#annabelles's lobby

[annabelleslobby]

Good morning Florida #miami #floridacats #catsoftumblr #Catslover

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Devil Wears Armani 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you're the CEO's new PA and you find the work too much to handle. (short!reader)

Characters: Tony Stark, this reader is known as Georgie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

The world stands still for Tony Stark but you run for him. You flit between the bodies on the street, hangers hooked in your fingers as the heavy suit bags bounces on your back. You’re breathless and dizzy as you get to the glass doors, nearly colliding with one as it opens from the other side. You clamour around it and apologise to the stranger that steps through. 

You check your watch as you hurry across the lobby. Ahead, you see the elevator filling up. No way. It’ll take forever with stops at every floor. You divert and head for the stairs. What’s a little more fire in your lungs? 

You burst through the door and scuff towards the first flight, barely keeping from shouldering the brick wall. You huff and puff your way up, feeling around your crossbody bag until you free your phone. Stark’s messages assure you that you’re not fast enough. You were warned about being run through your paces but you haven’t sat down in what feels like weeks. 

‘Suits. My Office. Now.’ 

His last message is fed up. You won’t offer excuses about the traffic or the dry cleaner losing the tags. You will just smile and accept the reprimand. That’s what the job is. Taking shit. You have no misconceptions left, not since Louise told you what happened to the last PA. You hope she’s in good therapy. You should look into some once your benefits kick in. 

You rush across the floor of desk, paying little mind to the paper that flutter in your stead or how the suit bags hit the edge of monitors. You can’t stop. Somehow, he’ll know if you do. 

You enter the hidden lobby where your desk sits guard to the CEO’s office and you gulp down humid breaths as you near his door. You knock furiously but don’t wait for the response. You push the handle with your elbow and lean into the door, scrambling through in victory. 

“Mr. Stark, your suits--” 

You stop short and the hangs fall as your fingers bend back too far and the suit bags slide down to your feet. Your eyes widen as Annabel’s crystal blue eyes roll up to meet yours as she lays across the desk, Mr. Stark’s silver-streaked hair over her chest as he buries his face in her cleavage, her dress pulled down just to the top of her ribcage. 

“Oh, gosh, sorry!” 

You put your hand up to block your view and bend to gather up the mess of dry cleaning. You swipe the bags up by the hooks of the hangers, spinning in a panic and fleeing back through the door. You snap it shut and race over to your desk.  

The round desk sits behind a ledge that hides all but your hairline from the few of visitors and other employees. The chair is set as high as it will go and yes, you can barely see from your perch. You’ve moved the monitor twenty times and it’s not made it any better. 

You sling the suit bags over the back of the desk and drop into the chair. Horror crawls up your chest and neck and threaten to choke you. Your heart continues to pound as your adrenaline slowly recedes. It’s more than just the cross-city sprint that has you out of sorts. 

Shoot! Why did you just go in like that? You knocked but you didn’t wait. You were so set on the finish line you didn’t see the red flag beside the checkered. You groan and slump forward, cradling your head as it throbs. You’re fired. 

You sit up and use your phone camera to fix your addled appearance, your glasses crooked and low on your nose. You did yourself no favours in your excess. You’re even more of a mess than usual. Dang. You put your phone down and untangle your crossbody bag and open the bottom drawer. You hesitate to drop it in, should you bother? You should start packing up. 

You tuck the bag away and use your foot to close the drawer. You don’t know what to do so you do what you always do. Work. 

You roll up to the monitor and login, fingers fluttering over the slender keyboard. You bring up Mr. Stark’s inbox and filter through the endless correspondence. His calendar’s full enough that most of the invites are an automatic ‘no’. 

You hear the door across from your open but don’t look up. Your cheeks blaze as Annabel’s clears her throat and struts away with a tap of heels. Your eyes widen behind your screen and you cough as you focus on your task. 

Mr. Stark doesn’t appear right away but you sense his silhouette in the doorway before he approaches. Your hands shake and your typing turns to gibberish. You still your fingers but keep them hovered over the keys. You bite down on the inside of your lip as you stare at the monitor. 

“My suits belong in my office,” he says. 

“Yes sir,” you reply obediently and stand abruptly, “just let me--” 

You trip around the swiveling chair and scoop up the suit bags. You step down from behind the raises desk and come around, overly aware of his looming shadow. You feel even smaller with your armful. 

He chuckles, “what was the hold up? I got bored.” 

“Sorry, sir,” you answer, “I’ll do better.” 

You scuff over the floor in your flats and into his open office. His desk is still a mess from his playtime. You veer towards the rolling rack against the wall and hang his suits. He steps into the doorway and watches you. 

You go to the desk without a thought and start tidying up. You’re such a busy body when you’re nervous. His soles tap on the floor as he enters and sucks his teeth. 

“She’s a cutie, huh?” Stark snickers, “and her assets are... admirable.” 

You blanch and back up, pushing your hands behind your back as you face him, “I’m sorry, sir. That won’t happen again.” 

“Oh, it will,” he smirks, “there’s enough pretty girls around...” He winks, “maybe next time, you’ll join.” 

You blink and your mouth opens just slightly. You’re speechless. He laughs again. 

“I’m playing with you,” his expression hardens and he crosses his arms, “go, get back to work.” He demands as he shakes his head, “next time don’t be fucking late.” 

[greenorangevioletgrass]

fever pitch (b.b.) - part three

previous part | series masterlist

soundtrack: don't blame me - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: you and bradley spend the night, but the road to heaven is full of obstacles; some are external, others are self-inflicted. warnings: language, public scrutiny (will be a recurring theme in this fic ha!), bradley is a stand-up guy all round, fluff, smut (d/s elements, praise kink, bit of a bratty side?, fingering, oral [f receiving], dirty talk, size kink, bradley is PACKING, protected sex) notes: i'm back! life has been crazy since i posted the previous chapter, but i just wanna say thank you so so much for your patience and your kind words about the fic so far! big shoutout to @gretagerwigsmuse and @teacupsandtopgun for being absolutely GEMS in brainstorming ideas-- this wouldn't have happened if it weren't for y'all <3 happy reading!

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The Langham, Sterling Suite. Ask for Holly Golightly ;)

Bradley smiles at your text, and the cheeky “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” reference. He shoots up a quick reply as he makes his way out to the lobby, fighting hard not to be grinning like an idiot to any unassuming passersby, until—

Click-click-click-click! FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

“Hey, it’s Bradley Bradshaw!”

“Oi, Bradley! Give us a smile, mate!”

“Bradley, did you get to meet Y/N inside?”

“Did the boss let you out on a school night, Bradley?”

”How are you feeling about the Sunderland game this weekend?”

It’s a meager distance from the steps of Annabel’s to the curb where the valet has brought out his car, but holy shit. It doesn’t usually get nearly as crazy as this. He’s partied here with Harry Styles, and nobody bat an eye when the guy stumbled out drunk with his left tit out. But maybe it’s because Harry lives in London sometimes, or maybe because he was on a break… unlike Miss Americana on her world tour right now. It makes him pause and rethink how careful he needs to be.

Bradley gets into his car and drives off, trying to tread between the fine line of quick and careful. He can’t help but look over the rearview mirror more often than normal. Fuck, is this how you feel like all the time? He’s no stranger to the spotlight, but rather than the occasional run-ins, nobody has ever been interested in where he went to dinner on a random Tuesday night.

The Langham is barely a mile away, but Bradley sees photographers parked across the hotel with their long-lens cameras and disgusting disposition, and he keeps on driving. Thinking. Restrategizing. Hoping that his vintage aubergine Ferrari isn’t causing suspicion for driving by the second and third time.

He finds a basement parking lot behind the building and pulls up, hoping it’s the right entrance to the hotel. The attendant looks starstruck as he nods and points the way, sending him off with an eager ‘Come on you Gunners!’. And just like that, he makes it into the lobby out of the pap’s sight.

Be cool, he reminds himself, you’re only as suspicious as you seem to be. He comes up to the reception desk, and the girl behind it greets him warmly.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to the Langham. How may I help you?”

“I’m here to see Ms. Golightly at the Sterling Suite,” Bradley says smoothly. “Holly Golightly.”

“And who am I speaking with, sir?” The girl looks at him like he seems familiar, but can’t quite place him. 

“...Paul Varjak,” he states, unable to bite back the smile. Oh, the thrill of giving out a fake name with the very real possibility of getting called out on his shit. 

But she nods and grabs the telephone, dialing into your room. Blissfully ignorant of the pseudonym he just gave her. 

Good. 

Let this inside joke be the two of yours alone.

The elevator ride up is peaceful—too peaceful that he can hear his heart beating and his palms sweating. Even the carpet mutes his footsteps towards the double door. Before he even presses the bell, a bodyguard opens the door for him.

“Mr. Bradshaw,” he nods curtly. It’s one of the guys from the restaurant earlier. Middle-aged, stout and rather short, sporting a permanent scowl and a vibe that indicates he’s seen some shit.

“Hi. Sorry, I haven’t got your name…?”

“Guy,” he deadpans.

Bradley wonders if that’s his real name or he’s just saying it so Bradley would get off his case, but smiles anyway. “Nice to meet you, Guy.”

Guy hums gruffly and ushers him into the foyer, an identical hallway of the hotel, with a room on each side. “Through here,” he leads him towards another set of double doors at the end of the hallway.

Meanwhile, you are full-on freaking out in your living room. Should you get changed? You’ve taken off your heels, but getting everything off feels so premeditated… You don’t even know if he wants things to go that far. Maybe you can break your little rule and bring out the wine for liquid courage? Gosh, nothing feels right. And it’s been so long since you’ve last done this that you’ve actually gone rusty.

And before you get to decide—in the long, wasteful twenty minutes or so you’ve been pacing, you hear a knock on your door.

“Coming!”

You rush over to get the door and there he is, coming out victorious through the hurdles, smiling at you.

“Thanks, Guy. I’ll take it from here,” you dismiss your security a little too quickly, nodding over Bradley’s shoulder. You’re sure Guy is rolling his eyes all the way back to his room over your lovestruck teenager behavior.

But it hardly matters when this man before you is looking at you like the sun.

“Hey, you.” Bradley beams at you from his spot. As if afraid to invade your space somehow.

And so are you. This feels like that night in the garden all over again. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t some pocket of a park you stumbled into; this is your hotel room. 

Quiet. 

Private. 

Safe.

“Come on in.” You let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him the warm foyer light cast golden upon his face. You’re not sure if it’s the fact that you’ve ditched your six-inch heels, or that there’s no one else, but Bradley looks even taller than you remember him. Broader. More… imposing.

“I’m sorry for taking so long. There’s cameras everywhere and I had to—”

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him. It feels rude to ask if he got caught on camera, but at this point, you had to ask. “Did you… Did they…?” 

