#golden child wallpaper

[soulmateszedits]

⌜ Joochan × Golden Child ⌝ ᓚᘏᗢ

┊ ❀ Simple

[kpop-locks]

꒰ ˀˀ ↷ jaehyun ; simple + edit ”♡ᵎ ꒱

like/reblog | @exolyxions

don’t repost our work or claim it as yours

[juridical-angel-blog]

Special Wallpaper Dragon Ball GT!

[whiterosesforher]

𓍼 ⋮ A LOVE TO LAST ( L.HS )

𝒾 : may I present to you dearest reader, ethan bridgerton, the gentle viscount, and your childhood best friend. 【 ˚⊱☁️⊰˚ 】

♯ 𝓱𝓮𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓾𝓷𝓰 𝔁 𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 | 𝓌 : 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡, 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐜��𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢.

disclaimer ‣ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🩷 this is a fanfiction inspired by the backstory of violet and edmund originally from the bridgerton series book and show. most elements are purposely altered. ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

❤︎ ... lady whistledown ; dearest readers, i hope you do indulge in this meaningful love story. ۶ৎ / 𝓌𝒸 ┈ • ┈ 14.2k💗

( ‧˚꒰🦪꒱༘⋆ ) write to lady whistledown ✒️៹

You sit in the drawing room, the faint hum of your mother’s words. It is late in the afternoon, and sunlight pours in through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the pale blue wallpaper.

Your hands rest on your lap, clasped tightly, though you feel restless. You’ve been here for an hour, enduring yet another lecture from your mother about duty and expectations.

You are now 17 and just had your debut into the marriage mart, yet you are considered unlucky for you don't have much of suitors, like a wallflower hanging around the edges of the ballroom without a dance partner.

You are the only child to a baron and baroness, it is not surprising for you that your mother is trying hard to secure you a beneficial match.

“Violet,” she begins, her voice sharp, “you must remember that you are not just any young woman. You are a Ledger. Your actions reflect upon this family.”

You nod, though your thoughts wander. The heavy air of the room makes you yearn for the garden outside, where the roses are blooming and the scent of fresh earth and sunshine feels far more welcoming than the constraints of these walls.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your mother’s voice snaps you back to the present.

“Of course, Mother,” you reply, offering a polite smile. It’s a practiced expression, one you wear often when her sharp words cut into you.

Her eyes narrow, but before she can continue, the door opens, and the tension in the room shifts. Your father steps in, his presence filling the space with warmth.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, his tone light, though he’s fully aware of what’s happening.

“Not at all,” you answer quickly, relief washing over you.

Your mother sighs, rising from her seat. “You spoil her, you know,” she tells your father as she moves toward the door. “She must learn what is expected of her if she is to find a suitable match.”

As soon as the door closes behind her, your father smiles at you, his shoulders relaxing. “Don’t let her bother you too much, beauty,” he says, crossing the room to sit beside you.

“I try not to,” you admit, leaning slightly toward him. "But it seems my every move is scrutinized."

You paused for a moment, deep in thought before continuing with a sincere tone as you look up at your father, “I want to marry someone I truly love, Daddy. Not out of duty.”

“That’s because your mother worries for you in her own way,” he says, though you can tell even he doesn’t fully believe it. “But Beauty, if a marriage from true love is what you want, then that you shall get. Hold on to that.”

His words stay with you as the days pass. Your mother continues her efforts to mold you into the perfect young lady with less laughter, fewer whims, more poise. But your father’s encouragement reminds you of what you truly want.

It’s in the evenings, during the rare moments of quiet, when you feel most at peace. You often escape to the garden, where the scent of heather lingers in the air. You close your eyes and imagine a future that feels far away, one that is filled with love, laughter, and freedom.

But reality always has a way of pulling you back. Balls and promenading to attract suitors becomes a routine, each one blurring into the next. The men of the ton always speak of their estates, their wealth, their ambitions, but none of them speak to your heart.

Until one evening, when a letter sent to your father arrives, mentioning the death of an old friend reported by his own son that is now a Viscount, a name mentioned in passing sparks curiosity, and it sounds oddly familiar to you. Ethan Bridgerton. “Oh heavens! Send our sincerest condolences to Ethan! A Viscount after his father, a family friend,” your mother says with approval, her lips curling into a satisfied smile.

“A Bridgerton is a fine match,” she tells you. "They are a family of impeccable standing and tremendous wealth.

But you barely listen, still thinking of how familiar that name is, maybe because he's a family friend. A strange sensation stirs within you, for a reason you can't figure out.

And then it hit you, the last name Bridgerton, a family that is a close old friend to yours, the boy who irritated you to the ends of the earth when you were 8. Oh how you clearly remember the day you first met that wretched young man. You hate him, but you do feel bad for him, for the death of his father who was close to you and your family.

The Ledgers' country estate was abuzz with excitement that morning. The Bridgertons were visiting. A long-standing family friendship it is but these visits are quite rare.

You stood at the edge of the garden, your small fingers deftly moving as you arranged the handpicked flowers into the vase. It is the learning task your governess made you do today. A peaceful breeze carried the scent of the nearby lavender bushes, and the muffled sounds of conversation from the drawing room floated out through the open windows.

“Violet, dear, come meet our guests!” Your mother’s cheerful call interrupted your concentration. You left your vase reluctantly and smoothed out your dress before making your way back toward the house.

Inside the grand entryway, the adults had already gathered. Viscount and Viscountess Bridgerton stood near the fireplace, their warmth filling the room as they exchanged pleasantries with your parents. Beside them were their children, a crowd of faces, some shy, some openly curious.

“Lord and Lady Ledger, thank you for having us,” Viscountess Bridgerton said, her voice carrying a note of genuine affection. She gestured to the group of children around her. “And these, as you know, are our children. Billie, Ethan, George, and Hugo.”

Ethan. You noticed him immediately, a boy around your age, his dark hair slightly unruly and his grin mischievous, even as he gave a polite bow. His eyes darted around the room, restless and alive.

“Go on, children,” The Viscount Bridgerton urged. “Take some time to explore while we talk.”

With a collective cheer, the Bridgerton boys were off, their laughter echoing down the hallways as they raced through the house while the eldest sister remained. You hesitated, lingering near the adults, but your mother gave you a gentle nudge.

“Go on, Violet. You may also go play.”

Taking your mother’s advice, you returned to the garden, eager to enjoy the quiet once more instead of playing with them. Settling back into your spot beneath the shade of a willow tree, you resumed your flower arranging. The sunlight danced across your hands as you worked, content in the solitude.

That peace didn’t last.

As the sun climbed higher, you decided to fetch a drink from the house. Gathering your things, you made your way back toward the garden entrance. But as you stepped beneath the archway leading inside, a strange creaking sound caught your attention.

You barely had time to glance upward before it happened.

A cascade of white powder—soft and choking—poured down on you, coating your hair, your dress, and every inch of exposed skin. It took you a moment to realize what it was, well it was flour. You froze in shock, the vase you're hugging falling from your arms.

Laughter erupted above you. You craned your neck to see the source of the chaos, and there they were, the Bridgerton boys leaning over the balcony. Leading the charge was none other than Ethan, his grin wider than ever, his hands gripping the now empty bucket.

“Ethan Bridgerton!” you shouted, your little voice sharp enough to rival your mother’s scolding tone.

The laughter only grew louder. Ethan’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he leaned on the railing. “I think you wear white rather well, Miss Ledger,” he teased, his tone mockingly polite.

Your cheeks burned with indignation, though it was hard to tell if it was from embarrassment or fury. “You are absolutely insufferable!” you declared, shaking the flour from your hair as best as you could.

Ethan cupped his hands around his mouth and called down, “We’ll call it even if you come up here and try it on one of us!”

The audacity of him! You picked up a small stone and was about to throw it upwards to him but your Governess caught you in time and stopped you, lecturing you softly.

You stormed back toward the house, stomping your small feet, determined to find your mother and father and report this appalling behavior while your Governess followed behind, calling out to you while you ignored her.

Your brow furrowed, lips tightening into an unbidden sneer at the remembrance of the memory. You could still hear cackling of the Bridgerton boys as you stood there, cheeks burning, fists clenched. How utterly insufferable he had been.

“Violet, are you quite finished daydreaming?” Your mother’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. She swept into the room with the grace of a swan, her brow slightly pinched in disapproval. “You’ll have no time for idle thoughts this afternoon. There’s far too much to do before tonight’s ball.”

Ah, another ball. You sat up straighter, smoothing your skirts as if that would erase the petulant expression that had betrayed your thoughts only moments before.

“Yes, Mother,” you replied demurely, though you felt a pang of irritation at the constant reminders of your duty.

Your mother was already issuing orders to the servants bustling through the house. One carried a trunk of shimmering gowns to your room; another balanced a tray of jewelled hairpins and satin gloves. “Come now, Violet, let us get you ready,” she urged, her tone brisk but expectant.

You followed her upstairs to your chambers, where your maid had begun laying out a pale blue gown adorned with delicate silver thread. The fabric shimmered like starlight as it caught the late afternoon sun streaming through the window. “This will suit you perfectly, miss,” your maid said, smoothing the gown with practiced hands.

