rolling her nipple between her fingers. She glances at Rhys, “I think our girl needs to rest. Then her gaze settles back on you. “Don’t you baby?”

Fine, if they want to play. You’ll play.

You scoot farther back on the bed so you’re leaning against the plush pillows. Then slowly spread your legs apart, thighs bent, baring yourself to them. Earning lewd groans from them.

Smirking at them in response, but you don’t stop there.

Sticking two fingers in your mouth, your tongue swirling around them, and then moments later lowering your hand. Running those same two fingers through your folds, now glistening with your arousal as you draw tight circles over your clit.

Throwing your head back in pleasure as a soft moan escapes your mouth and fills the air. Then you bring your freehand up to pinch your nipples and play with your tits. Eyes screwing shut as you get closer to falling over the edge.

“Oh, fuuuck,” you choke out in between gasping breaths. The fire pooling in your lower belly begins to spread to the rest of your body. You know you won’t last much longer, but then you're suddenly getting flipped over.

The only warning you get is Rhys’s wicked smirk before he splits you open, burying himself in your cunt in one quick thrust.

Feyre’s hands cup your face as she swallows your scream, kissing you hungrily, her hips settling over Rhys’s face.

His hands settle over your hips in a bruising grip as he sets a brutal—punishing pace. Another scream works its way up your throat, at the feel of the head of his cock hitting your sweat spot at this angle.

What, sweetheart? He purrs into your mind, mockingly innocent. Did you really think you could cum without us, hmm?

Fuck you. Even your mental voice sounds like a moan.

He chuckles darkly, You already are, sweetheart.

Feyre swallows your scream again before it can ever pierce the air, before pulling back. Her fingers dig into the soft skin of her thighs as they shake. No doubt from the assault of Rhys’s tongue on her sensitive clit.

Her teeth bite into her plush bottom lip as she writhes over his face. Then her head falls back and you know she’s going to scream. So before she can, you wrap a hand around her throat, pulling her towards you.

Swallowing her scream as you claim her lips in a bruising kiss.

Your fingers tighten around her throat as you lean forward just the slightest bit and with your freehand pinch and tug her at her nipples. Earning whimpers from her.

Then you drop your hand that’s on her tits and settle it on her ass. Slapping it a couple times—just like you know she likes it—and finally grabbing a handful of it.

Gods, she cries out mind to mind. Fuck, baby!

Rhys whimpers in your mind and then you feel it. His cock twitching inside you.

Your walls spasming and contracting in response, making him grip your hips tighter as he continues to fuck you both over the edge, while working Feyre over the edge with his tongue.

Not even a full minute later, with one last powerful thrust he spills himself inside you. His cock pulsing as your walls flutter around it. Milking him as you fall over the edge with him.

Rhys groans against Feyre’s clit as he comes and it’s the final push Feyre needs to fall over the edge with Rhys and you.

[wannabeschyulersister]

where’s that man who’d throw blankets over my barbed wire?

*another angsty carmy fic coming right up*

“Ma’am? I’m sorry but we will need the table if your guest hasn’t arrived yet,” the waiter told you. You could tell he felt embarrassed to have to practically kick you out after being stood up.

You set the nice white napkin that had been on your lap on the empty plate in front of you, “I understand. Thanks for keeping me company.”

The waiter helped you put your coat back on and you placed a nice tip on the table before walking out. It felt so humiliating to sit at that table for the past hour alone.

Carmen forgot your anniversary.

You had been perfectly fine celebrating your two year anniversary with him in your nice apartment but he was the one that wanted to go all out. He chose the fancy French restaurant and made the reservation.

He was also the one that didn’t show up.

At first, you began to panic, thinking that something had happened to him on his way to the restaurant. You must’ve texted him a dozen times. When you checked his location, you saw that he was at The Bear.

There’s no way that he would forget your anniversary. Right?

Well, he did.

You walked until you were able to find a cab. Part of you wanted to confront Carmen at The Bear but you didn’t want to make a scene. Despite how mad you were at him, you respected his place of business.

Instead of going there, you went to the apartment that you shared with Carmen to wait for him. You didn’t even bother changing out of the red dress that specifically bought for that evening when you made it home. Taking off your coat, you placed it on the hook and sat on the couch.

It was an hour later when you heard the jingle of keys and the front door open and close. “Babe? You here?”

You didn’t answer him as he walked into the living room.

He set his phone and keys down on the coffee table in front of you, “Hey, what are you all dressed up for?”

“Our anniversary dinner that was two hours ago.” You answered coldly.

Carmen froze as it dawned on him that he forgot, “Fuck. Babe, I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Things have been so hectic at the restaurant these last few days and it totally slipped my mind. My phone died a few hours ago. I’m so sorry.”

He sat down next to you and tried to grab your hand. You moved it out of his grasp. “I waited for you for an hour, Carmen. It was so embarrassing. The waiter made me leave because they needed the table. How could you forget?”

“I told you. It seemed like everything that could go wrong did today. We had three waitstaff out with the flu-“

You cut him off, “Syd could’ve taken care of things for one night so that you could go out with your girlfriend! Aren’t I important too?”

Carmen looked like that question pissed him off, “Are you seriously askin’ me that fuckin’ question?”

You stood up from the couch needing some space from him, “Yes, I am because this isn’t the first time! How many times have you had to reschedule our plans? How many days do I barely see you? We’ve been together for two years, Carmen and I feel like we are just two strangers at this point.”

“Why haven’t you said anything then if you feel that way?”

“I’ve tried to have date nights and I’ve even stopped by The Bear to see if you can go on a coffee break. You always turn me down because something more important is pressing.” You’d been dying to have this conversation with him for some time now.

After countless times of letting things go, you were blurting out everything that you’d want to tell him. It had all been weighing so heavily on you lately. You could feel it draining you.

“(Y/n), I inherited a mess from Michael. I had to look after everyone’s jobs and-“

You interrupted him again, “I’m not saying that you have to choose me or the restaurant, Carmen. That would be incredibly selfish of me. But…. it’s like you’re out building this life for yourself and I’m just here hoping that you give me an ounce of attention.”

“You’re making it sound like our relationship is horrible. I thought that we were doing good.”

That almost hurt you more than being stood up on your anniversary. He thought that things were good? He hadn’t noticed that the two of you were so incredibly distant?

“Things haven’t been good in a long time. When we first started dating, you were present and it seemed like you’d do anything to spend time with me.”

“That was before we remodeled the restaurant. I had more time but now-“

“Now, you’re too busy for me.”

He shook his head, “I’m not, (Y/n). I just had more time back then. Now, it’s all on me. I’m stressed out.”

“I don’t want to add to your stress, Carmen.”

“Wh-what are you trying to say?” He stood up and made his way closer to you. You could tell that he was anxious about where the direction of this conversation was going.

“I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a while. I’ve tried to make things better but I can’t do it alone. I deserve to be with someone who I don’t have to beg to want to be with me.”

“(Y/n), I don’t want to be without you. I’ll start coming home earlier and I’ll uh have Sydney and Marcus start taking some more responsibility. I will-“

“And in a month when things are super crazy at The Bear because of the holidays? We’re back in this situation again. What kind of promises will you make then?”

Carmen seemed confused, “Do you not want to work on things?”

“A month ago, hell even a few weeks ago, I would’ve said yes, but I’m tired, Carmen. Tonight felt like it was the last straw. Sitting alone, you not answering your phone, it was embarrassing and so painful. I love you so much. But I think for the both of us, it’ll be better if we weren’t together.”

“I don’t want us to break up, (Y/n). I love you.” Carmen said softly.

You pulled him closer. He rested his head against your shoulder, “We can both focus on ourselves. I’m so proud of everything that you’ve done. You deserve all of the praise that is coming your way.”

You wanted to appear strong but on the inside you were breaking as well. There was a point in time where you imagined spending the rest of your life with Carmen Berzatto.

Now, there was a strong possibility that he wouldn’t be in your future. Were you making the right decision?

It might’ve felt like you weren’t in the moment. You just wanted to feel wanted and happy and with someone who couldn’t get enough of you. Carmen was that man at first. Things changed for the better and for the worse.

“I hate that I took you for granted. I will regret it for the rest of my life.” You felt him kiss your neck softly.

“I’ll still be here if you need me. You know that right?”

He nodded as you both stood there wrapped around each other saying your goodbyes without words.

[macfrog]

la petite mort sex on fire chapter four

bonsoir my children. it's your cool slutty daddy, ceo!joel, back for round two of paris trip. please enjoy, i hope this one causes less confusion but just as much heart failure as last chapter. love u guys long time. literally SO much. 💘✨💓

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: you spend your second day in paris being spoiled by joel, who buys you anything you set eyes on. you’ve a treat of your own in mind as a thank-you, later on

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) another fucking confusing flashback, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), cursing, workplace relationship, imbalanced power dynamic, semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), orgasm denial, more obscene spending, sexy french speaking, sugardaddy!joel, BIG flirting, alcohol consumption, sexy lingerie, lapdance, daddy kink, praise kink, unprotected piv sex, titty appreciation, assplay, double penetration, dom!joel, softdom!joel, ripping of expensive lingerie (rip), overstimulation, creampie, aftercare!joel, angst, themes of abandonment, fluff in the end i'm a romantic at heart

word count: 6.2k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

“All mine?” he asks, pushing inside. He’s going slow. He’s making you answer him first. “Y-yeah,” you whine, head falling forward into the bedsheets. “All – yours.” “Spoiled, ain’t I? Such a pretty little pussy all to myself. You sure you don’t wanna share with anyone?” “No, daddy. Just – want – you.”

The late afternoon sun has dipped behind the clouds. The wind’s picked up, too. You’re standing on the terrace of your suite, elbows propped on the metal railing, watching the light slowly drain from the sky, and melt into tiny twinkling headlights on the roads below.

Paris stares straight back at you. Melancholy, in this light. A little faded, worn, a washed gray as she loses her fight with the slow-setting sun. Your eyes trace the skyline, jumping from buildings to streetlights, following birds in the distance as they loop and soar over the city. Free. Held down to nothing, and no one.

When you close your eyes, he’s on the couch beside you. Blue-eyed stare cloudy, eyes puffy and red with tears he’s doing everything to hold back. Calling you sweetheart, telling you we can work through this. He’s got your bare fingers in his, thumbs running across your knuckles, rubbing circles around the empty space on your third finger. You have an impulse to stand up and walk out. You think you might follow through with it.

You don’t even hear him come in, don’t hear him call your name. Only feel when his arm snakes around your waist and he turns you to face him. Your eyes flutter back open.

“Hey,” Joel says, leaning back to look you up and down. “Nice robe.”

His fingers toy with the belt, thumb running across the soft terrycloth.