Bradley quickly shakes his head. “No, I took the basement entrance, out of sight. We’re good.”

”I’m, uh… sorry for the fuss.”

”Hey, it’s no trouble at all… Ms. Golightly,” he tilts his head, grinning at your chosen pseudonym.

”Yeah, it changes every time. My last stop in Tennessee, I was Clarice Starling,” you admit, making him laugh. “Although I’m glad you got the reference… Mr. Varjak.”

He simpers, very proud of himself. And with that, he takes a step closer to you. Towering over you. Crowding you with his smile, his scent, his body heat… and neither of you makes the first touch. You’re painfully aware of how his gaze keeps dropping to your lips. Bodies drawn towards each other but tied in place for some reason. It seems like despite all the flirting you did at the restaurant, everything goes out the window once you’re alone.

You’re just two strangers, caught in a thrilling game of push and pull. Too scared to tip over and just… fall.

“Can I kiss you…?” Bradley breathes out. He feels foolish for asking, but it’s the only way to make sure he’s not ruining the entire evening.

But you sigh in relief and nod your head yes, and it gives you the push you need to close the distance from him. You don’t know which one happened first; touching his lips with yours, grasping his arms for balance, or standing on your tiptoes on his shoes. He keeps you there, his strong hands securing your waist.

“You’re making me feel like a kid…” It makes you giggle into the kiss, and he can’t not possibly fall in love with the sound of that—with the feel of your lips pulled up right against his.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing…” Bradley runs his hands down your sides gently. “Besides, I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

“All night? You mean you’ve been thinking about making out with me while I tell you my life story?” you gasp, feigning shock and offense.

He laughs again. “Maybe for a moment or two there, I’ll admit.”

“I thought you were a gentleman!” you give him a playful smack on his behind, and there’s a flash of… something in his eyes. A spark, or a darkening. You’re not sure what it is yet, but it sends butterflies into your stomach yet again.

Bradley tucks some loose strands of your hair behind your ear. “I’m still a gentleman.”

“Really? I don’t believe that…” you sway his hips lightly, “I think you’re very… very bad,” you purr out, your lips barely touching.

He meets you halfway, and it feels like less of a shock this time. You gladly lose yourself in him, knowing you’ve crossed the line now. You finally notice how his mustache scratches your skin in a nice way, how he holds you flush against him, how he just melts into you in the kiss… enshrouding you in his warmth and lighting you on fire at the same time. 

Bradley pulls away, barely just. His forehead is still pressed against yours, your noses are bumping, and his breath melding with yours. He licks his lips and you swear you can almost taste it. “You’re making it really hard for me to be a gentleman, kid…”

You can’t help but chuckle at the nickname. It’s not one you expect, but it sounds right somehow. “I didn’t invite you all the way here to be a gentleman.”

The twinkle in his eyes darken. Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of him. “Is that right?” Bradley’s hands slide down your hips, finding the swell of your ass and giving it a firm squeeze.

The air catches in your throat, and you swallow lightly. “Mm-hm.”

Instead, you lead him into the bedroom. Bradley is right behind you, barely a step behind. His hands have found a home on your hips and he seems adamant to stay there for a moment. Insisting to hold onto you because he worries he’ll get ahead of himself before you’re ready. But gosh, you’ve been ready all night and you’re practically twisting your arms around trying to reach the zipper on the back of your dress.

“Come here, I got you,” he rasps, his heart skipping as he drags the zipper down your back. He’s not sure which one he loves more; the dip of your spine that he wants to trace with your tongue, or the way the dress falls to the floor and reveals what’s underneath that prim and proper pink dress.

A tiny scrap of lace held by a black strap on either side of your hips, framing the swell of your ass perfectly.

And he swears, for a split second, he thought he had died and gone to heaven.

“Fuck…” he breathes out.

You can’t turn around fast enough. It might be a good ‘fuck’, but what if it’s a bad one? “What’s wrong?”

Bradley just blinks at you, for no other reason than how your nipples are poking out the side of the skimpy triangle of your bra. And that your lipstick is smeared on the edges from kissing him.

But of course, your mind is already racing from the lack of response and you’re already thinking, oh no this was a bad idea I shouldn’t have worn this—

“Hey, hey…” he sees your face fall and your arms come up to cover your chest and he immediately steps in. Holding you close, hoping to give you comfort. “Is this all for me?”

Oh, shit. Maybe if you close your eyes tight enough, you would melt to the floor. “I know, it’s a little much—”

“No, that’s not what I asked…” Bradley tilts your chin up, making you look him in the eye. “I said… Did you put these on for me?”

Your breath comes up short, and you nod ever so slightly. You don’t even trust your own voice not to betray how much you want him to like it. How much you want him.

“It’s perfect. I love it. Thank you.” He smiles into your lips, kissing you there. Spelling out how he feels with his hands on your ass, his mouth on yours. “Such a good girl…”

That flips a switch in your brain and he can see it. Your eyes go wide, your posture changes, and all of a sudden, you look so… small in his arms. So vulnerable, so beautiful. So perfect. 

Suddenly, he’s holding the world in his arms. The sexy little thing you call panties is a pesky little nuisance now, and he can’t wait to get it off of you. His broad shoulders are keeping your legs open, his nose nuzzling your pubic bone as he looks up at you.

Bradley lowers you down on the side of the bed, settling on his knees before you. Committing every inch to memory by touch, from your ankle to your knee, up the inside of your thighs. When he reaches the scrap of fabric at your core, he feels it slick. He smirks. “What do we have here?”

Your face heats up. How the fuck are you supposed to answer that? No words are coming to your head—not when he’s drawing patterns over your pussy, making the lace glisten all over. And when your panties are positively ruined, he draws his hand back and licks the offending fingers in earnest.

And all it takes is a taste to send him into a frenzy. 

“Fuck honey, need to taste you…” he murmurs between feverish kisses all over your legs. “Can I?”

You nod fervently, feeling like he’s got you under a spell.

“Use your words, kid.” He grins, playfully biting the inside of your thigh.

The sharp sensation makes you yelp, and you grip his hair in reflex. “Yes, want your mouth on me, please…”

“Good girl, asking so nicely…” he chuckles, satisfied with your response. Then, he pulls you to the edge of the bed. That dainty scrap of lace you call panties is a pesky nuisance now, and he couldn’t wait any longer to get it off of you. With your legs hiked up on his broad shoulders, he dives into you. 

A taste, as it turns out, is an understatement because what Bradley does is devour. 

“Oh, fuck…” you gasp sharply at the contact.

With one hand pinning your thigh open, he laps you up in earnest, figuring out the many ways he can make you squirm. Time ceases to exist because it feels like he makes you come in no time, but also he’s been down there forever. But he goes on and on and on until his name comes out in a desperate chant of lust and need. 

“Bradley Bradley Bradley…” she grinds shamelessly into his mustache now, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation on your part. “Please, I’m gonna…”

“I know, honey. I got you. It’s okay.” It’s an oddly wholesome thing to say in a moment like this, but maybe you’re a hopeless romantic at heart, because sweet nothings get you off.

Your orgasm strikes like a thunderbolt, and you find yourself arching into his mouth. The more you take, the more he gives—or is it the other way around?— It seems like he takes as much pleasure in it as you do. Maybe even more, as he holds onto you as you squirm away overstimulated.

“Bradley… wait.” You grab a handful of his hair, trembling breathlessly.

His mustache glistens when he comes up for air, and he finally (finally!) takes off his suit jacket as he stands up. He eases up on the throttle and lets you breathe for a second. He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, watching you spread out like a feast for him. Legs open, bra askew, hair fanned out on the pillow… God, he’s so lucky.

When he returns on top of you, you’re eager to pull him by his belt buckle, but he brushes your hand away. You frown in protest. “But I wanna touch you—”

“It’s not your turn yet, honey,” he chides you teasingly.

“You just had your turn!”

He shrugs, nosing your cheek. “Well, it’s still my turn, so…” Bradley closes the gap again and kisses you openly.

The taste of your arousal on his tongue makes you dizzy, but it can’t distract you from the buzz of his fingers rubbing your devoured pussy, sending shivers down your spine. It’s entirely too much, and you keel over from the contact.

“Somebody’s a little sensitive, huh?” He grins, easing the throttle a little.

“Fuck you…”

“Well, if you say so.” He slides his middle finger in.

“Ohhh… Bradley…” you buck up your hips and moan. But in comes another finger, and you swear it feels like all of him. 

He’s wound differently this time, like a man on a mission. With his fingers crooking and stroking your silky walls, beckoning you to come closer, while you grip his shoulders, willing yourself to hold on. But his teeth yanks the edge of your bra to set your nipple free, and his sly tongue finally gets a taste… all resolve goes out the window.

“Come on, honey. I know you got another one in you…” he breathes out, undoing the front clasp of your bra so he can suck your tits with all his might, willing you to come.

And frankly, who are you to say no?

The burst of pleasure hits you from your core to your fingertips. If he wasn’t pinning you down on top of you, you would have probably floated away. But you’re firmly laid on the mattress and feeling everything. Your eyes blink back into focus as you come down from your high.

You pant, staring at him in disbelief. Nobody has ever put that much attention on you in bed before even taking off his clothes. “You got a baseball bat in there or something?”

“Something like that.” He rolls his eyes playfully. Jokingly, you assume.

You take his arm, kissing his wrist, “Can I touch you now?” sticking your tongue out to lick his digits clean of you. Putting on a show as you suck his fingers. “Please?”

He throws his head back and groans. “Fuck.” He can’t resist that doe-eyed look you’re putting on, nor can he resist you undoing his shirt buttons. He can play dominant all he wants, but he knows that the truth of the matter is, he’s all wrapped up around your little finger. “Okay, okay. You win.”

It’s a mess of unbuckling pants, kicking off shoes, and tossing clothes to the floor. Your hand reaches out to trace his gleaming skin, every ridge of his abdomen. You’ve seen the Calvin Klein campaigns and the Men’s Health covers— and gosh, he looks like a dream. But when that thing just springs up to his stomach when he pushes his boxers down…

You didn’t expect him to manifest straight out of your wet dream.

“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding about your baseball bat,” you breathe out, head tilted as you stare at his thick cock. The vein that runs along the side, the way it curves slightly to the right, the length that makes you clench at the mere thought of it… Fuck, it’s pretty.

Bradley chuckles sheepishly. He knows how big it is, he’s heard all the jokes in the locker room, but hearing it from you hits different. “You scared?”

You should be, a little. But without flinching, you bite your lip and look him in the eye. “Nah, I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

Gosh, he loves you. He’ll have to remember not to blurt that out too early. “Okay, big girl,” he chuckles, kissing you one last time before rolling off of the bed.