The preparations began in earnest. First, the gown, layers upon layers of skirts, petticoats, and corsets. You stood patiently as your maid and another servant laced the stays tightly, drawing your waist into the fashionable silhouette of the time.

“Breathe, Violet,” your mother instructed coolly, though the tug of the laces made it nearly impossible. You did as you were told, though you swore under your breath as the final knot was secured.

Next came the hair. You sat still as your maid worked swiftly, brushing, curling, and pinning each strand into place. Your hair was swept high, adorned with small pearls and a few artful curls left to frame your face. The faint scent of rosewater clung to the air as she finished, a gentle spritz ensuring everything stayed in place for the night ahead.

When it came time to choose your accessories, your mother’s discerning eye moved over the options laid before you. “Not the sapphires,” she said, waving them away. “They’re too heavy for such a delicate gown. The diamonds will do.”

You allowed her to clasp the glittering necklace around your neck, the cool weight of it settling on your skin. A matching bracelet and pair of earrings followed, their brilliance almost blinding in the late afternoon light.

Finally, your gloves were pulled on—soft, white silk that reached just past your elbows. You flexed your fingers to test their fit, feeling a sense of finality as the preparations came to an end.

Your mother gave you a once-over, her critical gaze softening into approval. “You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the ball,” she said.

You caught your reflection in the mirror. The girl staring back at you looked polished, elegant, every bit the young lady society demanded her to be. And yet, there was still a flicker of unease.

Tonight is another night of dipping your toes onto the marriage mart, waiting for offers of dances from gentlemen that could turn into suitors if luck is on your side.

The grand ballroom was a symphony of color and light, the hum of lively conversation mingling with the delicate strains of the orchestra. You arrived with your parents, your mother adjusting the hem of your gown as you walked through the crowded entrance.

The ton was out in full force tonight with their glistening jewels, perfectly coiffed hair, and practiced smiles everywhere you looked. Your father exchanged pleasantries with the hosts, and your mother ushered you forward with a whispered reminder “Stand tall and do not turn down any gentleman who approaches.”

You offered polite smiles and nods to those who greeted you, but inside, the familiar feeling of unease settled in your chest. Balls like these were meant to dazzle, to enchant, to connect young ladies like yourself with eligible gentlemen.

But for you, they had always been the same, just a long night of standing alone, sipping lemonade, and looking like as if you're guarding the table, while the rest of the ton danced.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself exactly where you had expected to be, standing by the refreshments table, watching the couples glide across the polished floor with sad envious gaze.

You held a glass of lemonade, its cold condensation dampening your gloved fingers, and sipped it quietly. Your dance card remained empty even after some time of being in the party.

The music swirled around you, a beautiful tune meant for twirling skirts and clasped hands, but to you, it only underscored your role as a wallflower.

You sighed, watching a young lady laugh brightly as her partner spun her in an elegant arc. It wasn’t exactly envy—no, more like a quiet resignation. You weren’t the kind of girl who turned heads or inspired dashing gentlemen to ask for a dance. You were the quiet one, the one who faded into the background.

The air inside the ballroom began to feel stifling, and you longed for a moment of reprieve. Deciding you’d had enough of being a wallflower, you maneuvered through the bustling crowd, clutching your lemonade as you made your way toward the terrace. The promise of fresh air was enough to spur you on.

But as you rounded a corner, your path abruptly collided with someone else’s. Your glass tipped in your hand, its contents spilling forward in a sticky cascade.

“Oh no!” you gasped, stepping back in shock. The man before you, dressed in an immaculate white suit, now bore a large, unmistakable stain across his chest.

He blinked down at himself, then at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and amusement. “Well,” he said lightly, “I suppose I’ve been baptized using a lemonade.”

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment as you immediately fumbled for your handkerchief. “I am so, so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention, I didn’t mean to—oh, let me—” You reached forward, your hands trembling as you dabbed uselessly at the fabric of his jacket.

“Please,” he said, his voice gentle as he caught your wrist. “It’s quite alright. No harm done.”

You stilled under his touch, your eyes finally lifting to meet his. Dark brown eyes stared back at you, warm and kind, with a spark of humor that made your heart skip. His face was striking, with sharp features softened by the faintest hint of a smile.

“I still feel dreadful about it,” you murmured, withdrawing your hand but keeping your gaze on his. “You must think me terribly clumsy.”

“Not at all,” he said, stepping back slightly to ease the tension. “I think it’s one of the more memorable introductions I’ve had this evening. If I'm being honest, I've grown tired of the flirty introductions of single ladies tonight encouraged by their eager mamas.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. “Introductions?”

He gave a small bow, his grin widening. “Ethan Bridgerton, at your service.”

The name struck you like a bell, and for a moment, the ballroom seemed to blur around you. Memories of a boy holding a bucket of flour, laughter echoing from a high balcony, rushed back to you.

“You,” you said, narrowing your eyes slightly as recognition dawned. “You’re the one who—”

“Dumped flour on your head?” he finished for you, his grin now bordering on boyish mischief. “I do believe that was me. Though, in my defense, it was rather funny.”

Despite your embarrassment, a small laugh escaped you. “I’m not sure I’d agree with that.”

“Well, then,” he said, gesturing to his stained jacket, “I suppose this makes us even. I dumped flour on you, you dumped lemonade on me.”

You tilted your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Perhaps.”

You suddenly realized, with a slight jolt of embarrassment, that you hadn’t even introduced yourself properly yet. Straightening your posture and clasping your hands lightly in front of you, you gave a polite, practiced bow.

“Violet Ledger,” you said, your voice soft but clear. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Viscount Bridgerton.”

Ethan inclined his head with a smile, but before he could respond, the moment between you was abruptly interrupted. A group of young ladies, unmarried and eager, with their mamas trailing behind them had suddenly swept into the scene like a wave. Their eyes sparkled as they took in the handsome Viscount, his presence drawing attention like a moth to a flame.

“Viscount Bridgerton! What a surprise to see you here tonight,” one of the young women gushed, a dazzling smile lighting her face.

Another chimed in, “We didn’t expect to see you so soon after your family’s return to London. How delightful!”

The women surrounded him, their voices a symphony of pleasantries and gentle competition. You stood off to the side, momentarily forgotten, your heart sinking as the reality of your position settled in again. This was what always happened, wasn’t it? Ladies like them, with their bright smiles and effortless charm, were exactly the kind of women gentlemen like Ethan Bridgerton were drawn to.

Ethan, however, didn’t seem particularly charmed by the sudden onslaught. His smile, while polite, no longer reached his eyes. He glanced at you for a brief moment, as if searching for something. Then, in a voice just loud enough for you to hear, he leaned slightly toward you and murmured, “Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

Your eyes widened in surprise, but before you could respond, he had already begun to step away. He offered the ladies a gracious bow and a few kind words of parting. “Ladies, you’ll have to forgive me. I find myself quite parched after the journey here.”

The mamas behind the girls exchanged a flurry of glances as they urged their daughters to follow him, but the group hesitated just long enough to allow Ethan and you to slip away.

He gestured toward a side door leading out onto the terrace. You followed, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure whether it was from the attention you’d just received or the audacity of his actions. The low murmur of the crowd faded behind you as the cool night air embraced you both, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the ballroom.

As the door closed behind you, Ethan turned to face you with a grin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Well,” he said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket, “I daresay I haven’t made an escape that dramatic since my childhood days.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “I think you may have just caused a minor scandal in there.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he replied, his tone light and amused. “But I assure you, Miss Ledger, it was entirely worth it.”

The two of you stood side by side on the terrace, gazing out over the moonlit gardens in a peaceful, companionable silence. The cool night air was a relief from the overwhelming noise of the ballroom, and for a moment, neither of you felt the need to fill the quiet.

Finally, you gathered your thoughts and spoke, your voice soft and tentative. “Viscount Bridgerton—”

He turned to you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he interrupted. “Ethan.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“Call me Ethan,” he repeated, his tone warm and easy.

For a moment, you hesitated, glancing at him uncertainly. But his expression was earnest, and you found yourself nodding. “Very well... Ethan.”

The name felt foreign on your tongue, but also strangely natural, as though it was meant to be spoken in this moment. You adjusted your gloves, casting your gaze down briefly before meeting his eyes once more.

“I wanted to offer my condolences,” you said softly, your tone sincere. “For your father. My family received the news in a letter this morning. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Ethan’s expression faltered, the light in his eyes dimming just slightly. He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint attempt at a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s been... a difficult adjustment, but I suppose it’s to be expected. My father was a great man. Filling his shoes is no small task.”

You nodded solemnly, not entirely sure what to say. “It must have been hard to inherit the title so suddenly.”

“It was,” he admitted, his gaze drifting back toward the gardens. “But as the eldest son, it was always expected of me. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

The weight in his voice was unmistakable, and for a brief moment, you glimpsed the burden he carried—one that went far beyond the responsibilities of being a viscount. You wanted to offer some kind of comfort, but words felt insufficient.

So instead, you reached out hesitantly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. Unruly for a lady who's all alone with a man, but you couldn't care less. He looked at you then, and the sadness in his expression softened into something quieter, something more grateful.