“You smell like whiskey,” you mutter, hands resting on his chest. You take a deep breath, pushing the relief you feel now that he’s back, down to the pit of your stomach. And then you finally look him in the eye. “How was Jean-Marc?”

Joel shrugs. “Same as usual. Wants to meet you.”

“You mentioned me?”

He bypasses your question. “Said I’d check with you, but he wants to have us for breakfast tomorrow.”

You nod. “Sounds like a nice guy.”

Joel grumbles, his lips tighten, and he looks out over the view behind you. You tilt your head and his hands take yours, dropping them to your side. His eyes fall low, past the tie he was just messing with.

“You gettin’ ready to go?”

“I was about to, yeah,” you reply, breathing a laugh when he starts to kneel in front of you. “Joel.”

“Mhm?” he asks, but he’s not listening, is he? His hands run up your legs, starting at your knees, and push the edges of your robe apart the higher they go.

“We – gotta – Joel,” you sigh, head rolling back, hands gripping the railing.

Joel’s lips part on your inner thigh, his tongue runs along your skin, trailing northward. His hands precede, pushing under your robe now to cup your naked ass, when he lifts his chin and glances up.

“Nothin’ on under it, baby,” he whispers, tsking. “’m I gonna do with you?”

“We have–” you shudder when his fingers move between your legs, “–to go get ready.”

“So go.”

Fucker.

You lean back against the glass, eyes quickly scanning the hotel in front of you, searching the neighboring windows for any prying eyes, but in the slow-moving blanket of dusk, mixed with your will to care quickly depleting, you find none.

Your attention draws back to Joel, whose lips run dangerously close to your center.

“Open, baby,” he says, and you don’t think about it. Your body just does what he tells it to.

Your legs fall open, head lulls to one side, fingers move through his hair. His jaw lowers, breath gently tickling your soft skin, and then his lips cup around your mound.

You breathe a sigh of relief. Which quickly morphs into a moan, open-mouthed and broken, when Joel’s tongue sweeps over your clit.

“There,” you whisper, a little more serious than you intended, “do that – again.”

He obeys, wet tongue licking you again while his hands pull your thighs over his shoulders. Your weight shifts onto his body, back arching as he sucks on the sensitive bud.

Your hips roll, needing him a little more and a little further south. And he hears you, again. He takes a hand off of your leg, middle and ring fingers joining together to push up between your folds and inside you, dragging a whine from your lips.

“Yeah,” you moan, feeling yourself driving into his mouth and fucking yourself on his hand at the same time.

“Taste so sweet, pretty girl,” he mumbles, mouth preoccupied.

Your head falls back, body slung over the balcony, thighs spreading ever so slightly to have more of him on more of you. And then your head starts to dizzy, your body hums in pleasure, your cunt starts to throb.

But before it goes any further, he’s pulling away.

His lips leave first. Then he draws his hand from between you, sucks his fingers clean and stands. Is he fucking –

“– serious?” you ask, jolting back to life.

He smirks, tongue pushing around his cheeks. “Hurry up ‘n get ready. I wanna go down to the bar for a drink before the car comes.”

And then he’s turning on his heel, striding back inside.

“And what about me?”

“What about you?” he calls over his shoulder.

Your hands hit your thighs with a slap. “Fucking…sadist,” you hiss after him, following him into the warmly lit living room of your suite and down the hallway to the bedroom. Trying to ignore the ache between your legs which only grows worse the more you move.

“I’ll take good care of you later, angel.”

He sits back against the dresser at the foot of the bed, nods toward the black dress you’d laid out on the mattress an hour ago.

“Go on.”

“Go on what?”

“Show me the dress I paid three grand for on you, instead of it laying on the fuckin’ bed.”

You roll your eyes and storm by him, grabbing the black fabric, and lock yourself in the bathroom.

“’n don’t you think about finishin’ yourself!” Joel calls through the door.

“Fuck you!” you throw back, hearing his cocky laugh echo around the room.

You untie your robe in front of the mirror, letting it drop off of your shoulders into a pool of white cloth at your feet. Your eyes flit down your naked body – scanning from your shoulders over your breasts, around your tummy and down your thighs. You slip the black material over your head – a little stretch in it, just enough to mold around your body – and tug it down until it sits comfortably on your thighs.

The smooth skirt sits perfectly on your hips, curving around your ass and pulling in at your waist. You adjust the thin straps, fixing your breasts into place above a cut-out, just revealing enough. Backless, of course, straps crisscrossing over your skin.

It's skimpy, and it’s sexy, and it’s enough to make you look expensive as fuck and also make Joel want to rip it off of you the second you two make it back to the suite.

Enough to make him want to rip it off you before you’ve even left the suite, going by his reaction when you step out of the bathroom. He catches you in the mirror whilst he buttons his shirt, and turns, mouth falling open, eyes dancing all across your body.

You wordlessly sit, slip your feet into the heels you’d chosen, and fish the diamond-encrusted jewelry Joel had bought you from its box – pull the necklace around your neck, clip the earrings into place, and push the bracelets over your wrist. Then, you sling your jacket over your arm, and stand.

“I’m ready.”

“You…” His eyes scan down you again, settling on your chest for a couple seconds. “Yeah, baby. Give me five minutes.”

----------

The hotel bar reflects perfectly the intimidating grandeur of your suite, despite being a small room. It’s intimate, and pleasant, lit in a warm glow, and as you stroll in on Joel’s arm beneath a huge, ornate chandelier, you feel a smile pull across your lips. You’re not fucking sure why.

He leads you over to two heavy leather stools, pulling one out and waiting for you to hop up on it before he sits beside you. He orders two glasses of red wine, and the waiter craftily pours a small drop into one glass, setting it down in front of you and waiting for you to take a sip and approve before he pours the rest.

“Pétrus,” the waiter says, focusing intently on filling Joel’s glass. “Most expensive wine in France.”

You shoot Joel a look, but he’s already lifting his glass, glint in his eye. You hesitantly pick yours up and bump it into his, taking another sip.

“Good?” Joel asks, licking his lips.

You nod. “A little too good.”

He laughs. Then he nods at the waiter, who smiles, turns to you, and winks.

You smile back, a little embarrassed. “Merci beaucoup.”

As the waiter leaves you both, Joel turns, a look on his face you’ve never seen before. “Nice accent,” he says.

You scoff. “I hope it’s a nice accent, I studied it for six years.”

“Studied French?”

You nod.

“When?”

“High school, and then all through college.”

“How did I not know that about you?”

“It’s on my resume,” you say into your wine glass, “which I now know you didn’t read when you hired me.”

“Didn’t have to,” Joel replies. “I took one look at your pretty face ‘n decided you had the job.”

Him and his quick fucking wit. He almost catches you blushing, but you save it by shaking your head, and looking at the striped-wall room around you. There’s a framed picture of a horse on the wall behind Joel. Two men sit in animated conversation on the velvet couch below it, one of them clutching a wine that’s about to spill over.

When your eyes drift back to Joel, his are fixated elsewhere.

“Oh, be less obvious, Joel,” you mutter, corners of your mouth twitching.

“Can’t help it,” he finally draws his gaze from your chest, “they look so good. That dress is…” He shakes his head.

“You chose well.”

“Say somethin’ French to me.”

“Uh, no.”

“Uh, yeah. Tell me I chose well in French.”

“Tell me how the meeting went.”

Joel sits back, pushing air out of his cheeks. “Can’t do that.”

“Then no French.”

“Baby, c’mon. Just for me.”

You shake your head, pouting your lip. “Nope.”

Joel pleads a few more times, promises he’ll buy you more things, promises he’ll order more wine, even promises he’ll fuck you in the bathroom right now if you’ll just say one sentence in French to him.

You don’t relent.

Not until you’re a couple more wines deep, leaning into one another, your knees between his, pointing out other guests in the room and conjuring make-believe backstories for them.

“That one,” you say, hushed, shoulder brushing off of Joel’s, “in the corner, by the lamp. He’s waitin’ for a date, a Tinder date, who–”

Joel snorts. “A Tinder date?”

“–a Tinder date, who used photos of Cindy Crawford on her profile.”

Joel’s head tips back with laughter, his hand steadies himself on the bar. “If Cindy Crawford ends up walkin’ in here, you’re gonna be real sorry.”

You lean into his shirt, giggling into the cotton. When you lift your head, the two of you quietening again, you look into his eyes.

Blurry around the edges, a little too much wine in your system, you whisper: “Kiss me.”

Joel’s head cocks. He leans in, and you lift your jaw. His lips part, breath hot over your red lips, and he says, “You’re gonna get us into trouble, darlin’.”

“Je m’en fous,” you reply.

“Monsieur,” a voice from your right breaks between you, “your car is outside.”

Joel straightens up, clears his throat, and thanks the waiter with another nod. His palm runs along the bar toward your arm, which he takes, rubbing his thumb gently over your skin, and he nods again toward the doors.

----------

Dinner was as fucking extreme as all of this has been. Food you’d never seen before, a menu you could barely translate even with language experience. Waiters who arrived at your table if you so much as looked up at them.

And more wine. A lot more wine.

You both stumble back into the suite, arms linked, laughter chorusing against the beige walls. Joel keeps a vice grip on your hand as you spin around him, wrapping you up in his arms when you’re close enough, and runs a thumb across your cheek when you’ve stopped giggling.

“That was fun,” he says, and you nod.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For all of it. I don’t even know what to say.”

He shakes his head in response. “You’re my guest.”

“Didn’t have to be,” you say, “could’ve brought Martha.”

“Oh, yeah, Martha. She’d be a fuckin’ hoot.”

He lets go of you, your laughter picking back up, and you split off. Joel wanders over to the minibar, and you…you wander off down the hall.

You’ve something in mind.

Safely in the bedroom, you slink over to your case and lift the bag you’d hidden in there earlier. You sneak into the bathroom, closing the door as softly as possible, and whip your little black dress over your head. You turn back to the mirror.

Same reflection as before. Same naked body. A little faded, a little unfocused, jewelry catching the light like stars in the night sky, but the same.

You reach into the white bag, like it’s a lucky draw, and lift out the soft black lace. One by one, you add each little piece – the bra cups your breasts, lifting them just the right amount. The panties sit on your hips, garter belt just above, hooked onto thigh-high, lace top stockings. And finally, the robe.

You tie it loosely at your waist, leaving it just open enough to reveal the balconette bra underneath. One last hazy look in the mirror, and you tumble back out into the bedroom and over to the door.

Your fingers clutch the gold handle, shaking a little. The cold metal bites against your skin, hot with adrenaline and determination. You twist, pulling gently on the door, and wander back to the living room.

The lights are still out, the room dark against the sparkling cityscape. There’s soft music playing, some seventies soul stuff. He’s on the balcony. The sliding doors open wide, sheer curtains swaying gently in the night breeze. His silhouette stands black against the glittering Eiffel Tower in front of him. He’s holding a whiskey.