His sudden disappearance out of sight makes you frown. “Where are you—” you prop yourself up on your elbow, seeing him fish out a packet of condom from his trousers pocket, “Right. Safety first.”

Bradley nods, tearing the packet open with his teeth and rolling it on. There’s something so hot about how a man looks just before he fucks someone. “Mm-hm. Gotta make sure we’re both covered.”

“Do I need goggles and a helmet, too?”

He pauses as he straddles your hips. “Maybe next round,” he cheekily quips back. The idea of you wearing nothing but a helmet and safety goggles weirdly makes his cock stir, too. But you’re already lying naked under him, and he doubts that much will deter his hard-on.

Bradley pushes himself into you a little, and your eyes water as you whimper out in a blur of pain and pleasure. And here you thought two of his fingers felt full…

He stops in his tracks, trying to gauge your reaction. He nearly lost his mind over how tightly you’re clenched around him, but he doesn’t want to presume. “Too much?” He asks softly, stroking your cheek. 

Your breaths run ragged as you look up at him, almost in awe. “You’re just… so big…”

He laughs breathlessly. He hates to brag, but it’s true. And as much as he’s enjoying the way you flutter under him, he has to ask, “Want me to pull out?” Please say no, please say no, I don’t think I can handle it…

“N-no…” you wrap your arms and legs around him, clinging to him for dear life. “But I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

Bradley smiles at what has to be the most adorable look he’s ever seen from you. He kisses your forehead in reassurance. “I’ll go nice and slow, okay? I promise.”

Feeling this small and vulnerable so soon after meeting someone would usually set all kinds of alarms in your head. You never know how a guy would take it. But in this moment, nestled in the crook of his neck, among the mix of his perfume and aftershave and his natural musk… all you want to do is stay. “Okay,” you nod softly.

“Let’s try again then, hm?” He kisses your temple and whispers in your ear, “Open up, love.”

With a deep breath, you bite back a whimper as you take him deeper, still not quite all the way in. “Hurts…”

Bradley stops again, his concern fully taking over now. “You sure you want me to keep going…?”

“Yes!” You surprise yourself with how quick and desperate you answered him. Your eyes shut, trying to offset the warmth setting over your cheeks, as you make the dirty admission, “I… I like it when it hurts.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Bradley has to remind himself not to come on the spot, because holy shit. He wouldn’t go this hard on a woman so early in the game, but… his head is dizzy from how innocently you said it. He takes a breath to pull himself together. “Tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

The air is heavy. The room is silent. You can hear the shift in the tension as you smirk, “Yessir.”

There you are, you little devil. Bradley simply grabs you by the hips and bottoms out inside you. Your face goes slack while your cunt tightens around his cock, and it blows his mind.

He starts out slow, torturously so. Stuffing himself inside your crevice and dragging himself out, willing you to feel every inch. Every ridge. Until your body loosens up and twists around in the throes of passion. Your mouth falls open, your little gasps and moans coming and going as he pleases.

The unhurried pace is nice for a few minutes, when you’re still adjusting to his size. But now that he’s snug inside you, you’re simply aching for more. Your hips arch up into him halfway, a little more urgent, disrupting the rhythm with a pleasant stutter.

He notices this and smiles. “So eager… what’s the rush, hm?”

You answer with a groan. He has a penchant for asking you questions you can’t answer, this man. “You feel so good, baby…” you murmur headily, hands desperately grasping on him—his arms, his shoulders, his back…

”You feel even better.” He nips at your pert nipple, relishing in your angelic little filthy cry. Fuck, he can feel the exact motion of your pussy tightening for him. “I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that…”

”Then don’t.”

His eyes flicker onto yours immediately. You’re gonna be the death of him, he swears…

You grab his hair by the fistful, keeping his gaze. “I want to feel you come inside me.”

”Oh fuck—” he doesn’t stand a chance. His body reacts faster than his brain could compute, and he holds your hips flush against his as he buries himself as deep as he can. Every twitch of his cock sends you reeling, and your pussy clenches and unwinds in your climax, following him down from his high to yours.

Free falling, hand in hand.

Bradley rolls off of you and you would complain, if it weren’t for the way he immediately pulls you into his chest. Thank fuck. You’re not quite ready to untangle from him yet. Not when your breaths still run a bit ragged, as if accidentally catching each other’s. He presses a kiss to your forehead, and it feels unlike your regular out-of-town hookup. No, this one’s different. But not a word is said between you on that for different reasons— each of you holding your cards close to your chest, as close as you’re holding each other.

[damnmmmmmmmmmm]

Annabelle, Girl… We See Those Hotel Flowers

So, are we all just supposed to pretend that Annabelle Wallis didn’t just try to pass off hotel lobby flowers as her Valentine’s Day bouquet? Because, girl, we see it.

Let’s break it down: They definitely staying at a hotel while in London. The over-the-top floral arrangement, the grand, luxurious decor in the background, the very hotel-coded furniture—it’s giving- “five-star suite welcome gift” rather than “romantic, thoughtful gesture from a significant other.” And let’s talk about that bouquet for a second. Those branches? The random mix of colors? The “whatever the florist had left” energy? Yeah, not exactly screaming personalised Valentine’s Day surprise.

Listen, no shade if she really did get these flowers for V-Day (we all love a good floral moment), but something about this setup feels… convenient. Like, did she just snap a pic of the hotel centerpiece and try to pass it off as her own? If so, A+ for effort, but the internet misses nothing.

What do y’all think? Hotel flowers or nah?

[snapthistiger]

exercise 12032024

bike ride to the gym

worked lifeguard job 445a to 730a

3 x 10 lat pull

3 x 6 dips

3 x 10 overhead press

45 minute spin class

3 x 10 seated press

3 x 10 tricep press

3 x 10 row

bike ride to the veterinarian and then home

the gym workers received M&Ms

stayed at my Mom's last night. she went to sleep around 9p and slept through the night

bought Bravecto flea medicine for Peanut & Annabelle at the veterinarian

top left = Christmas lights at 415a

top right = my oldest daughter bought me a lighted toboggan hat for riding to the gym in the dark. it is rechargeable by USB

bottom = gym elf working on the Christmas tree in the lobby

fixed a plumbing issue at home

baked a chocolate cake from a box mix

hope you have a peaceful afternoon and evening..

[anothersebastianblog]

"respectfully, you don't. There's no need to prove reality, it just...exists. Taking things face value isn't a special skill." Also, the thing with Internet theories is that anyone can "prove" anything since all they have to do is create a thread of "facts" that other people desperately want to believe. There are flat earth truthers alive and well who think they have facts proving that the planet is a shelf. Also here in the US, we have truthers who can "prove" that children haven't died in these mass school shootings and that they were all child actors and a big hoax perpetuated by the government for the anti-gun lobby. If you try to disprove what they say, it's just an endless argument over the minutiae of "this tiny thing I say is halfway correct, so that disproves everything you've tried to tell me." Same with Seb and his relationship.

Conspiracies do in fact occur. But sometimes they just really, really don't. It's up to us to be literate consumers of information. There is nothing about Seb having a PR relationship that has ever rung remotely true for anyone he's been with, but especially not Annabelle. It's time to just change your mindset and be happy that he is fulfilled in his personal life and putting out amazing, amazing work that we all get to enjoy (and sometimes *respectfully* drool over).

.

[taniushka12]

I think the funniest tma oc I ever did was a receptionist guy on a dead end motel at the side of the road. the fic was set post s4 finale but in the apocalypse blues au-verse, so after jon gets his lonely scar and then flies away (with tim 😌) annabelle first and then martin wait on the aforementioned motel til elias sends his letter and starts the apocalypse, right? and its all from the pov of this one guy in a suffocating and boring environment getting slowly enraptured with these two polite yet slightly off people who don't seem to like each other (at least, the guy doesnt) but still sleep in the same room and always hole up together when they're not just hanging around the lobby or cryptically talking to him (at least, she does). and they're not like, on route somewhere else or doing tourism around the motel, no, they just seem to be.. Waiting

there's a subplot going on that he's slowly feeding the buried in that job but at the end the exposure of them and the increasing sight of spiders changes something and he ended up being an avatar of Something idk and feeding off his shitty boss but whatever. The point of that oc was that he unawarely spends his last weeks w/ the heralds of the apocalypse and hes like Man these two are weird. but God I wanna be their third...

he doesnt even have a name

[danteleept]

Dante liked to think he went above and beyond to be the kind of man Annabelle Baxter would be proud of. He’d never faltered before but, shamefully, he rather thought he was doing everything he could to fail her right now.

He peered out of the window of the black cab, rain hammering down on the slick roads, and watched as London sped by him. He’d forgotten how easy it often was to get in a car and get somewhere in the same city in under an hour. If you climbed into a taxi in New York, you were condemning yourself to trawling through the grid of a city at a snail’s pace. Luckily, Dante was spared of that fate today, as he had a loose cannon of a race driver to contend with and, for once, it wasn’t Jackson Otto.

Annie was disappointed in him, and that stung. As for Jax… Dante wasn’t sure he knew exactly how the other man would react to his sudden departure, but he knew it wouldn’t be positive. He’d pondered on it too much as he’d sat on the flight, jiggling his leg as he’d teared up at How To Train Your Dragon 2 and let a child repeatedly kick his seat from behind (he’d only had time to purchase an economy class ticket, no longer having the luxury of Michael Baxter offering him a seat on his private jet). He’d thought about Jax during the movie, how he’d managed to wrangle him into watching it with him and a hungover Chloe during the week before they’d all ultimately fallen asleep on each other. He thought about him when he’d choked back his in-flight meal, and again when he’d landed in Heathrow, saw the shining light of a Marks & Spencers sign, illuminated like the North Star, and picked up a Vita Coco from the fridge. It wasn’t to his taste, he found, but something about Jax liking it still made it appealing.

He knew how it looked. He’d shamelessly flirted with Jax all week, only to up and leave Miami two days before the Grand Prix, all to chase down another man. His ex, no less. Dante only wished it didn’t have to be framed in such a way, but he’d had no time to recalibrate the optics of it to save his own image. Unfortunately, Jax would just have to be angry at him and Dante would need to find a way to bear it until he could apologise. 

The black cab slowed to a stop outside the hotel Mellie had told him about. She’d looked mildly surprised when she opened the door to find Dante standing there, but had recovered quickly and rattled off the name of the hotel her brother was staying at.

“He said he wants to be alone,” she’d told him, and the weight of her words settled heavily in Dante’s stomach, to the point where his panic crystallised and made his whole being ache.