“Thank you,” he said again, his voice low. “Truly.”

You offered him a small smile, hoping it conveyed everything you couldn’t put into words.

Ever since then, you were never able to get rid of the man. A beautiful friendship blooming between the two of you.

Ethan had been nearby, escorting a dance partner to her seat. As she departed, he turned to you, his smile playful.

“Miss Ledger, are you always this determined to blend in with the curtains?” he teased, glancing at the floral drapes behind you.

You blinked at him, momentarily stunned, before you chuckled softly. “It’s called being observant, Viscount Bridgerton. You should try it some time, I bet it would help in making you wiser.”

“Ah, but you see,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes bright with amusement. “The observant ones always have the most to say. They simply haven’t been asked yet.”

You laughed lightly, surprised at his wit. “And what would you like me to say then, my lord?”

His grin widened. “That you’ll grant me the honor of this next dance, of course.”

The following week, your paths crossed again during a morning promenade in the park. Ethan had joined you unexpectedly, claiming he needed a distraction from the paperwork piling up on his desk.

As you walked along the gravel paths, he pointed out the ducks waddling near the pond, remarking on how they seemed far more organized than the members of Parliament.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You truly have a talent for finding humor in the most mundane things, Ethan.”

“And you,” he replied, his tone softer, “have a talent for making even the dullest promenades feel like a grand adventure.”

The morning sun casts a golden glow across the stables as you made your way toward your horse, the light filtering through the wooden beams and glinting off the rows of neatly arranged saddles.

Ethan was already there, his sleeves rolled up and his jacket slung casually over a nearby post. He greeted you with a bright grin, one that always seemed to make your heart beat just a little faster.

“You’re late,” he teased, his tone warm and familiar. “I was beginning to think you’d left me to ride alone.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “I’m not late; you’re just too early. Honestly, don’t you have anything better to do than loiter in the stables?”

“Nothing better than helping my favorite partner in crime prepare for a ride,” he quipped, grabbing the saddle and hoisting it effortlessly onto your horse’s back.

You chuckled, though the flutter in your chest was impossible to ignore. He moved with an ease that spoke of years of riding, his hands deft as he adjusted the straps and tightened the girth. Watching him like this, so at home and so...him, made you forget for a moment how much he’d come to mean to you.

As you worked together, the conversation turned light and aimless, a pleasant back-and-forth of teasing and shared stories. But then, as he led your horse out into the sunlight, the topic shifted.

“So,” Ethan began, his tone casual as he patted the horse’s neck, “have you noticed how everyone seems to assume we’re something we’re not?” He laughed, the sound soft and carefree. “It’s ridiculous, really. Can you imagine? You and me?”

Your heart sank, the words hitting you like a cold gust of wind. You forced a laugh to match his, hoping it didn’t sound as hollow as it felt. “Ridiculous,” you echoed, though your voice faltered ever so slightly.

Ethan didn’t seem to notice. He was already climbing onto his horse, the sun catching the golden strands of his hair as he settled into the saddle. “They’ll talk about anything, won’t they? It’s absurd. You’re my closest friend, Violet. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”

Your grip tightened around the reins of your horse as you climbed into the saddle, your fingers trembling slightly. His words replayed in your mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.

Closest friend. Nothing more.

You smiled anyway, because what else could you do? “Yes, absurd indeed,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced over at you, his expression soft and unassuming. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” you said quickly, too quickly. You tugged on the reins, urging your horse forward. “Come on, let’s see if you can keep up with me for once.”

Ethan grinned, the same easy smile that always lit up his face. “You’re on.”

And just like that, the moment passed, but as the wind rushes and the landscape blurs around you, the ache in your chest remained, showing you the reality of how you expected something more from nothing.

At another ball, you found yourself at the edge of the dance floor again, but this time, Ethan’s gaze found yours across the room. He was engaged in a conversation with a group of gentlemen, yet his attention seemed to waver as he glanced your way.

You have been sneakily avoiding him after that day, always finding an excuse to be busy just so you could turn his invitations down. You did what you had to do. You had already fallen deep for the Viscount, and he's nowhere near reciprocating your feelings. He made that clear.

The strings of the orchestra swelled, and all of a sudden, someone swept you to the dancefloor, and you found yourself in Ethan’s arms once again, gliding across. His touch was gentle, his movements effortless as he led you through the steps of the waltz.

“You’re avoiding me,” he remarked, his voice low and just for you.

You glanced up at him, searching his face. “Am I?”

He nodded slightly, his expression unreadable. “Do you find my presence disturbing now?”

“I suppose I do,” you lied, feeling the warmth of his hand resting lightly on your waist. You do not want to tell him the real reason.

As the music continued, you felt a shift in the air between you, something unspoken yet palpable. Then, as the dance neared its end, he leaned in ever so slightly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Violet,” he murmured, his tone both hesitant and sincere, “I think I feel something more for you.”

Your breath caught, but before you could respond, the music reached its crescendo, and the dance ended. The partners switched, and suddenly, Ethan was gone, replaced by another gentleman.

You moved through the motions of the next dance, your mind racing and your heart pounding. The moment the music ceased, you turned, scanning the crowd for Ethan’s familiar figure.

He was walking away, his tall frame weaving through the throngs of guests. You quickly stepped forward, attempting to follow him, but the sea of people seemed to conspire against you.

“Miss Ledger, how lovely to see you,” someone greeted, blocking your path.

You forced a polite smile and nodded, excusing yourself as quickly as you could. But by the time you reached the edge of the ballroom, Ethan was nowhere to be seen.

Sighing, you stood still for a moment, the crowd swirling around you. The evening’s events replayed in your mind, leaving you with a mix of exhilaration and uncertainty.

Where had he gone? And why had he chosen that moment to reveal his feelings?

The morning light streamed through the windows of the drawing room as you carefully played a simple melody on the piano, the gentle notes filling the air. Your mother, Baroness Vivian Ledger, stood behind you, silent but watchful. Her gaze lingered on you for a moment before she sighed deeply, breaking the quiet.

“Violet,” she began, her tone calm but firm. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship with Viscount Bridgerton?”

You froze for a moment, your fingers hovering over the keys. Turning to face her, you blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, Mother?”

She folded her arms, her expression unwavering. “You’ve been promenading together, dancing at countless balls, and I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Do not play coy with me, Violet. Why hasn’t he called on you yet?”

Heat rose to your cheeks as you quickly turned back to the piano, your hands fidgeting with the keys. “Why would he call on me?” you muttered, attempting to downplay the fluttering in your chest. “We’re just friends.”

Your mother let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “Just friends? Don’t be ridiculous, a gentleman doesn’t spend that much time with a lady, nor look at her the way he looks at you, if he only sees her as a friend.”

Before you could respond, the doors to the drawing room creaked open, and a servant stepped in, bowing slightly. “Miss Violet Ledger, you have a caller.”

Your heart leapt to your throat as two footmen entered carrying extravagant bouquets of flowers, bright colors with delicate arrangements. They placed them carefully on the table. It was heathers, your favorite flower, filling the room with their sweet fragrance.

And then he appeared. Ethan Bridgerton stepped into the room, impeccably dressed and wearing his usual polite smile. His eyes flicked to yours, warm and steady, before he turned his attention to your mother.

“Baroness Ledger,” he greeted with a slight bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

Your mother’s face lit up with genuine delight. She had always been fond of Ethan, treating him almost like a son during the times the Bridgertons had visited your family. “Ethan, my dear boy,” she said warmly, gesturing for him to sit. “Come, you two have a seat. I’ll have refreshments brought in for you.”

Ethan offered a nod of thanks as your mother ushered you both to the couch and sat beside each other. Your mother lingered for a moment before retreating to the other side of the room, a clear signal that she intended to give the two of you some privacy while still keeping a watchful eye.

“I hope the flowers are to your liking? They're your favorite, Heathers,” you stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You’re calling on me?” you blurted out, disbelief clear in your voice.

Ethan turned to you, his smile softening into something more personal, more earnest. “Of course I am,” he replied simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart raced, and for a moment, you struggled to find words. Everything about this felt too surreal to be true.

“Well,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t think—”

He chuckled softly, leaning in just enough for his voice to lower, though not enough to cross the boundaries of propriety. “You didn’t think I’d call on you after all this time?” You blinked, at a loss for words, as his gaze held yours.

“But you made it clear to me,” you said, your tone soft but tinged with disbelief. “You would never see me as something more than a friend, and last night after telling me that you actually hold deeper feelings for me, you just… vanished.”

Ethan’s gaze softened, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. “That’s true,” he admitted, leaning slightly forward. “And for that, I owe you an apology. It wasn’t my intention to leave you wondering. But, Violet” his voice steadied firm, “I left because I already knew what I had to do.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to make sense of his words. “And what was that?”

“To court you,” he said simply, his lips curling into a faint smile. “I knew from the moment we met that you were unlike anyone I’d ever known, yet I kept denying it, wanting to preserve our friendship. But last night, as we danced, after weeks of you ignoring me, it became clear to me that I want more than just your friendship, Violet. I want your partnership, your trust, your love. I wasted no time this morning because I knew I needed to see you and make my intentions clear.”