You slip out from behind the door and let it close over gently, walking slowly across the soft carpet toward him. He can’t have heard you, you’re being too quiet, but he turns anyway, and spots you in the middle of the room.

His eyes rake down your figure, mouth falling agape. Whiskey almost spilling over from how limp his arms fall.

“Baby…” he whispers.

You take another step forward. So does Joel. Your hand reaches for the back of one of the chairs, tucked neatly under the dining table. You drag it along the carpet, setting it just in front of you, facing him, and stand back.

“Want you to sit.”

Joel nods, a voiceless Okay sneaks past his lips, and he sits back in the chair, placing the whiskey at his feet.

The song fades into a steady love song, string orchestra echoing in the background, slow, sultry. The smooth vocals fill the room, quiet and relaxing, and push you nearer him, rounding the back of the chair.

Your hands run over Joel’s shoulders as you curve around to face him, and slot in between his parted thighs. Watching as his eyes shift up and down your figure. Watching as his breath hitches, his chest shuddering anytime you move.

You’re ignoring the rise and fall of your own chest; nerves and desire and complete fucking disbelief at what you’re doing all fighting to break through. Your stomach is flipping, pulse jerking every time your eyes cross paths with Joel’s.

You nudge his legs open wider, lift his wrists, and place his hands on your waist. His fingers pull on the silk belt, loosening your robe until he’s slipping it over your shoulders, revealing every inch of lace and strap of satin to his lust-blown eyes.

“This all for me?” he asks, fucking…wonderstruck. His fingers dance along the garter belt, dipping where it clips onto your stockings.

You cock your head in a shrug. “You paid for it.”

He smiles. As if it’s Christmas and you just gave him the gift at the top of his wish list. And then you bend your knees, lowering between his thighs and dragging your hands down his front, stopping by his stiffening crotch as you go.

Joel hisses through clenched teeth, spurring you on. You palm him through his trousers, never touching his zipper, only letting him go so far as grinding his hips into your hands, before your palms slip down to his knees and you push yourself up.

Joel meets you halfway, leans forward to let your lips ghost across his. Your back arched, knees digging into the plush carpet, you trail your tongue from his chin down his bearded jawline, stopping when you reach the collar of his shirt.

And then you stand again, taking his hands and replacing them on your body. Anywhere on your fucking body. Feeling him on you is like feeling the soothing flicker of the fire after a walk in the freezing cold, and when his palms aren’t pressing against your ribcage, his fingers aren’t running between your thighs, that bitter cold bites back.

Joel hums, still taking you in through glassy eyes. “So…fuckin’ beautiful, babygirl.”

In response, you lift your knees, placing them one by one on either side of his hips. You settle against his body and push him back in the chair.

Your clothed heat lowers onto his waist, lace running across the rough fabric of his trousers, forcing a choked moan from your lips at the contact. Your skin alight, nerves burning with excitement and arousal, the slightest touch only fuels the fire more.

You grind down on him, hips rocking in time with the music. Letting his hands hold you around your back, letting him feel any part of you he fucking wants. His fingers knead roughly into your round ass, and he bucks up against your core.

You hover over him, running a hand from your stomach over your chest, stopping to squeeze your tits through your bra. And then back down again, to slip over the lace of your panties and relieve the tension there even if only for a second before you’re feeling down your thighs.

You link your arms back around Joel’s shoulders. “You gonna pay me back?” you whisper, head lowering to bury into his neck.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about,” he slurs back.

You suck a mark into the hot skin, breathing against his pulse, “Think you do, daddy. You owe me one.”

His head rolls, bass of his laughter vibrating against your lips. “So fuckin’ slutty, darlin’. You want it that bad?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, lips still tight against his neck, fingers slowly unbuttoning his shirt lower and lower.

Joel told Martha he needed you here only to keep him right. Make sure he got everywhere on time, make sure things ran smoothly. Drop off drycleaning, pick it up before he had appearances. Get him pastries from that patisserie he loves around the corner for breakfast. There’s an empty suite downstairs that he made her book for you – an almost three grand per night suite that you both knew the entire fucking time you’d never set foot in. All to keep up with the story.

The story that you’re here strictly on PA duty. Seeing him off in cars, making sure he gets back to the hotel at night. And that’s it. Not buying lingerie with his card, and putting it on for him, and mounting him in the living room of his suite. Not letting him slip your panties to the side and run his cock through your folds, balcony doors wide open, moans escaping out into the late Parisian night.

But now his hands are on you, really on you; strong, wide hands, slipping around your waist, pressing down on the lace of your lingerie, massaging the softest parts of your body and scooping under your ass to align you to his length.

And you’re letting him.

Your hands are sifting through his hair as he breathes you in, his nose buried between your breasts. Your back arches when he finally enters you, giving you what you need most in the form of his thick cock pushing up into your warm cunt.

Like there’s nothing new, or weird, or different. Like this is all you know how to do; all you’ve ever known about him. You’re not in the office; he’s not your boss. He doesn’t tell you to shred files or organize his schedule.

This is what he does. This. He asks things of you with his hands and you fold every time. He runs his lips along the curve of your breasts and peels the delicate fabric of your bra down to wrap his mouth around your nipple, flick his tongue across it until your head rolls back and you’re moaning his name to the ceiling.

“Make yourself cum, baby,” Joel breathes against your hot skin.

His tongue is swirling around your nipple. Teeth grazing the pointed bud. He’s grinning to himself as he does it. He’s fucking lapping this up.

“So pretty when you’re wrapped around me.”

And then his fingers are toying with the clasp of your bra, and as you sink down over and over on his cock, he lets the cupped lace fall to the floor, lips instantly returning to their place on your tits.

You hold his head there, looking down and watching while you slowly bounce on his cock as he kisses, caresses, sucks.

The pleasure boiling between your legs starts to spill over, your body unable to take much more without releasing. And when Joel mumbles against your skin, “Can feel you, darlin’, squeezing me so tight,” you let go.

Your orgasm, nearly four hours in the making, rocks through your body in tidal waves, throwing your head back. Joel’s arms keep you safe on his lap as you writhe, gasping and moaning his name until you can think straight again.

When you come back to, he lifts you up. Carries you like you’re made of diamonds through to the bedroom and lays you down on the soft mattress, calling you angel, telling you you’re the prettiest fuckin’ girl he’s ever seen.

He dips his fingers and traces them along your panties, feeling the mess you just made, humming in amusement. He asks again if this is all for him and when you moan out a desperate Yeah, daddy, he tells you he’s gonna make you cum again.

He takes your waist and flips you over, propping you up on your knees in front of him. He peels the white shirt from his shoulders, tossing it somewhere in the dark room, and asks if that’s what you want – to cum again. Yeah, daddy.

And when he asks who this tight little pussy belongs to, leaning forward to align with your wet mess of a cunt, your thighs spreading to accommodate the size of him, every fucking nerve in your body on fire: You, daddy.

“All mine?” he asks, pushing inside. He’s going slow. He’s making you answer him first.

“Y-yeah,” you whine, head falling forward into the bedsheets. “All – yours.”

“Spoiled, ain’t I? Such a pretty little pussy all to myself. You sure you don’t wanna share with anyone?”

“No, daddy. Just – want – you.”

Every fucking time. Every mindless, depraved time, you do it for him. Only for him.

You cum again on his cock before he’s even five thrusts in. His words send you hurtling over the edge by themselves; the massive dick burying itself between your legs is just a bonus – and something to let your walls clamp around when your back arches, chest pushes into the mattress, and your orgasm floods over you.

Joel rocks his hips slowly as you come down, cunt swollen and almost agony. His hands run from your thighs up around the globe of your ass, massaging gently. You push back, wanting more pressure from his hands, and his fingers slip against your tight hole.

You jut forward with a moan. A moan Joel knows all too well.

“Easy, easy.” He holds you steady, replacing his fingers against your asshole, pressing delicately. “You like that?”

“Fuck,” you breathe, “mhm.”

“Yeah?”

You’re nodding, though you know he can’t see you in the dark.

“Baby?”

“Yeah,” you choke out. Desperate. Depraved.

He lifts his hand and spits; you feel a bead of saliva dribble down your ass, only to be collected by the pads of his fingertips and dragged back up. Smeared over the ring of your ass, massaged into the sensitive skin around it.

“Daddy…” you moan, hips gyrating.

“’s a good girl,” Joel replies, “just relax, darlin’, you do that for me?”

You can hear in his voice he’s focusing. Eyes glued on your ass, watching as you open up around his first finger, pushing slowly inside.

Your whole body freezes as he enters you. Breath cuts short in your throat. Your mouth falls open, throat constricted around a moan.

“Breathe, babygirl.”

And you do. Well, it’s more of a gasp, a broken whine, and then a long, needy sigh, curled up at the end like it’s a request – a plea for Joel to keep going.

It’s tight. It feels…tender, and overwhelming, and good. More than good. Your hips move backward, pushing onto Joel; a swelling feeling overcoming you, the more of him you take.

“Good girl…” he whispers again.

You’re as fucking shocked as he is that you’re letting him do it – letting him slip inside both holes at once, exploring one while keeping the other content with lazy thrusts.

“Think you can take it, baby?”

“Yeah, daddy,” you tell him, body urging him to fuck you again.

So, he does. His cock picks up speed, finger knuckle-deep, curling around inside your ass. You’re gripping the bedsheets, whimpering softly into them, feeling your stomach tighten as your third orgasm begins to rise.

“Keep – doing – that,” you utter as his hips collide with yours, his thick finger picking up pace ever so slightly.

“Such a dirty girl. So fuckin’ dirty for me. You do this for all of ‘em, baby?”

The laugh you breathe answers his question. No, you don’t fucking do this – for anyone. You didn’t know until five minutes ago this was something you were into. It’s Joel. He’s the only one who could convince you – whether through his words, his expressions, or just his fucking body – to –

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine.

“Know you are, pretty girl,” Joel says, “let me feel you. Cum all over me.”

Your body collapses when your high takes over. Electricity thrumming through you, contracting around Joel’s cock and his finger. He coos you through it, whispers words of praise and filth in your ear until you’re no longer screaming, no longer able to hold yourself up.

He slowly removes his finger, soaked with his spit. You whine as it leaves you, missing the feeling, but it’s not long before his hands are on you again, flipping you back over.

He drags the clothes from his legs and pushes you up the mattress, slotting between your hips, one hand coming down to grip the lace front of your panties. He rips it, tearing the material off of your body in one motion.

You gasp, equal parts aroused as you are fucking outraged. You liked those panties. You wanted to keep ‘em.

“Fuck, Joel!”

He pushes back against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to dot kisses along your skin.

“Buy you more, baby.”