“Here you go, mate,” he said, chucking a fifty pound note into the front seat. It was far more than necessary, but after using dollars for so long, he hadn’t had the time to exchange his money into anything smaller. The cabbie’s eyes widened, but before he could even offer any change, Dante had tugged his hood over his head and disappeared into the rain outside.

He jogged up the steps of the hotel, rain soaking him through by the time he got through the revolving door and into the lobby. The bar was to his right and he made his way over to it, wincing a little as he realised he was dripping rain water all over the marble floor.

It didn’t take long for him to spot Bash and his eyes traveled from the man slouching on the stool to the rows and rows of bottles behind the bar. Dante’s stomach turned uncomfortably as he approached the other man.

“I’m in a lot of trouble right now,” he said as he took the seat next to Bash. His eyes searched for any sign that the man was drunk, or on something even stronger. He swallowed nervously. “But if I’m already going to hell in a handbasket… mocktail on me?”

[talkstothemoonandstars]

The National Film Registry Adds 25 Films

It's a most wonderful time of the year for classic film buffs and preservationists. The National Film Registry, which is part of the Library of Congress, announced on Tuesday the latest movies it plans to archive for posterity.

Each year, 25 films are added to the registry. Usually, it's a mixture of blockbusters, obscure-but-important independent films, and historical footage, all selected to highlight the depth and breadth of American film.

"Films reflect our nation's history and culture and must be preserved in our national library for generations to come," said Librarian of Congress Carla Hayden in a statement. "This is a collective effort in the film community to preserve our cinematic heritage."

For the first time, a Star Trek movie is joining the list, in part because of enthusiastic lobbying from fans. (Although selections are made by the National Film Preservation Board, nominations from the public are encouraged as part of the process.)

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, starring Ricardo Montalban as the titular villain, came out in 1982. In a press release, the Library of Congress pointed out that the film is often considered the best of the six original-cast Star Trek theatrical films. It's also among five movies selected this year featuring prominent Hispanic artists or themes, including American Me, Mi Familia, Spy Kids, and the first Cheech & Chong movie to be added to the registry, Up in Smoke.

The complete list of films selected for the 2024 National Film Registry, in chronological order, follows:

Annabelle Serpentine Dance (1895) KoKo's Earth Control (1928) Angels with Dirty Faces (1938) Pride of the Yankees (1942) Invaders from Mars (1953) The Miracle Worker (1962) The Chelsea Girls (1966) Ganja &Hess (1973) The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) Uptown Saturday Night (1974) Zora Lathan Student Films (1975-76) Up in Smoke (1978) Will (1981) Star Trek II: Wrath of Khan (1982) Beverly Hills Cop (1984)

Dirty Dancing (1987) Common Threads: Stories from the Quilt (1989) Powwow Highway (1989) My Own Private Idaho (1991) American Me (1992) Mi Familia (1995) Compensation (1999) Spy Kids (2001) No Country for Old Men (2007) The Social Network (2010)

[spilltheteawithme]

Honestly I’m thought last summer was bad for her with how dm and entity came her and pretty much the silence that followed after the last pap walk last summer but this summer 😬 she set herself up tbh here announcing on ig “here I come!!” With the picture of the movie you would have at least thought she was in it not supporting her supposed boyfriend and looking at pictures and videos before and then during and after Cannes wasn’t at all what she expected and it honestly doesn’t seem like she got what she wanted you quickly see her go from smiling to very tense through out. She deflated very quickly and in the after party photo of her it looks like she may have been crying before she tried to match with him but she wore a dress that you could tell was picked last minute because it should have been tailored to her height and her body type but she looked very lumpy and she practically tripping over her dress (the video of him basically dragging her through the hotel lobby 😬 he looked tense and very pissed) she looked very out of her element and it makes me remember what she said in Malta she never feels welcome at film festivals and you could tell honestly no one cared that she was there at Cannes she was an afterthought and I think that kind of describes what this is with seb she’s an afterthought to him a job. This feels way more for her and to get her name out there and every opportunity has failed because she’s honestly not interesting she’s a mediocre actress at best that’s the best compliment that she will get she’s not really that pretty she’s just blonde skinny with blue eyes which there’s so many woman just like that who are interesting talented and that just puts Annabelle at the back trying to grasp any attention she can get but she can’t hold it on her own

Maybe not crying but definitely glossy eyed...

[rogueshadeaux]

Chapter Seventeen — Reascendance 

Dad’s eyes found the camera this news channel was streaming on, and his stare went entirely icy, so harsh that it felt like I was getting reprimanded a state away. “And as for this Archangel thing — I’m only giving a single warning to whoever is perpetrating these attacks. Using low-tier criminals and radicalized conspiracy theorists to do your bidding is weak, and it isn’t something I’m intimidated by. You wanted me out in the open? I’m here."

6k words | 20 min read time | TRIGGER WARNINGS: child death, implied terrorism. Sorta ooc Delsin but just pretend it's his customer service voice

Brent didn’t object when I appeared in his bedroom in the middle of the night — I knew he was awake, he wasn’t snoring. He didn’t even say anything when I took one side of the full sized bed and bundled up in the woven blanket, finally managing to fall asleep. Maybe it was the few years before we moved to Chapman where we shared a twin mattress as toddlers in that one bedroom apartment in downtown Portland, or maybe it was the fact that we entered this world sharing a womb — but I always felt better with Brent close. He’d never admit it, but he felt the same — it was an unspoken agreement of sorts.

We were up all too soon again for exams, of all things, Betty shuttling us to the absolutely miniscule high school and parking in its front lot. “God, how many kids go to school here?” Brent asked, sleep still thickening his voice. 

Betty, being chairman of the Akomish, apparently knew. “Well the middle school has about 350 kids and the high school has 270.” 

“Middle—“ I cut off, glancing back at the school. “Is this a blended school?”

Betty nodded. Holy shit, I didn’t even know schools were allowed to do that. 

Four teachers met us in the lobby, guiding us through a hall that seemed smaller than the one at my fucking gyno. We were taken to a small computer lab in a glorified broom closet, and told we’d take each exam with a break in between. “We provide lunches to those on the free and reduced lunch program during the holiday,” one guy with thick glasses said. “You’ll attend lunch with them at 11:45.” 

All this life changing drama and yet I somehow couldn’t escape my AP Lit exam. 

But hey, we survived, finishing up just before eleven and told to just sit tight. “You can even play around on the computers if you’d like,” a woman teacher that stayed behind offered, her partners all going to the lunchroom to prepare it. 

There was no hesitation; Brent immediately began typing in a news channel’s domain name, and I left my place on the other side of the room to sit beside him. 

The march was headlining news, helicopter view of COLE’s remains, which was now gated and its front absolutely covered in little offerings. Couple posters I couldn’t make out, unlit candles, one section completely dedicated to a pile of dinosaur toys. There had to be thousands, all lined up in the street and contesting it enough they had to fan into the corners of the intersections, and there at the head was Eugene Sims. 

But no Dad. 

That didn’t make sense; he left at 9 at night. He probably got to Portland by midnight, two in the morning if he was more cautious. Why wasn’t he there? Did something happen? 

Brent’s leg started going again. 

But eventually 11:05 came, and Dr. Sims started forward, leading the entire march with his own group of supporters at its head. It took me a moment to realize I knew a lot of those in the group he walked with; that financial advisor who always played on his PS Vita-lity in the break room, Annabelle. He specifically linked his arm with a woman in all black, and it took me a second to tell it was the mom of that seven year old, the charred remains of that little toy Annabelle made in her hands. 

But no Dad. 

We were ushered to the cafeteria at some point, something that didn’t really register with me because of how absolutely worried I was. I wasn’t sure if I should say luckily, but the teachers had a television going on in the cafeteria with the same feed, volume turned high, a bunch of kids ranging from sixth to senior in the tables surrounding it, all turning in place to stare at us as we were directed where to sit and handed some tray with cold cut ham sandwiches and baby carrots. 

“Hey,” one called, an older boy with hair damn near as long as mine, staring straight past me to Brent. “Aren’t you the guy from the Longhouse yesterday?” 

One of the kids, seemingly excitable ‘cause she simply wouldn’t stop moving, confirmed before Brent could even try to. “Yeah! That’s the dude with the wings!” 

We were surrounded before I could even blink. 

It wasn’t a bad thing, though; the younger ones were absolutely enamored, begging him to pull the wings out and making him act all awkward. There was one girl who immediately began flirting with him and his ears started to turn pink, but he managed to keep his cool enough to say, “Sorry, I’ve uh, got a girl.” 

The guy with long hair slid in beside me. “They’re saying you’re Rowe’s kids,” he directed at me, the only one to actually pay me any mind. “That true?” 

My first chance at admitting it. “Yeah, we are,” I said with barely any hesitation, the teeniest bit of pride managing to burst through the nausea. 

“Jean,” Brent said urgently, shooting up to stand, “Jean, look.” 

There was a bit of commotion on the television now; the march had been met with a small batch of Lifeline protestors that broke through the police barrier on an adjoining street, practically rushing forward to meet Dr. Sims and the COLE survivors. He made them stop, letting the mother of the seven year old go and gently putting her behind him, standing tall and refusing to flinch. The cops didn’t look in any rush to aid Dr. Sims either, the bastards. “They’re just gonna let them get through,” I scoffed, not even bothering to phrase it as a question as we walked closer to the television, the group moving with us. Cops around the march didn’t even flinch at the Lifeline protestors, instead eyeing the marchers, waiting for them to move to take action. 

“Where the hell is he?” Brent muttered, and I instinctively reached out to grab at his wrist in an effort to stay there. If Dad was in trouble, we’d already know, right? But I mean, how? It isn’t like he could message us, and if something happened with that Archangel thing, wouldn’t the whole point be for no one to know? 

I glanced at Brent, who was already looking down at me with the same face. I was about three minutes from stealing a car and driving to Portland myself. 

Brent looked back to the television as I felt a tap on my shoulder, a little face full of equal amounts freckles and acne looking up at me. God, was I that small at some point? “Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend?” She asked, giggling.

Oh I wanted to vomit. Did we really look that unalike? “Ew, god no, he’s my twin,” I almost gagged out, going to move my hand from around his wrist. His hand twisted and shot out though to keep it in place, the grip hard. 

“They’re not stopping,” Brent muttered, eyes still glued to the television. 

The chatter around us died off as they all began to realize there were more important things going on — like the altercation that was about to begin on television. Dr. Sims was losing control of the crowd, who were beginning to shift defensively. A few of the Conduits in the crowd called up their powers, the stagnant hold of sleeves of their abilities waiting to be used. Lifeline was making an aggressive beeline straight for the center, seemingly not intending on giving them any kind of space, and the cops in riot gear surrounding the show readied their weapons.