Your breath hitched at his words, and you were certain he could see the way your hands trembled slightly in your lap. Before you could respond, Ethan reached out, taking your hand gently in his.

“And so,” he continued, his expression sincere and unwavering, “I am here now to ask for your hand in marriage.”

The room seemed to fall silent, the weight of his proposal filling the air. Your heart raced, your mind spinning. Marriage. It wasn’t just an idea or a possibility, it is here now, being offered by a man who had somehow become everything you’d ever wanted. A marriage of love match.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

His smile broke into something brighter, almost relieved, as if he’d been holding his breath. “You’ve made me the happiest man in all of England, Violet.”

“Ethan? Why me?” you couldn't help but ask, the question escaping your lips before you could stop it.

His smile grew even wider, and he let out a soft chuckle, his brown eyes glimmering with warmth as they fixed on yours. “Why not you?” he replied, his tone light but full of conviction.

You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of his answer. Before you could respond, “Violet,” he started, his voice growing softer but no less certain. “At first glance, you seem quiet and boring if I'm being frank. But the more I watched, the more I realized how wrong that was.”

His words made your breath catch, and you felt the familiar warmth creeping into your cheeks.

“You aren’t just quiet, Violet,” he continued, his tone deepening with emotion. “You’re thoughtful. You observe, you listen, and you understand things most people overlook. Your mind is a place of quiet wisdom, and your heart—” He paused, his gaze softening as he searched your face. “Your heart is deeper than the ocean. Once someone has the privilege of knowing you, truly knowing you, they realize just how extraordinary you are.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The sincerity in his voice, the intensity of his gaze, it was all warming.

“I admire how you care for the people around you, even in the smallest ways,” Ethan continued, his voice steady but full of feeling. “The way you remember the things that matter to them, the way you make them feel seen, even when you don’t say much. How your kindness isn’t loud or showy but so deeply rooted in who you are.”

He took your hand then, holding it between both of his, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “And I admire you because, when I’m with you, I feel like I’ve finally found something I’ve been searching for my whole life.”

You felt your chest tighten, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. His words were unlike anything you’d ever heard, his love unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

“So, why not you?” Ethan said again, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. “Why wouldn’t I choose the woman who’s shown me what it means to truly love and be loved?”

Your voice broke as you finally whispered, “Ethan…”

He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your fingers. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Violet. Everything I never knew I needed.”

Before you could say another word, the door to the drawing room opened, and your father stepped inside. His eyes quickly swept over the scene, Ethan holding your hand, the bouquet of flowers on the table, and the unmistakable atmosphere of a momentous occasion. Right behind him is your mother, who stood up from being seated in the other side of the room, her sharp gaze instantly assessing the situation.

“What’s this?” your father asked, his tone curious but warm.

Ethan stood immediately, straightening his coat and offering a respectful bow. “Baron, Baroness, good morning. I hope you don’t mind my calling on your daughter.”

Your father’s gaze flickered between the two of you before landing on Ethan. “I take it this visit is of a particular nature, Bridgerton?”

Ethan nodded, his confidence unwavering. “It does, Lord Ledger. I’ve come to ask for Violet’s hand in marriage. She has already given her consent, and I would be honored to receive yours as well.”

Your father paused, his expression unreadable as he regarded Ethan. Then, slowly, a smile crept onto his face. “I must say, Bridgerton, you’ve caught me by surprise. But I can’t say I’m displeased. You’ve been like a son to us for years, and I can think of no one more fitting to marry my daughter.”

Ethan’s shoulders relaxed visibly, his smile widening as he extended his hand. “Thank you, sir. I will do everything in my power to make her happy.”

As the two men shook hands, your mother stepped forward, her sharp eyes softening as they settled on you. “Is this truly what you want, Violet?” she asked gently.

You nodded, your voice steady as you replied, “It is, Mother. Very much so.”

Vivian’s lips curled into a faint smile, her voice losing some of its usual edge. “Then I’m happy for you, my dear. You’ve made a fine choice.”

With a nod of approval, your mother returned to stand beside your father, her expression soft yet resolute.

“Then it’s settled,” the baron declared, his smile broadening. “We have a wedding to plan.”

Ethan turned back to you, his eyes shining with affection and excitement.

Ethan gently tosses you onto the bed, making you laugh. He licked his lips as he stood by the edge of the bed, watching as your chest heave up and down in anticipation, "You know," he said softly, "This is our honeymoon. I can finally do whatever I want to you,” he gives you a mischievous grin. Tonight is the night after your wedding, a memorable occasion that officially bound you and him as husband and wife.

He yanked his top free with impatient, fumbling hands. The fabric strained against the hurried movements, a few threads snapping as he tore the shirt open.

The buttons popped loose, some scattering to the floor, but he didn't stop to care. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders in one swift, almost frantic motion, tossing it aside like he was so eager to get rid of it.

Slowly, he leaned forward, one knee sinking into the mattress, followed by the other. His movements were deliberate, almost predatory, as his hands pressed into the bed to steady himself. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he crawled forward, and hovered on top of you.

Ethan cupped your face gently with one hand “I’ll be gentle, just follow my lead, alright?” you nodded your head in response and he kissed you carefully as if you're a fragile thing.

It was slow and romantic, but you needed more, so you let out a muffled soft moan, pulling him closer by the back of his neck and you felt his lips curl up into a smile while kissing you more eagerly now.

Your breathing got heavier as he licked and explored the insides of your mouth, shoving his tongue further to taste you, his warm breath mingling with yours, making you dizzy.

Your combined spit soon started dripping down your chin. His warm hands caress your sides in a way that it ignites a fire inside you. The both of you leaned back to catch your breaths, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

He dipped his head down to pepper kisses all over your skin. He's had enough of you being fully clothed in your white dress, “Can I take this off you?” he asked to which you lazily nod.

He helped you out of your corset and dress, leaving you with nothing but your underwear. His eyes twinkled once he set his gaze upon your exposed plump breasts.

Out of nowhere, you were shying away from his hungry gaze, your hands quickly covering your breasts in embarrassment, cheeks blushing profusely. However, he was still quicker than you, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head swiftly using one hand.

“Don’t, don't hide your pretty body from me. It's beautiful and I'm here to worship it.” He whispered, erasing every doubt in your head. You can only nod in response, staring into his eyes while your foreheads touched each other, as if in an unbreakable trance.

You feel the excitement and arousal bubbled up in you, your thighs instinctively pressing up against each other as your underwear soiled.

Ethan smirked, “You’re wet, aren't you?” he asked, forcing your legs apart using his strong arms, eliciting a loud whine from you. You never expected intimacy would feel this good.

He dipped his head again to nuzzle on your neck, licking the skin with his warm tongue before sucking on it, purposefully leaving marks.

Your back arches and he took advantage of this to attack your neck more, grinding the bulge on his pants against your covered core. Oh how you love the things he's doing to you right now.

He trails wet kisses down until he reaches your chest, sticking his tongue out and licking up your cleavage. You were almost certain your heart clawed out of your chest from how hard it's beating, and he only looks up at you with those eyes you love so much all while pressing the most tantalizing kiss right on your left nipple, silently telling you that all of you, even the most private parts, now belongs to him.

You couldn’t take your eyes away from him even if you try to, you watch every bit of his movements down your body. He envelops your nipple using his soft lips. He swirls his tongue around it and sucks hard, his other hand coming up to play with your other breast.

The moans coming out of your lips only encouraged him more as he shamelessly sucked your tits like a hungry man, lustful eyes looking up at you, corner of his lips smiling. He delivered a strong squeeze to your boob just to see your pained expression.

He switched his mouth, sucking the other one and playing the wet breast using his hands. He circles the swollen nipple before pinching it right after. You whined in pain at his harsh play on your mounds, making him tweak your nipple gently to soothe it.

Grazing your nipples with his teeth as he started alternating between the two in a fast manner had you whimpering and squirming underneath him. When you continued to squirm around, he firmly held you in place, gripping your waist.

“Stop moving, darling,” He instructed, hands sneaking down from your waist to your panties. For a moment, you had no idea what he was about to do, but an audible gasp left your lips when he ripped your underwear with such ease, immediately throwing the torn fabric away.

He placed his head in between your legs, kissing your inner thigh. He sucked in a breath as he heard your sweet helpless whimper. You grab a fistful of his hair, pulling on them and crying out when he pushed your legs up to bite and suck harshly on the soft flesh of your inner thighs. You are sure that you'll wake up tomorrow with your thighs and legs decorated in purple red marks.

Ethan is shameless when it comes to his possessive nature, even mumbling the word ‘mine’ nonstop underneath his breath. He stopped as he reached up to your private part, taking a deep breath and inhaling the aroma of your wetness, “Goodness, you smell so fucking delicious, darling.”

You propped yourself up using your arms to peek down at your husband, the sight of him staring in awe at your core, smelling it while licking his lips. He then purposely blew hard on your soaked cunt, surprising you and making your body jolt at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Ethan please,” you pleaded desperately, “Yes, darling? What do you need? Say it.” He asked breathily, dark eyes still fixated on your pussy as he whispered directly on it, “How beautiful.”