“This whole getup,” you moan, “it cost you a grand.”

He lifts his head. “Well, in that case,” he kisses your collarbone, “buy you ten more.”

Your eyes roll back and your head follows, sinking deep into the sheets under your body. You’re sure you know where this is going, what he’s about to ask of you. You’re not sure you can give it to him. Three orgasms deep, you can barely feel when he’s massaging your sex, never mind lining his cock to it and pushing the tip inside.

“One more, angel,” he utters, looking down to guide himself through your glistening folds. “Just one more.”

“Can’t, daddy,” you whimper, but he pushes your thighs up, bending your knees. It’s borderline painful, the stretch you feel when he’s barely an inch inside.

“Yes, you can. Know you can.”

He could fuck you and cum himself without asking you to – and you’d be okay with it. You know it. He knows it. Just a few tight, wet thrusts and he’d be coming undone inside you. But he wants to do it together. Loves the way you feel when you tighten around him, squeeze him, draw his release out of him. Loves the way your voices sound together, the way you grip onto him and pull him flush against your body.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love it, too. The way he looks when he’s deep inside you, eyes shut, focused on nothing except the pretty noises you make and the sweet way you wrap around him, warm and snug. So you let him take you to the edge again, throw your arms around him, and fall.

Hard.

The shock of it surges through you, stars burst across your vision. You drive your nails into his shoulders, scream out into the night, moans mixed with curses and gasps and – fuck it – cries of daddy loud enough that the thought of a noise complaint at your door floats through your mind.

Joel lets out a deep groan when he cums, filling your tight cunt with his seed, face still buried in your neck. Your legs untense, thighs slip down his waist and onto the bed, your arms unlink from around his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into your skin.

You’re panting, chest lifting against Joel’s. He pushes into the mattress and rolls off of you, dropping in a heap to the bed at your side. You lay like that for a while, waiting for the fluttering feeling to subside, waiting for any feeling to come back to your body.

Joel pushes off of the bed and dips into the bathroom, still groaning anytime he moves. Water runs for a couple minutes, a gentle whirring as he cools his face and washes up, and then he’s back in the bedroom, sinking into the bed beside you.

He props himself up on his elbow and runs a hand across your damp forehead, unsticking your hair from your face. Intimate, vulnerable. You’ve slept together four times now, and this is the closest you’ve felt to him.

You push down an ache, different to the one he just satisfied – four times over. No, this is deeper. Somewhere more hidden. An ache for him to hold you, run his hands down your back until your body feels like yours again. An ache for him to take you in his strong arms and keep you still, keep you steady.

An ache that feels…dangerous. An ache you want to disappear. Now.

“You okay?” Joel asks, and you nod.

He studies you for a while, looking up and down your body, smiling to himself. This isn’t something either of you are going to forget for a while.

“What’s this?”

Joel takes gentle hold of the gold chain around your sweat-glistening neck, running it between his fingers until he’s holding one half of a broken heart.

“Notice you wearin’ it all the time.”

You take a deep breath before replying, watching as he looks at it intently in his hand. “My mom has the other half. It makes up a heart. We got ‘em when I was sixteen, right after…”

Joel’s eyes drift up to yours when your sentence crumbles. His soft gaze encourages you to continue.

“…right after my dad left.”

He almost winces.

You’d always hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays meant Math, and Math meant two hours of sitting in total confusion, dodging your teacher’s requests for answers and counting down the minutes until class ended.

But your dad told you that you should do well in it, so you were trying. For him.

One Wednesday, Miss Pepperman handed out the results of the previous week’s test. You’d scored well, maybe not as good as some of the others, but decent by your own standards. You snuck the test paper into your bag to take back home, show your dad. Make him…proud.

When you rounded the corner to your street, his car was in the drive, trunk wide open. Suitcases inside. You caught him leaving as you wandered by the beat-up Toyota.

Your mom wants you in the house, he’d said, a cardboard box of files in his clutches.

You tried to ask what the fuck was going on, but he’d yelled at you and thrown the box into his back seat. And then you brought up the test paper, twisted around to fish it out of your bag, like some stupid C would convince him to stay. He yelled louder, and you disappeared inside like a spooked cat.

Your mom was on the couch, face in her hands. She lifted her head, cheeks stained with mascara and tears. As you sat down beside her, you heard the engine of his car roll away. You never saw him again.

You don’t tell Joel all of this. He doesn’t need to know, and he doesn’t ask. Telling him about the C in Math risks telling him about the way your dad looked at you when you held up the crumpled paper, and that risks telling him about everything you’ve ever held back from saying to anyone, for fear of seeing that same bored, disappointed expression.

It feels like a hand you’re not quite ready to play just yet. An ace or two missing, only a couple of cards off of feeling confident enough to show him.

Instead, you shrug, and say, “That was…thirteen years ago now. And we just never take ‘em off. It’s like our little promise to, like…stay together, or whatever.”

He nods, letting the necklace rest back on your naked chest.

There’s something in the air between you. Quiet, unassuming. An understanding, though you’re not sure what of. But it feels comfortable, which you weren’t expecting when he asked the question. Nobody knows much about you and your dad – not even your closest friends. And here you are, naked and exhausted, letting the words tumble out to none other than your boss.

But he’s so blasé about it, so unperturbed by it that, if he hadn’t been the one to ask himself, you could mistake it for disinterest. He just listens, nods, and lets it pass over. Lets you drop it, when you’re done talking about it.

For the second time tonight, this time a little more sober but a little less guarded, you say, “Kiss me.”

And this time, he doesn’t ask you to speak French. Doesn’t make any witty quip, doesn’t warn you you’re walking dangerous territory. Doesn’t even hesitate, not for a beat. Just leans in, cups your cheek with one hand, and presses his lips to yours.

Warm, sweaty, almost quivering lips. Soft, and kind, and safe. You melt into him, wrapping both hands around his wrist, shutting your eyes and pretending just for a moment that you’re not teetering along a knife edge right now.

You pull back, losing your balance on the tightrope you’re walking, and Joel’s hand slowly drops from your face. His eyes ask if you’re okay, and you nod. I’m fine. This is fine.

“Alright,” he says, sitting up with a sigh. “You want a drink?”

You nod again. “Water, please.”

He strokes your thigh once and walks out of the room, leaving you in the quiet dark by yourself.

You bring your fingertips up to your eyes. Exhale deeply into the palms of your hands. Think about what just happened, and then tell yourself not to think much about it. Think about that fucking twinge in the bottom of your stomach, the one that felt like…yearning. And then tell yourself, fucking – order yourself not to read too much into it, or you’ll drive yourself up the wall.

Because the truth of it is: you’ve one more full day in Paris, and you highly suspect that what happened here tonight, is gonna happen all over again tomorrow. And that leaves room for that yearning feeling to come back. Resurface, like a silent predator in murky waters.

That won’t happen tomorrow. It can’t happen tomorrow.

You stand and throw that white terrycloth robe over yourself, heading for the living room.

----------

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[rottenpumpkin13]

A long time ago, you received an ask about what languages the Firsts would like to learn. It went something like "Zack wants to learn Spanish because of -insert reason-" "Sephiroth wants to learn Latin totally not because of One Winged Angel" "Genesis wants to learn French to sound better than everybody". But the one I actually remember is Angeal:

Angeal: "If I had to learn another language, I would like to learn English, because nobody understands when I say to PUT. YOUR DISHES. IN THE DISHWASHER. PUTTING THEM ON THE COUNTER BY THE SINK DOES NOTHING."

I would like to counter this response by saying I put all the dishes neatly in the dishwasher for years until a new member of my family straight up refused to learn how to do it right. If the bowls aren't balanced the right way, they won't get washed. If you put things in the wrong location, you waste a lot of useful space. But this man flat out said "I refuse to learn how to do this right because I don't care".

So out of SPITE, dishes now sit on the kitchen counter because I refuse to be bothered when no one else gives a shit. What does Angeal think about this if this is something one of his fellow Firsts did?

Angeal may try to project an image of humility and honor, but he combats petty with petty. If he realizes people who have the privilege of owning a dishwasher are being disorderly out of spite, he'll do things to be even pettier. This includes:

• One time he witnessed Sephiroth dump a perfectly good mug of coffee down the drain, and made it his personal mission to mess with him. Over a month, he methodically swapped all of Sephiroth's coffee with decaf and watched Sephiroth slowly descend into madness.

• When Genesis couldn't be bothered to wash his dishes in the break room, Angeal turned it into an art show. He'd collect the dirty dishes and created elaborate display outside Genesis' office, complete with angallery-style label like "Exhibit 17: A Study in Neglected Responsibilities"

• Changed all the settings on Zack's computer so it would autocorrect "SOLDIER" to "SHOULDER" in his official emails to Director Lazard. Lazard received three reports about "SHOULDER Second Class performance reviews"

• Orchestrated a three-week psychological campaign to convince everyone—including Sephiroth himself—that he was allergic to coffee. Every time Sephiroth took a sip, Angeal would squint and ask about non-existent rashes until even Sephiroth started second-guessing himself.

• Loves cooking extravagant meals just to send photos to his friends with captions like "Made your favorite dish… Not for you though" or "This could've been yours."

• Claims everyone's preferred spots, especially Sephiroth's cherished right-side aisle seat in their usual mess hall booth. He'll sit there with a straight face while watching Sephiroth's internal blue screen. (punishment for the coffee)

•Steals Sephiroth's favorite coffee mug, making it mysteriously appear in increasingly bizarre locations around the 49th floor. like inside the copy machine, balanced on top of the water cooler, in the middle of board meeting tables, and once inside the vents.

• Changes Zack's training sessions into "essential SOLDIER skills" that suspiciously look like chores, like organizing the filing room, polishing all the doorknobs in the building, alphabetizing Angeal's spice rack, and putting coffee beans in the air vent in Sephiroth's office, so that Sephiroth constantly smells coffee whenever he's working.

• Weaponizes his infamous lectures. Once subjected Genesis to a 45-minute lecture on "proper pizza etiquette and the spiritual implications of throwing out the crust." Gives Sephiroth an hour-long lecture about resource conservation whenever he spots him with coffee. Sephiroth is in hell

• Takes malicious delight in creatively misinterpreting Sephiroth's requests:

Sephiroth: The coffee maker needs cleaning. Angeal: *Completely disassembles the coffee maker and spreads all its parts across Sephiroth's desk and cleaning supplies* Sephiroth: *visibly fighting the urge to cry*

• Maintains a detailed "incident log" where he documents everyone's minor transgressions. Once pulled it out during a board meeting to remind Genesis about "The Great Stapler Misplacement of Last Tuesday." Adds a tally mark under Sephiroth's name every time he spots him with coffee.