But off to the side, some hard light overexposed the camera, making the Lifeliners stop abruptly in place — especially as the aura of neon rushed down the side of a building at a speed I never knew he was capable of, the camera’s frame rate catching frozen glimpses of him mid-run. He zipped onto the road and skidded to a stop in the middle of the 10 feet of space between Lifeline and the COLE survivors, the pink and blue neon on his body slipping away into the air with a snap like a lightning bolt. Dad stood, shoulders squared and chest out as he eyed them, challenging them to try and push further. 

They didn’t dare move. 

Eugene Sims broke away from the crowd, closing that space and meeting Dad there in the middle, a hand clapping his shoulder. Dad turned, the two embracing for a quick squeeze featuring that man-back-slap thing, separating just as the camera tried zooming in on the Conduit emblem on Dad’s back. The anchor was saying something about it being Delsin Rowe, and the kids around us began looking at us again, but I didn’t care — he was okay. He made it there, and was alive. 

There was newfound vigor to the marchers, Dr. Sims taking time to lead Dad back to the group of survivors. They hovered there for quite a while, giving the camera the chance to grab that million-dollar angle it was looking for a moment ago, zoomed in only on Dad now as he talked to the COLE survivors. He went to reach out to the mother but paused midair, hands eventually falling back to his side. He was making his apologies. 

Lifeline didn’t move this entire time; in fact, when the camera zoomed back out, it showed they were standing stupidly in the middle of the road, wind gone from their sails. Their dumb little picket signs hung at their sides now, and they glanced at each other confused. Now that their theories were proven real, it seemed like they lost a reason to fight at all. Like they lost their cause, the ability to point their fingers accusingly. 

I guess that’s why, when Dad and Dr. Sims turned back around to resume the march, the Lifeline idiots gave them a wide berth, moving to the sidewalk and pushing as close to the building as possible. Dad took his place beside Eugene Sims at the helm of the Second Age Movement, only one other person missing from the original trio. 

I’m pretty sure I failed my Earth Science exam when we were shepherded back to that computer room, if I’m being honest. There was just so much distractive chatter in my mind that wouldn’t shut the hell up as I tried to remember if oceanic crust is thinner or denser than continental. Brent finished his exam a whole hour and a half later, and we left to find Betty waiting for us with her little Beetle, beaming at the fact that she gets to take us to Seattle — and immediately deflating when she figured out it wasn’t the first time we’ve been there. “We went with Dad to a gala two years ago,” Brent informed her. “Something for COLE’s charity donations,” 

She just huffed in a comical way, telling us to get in. 

Seattle’s skyscrapers reached higher than Portland’s, and there were so many more here too. It was strange being here with new context to our lives; this is where things changed for Dad. This is where he and Mom met. This is where Dad helped change things for Conduits. Not Delsin, Dad. 

Yeah, still weird to think about. 

But we got our phones, sitting in the cellular provider’s store and watching the television that streamed the end of the march as Dad, Dr. Sims and everyone else descended on Portland’s city hall. There were a few minutes of stagnant movement, the camera switched from aerial coverage to on scene as amps appeared and a mic was put up. It was normal for Dr. Sims to speak after events like this —he was their Martin Luther King Jr. after all —and sometimes when it was after a tragedy, he’d have survivors or family come up after to state their piece. 

So it was surprising when Dad stepped up to the mic first. 

Even now, in the throngs of a mall during last minute Christmas shopping, there was a tension to the air as people watched from food court televisions or the screens in here while Dad readjusted the mic a bit. There was feedback the news camera barely caught, and a weird staticky hum as Dr. Sims appeared beside Dad in a puff of pixels, a hand on his shoulder as he took a deep breath to steady himself, thinking hard on how to start. 

“For nearly sixteen years,” he finally said into the mic, putting on his smooth and slightly-deeper-sounding lawyer voice, “I’ve gone by the name Damion Rowland, and for ten of those, I’ve worked as a head legal consultant for COLE. But…the rumors are true. I’m Delsin Rowe.” 

There were immediate whispers, auditable in the crowd on the television and in the food court on our left. Dad inhaled deeply again, continuing with, “I hid after my fiancée, Abigail Walker, was killed, to protect our twins. The same fear-mongering rhetoric that took nineteen lives yesterday took my children’s mother, and I didn’t want them to be next. So I hid. That all changed last Wednesday when my daughter was kidnapped and my son was shot, all to bring me out of hiding. They…neither of them knew who I was, either. And I know most of you have seen the CCTV footage, so there’s no point in hiding it: they’re Conduits, too. I’ve spent the past few days helping them come to terms with the truth and their powers. 

“But my absence shouldn’t have provoked something like this. Nineteen people are dead, and for what? Why?” He demanded, glancing over the crowd, knowing they wouldn’t have an answer either. “Everything I’ve ever feared, nineteen different families get to experience. Right behind me is a parent that lost her son because of this attack. A seven year old boy, Elliot Prue, who loved the Mariners and dinosaurs. She—” he pointed to the mom off behind him, who had the burnt stuffed toy held close to her chest, “—shouldn’t have to bury her son. Our sixteen year old resident, Amelia Soto, shouldn’t have had her life ended before it even began. My assistant should have been able to retire, Not a single person that lost their life yesterday should have.”

Dad paused to reel himself in a bit, visibly upset at the state of things. Eugene’s hand left his shoulder to go to the mother behind Dad, who began to sob, and Dad’s shoulder visibly sagged with the absence. “I have approval from the Portland Police department and the FBI to announce that we know the cause of yesterday’s attack. A dozen people were radicalized by something called Archangel, met through the networking of this group and began planning this attack almost seven months ago. Archangel was also behind the attack on my children, so we’re assuming that the attack yesterday…that it had something to do with me. Whether they thought I’d be here in Portland’s COLE chapter or if it would draw me out, I’m not sure. 

“But I’m here now. And I can promise you all that I will do everything I can to help stop these attacks, not just violent shootings and bombs and whatever — but the words and legislation that’s causing all the fear. Conduits are here to stay, people are going to have to make peace with that. Cole MacGrath’s efforts to save those without the Conduit gene came at the price of having to live with us, and it’s time we begin searching for ways to live harmoniously, because it isn’t going to change. No more harassing your neighbors, no more stalking random people. I am going to return to my position at COLE to push back against the Conduit Registration Bill, as well as file suits against the various segregational legislations that’ve been passed recently. We’re looking to expand in fifteen more major cities in America, as well as starting chapters in Canada and Europe and expanding our services. I can only do so much for Conduits, though — it’s up to our government to find ways to bring peace to the nation without impeding on anyone’s rights.”

Dad’s eyes found the camera this news channel was streaming on, and his stare went entirely icy, so harsh that it felt like I was getting reprimanded a state away. “And as for this Archangel thing — I’m only giving a single warning to whoever is perpetrating these attacks. Using low-tier criminals and radicalized conspiracy theorists to do your bidding is weak, and it isn’t something I’m intimidated by. You wanted me out in the open? I’m here. I won’t let you use the lives of innocent people, of my children, to try and, what, scare me? It isn’t working. All you’ve done is piss me off. I’m only going to say it once: back off. Because if anything else happens, and I have to fight back? You’re going to regret ever challenging the one person with experience tearing down organizations like yours.”

That seemed to be where Dad wanted to stop, looking over his shoulder and waiting for Dr. Sims to look up, motioning towards the mic. 

The quiet in the mall erupted into chatter, shock and disbelief at the actual Delsin Rowe being back. “How didn’t anyone know? That looks like him,” I heard someone say as they entered a Bath and Body Works, rolling her eyes like there weren't eight layers of complication to the lie. Another person walked past saying, “Rowe’s kids deserved it after all the bullshit he did,” and I had to physically grip Brent by his wrist and drag him away. Thank god he was wearing the beanie so no one would realize his hair changed color. 

“Do you two need anything?” Betty asked, spinning to face us. “I know you left home with next to nothing, and I have fifteen Christmases to make up for.” She didn’t even wait for us to answer, just spun back on her heel and said, “C’mon, let’s get you two some new clothes.” 

We started to object, but the glare she shot over her shoulder shut us up. She may have been old, but I had no doubt we’d get in deep shit if we continued to go against what she said. She was little, but kinda scary. Like a rabid cat. 

She took us to as many discount department stores as possible, trying her best to get as much as she could for us out of some invisible limit she set in her mind. At first it was awkward, and Brent and I fished for the most minimal, low-priced items we could; but the way Betty’s face lit up when Brent found a nice jacket with some soft sherpa lining, and with how she insisted on him getting it…I don’t know, it was sort of sweet. It activated that deep want within me to have a grandmother, someone who’s entire job description was to love and spoil and care about me. Seems Brent got the same impression, because soon it became a sort of family bonding day, Betty learning more about us than we offered in the past five days and taking time to actually ask questions and become interested in everything we did, everything we were. 

“Oh, you do art?” Betty smiled when she caught me in the discount art section of a Ross, casually browsing all the upended supplies. “You’re so much like your father. I still have so many of his drawings from his school years, they’re hiding somewhere in storage–”

“You’ve got to show me those,” I laughed. 

Looking at the art supplies was a bit of a mistake, because we were both suddenly harassed into getting things we wanted, not just needed. Betty didn’t let me leave that aisle until I had a new sketchbook in hand and a pack of watercolor paints Brent handed to me as a joke, Betty missing the tease entirely and grabbing the set when I chucked it back at his chest, insisting I get it. “Yeah, c’mon Jean, think about how easy it’ll be to use those now.” He smirked, knowing good and well the last time I used watercolors it looked less Van Gogh and more God, no. 

“I hope you rust over one day, Tin Man,”

All that teasing dissipated, though, when Brent discovered there was an official LEGO shop on the other end of the mall. I mean, it did from him — I sure didn’t spare him from a few comments of my own. 

Everything ended at the same food court we were by when we got our phones, Betty having us put her number in our phones and message her our favorite Panda Express orders so she’d have ours. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” she gasped out, “Your father wanted you to call as soon as you could, I have his number—”

“We’ve got it memorized,” Brent assured her. “We’ll call while you grab food.”

Brent was dialing in the number before she’d left, saying as it rang, “Maybe I should have messaged him first, I dunno if he’s gonna answer some unknown nu—”

“Hello?” 

Dad sounded winded, a bit tired in a non-negative way. Like someone does after a footrace or swimming. “Hey, Dad,” Brent greeted, putting the phone on speaker and bringing it close to his ear, motioning for me to move closer so I could hear too. The mall was packed, and because of that, it was loud too. 

“Hey, son,” I could hear the smile in his voice, “Guessing you got your phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Your sister too? No issues?”

“Yeah, I did,” I said, tacking on a, “How are you?” 

“Oh, hey Jean!” Dad’s chuckle was breathless as he said, “It’s something, being back out here like this. Did you see any of it?” 