In a desperate attempt, you took advantage of having his hair fisted on your hand and pushed his head into your pussy, bucking your hips forward to shove it on him. He growled and immediately started lapping at your pussy as if it's his last meal. You throw your head back, eyes closed at the euphoria you're feeling.

“Fucking sweet pussy” Ethan groaned, going completely feral, not holding back as he devoured you, licking, sucking, biting, and slurping on your folds, while holding your legs apart to make sure you remain bare and open to him.

His nose nudged on your clit as he slipped his tongue in your clenching hole, wiggling the wet muscle around your walls. “All mine,” he groaned with each lick, sending vibrations on your cunt.

The last straw was when he slurped your folds before biting your clit gently, sending you over the edge with a loud scream, eyes rolling back and legs shaking as he teased you by torturing your poor clit more.

He laps up your juices happily, making sure to catch every drop on his mouth. Even if your legs were already shaking in his hands while he holds them up, your cunt clenching around his tongue. He shoved it as deep as he could.

He couldn't stop, it's like he's trapped in an enchantment, or perhaps he's just really too pussy drunk to even stop and give your poor cunt a rest.

With his movements getting rougher, you took it upon yourself to snap him out of his trance and push his head away with all the remaining strength you have. Successfully prying his head from your swollen overstimulated core and closing your legs to prevent him from diving back in.

His mouth all the way down to his chin glimmers with your essence as he gives you a playful grin, almost laughing at the state you're in.

His big bright eyes observed you, wanting this image of you to imprint on his brain. You looked like an absolute goddess brought down by heaven for him. A flower he is to help bloom more and to cherish forever.

You, his now wife, laid there bare to him, body having slight trembles of aftershock from the orgasm he just gave you, your cheeks tinted with natural blush, skin sweaty, lips parted while panting, eyes closed, and your hair a mess on the pillows on your head.

What a heavenly sight, and Ethan’s raging hard on is a testament to it. But he’s nowhere near done with you yet, for the show is only starting. Now that he finally tasted you, he is more than eager to know how you would feel wrapped around his length.

As you felt him move around, your eyes snap back open curiously, only to see him getting rid of his last piece of clothing, his pants and drawers in one go, discarded onto the floor with no care.

Your eyes widen at the sight of his manhood, slapping his abdomen with how hard it is, the tip is red and leaking so much precum, it shows just how much he's been waiting for this moment. You sit up clumsily even if your legs were still shaking just to get a closer look of it.

Your shaky hand slowly reached out to it but stopped mid air, hesitating, you really have no idea what to do. So you looked up at your husband, “Ethan, may I?” you asked shyly.

Thank god your husband was able to understand you without making you say it out loud because you might just die in shame, “Of course, darling. Go ahead.” He smiled down at you and you could've sworn he got more handsome with his hair messy and sticking to his wet forehead, lips pink and glistening with your juices and that stupid gentle eyes he has on right now.

He took your hand and guide it to his length, wrapping your hand around the thickness of the base, “Start slowly, move your hand up and down,” he instructed and you followed, moving your hand up and down in a slow pace.

He groans softly as your hand pumped his cock, he offered you a satisfied smile, his eyes half-lidded as he enjoys the gentle stroking. "You're going to make me cum so much, darling... I can feel it already.”

Encouraged by his words, you gained more confidence and started pumping him faster, "Shit... you're gonna make me bust like this?" He groans loudly, throwing his head back against the rock as you pump his length aggressively. His hips lift slightly to meet your strokes, his length hardening like steel with each pump of your hand. "You wanna see me nut, baby?”

You nodded, your eyes eager which only had his length twitching on your hold. He sucked in a sharp breath as you leaned down to press a gentle kiss on his tip before trailing kisses down the rest of his length.

You swirled your tongue before taking him inside your warm mouth, a loud guttural moan escaping his throat when he saw your lips envelop his length and hollow your cheeks sucking him in so desperately.

“Shit, play with my balls,” he commanded, guiding your hand to massage his balls while your mouth eagerly sucked half of his length. Suddenly he grips the back of your head, shoving you down, his length hitting the back of your throat making you gag, “Fuck yes, choke on my dick, darling.”

The sight of you gagging, your eyes wet with tears as you look up helplessly at him. You moaned around his length, the vibrations shooting straight up his cock.

He’s sweating profusely all over, taking big deep breaths while looking down at you. His eyes lustful but filled with fondness. But before he could even reach his orgasm, you took his length out of your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his length.

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asked, caressing the top of your head, “Need a second to breathe,” you admitted softly while panting, sitting up to recollect yourself.

He smiled understandingly at you, a gentle smile that contrasts his sinister words, “That’s fine, but I'm nowhere near done with you.” He said and your eyes widened, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

“W-wha–” You tried to ask but he cut you off as he slammed his lips against yours again, licking the insides of your mouth with his tongue before pulling back, “You think I’d let you go now that I got a taste of you? Without feeling that sweet cunt grip my length?”

“But–” you protested but he shushed you with his finger, leaning his face so close that your warm breaths mingled, “Shh, you can take it. Trust me, yeah?”

His tone is seductive, wooing you to trust him even though you already knew that the moment you say yes, he'll pounce on you like a wild animal. But deep inside, you wouldn't really mind, right?

“Yes,” you whispered so quietly it was almost inaudible. He pushed you back down, his body caging you in. Your body responds to him fast, legs spreading wide and wrapping around his waist, his hips grinding against yours.

Ethan asked, grinding the tip of his cock up and down your folds, your juices lubricating his length. “Ready, darling?” he asked and you gave him a nervous nod in response, your hands pressing on his chest to brace yourself.

He didn't waste any time, he entered your needy hole, his length pushing past your hymen and splitting you open. He immediately bottomed out. Your back arched, your eyes shut tight, while you screamed at the uncomfortable pain. You tried soothing yourself by clawing at his chest.

Ethan moans out loud, giving no care about the servants around the mansion who could all probably hear the coupling. The way your walls clenched his huge size, “Jesus darling, you feel so good,” he sighed in relief.

He gave you some time to adjust before teasing you again, “Look, darling,” he helped you raise your head a bit to make you watch where you both are connected. He pulled back all the way to the tip only to slam back in harder as you gasped. His hand pressing your lower stomach where the outline of his cock is prominent, “It reached so deep.”

“You’re so big,” you cried out, and he only laughed softly at you, “You love it, darling.”

He started ramming into your hole, making your breasts bounce and jiggle with each thrust. He reached forward to suck your left boob once again with no gentleness. Growling and grazing his teeth on the sensitive nub while fucking you like a wild animal.

“Mine, all mine, my beautiful wife,” he mumbled while he sucked your mounds.

“Goodness– Ethan!” you panted heavily, hands moving to grip the bedsheets as he abused your pussy, pushing so deep and hard as if he's shaping your walls into that shape of his cock.

You felt pure bliss, like you're in heaven, and just when you thought it couldn't be any better, Ethan reached his hand down to use his thumb, rubbing your clit in tight circles that made you cry out and squirm on his hold.

“Don’t you dare move. You're gonna lay there and take what I give you.” he sternly said as his free hand gripped your hip in a bruising hold, holding you down and preventing you to squirm away from this touch.

“Good girl, stay still for me, yeah?” He coo before pushing himself impossibly deeper, you swear you could feel him in your womb now, his hips flush against yours while still circling your clit.

Ethan kept mumbling about how good you feel around him, it was addicting how he seems to lose his mind over fucking you.

The room echoed with the sounds of wet skin slapping, and the combined moans and groans from you and him. Everything feels so hot and your nostrils were overwhelmed by the smell of sex.

You felt another coil in your lower stomach that's about to snap and you could no longer hold it, “Ethan, I'm gonna–” you warned him but before you could even finish, the coil snapped and your juices came gushing out all over his length, soaking his abdomen and balls.

You arched off the bed and your eyes roll to the back of your head so hard. You cried out, tears rolling down your cheek that he immediately licked, the taste of your salty tears knowing he's the cause of it in a good way pushed him closer to the edge.

Your spent pussy pulsated while he continues to aggressively pound you, trying to reach his own high. With one final thrust shooting ropes after ropes of cum inside your womb.

He stills inside you while filling you up, his length twitching while you both tried to regulate your breathing.

When he pulled out, his load came dripping out of your fluttering hole. You whimpered at the sudden empty feeling. But your husband was quick to scoop up his cum and shove it back inside you using his fingers.

Ethan rolled over to lay beside you, turning his body to the side to wrap you in his arms, pulling you close, “Are you alright, darling?” he asked in concern, giving your forehead a gentle kiss.

Your body was engulfed in a profound warmth, Ethan being so sweet and caring after fucking you into oblivion. He whispered sweet praises into your ear making you laugh softly.

And you fell asleep in that position, drifting off while your husband whispers sweet nothings into your ear, soothing you and making sure you feel secured and safe.