• Started a rumor that his office plant can sense irresponsibility. Strategically moves it around the office to "watch" people. Zack is completely convinced it's judging him.

Zack: I swear it droops when I forget to hand in my reports! Angeal, watering plant: The voice of nature speaks the truth.

• Sephiroth has quit coffee.

[elbiotipo]

I am watching a video with criticism of geographical determinism in worldbuilding and realized that I don't really remember seeing any fictional stereotypic merchant state that relies on rivers.

Norse and Rus were whom I had in mind, but to my knowledge British and Japanese people also heavily utilized rivers for trade and I would be very surprised if Ancient Chinese people didn't.

I don't know about history of First Nations of North America and did they have trade in our understanding, but I heard that river system of North America is so convenient that the entire 19th century demand for transportation could have been covered by it alone, without trains.

Just some ideas

Freshwater systems are woefully underused in worldbuilding. The other day I was reading about the history of my region and I was amazed at how big and sophisticated native canoes were in the Paraná, the Paraguay and the Amazonas, and how virtually nobody talks about it. We are talking about ships that could hold about 30 people and some were bigger than Columbus caravels. For centuries into the colonial era, the Spanish and Portuguese hired or pressed into service native navigators for the rivers which were though to navigate as a sea. Still before that, they were the major arteries of commerce and trade through the continent, this is well known. Even Patagonian goods are reported in Corrientes (North of Argentina) which indicates that trade there got very far. As for the Chinese, not only rivers were important to the but also they boasted an amazing canal system but that's about all I know.

One thing I learned recently about rivers and cities is that cities were often founded on the side of rivers, yes, but almost never at their mouth. Look for example at Paris, Rome, London, the Egyptian capitals. They were founded by the river, but the mouth of the river next to the sea is where the delta is, and deltas always change and flood, carrying mud and slit, they aren't good places to build at all. Good river cities are built in the 'deep side' of the river where you can build ports, not in the side where sediment accumulates. Another issue with river cities are marshlands. For example, I remember reading that the marshlands of ancient Rome were drained at great cost. Ancient peoples knew that marshes were 'unsanitary' even if they didn't know why (it's because they host mosquitos and parasites, not because of anything bad wetlands have on itself) and they had to deal with them. There are some exceptions to this, like Venice which was basically built on a marshland (or the Netherlands).

And indeed rivers were (and still are! I see ships going up and down the Paraná every weekend!) a very efficient way of transportation. There's lots about it written in Europe, but river barges were basically the railroads of their time. Before the advent of railroads, people in Europe (and China) weren't thinking roads, but canals, the French built a lot of canals at great expense which became obsolete later by railroad.

Unfortunately the sources about river canoes and transportation in America (continent) are often tucked away in papers and history books, there really isn't that much accessible literature and illustrations about it. Which is a goddamn shame because learning about native canoes bigger than Spanish caravels (and they were still building them in Paraguay and Argentina during colonial times, according to my sources) blew my mind.

[saucyjothoughts]

how do you think Nace would react to walking in on kris dressing up though

if he was anything like me he’d probably just like stop functioning cause I’ve stopped being able to think properly just thinking of that to be honest

At first they'd both freeze.

(nothing nsfw under the cut, I just don't wanna clog up your feed with a longish post)

Nace stares at Kris.

Kris stares at Nace.

Kris in his new black-and-red thing (most of his dress up stuff is white and gold or baby pink) and this time he's treated himself to the full halterneck bralette, french-cut crotchless panties, and suspender belt set. He even has stockings to go with it, one of which he's in the process of pulling up above his knee when Nace walks in, knocking but not waiting for an answer before he opens the door.

"I'm just going to step outside," Nace breaks the silence at last. All the colour is drained from his face and he clears his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. "Hang out for a minute. Then come back in again. Cool?"

Kris can't speak, can't move, can't even nod. But when Nace leaves, he can hear him screaming profanities from outside the building.

When Nace returns, he waits for an answer after knocking.

Kris is Kris again, his cheeks a little red but in jeans and a t-shirt, hair scruffy. He's put some masculine body spray on.

The two of them go about their afternoon but there's an elephant in the room and Nace is dying to poke it.

"How long have you-?"

"Nope." Kris shuts him down.

"Where did you get-?"

"Nope." They are not talking about this.

"Do you want-"

"Nope."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

Kris puts his coffee down and lets out a sigh. He speaks through gritted teeth.

"What were you going to ask, Nace?"

Something gleams in Nace's eyes.

"Do you want me to do stuff to you while you're wearing it?"

It takes all of Kris's self control just to breathe. He looks Nace in the eye and he doesn't think he's joking. He doesn't think he's making fun of him.

"I don't hear a 'nope'," Nace laughs, and that's enough.

"We're done. Get out."

"Kris, I'm sorry!" But he's still laughing.

"Out!"

Nace knows better than to push Kris too far and dutifully gathers his things, puts on his shoes. They were pretty much done for the day anyway. He tells Kris that his secret is safe, that he doesn't judge and obviously no one else ever has to find out, while Kris is practically steaming with rage and embarrassment.

Nace has just enough time to turn around as he leaves, giving Kris a wink and a "think about it" before getting the door slammed in his face.

[snakegills]

Rambling about my fortnite fic (you're a king among the thieves) under the cut. Ignore or read i don't care

Idk if I've mentioned this but the title for this fic is from a song called Midas Touch by AURORA. The full line being "Midas, my dear/No wonder why you're scared/You're a king among the thieves/And your world belongs to me"

Like... cmon i had to! The placeholder title (Ghost's that don't know they are dead) is a line from devil house by John darnielle. Cool as fuck but it was always intended to be changed. Oh so I'm gonna jump right in now

So when it comes to characters like Montague saying that there is very little information about him is an understatement. It's been a bit so don't quote me but I'm pretty sure this freak has ONE line of dialog. Lucky for me characters like this are my specialty!

First off to build a character for what is essentially just a Skin In Fortnite I looked at basically everything epic released relating to him. Any blurb I could find on the society, every item description in his set, every item description in the OTHER society members set, and all the dialog from other society members. There really isn't too much canon that is gleaned from all this, mainly he's French and in charge. So from there i start to make logical connections.

Such as, looking at his character model gives you a lot of insight for what the designers want you to pick up on! For instance, Montague has a prominent eye scar, dual toned hair, and different colored eyes. The scars tell an obvious story, at some point he was injured. From there it can extrapolate that IF he has an eye injury and different colored eyes then one of those eyes could be fake. From there it can create a backstory for that injury, how he lost it, why he lost it, and what it means for him now.

Furthermore, in Montague's loading screen he's driving the society whiplash away from a trailsmasher. It's actually a nice piece of art work and Montague is even smiling in ot! I incorporated it into my fic by simply making Montague a very good driver.

Another example that is far more subtle is his lack of dialog. Because of that he does not actually talk to other characters unless he has to. Obviously as one of the main characters he has to talk, but when he's not in a negotiation or with Midas he typically keeps his sentence very short and direct. The svene in the car with Jules and pj is probably what most of his "conversations" are like. And that's why when I did a flashback scene to him as a child he was portrayed as selectively mute, only speaking when forced to by his mother.

All that aside when I was workshopping his character i wanted to really nail down a few traits that would endear him to, well myself mostly because I don't like him but yknow I wanted to make him have a good side to his bad. Something that draws Midas, and the reader, into wanting him to have a good ending.

So essentially Montague is a cunt. He's prideful, judgmental and selfish. He wants things his way and he does not like being told no or someone getting the best of him. He holds grudges, talks down to everyone, and is all round a draining guy to be around. (All yuppies and most French people are like this)

What makes him good? Well since he is a thief (and french) i wanted to give him a respect and appreciation of Art in all forms. Grand glacier is- was? Chock full of paintings and sculptures. A part of his backstory is him being a dancer and eventually finding his passion as a model because he recognizes the art that is high fashion. It never ended up being mentioned in the fic but him being a dancer is how he met Clara then eventually Valeria. Oh! I also decided to make him like animals, specifically because he's not very fond of people. I think it works because it shows that he is capable of kindness and understanding long before he shows that side to a person. (Maybe that's why he's trying so hard to recruit Silas, the snake and all)

I also wanted to humanize Montague by writing him with BPD (borderline personality disorder). This is not to say that this disorder is for evil people, but it is the reason he behaves so bitter and aloof towards well everyone. Montague thinks about everything people do. He over thinks he runs it around in his head he considers all angles because he has just had everything he worked for brought down by someone on the inside that he trusted. That would be difficult for anyone to deal with, and bcs the fic takes place directly after that it's Montague operates at his absolute worst. He's so suspicious of Midas and truly believes there is a ploy out for his life because the thought of being betrayed AGAIN by someone getting feels a genuine spark of interest in wracks him with anxiety. He doesn't eat he barely sleeps and he just goes one moment to the next until inevitable crash. Even though he is a jerk you cannot help but understand how that feels, and thus how BPD affects people in ways that aren't stereotypical yknow? Montague's BPD is not what makes him a bad person, its how he chooses to act around others. Arguably it's what makes him sympathetic, it makes him human

This leads me into Midas! Which is exciting because unlike Montague i actually like Midas. Idk if anyone's noticed but there is SIGNIFICANTLY more description of Midas' appearance than Montague's. No real reason i just think ascendant Midas is pretty and Montague is French.

Anywhoozers, Midas he has a lot more character things in fortnite and outside. Imagine that. So there's much more to work with and i dont have to construct a backstory for him because all that has already been written! When I started this fic I was very interested in the concept of him literally coming back to life from the Greek Underworld. Against my will I am very knowledgeable about Greek and Roman mythology so I had plenty build from.

My goal was to write the Midas in this fic a very specific way. I wanted him to read as wise but sort of youthful. I wanted his inner monolog to be the positive to Montague's dower.

Before he died he was a lot like how Montague is at the start of the fic. He's so driven by his need to understand the Zero Point that he will not let himself have a moment of rest. When he dies, he is at where Montague is right now. He has lost everything, even his life. In death he finally found peace, and was able to slow down.

When he comes back he carries this peace with him. Though he is vengeful that part is ostensibly taken care of (floor is lava), and the man we see is someone with literally a new lease on life. He meets Montague and doesn't want to fix him so much as be with him while he grows. I think it plays into my love of vampire things where I wrote Midas with the concept that he had been alive for thousands of years in the Zero Point as part of the IO. He's not so much more mature than Montague than he is more wise. Therefore he brings unconditional love and patience to their relationship which Montague desperately needs at this point.

This is what I think is so compelling about the two of them. Their relationship is held on a basis of mutual respect and a recognition of themselves in the other. Midas brings out the best in Montague, and Montague brings out the worst in Midas. They are not necessarily evil people, but they are very hard to love. That's just honest facts too. Some people are hard to love. Does Montague deserve Midas? No. He doesn't. But I am compelled to write a story in which, despite all odds, he finds someone that can love him and that he can love back.