“Yeah, we did. Saw your speech and saw you get there late—” Brent glanced at me and motioned forward. “See you right now, too.”

I looked where Brent was pointing, to a large flat screen television posted on the skylight’s support beam; the news’ camera feed was still, not exactly grounded but definitely not in a helicopter, pointed to Dad as he paced a bit in place in an alleyway, phone to his ear. 

But he froze immediately when Brent said that, glancing around. “What do you mean you see me now? You’re not here, right?” 

I chuckled, “No, you’re still on camera.”

Dad’s eyebrows furrowed, and he kept looking around, suspicious. “Well that’s great,” He scoffed, annoyed. “Where?”

“Okay so, turn right.” Dad did, Brent immediately becoming confused when Dad’s back faced the camera. “Wait that’s — are cameras inverted?” he asked me.

“No, you’re just an idiot, that’s Dad’s left. Dad, turn around.”

“Wait are they — are they left or behind?”

“Around, do a 180.”

Dad turned in place, and I caught the tail end of an eye roll. “Okay, now what?”

“Whatever’s in front of you, it’s on that, but higher. Start looking up.” 

“What, on this building?” Dad asked, eyes trailing up and shooting around. It only took a few glances before his eyes settled on screen, looking directly in the camera’s lens. “Oh, there it is.”

And with that, he raised a hand, pink and blue beginning to swirl around his arm in a bright pulse, and shot the camera, killing the feed. “Can you still see me?”

“No, you’re good now.” 

“Good, okay.” Dad sighed. “I don’t want anyone recording our conversation.”

“But there wasn’t audio—” I started, Dad immediately cutting me off as if he knew that was what I was going to bring up. 

“Even if there isn’t, they can still get someone to read my lips,” He tacked on, the camera switching to helicopter view, trying to focus in on him in the alley. With a camera so much farther away, his features became grainy as it zoomed in. “It’s — we’ve gotta be safe, now.”

“Yeah,” Brent hummed. I started nodding, taking a moment to remember he wouldn’t be able to see me before throwing in some sound of agreement.

“That’s actually something I wanted to talk to you two about. Have either of you logged into anything online, or talked to anyone yet?”

“We haven’t had the chance,” I shook my head, “Betty’s made this into a whole field trip, this is the first time we’ve actually sat and gotten on them.”

Brent inhaled, “I did. I got on my discord while you were trying on something.”

“Trying on—” Dad sighed, the camera feed catching him bringing up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Betty took you two shopping, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“I shoulda known.” Dad shook his head, laughing. But the sound quickly died in his throat. “If you saw the speech, you heard about Archangel. They’re behind yesterday’s attack, and I — we need to be careful for a bit longer, at least until Eugene and I find out more about them. I know I said you could talk to people and such, but until we know more about these guys, I want you to keep quiet. Don’t log into anything that can track your location, don’t tell anyone where you are.”

“Do you know why they did it?” I asked, admittedly throwing a glance over my shoulder; was it even safe to be out right now? 

Dad shrugged on camera, shaking his head. “Not really. I know I made them sound incompetent in my speech but these guys know what they’re doing. And the attackers won’t talk — they brought me in as a last resort to talk to who they think was in charge of everything, and he said something about it. That’s all we’ve gotten out of them so far,”

“But you think it has something to do with you?” Brent asked. 

“When the FBI sent me into the interrogation room, we had this whole thing planned where I’d pose as his counsel, see if I could get him to slip up. Guy knew I was Delsin Rowe, even without the vest,” Dad scoffed. “Called me out and said something about how Archangel was going to be happy to know I was returning. I know it has something to do with me.” 

I began absentmindedly playing with the aglet on the end of my hoodie’s drawstring. “That’s not good,” I muttered, as if it wasn’t painfully obvious. 

“It isn’t,” Dad agreed, “And until Eugene and I can learn more about them, I want you two to stay safe. So far we know none are Conduits, and they’re all lackeys to something bigger — but what is that bigger, y’know?”

“They’re probably just some sort of Lifeline wanna-be,” Brent scoffed, “Bunch of crazies that got too ahead of themselves,” 

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Dad leaned against a wall on camera, glancing up at the helicopter, “But either way, they had the organizational skills to kill nineteen people. To find me and track Jean in the mall. Crazies or not, I don’t like that they can plan,” 

“Makes them stronger.” I threw in. 

“Exactly.” 

“Dr. Sims — what’s his power, technology?” I asked. 

Dad chuckled a bit. “Close — video.” 

Right, video. What the hell did video powers entail? Either way, I continued with, “Can he use it to follow any like, online footprints? I don’t really know how the power works but they had to coordinate somehow,” 

Dad hummed. “That’s a good point. I know Eugene can manipulate technology to an extent, I’ll see what he can do. Maybe I’ll work with the FBI to see if we can get access to their things under the Patriot Act and look over them tomorrow.” 

Brent seemed to catch on to something, the thought in the back of his mind forcing its way out of his mouth as he asked, “Are you still gonna come back tomorrow?” 

I could see Dad’s hand come up, making some sort of motion that I only realized a few seconds later was snapping. “I wanted to bring that up, too. I was thinking about swinging by the house and grabbing some things, since we’re going to be staying in Salmon Bay for now. Get all your clothes, grab some other stuff until we decide what happens next. But that’d mean I definitely wouldn’t be back till Christmas Eve.” 

Brent glanced at me, and I could see the discomfort in his eyes; there've been times on his work trips before where extra days were added to it, and we weren’t really phased. But now? I really wanted nothing more than to know he was going to be back as soon as possible. But on the other hand, having some of my actual possessions, clothes that fit right and my makeup and the chest that held my art supplies — it didn’t sound too bad. 

“Sure, if you want,” I eventually said, watching Dad nod on screen.

“Okay. I won’t be able to bring everything, but I’ll pack all your clothes, and you can send me messages about what you want me to grab.” 

A Christmas miracle — we get some of our identity back. “Sounds good,” Brent agreed, fiddling mindlessly with the silicone of his phone case. 

“What else are you going to do today?” I asked the receiver, watching Dad kick away at some slushed snow by his feet. 

“Gonna go to the hospital, visit the survivors. I have a lot of apologies I gotta give. Margie’s wake starts at five, and I want to be there for Antonio, plus we’re covering funeral costs for all the victims so I’m gonna get together with COLE and hunt down relatives, find out if there’s any next of kin that want things done a certain way.” 

Jeez, this conversation suddenly turned bleak. And on top of that, Dad was going to try and crack the domestic terrorists that blew up COLE — was there even enough time in the day to do everything? “But you’ll be back Christmas Eve?” I nearly begged for confirmation. 

“Yeah. Promise.” 

Next came the goodbyes, promises we’ll check in with him every now and then and a repeated assurance that we’d be together for Christmas. It was such a stupid thing to worry about, but it was the only bit of normalcy I was aching for; our movie marathon full of tales that didn’t really count as Christmas movies if you thought about it, the Christmas Eve taquitos meal tradition that started after Dad nearly burnt down the house trying to make turkey and we had to visit a taco truck. Maybe I could even convince them to bring back Tent City and make a pillow fort out of Ruth’s blankets and the stale bed sheets we found when unpacking. Sure, Brent and I weren’t waiting for the second we could open our presents anymore, but it had to be fun, right? 

The time leading up to Christmas Eve felt awkwardly stagnant, kinda like waiting for a doctor appointment planned just after noon; like we couldn’t concentrate too hard on something out of fear that we’d miss our appointment. Like we were waiting for change. I regularly pulled up live news streams to see if Dad would make an appearance just to make sure everything was fine, and when I wasn’t, Brent was browsing the internet to see what everyone was saying. At some point I snuck a peek over his shoulder to see him on Mei’s profile, staring at a post that simply said I just hope you’re safe posted the same day we were ambushed at the mall, and didn’t do much more than squeeze his shoulder when he realized I was looking. 

I understood; I found myself on Reese’s profile a few times, thumb immediately jumping to the ‘message’ icon out of reflex before I pulled it back. It was this, the torturous in between, that made the hours pass at a snail's pace, waiting for further instruction. Waiting to see what bits of normalcy we could reclaim. 

Dad called regularly, which was a nice reprieve from it all despite how depressing what he was doing was; Margie was cremated, and her funeral was due to be hosted on the second. The young boy, Elliot, got a beautiful burial plot with a headstone in the shape of a t-rex, his favorite dinosaur, all thanks to some charity. He called when in the house to finalize what all he should grab, and only after we hung up did Brent’s face pale as he said, “Oh, fuck, he’s going to pack our clothes,” 

“Yeah?” I watched as he laid his head in his hands, confused. Brent already knew this, why was he freaking out? “What’s so bad about that?” 

Brent’s hands left his face to rest of the sides of his head as he muttered, “My dab pen is in my bottom drawer,” 

“Your—“ I snorted, earning a dirty look from him. “You hid your weed in your underwear drawer? What are you, five?”

“He’s gonna kill me,” Brent said with a resigned finality. “I’m actually going to die.” 

“Will me your LEGO collection before you do so I can sell it on eBay,” 

Later that day as Brent grappled with his impending death, I stared at the watercolors Betty got me before finally giving in and opening them, turning to the first page of the new sketchbook and staring at it. Watercolor. Watercolor. I could totally do this, right? And if not, I’d just throw it away and act like it never happened. 

My inspiration came from those few minutes of peace as I floated in the Puget Sound, staring up at the rippling sunlight refracting off of the water’s surface. I could see the picture almost perfectly in my mind, so much so that when I summoned my water gauntlets, I was able to pull and mix the shades I needed, slowly beginning to layer them on the canvas. 

Bleeding art into the page with my powers was something else entirely. Making art felt vulnerable in a soft way, like exposing pieces of myself in flashes; but using water to spread the blue and shade it deeper the further down the page it went, to highlight ripples in the surface of the water and create shining rays of sunlight…it felt sincere. Forthright. Like I was screaming through the canvas here I am, the water Conduit, and I have something I need you to understand! The end product actually looked like what I meant it to this time, no doubt because I had way more control over the display. Kinda hard to fuck up your brush strokes if you’re literally using some form of hydrokinesis on a water based product. Next came the ink, something I added way too early and caused it to bleed a bit, ink blots escaping from the solid black silhouette of what was supposed to be my body and trying to unsuccessfully slip away before sinking into the page. Honestly, though? I liked how it looked. Something about the contrast between the soft watercolor and the harsh ink struck me, even if this picture was technically a failure. I let the page dry and closed the book, vowing to try and do more after the holidays as the clock hit ten at night. I had to get started on Brent’s gift, anyways.