16 years into the marriage, and the Bridgerton mansion brimmed with life. Laughter echoed from every corner as well as the occasional scolding of multiple governesses trying (and failing) to impose order. You stood by the grand staircase, a hand resting protectively over your swollen belly, your other hand gripped the banister as you surveyed the chaos with an amused smile.

“Atticus!” Your husband’s voice boomed as he stepped out of the study, his tone caught between exasperation and pride. “How is it that you can manage the accounts better than half the estate staff, but you cannot get ahold of your siblings that are on the verge of turning the house into a battlefield while I'm busy?”

Atticus, now a strikingly handsome and serious young man at sixteen, appeared from around the corner with a calm expression, though his lips twitched in amusement. “They need to keep busy, Father. It’s an essential part of their education.”

“Perhaps,” Ethan replied dryly, “but I doubt orchestrating another impromptu chasing game qualifies as productive.”

Atticus shrugged and turned, nearly bumping into Caleb, who was sprinting down the hallway with a mischievous grin.

At thirteen, Caleb was all energy and unpredictability, and he carried himself like a boy constantly on the verge of some grand adventure—or disaster. “Out of my way, Atticus!” he shouted, clutching a poorly folded map as if it contained the secrets of the world. “I’m exploring!”

“You’re going to explore a broken vase if you’re not careful!” You called, shaking your head but unable to hide the smile on your lips.

Not far behind, seven-year-old Giovann charged after Caleb with a makeshift sword, his laughter ringing out like music. “You can’t explore without a knight, Caleb! I’m your protector!” he declared, wielding the wooden sword with as much ferocity as a child could muster.

Benjamin, at fourteen, strolled into the drawing room, humming softly as he carried an armful of paper and brushes. His kind and artistic nature stood out starkly amidst the chaos, and he settled himself by the window, carefully setting up his materials. “Mother,” he said brightly, glancing up at you, “I think I’ll paint the garden today. Dorothea’s been complaining that the roses don’t look vibrant enough.”

“You’re going to paint the garden again?” Dorothea’s voice chimed in from the doorway. At eleven, she exuded poise and wit, her beauty and sharp intellect often leaving her siblings scrambling to keep up. She arched a brow as she crossed her arms, a knowing smile on her lips. “Why don’t you paint Caleb tripping over his own feet instead? That would be far more entertaining.”

Benjamin smirked, dipping his brush into the paint. “I’d need to create a series for that, Thea—it happens far too often to capture in just one painting.”

“Very funny,” Caleb shot back, his head poking into the room just long enough to glare at his older brother before he vanished again, Giovann still hot on his heels.

Dorothea shook her head, her long dark hair swaying elegantly as she moved to make you sit beside her in front of the piano, “Mother, I don’t know how you manage all of us,” she said softly, though there was a hint of teasing in her voice.

You chuckled and gently stroked your daughter’s hair. “I manage because I have to. And because I wouldn’t trade any of you for the world, even when you drive me mad.”

Ethan appeared beside you then, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist as he surveyed the scene. “Do you think this little one,” he said, nodding towards your rounded belly, his hands caressing it ever so softly, “will be just as much trouble as the rest of them?”

You let out a sigh, leaning against him. “I have no doubt about it.”

Ethan smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. But the soft moment was quickly interrupted by the disturbance of your restless children.

A loud and jarring sound from the piano made all of you jump. Both you and Ethan turned your heads in alarm to see Giovann standing by the piano, gleefully slamming his little fingers across the keys with no concern for melody. Dorothea, who had been tidying her music sheets, froze, her expression darkening as her blood pressure spiked.

“Giovann!” she yelled, her voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos. She stormed toward him, her posture rigid with irritation. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you know how long it takes to tune that piano?!”

Giovann, entirely unbothered, shot her a cheeky grin. “It’s not my fault you’re always playing boring old songs, Thea.”

That was enough to send Dorothea chasing after him, her scolding echoing throughout the room as Giovann scrambled out of reach, still laughing. “Come back here! I swear, Giovann, I’m going to—!”

Sighing, you shook her head fondly while rubbing your temple. Ethan chuckled, leaning closer, “And to think, you said this baby would be just as much trouble. I’m starting to wonder if it could possibly be worse.”

Meanwhile, Atticus had settled on the couch, a picture of calm amidst the commotion. He lazily reached for a macaron from a nearby snack plate, casually biting into it.

“Hey!” Benjamin’s dismayed voice rang out. He stood by the window, his unfinished painting of the snack plate now ruined. His brush dropped to his side as he whined, stomping his feet, “I was painting that!”

Atticus only smirked, unbothered by his younger brother’s frustration. “Too bad,” he said with a shrug, continuing to munch on the macaron with no remorse.

Benjamin huffed, his face falling into a pout as he picked up his brush again, muttering something about “barbarians ruining art.”

Before he could retreat fully into his sulk, Caleb came bouncing into the room. The boy tackled Atticus without hesitation, snatching the macaron right out of his hands.

“You–” Atticus protested, glaring at his younger brother.

Caleb grinned mischievously, holding the half-eaten macaron like a trophy. “What’s yours is mine, big brother.”

Atticus lunged after him, sending the two into a playful scuffle as they tumbled onto the floor, much to Benjamin’s dismay.

“Could you not wrestle in the middle of the room?” Benjamin groaned, setting his palette down and crossing his arms. “Some of us here are trying to work!”

Caleb only laughed, dodging Atticus’ grab and tossing the macaron up in the air before catching it in his mouth. Atticus groaned in defeat, flopping back onto the couch.

You turned your head to glance at your husband, lips twitching into a smile, “You see? This is what you started, they all got that stubborn teasing manner from you,” you teased.

Ethan laughed, “I don’t know, darling. I think we’ve created something rather perfect.”

Ethan rose from his seat, brushing his hand on your chin. He turned to his eldest son with a warm smile, “Atticus, come with me. I’ll need your company for some hunting practice.”

Atticus nodded, standing from his chair. The two grabbed their shotguns and headed out of the mansion. They strode along the estate grounds, and their path took them past a patch of vibrant flowers just outside in front of the mansion, where Ethan stopped abruptly.

“Wait here a moment,” Ethan said, kneeling by the flower patch. His hand carefully selected a few sprigs of heather, the delicate blooms swaying lightly in the breeze.

“Your mother’s favorite,” he murmured with a fond smile, holding the flowers up to inspect them, “They’re quite lovely, are they not?”

Atticus, crouched a few steps away picking his own flowers, glancing up as he smiled briefly, “Dorothea would be jealous if we returned with nothing for her.”

As Ethan stood, a low hum buzzed past his face that he tried to swat away, but it only agitated it, stinging him in the neck before flying away. “Ugh this bloody–” he muttered as he caress his stung neck.

Atticus glanced curiously while still picking flowers, “What is it, father?” he asked but got no answer. This made him stop his movements to look up at his father.

Atticus stood up, his own set of flowers in hand. “Father?” he asked, noticing Ethan’s unusual stillness.

Ethan didn’t respond.

“Father?” Atticus repeated, his voice more urgent now. Ethan turned to face him, but something was terribly wrong. His face had grown pale, his lips slightly parted as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Veins bulged along his neck as his chest heaved in an uneven rhythm.

“Father!” Atticus shouted, dropping the flowers to the ground and rushing to his father’s side. Ethan staggered, his legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed onto the grass.

Atticus knelt beside him, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he gripped Ethan’s shoulders. “Help! Somebody help!” he screamed, his voice echoing across the estate grounds.

A shout that reached the insides of a mansion, reaching you and disrupting your focus from reading a book, sitting on the couch. You know your children's voice so well, and Atticus’ urgent shouts alarmed you. It made you rose swiftly despite the weight of your pregnancy.

You immediately hurried out the door, heart pounding so fast in your chest as you followed the sound of Atticus’ panicked voice outside.

The sight of Ethan lying there in the grass made your heart stop. For a moment, your mind refused to accept it—this couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be happening.

Your chest tightened, and it felt as if the air around you had vanished. You tried to breathe, but all you could feel was the sharp sting of panic gripping your lungs. You ran to them in a hurry.

As soon as your knees hit the ground hard, you didn’t notice the pain. All you could focus on was Ethan’s face, pale and strained, his lips parted as he struggled to breathe.

“No, no, don't leave me,” you whispered, your voice shaking as your trembling hands reached for him, holding his body in your arms. His skin was clammy and cold under your touch, a jarring contrast to the warmth you’d known your entire life.

“Ethan,” you choked, your voice breaking. “Breathe, please, just breathe.” The words felt useless, hollow, as though saying them could somehow force air back into his lungs.

Your tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t care. Your fingers brushed his face, his hair, his neck, desperately searching for something—anything—that might save him.

You were powerless, and the weight of that realization crushed you. It clawed at your chest, making it hard to breathe yourself. Your mind screamed at you to do something, but what could you do? You were helpless. Completely and utterly helpless, “No, no, no, no, no.”

When his hand rose weakly, brushing against your cheek, your heart shattered into a thousand pieces. It was such a small, gentle gesture, yet it carried the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His lips moved, but no words came, and his eyes, filled with a pain you couldn’t take away, stared into yours.

“No, Ethan,” you pleaded, shaking your head as if denying it could stop the inevitable. “No, please. Please, don’t leave me.”