Now, obviously, Midas is no saint. He has an ulterior motive and is willing to do an awful thing to get it because no matter what, he is STILL King Midas and will always be greedy. Montague is not incorrect in suspecting Midas wants something from him. He just doesn't realize that it's HIM Midas wants.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

1937, World's Highest Standard of Living :: Margaret Bourke-White

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

October 28, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Oct 29, 2024

On Monday, October 28, 1929, New York’s Metropolitan Opera Company opened its forty-fifth season.

Four thousand attendees in their finest clothes strolled to the elegant building on foot or traveled in one of a thousand limousines to see Puccini’s Manon Lescaut, the melodramatic story of an innocent French girl seduced by wealth, whose reluctance to leave her riches for true love leads to her arrest and tragic death. Photographers captured images of the era’s social celebrities as they arrived at opening night, their flash bulbs blinding the crowd that had gathered to see the famous faces and expensive gowns.

No one toasting the beginning of the opera season that night knew they were marking the end of an era.

At ten o’clock the next morning, when the opening gong sounded in the great hall of the New York Stock Exchange, men began to unload their stocks. So fast did trading go that by the end of the day, the ticker recording transactions ran two and a half hours late. When the final tally could be read, it showed that an extraordinary 16,410,030 shares had traded hands, and the market had lost $14 billion. The market had been uneasy for weeks before the twenty-ninth, but Black Tuesday began a slide that seemingly would not end. By mid-November the industrial average was half of what it had been in September. The economic boom that had fueled the Roaring Twenties was over.

Once the bottom fell out of the stock market, the economy ground down. Manufacturing output dropped to levels lower than those of 1913. The production of pig iron fell to what it had been in the 1890s. Foreign trade dropped by $7 billion, down to just $3 billion. The price of wheat fell from $1.05 a bushel to 39 cents; corn dropped from 81 to 33 cents; cotton fell from 17 to 6 cents a pound. Prices dropped so low that selling crops meant taking a loss, so struggling farmers simply let them rot in the fields. 

By 1932, over one million people in New York City were unemployed. By 1933 the number of unemployed across the nation rose to 13 million people—one out of every four American workers. Unable to afford rent or pay mortgages, people lived in shelters made of packing boxes.

No one knew how to combat the Great Depression, but certain wealthy Americans were sure they knew what had caused it. The problem, they said, was that poor Americans refused to work hard enough and were draining the economy. They must be forced to take less. “Liquidate labor, liquidate stocks, liquidate the farmers, liquidate real estate,” Treasury Secretary Andrew Mellon told President Herbert Hoover. “It will purge the rottenness out of the system. High costs of living and high living will come down. People will work harder, live a more moral life. Values will be adjusted, and enterprising people will pick up the wrecks from less competent people.” 

Slash government spending, agreed the Chicago Tribune: lay off teachers and government workers, and demand that those who remain accept lower wages. Richard Whitney, a former president of the Stock Exchange, told the Senate that the only way to restart the economy was to cut government salaries and veterans’ benefits (although he told them that his own salary—which at sixty thousand dollars was six times higher than theirs—was “very little” and couldn’t be reduced).

President Hoover knew little about finances, let alone how to fix an economic crisis of global proportions. He tried to reverse the economic slide by cutting taxes and reassuring Americans that “the fundamental business of the country, that is, production and distribution of commodities, is on a sound and prosperous basis.” 

But taxes were already so low that most folks would see only a few extra dollars a year from the cuts, and the fundamental business of the country was not, in fact, sound. When suffering Americans begged for public works programs to provide jobs, Hoover insisted that such programs were a “soak the rich” program that would “enslave” taxpayers, and called instead for private charity.

By the time Hoover’s term ended, Americans were ready to try a new approach to economic recovery. They refused to reelect Hoover and turned instead to New York Governor Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who promised to use the federal government to provide jobs and a safety net to enable Americans to weather hard times. He promised the American people a “New Deal”: a government that would work for everyone, not just for the wealthy and well connected.

As soon as Roosevelt was in office, Democrats began to pass laws protecting workers’ rights, providing government jobs, regulating business and banking, and beginning to chip away at the racial segregation of the American South. New Deal policies employed more than 8.5 million people, built more than 650,000 miles of highways, built or repaired more than 120,000 bridges, and put up more than 125,000 buildings. 

They regulated banking and the stock market and gave workers the right to bargain collectively. They established minimum wages and maximum hours for work. They provided a basic social safety net and regulated food and drug safety. And when World War II broke out, the new system enabled the United States to defend democracy successfully against fascists both at home—where they had grown strong enough to turn out almost 20,000 people to a rally at Madison Square Garden in 1939—and abroad. 

The New Deal worked so well that common men and women across the country hailed FDR as their leader, electing him an unprecedented four times. Republican Dwight D. Eisenhower built on the New Deal when voters elected him in 1952. He bolstered the nation’s infrastructure with the Federal-Aid Highway Act, which provided $25 billion to build 41,000 miles of highway across the country; added the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare to the government and called for a national healthcare system.

Eisenhower nominated former Republican governor of California Earl Warren as chief justice of the Supreme Court to protect civil rights, which he would begin to do with the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision months after joining the court. Eisenhower also insisted on the vital importance of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) to stop the Soviet Union from spreading communism throughout Europe.

Eisenhower called his vision “a middle way between untrammeled freedom of the individual and the demands of the welfare of the whole Nation.” 

The system worked: between 1945 and 1960 the nation’s gross national product (GNP) jumped by 250%, from $200 billion to $500 billion. The vast majority of Americans of both parties liked the new system that had helped the nation to recover from the Depression and to equip the Allies to win World War II. 

Politicians and commentators agreed that most Democrats and Republicans shared a “liberal consensus” that the government should regulate business, provide for basic social welfare, promote infrastructure, and protect civil rights. It seemed the country had finally created a government that best reflected democratic values. 

Indeed, that liberal consensus seemed so universal that the only place to find opposition was in entertainment. Popular radio comedian Fred Allen’s show included a caricature, Senator Beauregard Claghorn, a southern blowhard who pontificated, harrumphed, and took his reflexive hatred of the North to ridiculous extremes. A buffoon who represented the past, the Claghorn character was such a success that he starred in his own Hollywood film and later became the basis for the Looney Tunes cartoon rooster Foghorn Leghorn.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[notf1obsessed]

love on display (Charles Leclerc x Max Verstappen)

It all starts with a bet.

Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen, arguably the biggest rivals on the F1 grid, are dared they couldn't spend a day with each other, let alone build a solid relationship.

And who were they to turn down a challenge?

Chapter 1: Dollhouse

Picture picture, smile for the picture,

Pose with your brother, won't you be a good sister?

Everyone thinks that we're perfect,

Please don't let them look through the curtains,

- Dollhouse, Melanie Martinez

____________________________________________________________

The dim light illuminated the lively dance floor below, swaying bodies moving along to whatever beats the DJ generated. The air reeked of the combined smells of alcohol and sweat, an unpleasant odor to those in the club. Thankfully, the people were far too intoxicated to pick up or pay attention to the smell, and so was Charles.

Downing another drink, probably vodka or beer, the Monegasque's eyes began to roam the lively club. He had been dragged along by his friend Pierre, who by now, was probably off grinding on some man's ass.

It was no secret to those who knew him that he was gay after all, if anyone observed his interactions outside the grid, they'd believe so too. As for Charles, well, his love life has been pretty shit for as far as he's aware; focusing more on racing than finding a lover.

Suddenly, he was interrupted from his search for Pierre by none other than the star of the party.

Max Verstappen.

The older one said nothing at first, simply sitting down on the stool next to him. Charles felt his tongue grow bitter, the sight of his rival (or enemy rather) draining any alcohol he had previously felt in his veins.

It was also no secret how much tension lingered between the two, their on track rivalry burning the gasoline that spilt between them.

"Nice drive," Max commented as he took a sip of his beer, clearly meaning to piss off Charles as he knew well enough that the younger had DNF'ed that day.

Just as Charles was about to retort with a snarky reply, a voice snapped the elastic tension that was tightening between them, "Charles! There you are!"

It was times like these that Charles was actually grateful for his twink best friend.

As Pierre approached the two and took a seat next to Charles, the Monegasque took a good look at him, examining his features. His hair was much more ruffled than it had been before, his face red and flushed with his mouth hung agape; small pants escaping his lips; a clear indication of what had just happened.

Feeling the burn of Max's gaze on his skin, the younger reverted his attention back to the Dutchman's ocean eyes, causing him to immediately look down.

For some reason unknown to man, Pierre burst into giggles, causing both of the men to shoot menacing glares at him, a way of asking, "what the fuck?"

Realizing eyes were on him, Pierre clarified, "You guys are so unbearable with each other."

Rolling his eyes in response, Charles took it completely lighthearted. Max, not so much.

"What do you mean by that?" Max pushed further as he watched Pierre continuing to suffocate on his own laughs.

"You guys can't even stand to be in the same room, let alone build a solid relationship," the French man replied.

Watching the expression on Max's face scrunch into a questioning demeanor, as if he was unaware of the pure hate that mingled between him and Charles, Pierre decided he wasn't going to stand down from his rather simple statement.

"Don't believe me?" he questioned, grabbing a random person by the arm and pulling the poor soul into this meaningless debate, "What do you think of Max and Charles's relationship?"

Looking lost for a second, the person, who was presumably a red-bull employee, replied after stuttering over their words, "It's horrible,"  proceeding to flee as soon as the driver's touch left their arm and off to some crowded corner of the room.

"See what I mean?" stated Pierre, beginning to feel sorry for the soul they had dragged into this dilemma, "You two could never be in a solid relationship. Hah, imagine you two dating, oh my god."

Pierre couldn't finish his sentence before bursting out into laughter at the preposterousness of his thought, causing Charles to look at him with a raised eyebrow.

"In fact, I bet you 1000 dollars you couldn't."

Once again, Max didn't take it with such light heartedness.

"You know what," he began, placing his drink on the counter and wearing his stern expression, "You don't have to imagine, we're gonna be the best couple on the grid before you know it."

Charles spat out his drink almost immediately, cringing of the thought of him and Max even being a couple.

To add to his 'mild' panic, Max scooted a chair over, practically glueing himself to Charles.

The Monegasque felt his skin burn in every place that stood in contact with the older one's body, a sensation that hid pleasure underneath the pain.

Before he knew it, he felt the hot breath of Max's mouth against his cheek, sending shivers down his spine, "Cmon Charlie, it's not like it'll be hard."

What was not hard in the Dutchman's opinion was a life or death situation to Charles, his breathing hitched and rapid. After what felt like hours, the close proximity between them furthered, allowing him to breathe normally again.