[my-head-is-an-animal]

Problems With The Heart

Greg House x Dr Anna Harding (OFC)

Story Masterlist

Chapter 26 - Mr and Mrs Harding

Living with Wilson was fun, it was like being back in college, House played a few pranks here and there and for a while it was fun, but he always found himself back at Anna’s apartment talking to her about things he could barely remember and having more fun with her than he did with anyone else.

He had just come off clinic duty and wandered into the lobby where Anna was talking to a couple, the woman looked an awful lot like her and the man had striking blue eyes like Anna. She seemed more comfortable talking to the man than the woman and House deduced that they were her parents.

‘Look, I have to do a couple hours in the clinic,’ Anna said, with another air of discomfort. ‘Can we talk about this at dinner?’

She went to walk away. ‘Why do you always do this?’

‘Caroline.’ Her father stopped her mother from making a scene. ‘Let her get on with her job.’ Her father said. ‘Annabelle, we’ll see you tonight and we will be completely understanding of your choice.’

Anna nodded and watched her parents leave the hospital. She sighed and quickly recomposed herself, turning toward the clinic and seeing House.

‘You okay?’ He asked.

‘Yeah.’ She sighed, walking towards the clinic. House took a moment before deciding this wasn’t something to let go.

‘Anna.’ He said, following behind her. She turned around slowly, folding her arms. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

She gestured for them to talk privately in the exam room. He followed her locking the door behind them.

‘I didn’t know they were in town,’ she said, looking like she was on the verge of tears. ‘Dad said they missed me at Christmas, mum was upset that I didn’t call a few weeks ago.’

‘Why didn’t you call?’ House asked.

Anna shrugged. ‘I just didn’t want to talk to them.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because then I’d have to talk to my mum and explain you.’

House frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Anna inhaled and sat up on the exam bed. ‘My mum really liked one of my old boyfriends, he was a nice enough guy and everything, but I was eighteen and it was just one of those flash relationships. Anyway, before I left for my second tour, we went out a few times and my mum decided to stay in contact with him and now she’s under the impression that’ll I’ll go back to England to be with him.’

House felt a little uncomfortable, he didn’t want to think about her with anyone else.

‘I can see your mind working and there’s no chance I’m going back to England for some boy.’ She told him. ‘But the last time I spoke to my dad, he asked if I was happy, I said yes and he’s not an idiot, he asked if I was seeing someone, I didn’t know how to answer and eventually I told him about you. I didn’t go into too much detail or anything. He knows you’re a doctor, he knows you’re a little older than me, that we started out as friends-‘

‘Is friends code for booty call?’

‘Yes.’ She said immediately. ‘I didn’t think my dad needed to know I was having casual sex with drug addict.’

‘Touché.’ House nodded. ‘So, what was your dad talking about? What’s the choice you have to make?’

Anna let her head drop and took a breath. ‘My parents invited you to dinner.’

He felt his heart drop not for the first time. ‘You want me to meet your parents?’

‘No.’ She looked up quickly. ‘My parents want to meet you. I’ve told them I’m not ready for that and I also didn’t think you’d be ready for that.’

House thought about it for a moment. ‘I can… if you want me to meet them… I can do that.’

Anna rolled her eyes and chuckled. ‘It’s not you, I’m not embarrassed or anything, I just… you told me you thought I deserved more than you could give me. My mum is only going to reinforce that and I’m not going to sit there and take that kind of crap and you shouldn’t either.’

‘So, you don’t want me to meet your parents? Ever?’

‘Not never, just… why do you want to meet them?’ She frowned.

‘I want you to be happy and if meeting your parents makes you happy, then I’ll do it.’

Anna took a moment to watch him. ‘Son of a bitch.’ She breathed, shaking her head.

‘What? What did I do?’ House started to panic.

‘You can’t just do things to make me happy, House.’ She exclaimed. ‘I’m not saying do nothing to make me happy, but you have to treat me the same way, you have to tell how to make you happy.’

‘I don’t need anything from you.’

‘Yeah, you do.’ She snapped back. ‘Greg, this is a two-way street, you don’t want to meet my parents, you want to get drunk and play the piano until we both can’t see or walk straight. And that’s okay, but you can’t pretend to just be okay with the things I’d like to do.’

‘You’re angry at me for trying to make you happy?’

‘I’m angry at you for not wanting things to make you happy.’ Anna jumped down from the exam bed and House wasn’t sure what to do. ‘I love that you’re trying to do this, I love that it’s still fun, but there’s a point where we need to find a balance between fun and more.’

He didn’t say anything for the longest time and Anna couldn’t wait any longer to start treating patients. He sat in the corner of the exam room and watched her treating patients for the next two hours, silently.

Anna paused before leaving the exam room, like she was going to say something, but she didn’t say anything and left him alone.

Dinner was about as exciting as I knew it would be, we sat down and my dad was talking about some stuff they wanted to do in New York, that was when I saw House a couple of steps away from my dad and it was too late to stop him.

‘Mr and Mrs Harding,’ he said, my dad looked up and within a few seconds he sussed House out. ‘I’m Greg House.’

‘Yes, Annabelle has told all about you.’ My dad said, standing up to shake his hand. ‘We’re so pleased you could make it.’

‘Annabelle said you had a patient to look after.’ My mum chimed in.

‘Yes,’ House nodded. ‘But I have several doctors on my team who have taken over in my absence.’

‘I see,’ my mum smiled and my dad and I both rolled our eyes. ‘Did none of them have plans?’

‘Mum.’ I said. ‘Let’s just have some dinner.’

She conceded rather cynically and dad got another chair brought over.

‘So, Greg,’ mum went on. ‘How long have you and Annabelle been seeing each other?’

‘Caroline, we really don’t need to quiz them.’ My dad always made the save, in fact he spent most of the evening making saves.

My mum quizzed House and myself to the point where it was nonsensical and House did everything he could to be polite and even answered a few of the probing questions. I drew my own line when she asked about his cane, but he was diplomatic about it.

‘I had a blood clot,’ he said. ‘They had to cut out some of the muscle if I wanted to keep my leg and I did.’

My mum didn’t seem to have much to say on the subject, but she did ask him about his job which my dad and I decided was a safe subject. House got the message and talked a little more about diagnostics.

Suddenly both our beepers went off.

‘It’s Mrs Carter,’ I sighed. ‘She’s going into cardiac arrest again.’

‘That’s the fourth time in two days.’ House said, remembering all the trouble I’d had with this patient.

‘Yeah and I can’t figure out why.’

‘You did an MRI? Echo?’

‘Yeah, they were both clean, we thought it might be cancer, but there’s no tumours, all the tests came back negative.’

‘So maybe it’s not in her heart, maybe it’s in her-‘

‘Pancreas.’ I whined. ‘Of course it is, I’m such an idiot.’

‘How can cardiac arrest be something to do with the pancreas?’ My mum asked, breaking us out of the rhythm.

‘It’s… a long boring explanation,’ I shook my head. ‘The point is, we need to get a closer look at her pancreas and I need Chase to open her up.’

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Caroline, they’re doctors, let them do their job.’

‘No, this is ridiculous, there aren’t any other doctors at your hospital?’

‘None as good as your daughter.’ House said, diplomatically. My parents were quiet. ‘She’s the best cardiologist we’ve ever had and I wouldn’t want anyone else treating my patients.’

My dad looked proud, but my mum was still a little annoyed.

‘I’m sorry, but we have to go.’ I told my dad in the hopes that he could convince my mum and before I knew it we were driving back to the hospital in a taxi.

We managed to get Mrs Carter sorted and the problem was finally found in order to be fixed.

‘Thank you.’ I said once the viewing gallery was empty and Mrs Carter was being operated on. ‘And I’m sorry my mum kept asking you all those questions.’

‘It’s okay,’ House shook his head. ‘I’m sure she was just concerned. Your dad seems nice.’

‘My dad is a tolerater, he puts up with my mum and her crazy ways.’ I sighed sitting next to him. ‘She’s been like this ever since I was first deployed to Afghanistan. Couldn’t stand the thought of me getting hurt, but I couldn’t stand the thought of others getting hurt, my dad talked her around and she eventually stopped getting annoyed about it.’

I could tell House was thinking about what I’d said. ‘You put up with me.’ He said. ‘Maybe you inherited your dads patience.’

I smiled, looking at him. ‘Maybe I did.’ I said. ‘Thank you for coming to dinner, you really didn’t need to.’

‘It made you happy, didn’t affect me at all, your dad seems accepting of us and hopefully your mom will go the same way.’ He shrugged.

‘Here’s hoping.’ I really did hope.

If you liked this, please consider supporting me ☕ thanks for reading!

[amaliasnotmyname]

16 - crossroads

American Honey

Fake I.D. - Big & Rich, Gretchen Wilson

"Annabelle?" Tyler brushed the loose hairs from Belle's face. Her eyes blinked open slowly, squinting from the golden sun glaring through the windshield. She smiled softly when she spotted his sweet grin in front of her. "Wake up baby, we're here." He kissed her on the cheek before exiting the car. He jogged around to help her tired body out of the passenger seat that had turned into her bed for the last six hours.

"What time is it?" She wiped her eyes, yawning loudly. Her joints were stiff and they cracked as she stretched. They stood in a gloomy parking garage, the sun bursting through the side.

"Almost seven." Tyler loaded their bags out of the backseat of the truck, carrying them easily by himself, Belle only carrying her pillow, blanket, and water bottle. "Gotta hurry and check in." She nodded lazily, following him to the elevator. her eyes were hazy and dry from her long sleep. When Tyler had proposed the weekend trip to her, she almost laughed in his face. It took him at least a week to convince her, only persuading her with the promise of Emmalee taking her shifts and Wade practically shoving her out the door. Knowing that he had to come anyway to meet with their PR manager helped push her over the edge.

She followed him absentmindedly, watching silently as he interacted with the hotel staff and collecting the keys to their room. The lobby was small and dim, but classy. There was a cocktail bar attached to the side, and the breakfast bar was on the floor above them. Her brain seemed to check out, only following the flexing of his back muscles as he carried her uneccessarily heavy bags without one complaint.

Her body practically collapsed into the ginormous bed. She sighed happily, fully intending on falling back asleep. "Hot damn. Would you look at that." Tyler whistled loudly, whisking the curtains open to let the warm sun in.

"Your melting me!" She groaned, ducking under the blanket to hide from the harsh glow.

"C'mere babydoll. Look at this view." He turned to her with a smile, and she sighed before pulling the blanket around her and joining him in front of the window. She winced from the bright sky, but she gasped lightly. Her hands immediately wrapped around him, head tucked into his side.

The cityscape was like nothing she had ever seen before. She had barely ever left the countryside of Oklahoma, and now they were nestled in the heart of downtown Austin. "It's beautiful."