His hand dropped to the side, lifeless, and you froze. The silence that followed was deafening, drowning out the world around you. You shook him, called his name again, “Ethan? Ethan!” your voice growing louder and more frantic, but there was no response.

A sob tore from your throat, raw and unrelenting “No! Oh god! Please,” your entire body shook as you cradled him, pressing your forehead to his, as though holding him close might somehow bring him back. The world felt like it was collapsing around you, and the pain—oh, the damn pain—it’s unbearable. It ripped you, leaving you hollow and broken.

When you turned your head, you saw them, your children, standing at the entrance of the house, their innocent faces filled with confusion and fear. A fresh wave of agony surged through you, but you forced it down. “Atticus,” you rasped, your voice trembling. “The children… take them inside. They… they cannot see this.”

He didn’t move, his face pale and stricken. “Go!” you cried, snapping him out of his daze. He stumbled to his feet, his steps unsteady, and hurried toward the others, herding them away.

You turned back to Ethan, your tears falling freely onto his still face. The love of your life, the man who had been your world, was gone. And you didn’t know how you were supposed to survive without him.

The maids ushered you inside the house distant murmurs of servants and the echo of footsteps as they moved about in quiet urgency. Ethan's body was taken care of, and a doctor was already called to confirm his death. You sat at the bottom of the staircase, your body trembling, your mind a storm of disbelief and anguish.

The maids’ hands rested on your arms, trying to steady you, but their touch felt distant just like everything else.

Your tears blurred your vision as you clutched the bannister for support. The weight of Ethan’s absence was unbearable, suffocating, pressing down on you until it felt as if you couldn’t breathe.

His laughter, his voice, his presence, everything is gone. Every memory of him felt like a dagger to your heart, and the pain was suffocating. You gasped, your sobs uncontrollable, your chest heaving as you rocked back and forth, overwhelmed by grief.

“Ma’am, please,” one of the maids said softly, her voice trembling with concern as she knelt beside you. “You must rest.”

But you couldn’t rest. How could you, when the love of your life had been ripped away from you? When the last memory of him was the light fading from his eyes?

And then it hit, a sharp, sudden pain in your abdomen. It was so intense it took your breath away, and your hands flew to your stomach instinctively. The maids stiffened, their faces pale with alarm.

“My lady!” one of them cried, her voice shaking as she grasped your shoulders.

You tried to speak, but the words were swallowed by a fresh wave of pain. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before—an ache so deep it seemed to pull you apart, and yet it paled in comparison to the gaping hole in your chest.

Your breathing became erratic, your sobs mingling with gasps as you clutched your stomach. “No,” you whispered, shaking your head, tears streaming down your face. “Not now.” But your body had other plans, and the pain intensified, rippling through you with each passing moment.

The maids surrounded you, their voices frantic as they tried to calm you, their hands gentle but firm as they guided you away from the stairs. “It’s the baby,” one of them said, her voice filled with urgency. “She’s in labor. Quickly, someone fetch the midwife!”

Luckily, the children weren't here to witness all of this. They're all taken care off by Atticus on the other side of the mansion, keeping them away from this traumatic scene.

The realization sent another wave of emotion crashing over you. This was Ethan’s child—the one he would never meet, never hold, never name. He wasn't able to live up to the birth. The thought was unbearable, and you cried harder, the tears falling faster as the pain in your heart joined with the pain in your body.

“It hurts,” you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. The maids tried to reassure you, their words soft and soothing, but nothing they said could touch the agony that consumed you.

The sharp contractions made your legs give out, and you collapsed to your knees, your body trembling as another wave of pain tore through you. “I can’t do this,” you sobbed, shaking your head as the maids worked to lift you. “He’s gone, and I… I can’t do this without him.”

But you had no choice. The baby was coming, and your body refused to wait for your grief to subside. As the maids helped you to your feet, your heart shattered all over again. Ethan should have been here. He should have been the one holding your hand, whispering words of comfort, and waiting to meet his child.

Instead, you were left with a hollow ache and a pain that would never fade. And as the contractions grew stronger, you clung to the only thought that gave you strength– this baby, this piece of Ethan, was all you had left. You had to keep going for the both of you.

The air in the room was thick with tension and urgency, the voices of the midwife and maids blending into a blur of noise as you lay on the bed, soaked in your own sweat and trembling. Every muscle in your body screamed with exhaustion, the contractions relentless and unforgiving.

You clutched the sheets, gasping through gritted teeth as another wave of pain wracked your body. It was unbearable, almost blinding, yet it still couldn’t drown out the ache in your chest—the hollow, consuming void left by Ethan’s absence.

“Just one more push, my lady,” the midwife urged, her voice steady but insistent.

Your breath hitched as you braced yourself, every ounce of your strength pooling into this final effort. The pain was overwhelming, but you forced yourself to keep going, your thoughts consumed by a single, agonizing truth, that Ethan would never see this child. He would never hear their cries, hold them, or whisper their name with love.

Tears streamed down your face as you let out a guttural cry, pushing with everything you had left. Time seemed to stand still for a moment, the room holding its breath, and then—

A sharp, piercing wail filled the air.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife announced, her tone warm and triumphant as she held up the tiny, squirming infant.

You collapsed back against the pillows, utterly spent, your body trembling from the effort. The maids bustled around you, wiping your brow and whispering soothing words, but their voices barely registered. All you could hear was the sound of your baby’s cries, sharp and desperate.

The midwife approached, carefully placing the newborn in your arms. You stared down at her, your breath catching as you took in her tiny features—the delicate curve of her nose, the soft flush of her cheeks, and the way her tiny fists curled against the blanket. She was so small, so fragile, and she looks just like Ethan.

Your tears came faster now, dripping onto the blanket as you cradled her close. “Heather,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you ran a finger gently along her cheek. “Her name is Heather.”

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. The midwife and maids exchanged glances, their expressions softening with understanding.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as a fresh wave of sorrow washed over you. “My favorite flower” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “He died with them in his hands… for me.”

Your tears blurred your vision as you pressed a kiss to Heather’s forehead, your heart breaking and mending all at once. She was a piece of Ethan, a reminder of the love you had shared and the life you had built together.

Heather stirred in your arms, her cries softening into tiny, contented murmurs. You closed your eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling at you.

The drawing room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves outside the window. You sat on the couch, staring out into the vast, empty garden. The sunset light filtered through the window, but it felt cold to you. Everything did. You’d been sitting there for hours, unmoving.

This is the first time you actually left your room, for you have been non functional since the day your husband died. Even detaching yourself from your children, suffering with the grief paired by your post-partum depression.

The sound of cautious footsteps broke the silence, and you knew before turning who it was. Atticus. Your eldest.

He approached slowly, his tall frame carrying an air of hesitation. "You look well," he said softly, his voice gentle as if afraid to disturb the fragile stillness around you.

You didn’t turn to him but blinked slowly, registering his words. You responded in a voice that was distant, detached, and empty. “I slept. I bathed. I went for a walk outdoors. I saw the children. I made myself useful in embroidery.” Each word was recited mechanically, as though you were listing chores you had completed, but there was no life behind them.

Atticus gave a tight-lipped smile, though you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “Perhaps you could join us today for a family dinner,” he offered cautiously, his tone carefully measured.

You shook your head once, your gaze dropping to your hands, and your eyes closed tightly against the swell of emotions that were always lurking, ready to suffocate you.

“I know this is hard,” Atticus began again, his voice cracking just slightly, betraying his youth and the burden he now carried as the man of the house. “I know you miss him—but we all miss him.”

The words pierced you, a fresh wound on top of the endless ache. Before he could continue, your trembling voice cut him off, fragile and breaking. “Please.”

Atticus hesitated but tried again, his concern for you outweighing his fear of upsetting you. “Mother, I think—”

“Atticus,” you said as you looked at him for the first time, your eyes wet with unshed tears. “This is it. This—this is my best. I’m doing my best.”

The weight of your grief spilled out, your words trembling as your voice broke. “Every day, I get up. I get dressed. I feed myself. I try to breathe in and out.” You paused, your chest heaving as you tried to steady yourself, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless.

“I force myself to stop by the nursery,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you gasped for air, “But all I keep thinking about is how sorry I am for little baby Heather, because she will never know Ethan’s laugh. Or the way he smiled. Or how it felt to be hugged in his arms.”

The tears fell freely now, and you covered your mouth with a trembling hand, the pain suffocating. “All I could think of,” you choked out, “is how sorry I am for thinking that this baby did not do me the kindness of killing me so that I could be with my husband.”

You looked up at Atticus then, your eyes brimming with sorrow and a deep, unbearable pain. Your voice softened into a whisper, the words barely escaping your lips. “Ethan was the air that I breathed… and now there’s no air. So don’t ask me to do better,” you said, your voice breaking once more. “I’m doing my best.”

Atticus’ expression crumbled as he stood there, unable to respond. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he looked down at his hands, helpless and aching for his mother. He wanted to say something, to comfort you, but there was nothing he could say that would fill the void Ethan left behind.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with grief, until finally, Atticus nodded once, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Without another word, he turned and left the room, leaving you to stare once more into the void, clutching your broken heart as tightly as you held onto the memory of your husband.