The older one suddenly stood up, placing his hand in Charles's before he could protest.

"You're far too drunk to drive home, schatje," Max continued, making sure Pierre could hear him, "I'll take you home."

And it was times like these Charles wanted to murder his twink best friend.

Charles felt his face flush under the pet name, wanting to kill his body for reacting that way to a rival's comment. He was thankful for the dim lighting that concealed his blush though, as the simple touch of Max made him light ablaze, enemy or not.

Before beginning to maneuver through the crowd, Max shouted one last thing towards Pierre's direction, who was still left in a state of confusion as to how or why max had agreed to his rather jokingly bet.

"And take care of those 1000 dollars, okay? We'll need them soon."

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Chapter 8

After the wild events involving Living Armor, we're getting something fairly normal this chapter.

This isn't an RPG. Fighting monsters doesn't give EXP to level up. It just wears you out. So it's worth avoiding any fights you can, especially against monsters you can't eat.

Throughout this chapter, I kept feeling like something was off about Marcille's appearance. Then I realized she changed her hair style. Now I don't know hair styles so I'm making a wild guess at some of these. I think the braid we can see from the front is a French Braid. She used to have two of these, but now she only has one on her right shoulder. Meanwhile, I think the braid behind her ear is called a Dutch Braid. She only has one on her left side. She also used to have a small bun above where she wrapped the rest of her hair into a ponytail, but she doesn't have that now. She also seems to discard the French braid partway through the chapter.

We've got some Senshi lore. He's been living in the dungeon long enough to have campsites on the third floor. He mentioned he hunts on the second and fourth floors. The second floor was a forest area with plants and wild game to hunt. I'm going to guess the fourth floor is that water level I mentioned seeing in chapter 2.

This is another chapter like chapter 5. We're not focusing on how to hunt and cook monsters. Instead we're focusing on how to use the mechanisms of the dungeon for cooking.

Personally, I think making your farm field into a golem is unnecessary if you have a normal above-ground field to work, but this situation is more of a "Take advantage of what you can" situation. Since the golems are made of dirt, why not try using them to grow vegetables.

Any magic researcher who would get upset about how Senshi is using the dirt golems needs to seriously broaden their horizons. Sometimes, Marcille's comments on the magic research field makes everyone in it come off as highly closed off from reality and fairly narrow-minded about the applications of magic.

Magic so far seems to be only a thing useful to adventurers. The average person probably doesn't care for magic at all because it doesn't actually benefit them in any way. Maybe if magic researchers learned about Senshi's antics, they might start to consider magic as a tool to benefit everyone.

How did Senshi put on that hat? Are the horns on his helmet removable?

Those golems attacked Senshi. So they probably don't recognize him as their master. I guess whoever actually builds the cores is the master, not whoever plants it.

It's the first instance of the legendary Senshi FLASH!!

Maybe if magical creatures were designed to do something other than attack people, it wouldn't be a crime to activate them. Marcille was willing to call Senshi out on how he's doing something illegal, but she didn't care to argue the point. And then he only reactivated the golems when she wasn't there so it's not like she actually witnessed Senshi illegally activate the golems.

This panel is annoying me. Get the water ready for what? And why do we need to plug the drain?

Did Senshi name the golems?

On that conversation about convenient vs easy. Let's look at the Merriam-Webster definitions for them.

Convenient: suited to personal comfort or to easy performance; suited to a particular situation; affording accommodation or advantage

Easy: causing or involving little difficulty or discomfort; requiring or indicating little effort, thought, or reflection

So I guess I could sum easy as "Not hard" while convenient is "helpful".

The golems being around is convenient because it gives Senshi an option to grow vegetables he otherwise wouldn't have. He doesn't need the golems, but it's convenient to have them since it lets him do things he otherwise couldn't.

Meanwhile, he thinks using magic for everything is easy because it doesn't take physical effort to cast a fire spell compared to actually starting a fire by hand.

His comparison is that its easier to buy vegetables from the store because you don't have to endure the work that's needed to actually grow the vegetables. Granted, I don't know how much work actually goes into learning magic or casting it so it could be possible he's ignoring the effort that goes into actually casting a fire spell.

I get where Senshi is coming from to a degree. We live in a world where technology makes things very easy for us and we tend to neglect useful skills because of that. Some people aren't competent with basic math because using a calculator is easier. And we have map applications on our phones to help guide us, but most of us probably couldn't read a map if we had to.

I get the feeling that Senshi does not plan on staying with the party beyond this adventure. Marcille's magic would be highly convenient for him but he wants to make sure he has and keeps the skills necessary to work without them.

I'd argue that Marcille is the true protagonist of this story. She's the only member of the team who is not ready for the difficult life the party is living. I don't know yet why she chose to be an adventurer, but I feel like she was enamored by the romance of adventure you'd read about in a story.

Her initial hostility to eating monsters included a shot of her reading the paper and calling people eating monsters fools. And she thinks eating monsters is what criminals with no other options do. If it were up to her, she'd get a meal at the tavern and stock up on travel rations instead of doing all this.

She's still insecure about her utility to the party. And Senshi pointing out how she's doing things because they're easy rather than convenient is getting to her a bit. She's good at magic, yes. And her magic can definitely help everyone out. But she doesn't actually have any practical skills that can help out on a regular adventure outside of fighting. And if she should ever not be able to cast magic, she won't be able to do anything on her own.

Marcille's face tells me we're better off not knowing what that last bit of a golem is. I'm gonna guess some sort of blood magic is involved.

The chapter ends on a nice note about the ecology of the dungeon. Everything plays a role in the environmental balance and over-hunting will disrupt that balance. It explains why he got on Marcille's case in chapter 2 when she planned on killing the whole field of man-eating plants. Destroying them would negatively impact whatever eats them and allow whatever the plants to feed on to grow out of control.

Despite what some people would argue, humans are part of nature as well and we have the power to help keep the environment stable. Senshi's closing remarks on the golems gives an example about how people in this world have helped keep the dungeon environment stable even if by accident.

The golems don't just serve as a hindrance to adventurers trying to get to the lower levels of the dungeon. They also serve as a hindrance to monsters trying to get to the upper levels of the dungeon. They are an artificial creation, but nature adapted around them and they have become a cornerstone creature in how the dungeon environment lives and thrives.

And Senshi himself has chosen to become part of the dungeon environment as well.

back

[employee052]

little poster for a minicomic im working on thats half au / half backstory for virgil and the tsp gang in my universe called "la vie en jaune" (or life in yellow in french) (i think) (idk i live in canada)

for a full infodump on this au ill put it under the cut bc this au is an amalgamation of portal 2 (which takes from cave johnson, caroline, aperture, while also taking from a chelley fic i read) , simon from adventure time, kingsman, and floating megane's ted nivison comics on insta.

the plot:

Virgil works at a company called Ouroboros Technologies, whos goal is to make gadgets that automate the process of buisnesses (though they never go beyond that explanation, it pays hella money so ppl dont question it).

Anyways, Virgil's job is to hire and manage the new employees in his division. And at his 427th employee he hires Stanley Rider (also rider is stanleys canonical last name apparently so might as well use that instead of parable). A 26 year old whos fresh out of university n is working as an intern. Getting coffee, flowers for the office, making sure everyone has enough whiteboard markers since ppl use that up like crazy, etc

The two get close to the point that Stanley becomes Virgil's assistant. Which helps a bit since both Stanley and Virgil are struggling to keep up with their (seperate n now combined) workload.

The company makes a prototype product which is a set of yellow glasses, which gives the user access to the whole company's building, files, and technology in an AR form that they can access at the blink of an eye. The Prototype AR Accessible Biotech Launcher Enviroment (or pARable for short) They give it to Virgil to test, and research finds that it improves productivity 110%. However, the tech begins to backfire as it slowly begins to change Virgil's attitude and body. His mind starts to forget the people and names around him, he starts becoming increasingly more anxious and self conscious of his work when in the presence of an audience, his body begins to rapidly age and drain his life from him, and he begins to crave the control that he is given with these glasses.

Stanley notices this, and pleads with Virgil to stop, which he does. However, it causes them to fall behind on their workload, and the higherups dont like it.

Eventually, as the company threatens to dock their pay, Virgil is forced to use the glasses again in order to keep up with the workload and feed both him and Stanley. At which, Virgil begins to lose himself more and more. Forgetting his name and instead calling himself the Narrator.

The only person that he remembers is Stanley.

One night, Virgil doesn't come home, and after filing a missing persons case, Stanley doesn't find him. (Although the usual silence from Ouroboros seems more ominous than usual)

The company begins to export and send pARables en masse to all its employees, and the company reaches a terrifying peak in efficiency. And Stanley follows. Yet the only difference is that his pARable is different than his coworkers. Where everyone else starts off at a narration explaining the device followed by a room that is designed to look exactly like the user's own bedroom. Stanley's starts off with a story, in an office that looks suspiciously like his.

And concerningly, he can only vaguely remember of his life before the pARable.

And so the game plays out like normal, except both Stanley and The Narrator cant help but shake the fact that the other feels so familiar somehow.

---

ive got one page already done so i might do some more doodles with the designs i have for these two later, but im just glad i got to put this down since this is how i saw virgils origins to be subconsciously

which reminds me i need to share what ive got written for my tsp portal au f U C K

[bullet-prooflove]

TornApart!Series Part Four: Real Talk - Jubal Valentine x Reader (feat: Stuart Scola)

Tagging: @darqchilddaydreamz @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @trublu2u @greenies-green @proceduralpassion @burningpeachpuppy @evee87 @delightfulheroshoeflap @iworldlywriter @helsinkibaby  @penguin876 @justamadgirlinabox @a-noni-love @brownskinbaby22

Torn!Apart Series:

Part One: Nothing To Tell - Rina forces Jubal to make a choice.

Part Two: Pause - Jubal breaks your heart.

Part Three: One Sip - Jubal knows all it takes is one sip.

Scola hasn’t been home; Jubal knows that because he’s still wearing the same suit that he was yesterday and there are bags under his eyes. The other man moves stiffly as he flicks on the kettle and waits for it to boil. If Jubal were to guess he’d say the other man had spent the night at your place. He can tell because the scent of lavender and sandalwood from the shower oil you use, clings to Scola’s skin.

“The two of us should talk.” Scola says removing Jubal’s mug from the draining board and setting it down alongside his. He uses a French press and beans that cost over thirty dollars a bag to make the two of them coffee.

“You were with her last night.” Jubal states, his hands wrapping around the mug.

“I stayed over.” Scola informs him taking a sip from his cup. “I took the couch like a gentleman and took a shower this morning. This thing between the two of you, it has her all messed up.”

Jubal bows his head, staring into the depths of the coffee.