"We're goin' out." Ty turned to face her, a mischevious smile on his face. "I'm gonna go find some drinks for us, take your time and get ready. We're having fun tonight." He winked before kissing her cheek and searching for his wallet. "You want anything specific?"

"Surprise me." He smiled before leaving to find the nearest liquor store. She sighed happily, enjoying the peace and quiet to get ready by herself. As much as she appreciated Tyler's attention and curiosity when she is using different products, she enjoys doing her makeup without him asking what everything is for.

She was sitting on the bathroom counter working on her eyeliner when Tyler arrived with a six pack of corona and some candies he saw that he knew she liked. "Well aren't you lookin' good?" He leaned against the counter, watching her draw a careful line away from her eye.

"You're one to talk." She turned to give him a quick kiss.

"What do you got left to do?" He played with her hair.

"Gotta finish my makeup and curl my hair. Heatin' my iron up now." They both looked down at the wand plugged in by her side.

"Let me help." He had a giddy look in his eyes, and she knew she couldn't turn him down. He was like a sweet little kid.

"Alright. You wanna do my hair for me?" She turned to him with her eyebrows raised.

"Okay," he picked up the wand but quickly paused. "How do I do it?"

She giggled under her breath, guiding him to hold the tool correctly. "First off, your gonna hold it up like this." Her arm held his hand steady. "And this hand," she took his other hand, "wraps a piece of hair around."

Tyler carefully wrapped a piece of hair, following her instructions. His grip was so gentle, she could barely feel him. After a few seconds, he it go just like he had seen her do many times before.

"Perfect."

🌪️

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Belle bit nervously at the side of her lip, staring up at Tyler with big eyes.

"It's an amazin' idea!" He spoke animatedly, waving his arms around.

Both were tipsy, hopping around downtown after pregaming in the hotel room. The city was in full swing, loud music pounding everywhere you go.

"If you say so." She blew a piece of hair out of her face, tapping her boots nervously on the sticky wooden floor of the bar. Her jitters growing stronger as the woman performing seemed to be neaing the end of her performance, meaning that it was almost Belle's turn to go up. She had drunkenly, stupidly decided to sign up for a kareoke on a moment of poor judgement, but now she sat stone cold sober and dreaded what was coming for her.

The lanky brunette finished her song with a laugh, stumbling slightly under the influence. The audience clapped loudly, most of them lost in the bottom of their own glass and dancing around without a care in the world. She looked back nervously at Tyler, who stood with a shit eatingg rin on his face and a shot in each hand. "Liquid courage." He passed the drink to her. She hesitated lightly, but when the host called her name to come up, she downed it without a second thought before bouncing up the stairs with warmth pooling in her stomach.

"What're you singin' darlin'?" He turned to her with a grin, the audience now off in their own conversation.

"Fake ID." She grinned. She didn't know if it was the nerves or the fake confidence making her so toothy.

"Ain't that a fun one?" He winked at her before turning to the sound station and dialing up the lyrics for the tv across the room in her view. He turned back to face her. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

The music pumped loudly through the speakers, catching the attention of the audience who now turned to face her. She swallowed the lump in her throat, swaying her hips lightly and holding the mic with one hand. Following along with the lyrics, her voice was cautious and quiet at first, but she eventually gained confidence as she found her harmoney and sang loudly. People cheered loudly as she stomped and twilred around, her hair flying wild around her head. Tyler admired her, the girl who was completely in her element on the stage, a crazed, lively smile on her face.

What both of them failed to notice was the man in the corner recording her on his laptop.

🌪️

"Views are tanking, Ty. You need to switch your content up way more." Marlene sat across from him, scrolling through his channel's analytics on her screen. He winced as the world left her mouth, damp hand wiping nervously against his jeans. While he expected her to point out the obvious, he was hoping for a little more mercy. She had already torn him a new one over the phone. "What is goin' on with you?"

She clasped her perfectly manicure dhands together, facing him with a frown. Her firy red hair was tucked into a french pin, and her glasses seemed to slip down thr bridge of her nose was too often. "Nothin's going on. Just been a little... preoccupied." He scratched the back of his neck with a grimace.

Marlene groaned loudly. "Ty. Your channel is built off of you moving around and following these storms. You gotta actually move to get views. The last handful of posts have all been in the same town followin' the same storms. Your live streams are just you answering questions and doing stupid shit with a drunk Boone."

"I'm wrapped up, Mar. You understand where I'm coming from? I just," he bit down on his lip, struggling to find the words. "I feel at home there. I ain't ready to leave."

"You got a girl." She smirked wickedly. He didn't answer.

"I'm happy for you, really. But think of the your future." She hesitated to say what was really on her mind. "You have no degree. If the channel tanks, you will be jobless. What I am suggesting is that you get back on the road again and make a damn video. A real one. With humor, excitement, and thrill." He winced as she spoke, the reminder of his failures cutting deeper into him even more.

"I know it's not what you want, but if you keep going at this rate, you will have nothing left. What is more important to you? Your life and future, or a girl?"

a/n:

long time no see :( i know it's been a minute, but i am not joking when i say uni is kicking my ass. silver lining is i am back and a stronger writer than ever! hope to see you soon 😈

kisses, sab 💋

[nkorealive]

'Should be demolished'

US President Donald Trump and US President of the Federal Reserve Jerome Powell. Win McNamee | Annabelle Gordon | Reuters President Donald Trump Friday lobbied his last criticism in the Federal Reserve Chair Jerome PowellBecause the dissatisfaction of the White House for the leader of economic policy affects the fever. During a session of the examination and response on Friday afternoon with…

[littleladymab]

when i was looking up snippets for Davey and Theo to see if I actually had anything I hadn't actually posted, I found this one from the @ftlcast S5 finale when we played House. At some point after recording but before the episode went live, @citadelofswords gave me the prompt "each time we climb the stairs something changes" for Davey and Theo. Who knows what I ever did with it, but now you can have it.

+++

Davey leads the way back up the stairs. Strictly speaking, he doesn't know where he's going, but Theo (the Night Manager?) told him to go up and so he did.

He had thought they were on the bottom floor -- basement level 1, or something like that, but the entire path to get there had been circuitous and filled with other things that made everyone doubt their perception. So when Davey stepped onto the first landing outside the Manager's office, and saw the stairs going down, and the stairs going up, and he couldn't remember what floor they were on, well, it only seemed logical that it wouldn't make any sense.

"Go up," the Night Manager had said, and so Davey did.

There's only the muffled sound of conversation behind him, though it dies just as feebly as it starts. There's the ache of loss and confusion heavy in their footfalls.

Annabel rejoins them at one point, leaves, joins again. It's hard to keep track. When she returns it is like she has always been there, when she leaves she was never there.

Hector changes, or maybe it's the voice of the Concierge floating up the stairs, and Hector is silent.

The stairwell makes their footsteps clang and echo and multiply back to them in a hundred different voices. Davey can't tell them apart. Every so often, he'll hear the shift of Kari's equipment, the soft sigh from Marius, and he keeps walking up.

"Here," the Night Manager calls from the back of the group. "This is the lobby level."

Davey leans into the security bar across the door and it swings open into the cool, soft silence of the lobby. He stands aside to hold the door open for everyone to go through, mentally ticking off the crew as they pass.

Kari and Marius. Hector. No Annabel, but--

"I'm here," she says from across the lobby, and the sound of Kari's relieved sigh rings through the space.

The Night Manager doesn't join them.

Instead, their voice, hesitant and warbling, only says, "Andreyes?"

There's a tug and a lurch of something in Davey's chest, and he remembers the name on the place setting. He remembers how he knew it was his. It is his.

He turns.

The stairwell is empty.

[notafunkiller]

cringey, embarrassing and tacky - this whole "relationship" has made me look at seb in a different light, allowing this talentless "influencer/part time actress" to piggyback off his success just makes me sad.

It disappoints me he is so desperate for awards that he does this. It's not surprising, but still... he is so talented and hard working, and he can do other types of PR.

I fully agree with what both of you said (anon and blog host) If you believe the rumors & Annabelle is Sebs PR to clean up all the negatives attached to him from his previous PR Ale (if you believe that was PR too) it just looks really bad on Seb. Because it’s 2 girls back to back to have too many similarities & leeching tendencies. Although I believe Annabele is far worse because she’s more manipulative & calculating about it, it looks bad for Seb to date 2 women back to back who are so similar in many ways. Makes it seems like that’s his type and that maybe he was wearing a mask before. Like now he’s made it big the masks are coming off and he’s into vain, superficial, fame hungry socialites. It’s very disheartening to see when he’s so talented and doesn’t need this kind of PR (if it is PR).

Either way, real or fake, it definitely makes me question who the real Seb is. Like is he really as nice and sweet as everyone says. Yeah people on set say he is too but he’s working, we all wear a mask at work too, to some extent. The fact he’s chosen 2 very similar women to allow so close to him (even meeting his mom) makes me wonder if this could really be his type and we’ve all been duped into thinking he’s a sweetheart but he’s actually more like these women he’s dating than we realize. 😔

I think there is a huge difference between Ale and Annabelle, though... the personality.

Ale displays hers publicly in posys amd doesn't need to show 47457 freebies she gets, yl what I mean?

I saw she is respected in Spain for modeling... I watched Alta Mar and I actually enjoyed it (before they got together) so she is not a bad actress at all. Much better than Annabelle at least.

I do not think it was PR with Ale. Did they do PR together? Of course!

But it's interesting she visited Romania twice long after the break up, too.

Yes, she had problematic behaviour, and his fandom nade sure to go wild on her, yet they stay silent on Annabelle and praise her for things Ale would've been hated. If she had done half of the things Annabelle does, they would write letters like Chris Evans' fans.

But Sebastian's behaviour speaking, with Ale he really seemed really happy (just like he was with Margarita and Leighton) and so much younger and fresh despite working quite a lot. With Annabelle his behaviour shows that he does not like her or if they were together for real... that he is a very crappy boyfriend since he turned 40 bc who would want this trashy treatment besides the people who ship them?!

The difference between how he treated Margarita and Ale vs Annabelle is huge. Look how he treated Daisy (and Annabelle and him were together already)!

If this is how he treats his real girlfriends now (as in how he treats Annabelle), he is 😬, but I doubt someone can change his behaviour so drastically overnight.

Of course we do not know him personally, but it's sad to see such desperation, especially since he has such talent and he's hard working. The fact he wants to get an Oscar (which is so meaningless in a way since the lobby and the academy are the way they are) so badly that is willing to sacrifice many things is really sad.

Also, I do not think the self help books he reads are good at all or meaningful amd they do not seem to help him. I tried reading a few he recommended and they are not giving info for real. Atomic Habits, Dopamine Nation etc are surface types of books. If these are the books his therapist suggests then 😬.