“Yea, she’s not the only one.” Jubal says, his thumb chasing up along the side of his mug.

“She says it’s because of Rina.” Scola tells him, ducking his head so he can meet Jubal’s gaze. “That you still have feelings for her? I have seen you when that woman walks into the JOC, and you look like you would rather face a firing squad.”

“That would be true…” Jubal admits.

“So…” Scola implores.

Jubal sighs because this weight he’s been carrying, it’s too fucking much. He’s tried, he really has but the truth is he’s drowning. It feels like he’s stranded in the middle of the ocean, wave after wave washing over his head.

“Rina, she’s…” He purses his lips together grimly before he meets Scola’s gaze. “She threatened to send Stefani back to Undercover Operations if I didn’t break it off.”

For the first time in Scola’s life, he’s speechless, his eyebrows furrow into a frown as he considers the implications. If that happens, it would be catastrophic. He remembers how closed off you were when the two of you had met. The time it had taken to build trust. He knows about all the shitty things that happened to you whilst you were under, how they affected you.

“I couldn’t let that happen.” Jubal says quietly. “After everything she went through…”

Silence falls between them as they consider your secrets, the ones you’ve disclosed to each of them. They both love you in their own ways. Both will do whatever it takes to make sure your protected.

“We need a plan.” Scola says, clasping his hands together. “There’s nothing stopping her from putting through the transfer the next time you do something to piss her off.”

“I don’t know what to do.” Jubal tells him, rubbing his hands over his face. “I’ve been going over it in my head, and I can’t see a way out of this.”

“We need to bring in Isobel and the others.” Scola says.

“I don’t think…”

“Jubal, the reason this is eating you up inside is because you’ve been trying to deal with it alone.” Scola tells him forcefully. “Lean on us, lean on the team, it’s what we’re here for.”

“And Stefani?” Jubal says, his palm rubbing across his goatee. “What do I do about her?”

“Tell her the truth.” Scola recommends. “Right now, she thinks you’re in love with someone else and it’s killing her.”

“Yea.” Jubal says, pulling out his phone as it chirps to life. “Yea, I’ll reach out.”

Love Jubal? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[theskyblog]

hawaii: part ii, but it's not

i tried making a hawaii: part ii like album out of songs from other albums, creating songs that are kind of like hawaii part ii to create this. here are my explanations for each song

introduction to the snow - a.d. 1928, both are songs that exist to set up the mood of the album and start it off, less of an actual full song. both are also meant to feel super grand, but just alluding that there's more to come

isle unto thyself - fire, this one was kind of tricky, but both are very extravagant songs that are a bit segmented. both also have a short ending sequence that feel very different from the rest of the song. both carry that same "first real song on a big project" vibe

black rainbows - trapdoor, both songs have a duo of a vocalist who sounds very choppy and deep, and a second vocalist who sounds much brighter. both songs also have instrumentals with the same harsher & and chaotic feel to them

white ball - if i could, both love ballads with a male and female vocalist with a strong emphasis on violins that build and get more layered and grand as the song goes on. both start very simplistic and build into something much more powerful. both songs also share emotional overlap with the song sounding happy and higher energy, but singing with a more sad undertone

murders - new magic wand, both songs about the murder of one partner in a relationship, with purposely harsh sounding instrumentals

宇宙ステーションのレベル7 - c'etait toi, both songs that use a non-english language in an album that is otherwise all english. both incorporate french

the mind electric - i want you (she's so heavy), both emotional climaxes of their respective albums, and achieve that through instrumentation that is harsh and unlike anything else on their albums. both also have long stretches of no real words being said

labyrinth - i just threw out the love of my dreams, electronic based instrumentation over a man and a woman sing about how emotionally cornered they are

time machine - mr. roboto, both songs that are larger than life and dramatic, with heavy themes of machinery, synth based instrumentation, and a large emphasis on the chorus

stranded lullaby - blossom, slower and sadder points on their respective albums where the singer is emotionally drained

dream sweet in sea major - a life frozen in time, segmented songs with obvious "parts". finales to their albums featuring callbacks to the album itself, and ending on a slower and emotionally climactic moment

that is hawaii part ii but not. thank you for reading i hope you liked it

[abyssal-ali]

Gold Rush

Ship: Timari

Rating: G

WC: ~1.0k

A/N: this was written probably two years ago (?) and kinda rushed, so it's not my best work. I did edit a bit and any mistakes or bad plot is mine and not my lovely beta-readers', @kitsun369 and @mothofhearts

Constructive criticism accepted (but please be nice) and any feedback is great!💜

Inspired partially by Taylor Swift's song, Gold Rush. If you recognize little nods to certain lyrics, congratulations! My symbolism didn't go to waste.

For @the-coffee-fandom, @velveteenshadow, @forgottenfriends, @timinette-is-best, @miraculousmelodies and all the other Timari Coven fiends.

Marinette eyed Lila over the rim of her punch glass. She was talking flirtatiously with the host of their trip to Gotham, Wayne Enterpsises' CEO Tim Drake.

Marinette had hoped that he'd use his internationally famous genius to see through Lila's facade, but it seemed like the liar had another victim of her honeyed tongue. At least this time she wouldn't be lying when she bragged about knowing the Timothy Drake (even though everything Lila said after that probably wouldn't be true).

Marinette and Tim had met at the pre-party meet-and-greet, where their hosts formally introduced themselves to their Parisian guests. Marinette had met his eyes as they shook hands and promptly fell into his sparkling ocean-blue eyes that twinkled with amusement at her flushed face. She furiously willed away the heat creeping up her neck and into her cheeks, hoping it wouldn't come back every time she looked at him.

He was quite charismatic and she knew he was one of the most sought-after dates, a handsome heir to two multi-million dollar companies....handsome? She thought beautiful fit him better, with his expressive eyes and lean yet muscled build and hair casually falling into place over his eyes when he shook his head, laughing at a guest's joke.

No, bad Marinette. She had an online boyfriend, and they were going to make it official when they met in person. She was not going to do anything more than admire her host's looks.

Between the meet-and-greet and dancing/socializing part of the party was a fancy dinner, where Marinette sat opposite Tim and they had a delightful discussion.

It kind of reminded her of her DMs with her gaming partner/online boyfriend, RRBurgers (she called him RR). They typed about anything and everything and often debated random things just for fun, to test their wits.

Tim had said something—she was sure it was purposely controversial—and she'd ached to begin a war of words, but responded more mildly than she liked. He had looked surprised, then thoughtful, when she refused to verbally spar with him.

They'd brushed fingers as they crossed paths, completely by accident, and Marinette promptly increased her speed, heading to the powder room to silently talk to herself (and Tikki).

She was in love with RR and didn't need to fall for gorgeous eyes and perfect smiles.

Now, she was seeing red—or at least a shade of rose, the colour of Lila's surprisingly unostentatious dress—as she spied on Mr. Drake and Lila's flirting.

She drained her punch in an annoyed swig, moving to the balcony, and looked at the stars until her jealousy cooled. If Mr. Drake couldn't see Lila for who she was, he deserved her, she told herself.

With a sigh, she leaned on the railing and pulled out her phone to play a round of her favourite game.

She stiffened when Mr. Drake appeared at her elbow. How had she not heard him approach? Then again, the ambient chatter and music were noisy.

“You play well."

“Thanks.” She finished her round (a win) and returned her phone to her purse.

"You play Knights of Mirreile?” Mr. Drake obviously wasn't taking her silence as a hint, or else he was outright ignoring her body language.

“Yes. You know it?”

“I joined to practice my French with native speakers. I'm on the Parisian server, actually—my handle is RRBurgers.” He looked at her curiously.

She took a step back. “RR? I'm LadybugandtheTramp!”

He held out his hand. “Hi, Lady. I'm RR; thrilled to meet you in person.”

She shook it, willing her returning blush to retreat. “Wait a minute...tell me three things only RR and Lady know. Just to be sure.”

Tim grinned at her. “You're wise; this is Gotham, after all.

"Uh, une: I contacted you first, to ask you to teach me some hacks.

"Deux: You have PTSD from Hawkmoth and often can't sleep, so you game, because you don't like sewing as much anymore.

"Trois,” he lowered his voice and stepped closer. Marinette could feel his body heat, even though the air was crisp. “We're a couple in Mireille and when we are planning to meet and date in person. You told me you were in love with me twenty-two days ago, and I replied that I was in love with you too.”

Marinette could barely breathe when she saw the intense look in his eyes. “Uh...I guess you are RR...I'm so glad to finally meet you in person, although it's sooner than I was expecting! You're even cuter than I imagined.”

She enjoyed the pink on his face instead of hers more than she should have.

"Will you go on a date with me tomorrow, Lady?”

"I'd love to!"

" But until tomorrow, would you care to spend our time together dancing?"

The red on Tim's neck spread and Marinette giggled. "Who taught you how to be so smooth? I almost fell for you all over again."

Tim winked at her, took her hand, and led her to the dancefloor. Marinette silently thanked Chloe for insisting on teaching her how to properly waltz, at least.

As they swirled around the room, he complained in her ear. “I talked with Lila. You're right—I can't believe what she made up! When I asked for clarification, the lies got more outrageous! I am so sorry for your suffering.”

Shyly, she admitted, “I was a little jealous of the attention you were paying her. I thought your smarts could see through her but it didn't look like it—you're a good actor."

“Thanks, I have to be.”

At her puzzled look, he explained, “In business meetings, you've got to keep a poker face, especially when you're a young businessperson like me.”

“Oh,” she nodded. “I understand that."

She relished in the angry look Lila sent their way as they twirled past her. Maybe Tikki's powers did rub off on her, building up to this moment. For some reason, she felt secure in the knowledge that she was safe and could be herself.

When she had first met RRBurgers online, she was prepared to keep her distance from him emotionally. It had been just after Ladybug and her team defeated Hawkmoth and she was depressed and suffering PTSD, gaming when she couldn't sleep or had nightmares. But RR had somehow wormed his way into her good graces with his nerdy jokes and similar lifestyle and whacky stories about his family, and the next thing she knew she had a big crush.

They gradually grew closer, DMing every day, and RR had really encouraged her in a way her old friends hadn't been able to do. She had changed a lot after being Ladybug, but they still saw her as Past Marinette. RR was a virtual friend, a blank slate, and knew Present Marinette.

He'd encouraged her to stop sewing if she didn't have a passion for it anymore and not be bound by people's expectations of Past Marinette, but show them Present Marinette.

She hadn't been brave enough to completely act like Present Marinette, but with Tim encouraging her from her side instead of over a screen, she thought she could try now.

Tonight was as good a place to start as any. She approached Lila, Tim's arm around her waist. "Hey, Lila, I see you've met Tim's brother, Dick. Have you told him about that time you heroically saved Jagged's kitten yet?"

~~le fin~~