Servants flitted about, adjusting gowns, fluffing skirts, and arranging jewelry on the vanity. You stood beside Dorothea, your hands gentle as you fastened the final pin in her hair. Her dark locks gleamed, swept into an elegant updo that framed her youthful, radiant face.

It has been eight years since the passing of Ethan. And today, your daughter is on her second season in the marriage mart.

Your daughter sat poised, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of anticipation and nerves. The soft pastel blue gown she wore was a masterpiece, flowing like water and adorned with intricate lace. It suited her perfectly.

You glanced at her through the mirror, pride swelling in your chest. “You look flawless, my dear,” you said warmly, smoothing a strand of hair that dared to fall out of place. “Today is your day. I just know it.”

Dorothea turned to you, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mama. I truly hope this season will bring what I’m looking for.”

You could see the longing in her eyes, the same longing you had once carried when you were her age. A love match. A marriage not of convenience or obligation but of true affection. It was rare, yes, but you believed your daughter deserved nothing less.

“You will find it, Dorothea,” you assured her, your voice steady and filled with quiet confidence. “I have no doubt.”

The peaceful moment was interrupted when the door to the room burst open with a dramatic thud. “Dorothea!! You. Must. Make. Haste!” Elisa's voice rang out, sharp and authoritative, as she stormed in, punctuating every word with an exaggerated stomp of her foot.

Both you and Dorothea flinched at the sudden intrusion, but when Elisa came into view—her cheeks flushed with urgency, her hands on her hips like a soldier commanding an army—you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Elisa!” Dorothea exclaimed, half in shock and half in amusement.

“What?” Elisa shot back, her tone exasperated. “You’re going to make us late! Again! Do you want every member of the ton to think we Bridgertons have no sense of time?”

Her mock scolding sent Dorothea into peals of laughter, and you joined in, shaking your head fondly at Elisa’s theatrics.

Over the years, Elisa had become as much your child as the others. Though she wasn’t born into your family, you adopted her and loved her fiercely. She also fit right in with her spirited, unapologetic nature.

Dorothea stood, her gown flowing gracefully as she stepped toward Elisa. “Alright, alright, I’m coming!” she said with a grin.

Elisa crossed her arms, satisfied, though a playful smirk tugged at her lips. “Good. You’ll thank me later when we're not late to the ball and the ton won't stare and silently judge us.

You watched them both with a smile that only grew as they teased each other. It wasn’t the life you had once envisioned when Ethan was still by your side, but it was still a life full of love and joy. Your children who are each unique, lively, and wonderful in their own way were your everything.

As Dorothea moved toward the door, you called out softly, stopping her for just a moment. She turned, and you reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Good luck, my darling,” you said, your voice tinged with hope and pride. “May this season bring you everything your heart desires.”

Dorothea’s smile softened, and she nodded, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. “Thank you, Mama.”

The other children joined you as you descended down the stairs with Elisa and Dorothea. The boys immediately offering their arms to link each of the ladies in the family. Atticus coming to escort you with a smile.

Ethan may have been gone, but his legacy lived on in each of your children. And as long as they were by your side, you knew you could carry on.

[visenyaism]

Heyy!! What are your thoughts on Jaeherys and Alysanne's daughters?

well when your father looks at you and only sees an incarnation of his own sister-wife because you were put on this earth for him to groom into a future child bride for his sons or summarily disposed of it is a bit of a crazymaking situation.

I think the reason Jaehaerys acted inexplicably genuinely shocked every single time one of his teenage daughters got to marrying age and someone suggested that they get married was because he thought that he was going to be the only man in their lives forever because there is something deeply wrong with him. and then their mom is arranging these crazyass matches with older men to live vicariously through them because she never got to choose a partner, so it really is just a complete and total psychosexual codependency enmeshment nightmare.

-think something had to be extremely wrong with valyrian tradwife never allowed to develop an independent identity Alyssa below the surface. because being named the golden child by responding positively to the grooming telling you to peg your brother and wanting to birth him an entire army of sons before dying at 23 definitely speaks to….something. where else do daemon‘s mommy issues come from

-Daella exists to be a victim and dies giving birth to her daughter who also exists to be a victim. sacrificial lamb parthenogenesis.

-Maegelle got out of everything else simply by being conceived with the explicit intention of being a living tithe. somehow the least crazy situation on this list. 

-I don’t know whether or not it is intentional that Saera is written exhibiting so many of the behaviors indicative of being a CSA victim. hypersexual alcoholic dysregulated fifteen year-old being held down and forced to watch her father chop her boyfriend in half by her mom‘s codependent female bodyguard is an experience you could throw the entire works of Sigmund Freud at and come up lacking. i hope lys was nice.

-Viserra being exiled for absorbing too much of the Targaryen grooming background radiation and getting falling down drunk at 15 before making a move on her brother. this just keeps happening to them. I’m sure it’s a coincidence. insane that Alysanne really felt like she was competing with her own daughter here because I know she was a #boymom with baelon and aemon.

-I think it’s interesting how no one mentions Gael ever again after she kills herself and no one seems to think of her at all given the fact that she’s daemon’s age and presumably would’ve interacted with any of the grandkids. I know it’s because textually she’s just an afterthought, but I think it would be interesting if her yellow wallpaper ass existence and the fact that she is basically a pet for her mother her entire life just sort of renders her posthumously unspeakable. no one wants to talk about what happened to her.

[vulturv0lans]

If it's not too much to ask, can we have a soft dom diluc gently guiding a shy sub reader through her first time? (In desperate need of tooth rotting fluff and diluc being sweet lmaoo [with lots of praise ofc])

ok you know what anon i have been looking for something like this but i haven't found too many,,,thank you for the request!

word count: 2,960 (i got carried away again oops) tags: first time, references to diluc’s father/backstory/official manga, soft dom diluc, lots of love and affection and just overall sappy, porn with plot (lots of it), me crying (also lots of it)

m.list | diluc m.list | rules | inbox

the air is salty by the lake and his door rusty, yet you’re sure you’ve never need anything more.

when diluc brought you back to the winery for the first time, this was not what he had in mind. he had simply wanted to show you more, parts of him he had long hidden beneath the layers of his clothing and layers of walls he built up. but you are his lover now. you meet the maids that have been with him since he was a child, browse through the volumes that his father left behind, breathe the same air that he has always breathed inside the estate.

he was not planning to take you right there, on the four posted bed he claims but seldom occupies, on the second floor of the winery.

diluc was hesitant at first, leading you into the one place he holds closest to his heart. the master bedroom has not seen a visitor in ages. even the maids rarely enter except when they are asked to, because within these gilded walls and draped curtains is where diluc can truly feel at ease, no “mondstadt wine tycoon” or “master of dawn winery” or even “darknight hero” attached.

and before your eyes, he feels just as bare.

you had taken a seat at the edge of his mattress, arms supporting your weight as your eyes take in the surroundings. the wallpaper is a dark crimson red, damask patterns painted in black. the thick velvet of the curtains match the crimson in colour, yet the light seeping through the fabric and reflecting off of the golden tassels that touch the floor. the furnishings are simple, the large room otherwise empty save for a mirror, a wardrobe, a fireplace, and a desk filled with books.

yet it’s the paintings on the walls that catch your eye. one of them can easily be discerned as an exterior sketch of dawn winery, its signature red roofs a stark contrast to the rows of green underneath. off on the other wall is a portrait. a tall, greying man poses in the middle with two younger boys to either side of him, one with hair as blue as the twilight skies, and the other with hair red as blazing fire.

diluc follows your gaze to the painting, and suddenly the room feels too hot. before he can open his mouth to change the topic, you have already turned to him with an inquisitive look in your eye, and his heart softens. he cannot say no to you.

“that’s your father, isn’t it?”

he nods, choosing to offer no further explanation.

“what was he like?”

your voice is gentle, yet he is still taken aback. seldom anyone wants to know what crepus was like as a person, beyond just his title and position. for a few moments diluc is silent, pondering his answer. how could he summarize the greatest man he’s ever known into a couple simple sentences?

“he was kind. and very, very brave.” he says at last, “he made me the man that i am today.”

“i’m sure he was a great father,” you say quietly, not wanting to press further. diluc must have his reasons behind not wanting to tell the full story yet, and you’ll give him time. as much time as he needs.

“he was.”

when he looks at you again, your frame so small against the posts on his bed, he feels an unnameable emotion surging through him. you’re studying the painting with such an intense focus, as if trying to hear the voice of a man you’ve never met, trying to understand what others fail to even notice.

and in that moment, diluc is sure he has never been more in love.

he closes the distance between you in two quick strides, and you look up at him in surprise. he intertwines your fingers before pulling you up to your feet, your body pressing flush against his as you find your balance.

“can i kiss you?”

you smile at his question. diluc, ever the gentleman. even several months into your relationship he still asks for permission, and still kisses you like it was the first time.

it’s your turn to close the gap between you now, lips meeting his in a soft kiss. his hands find their way down the small of your back, then up your spine before settling on your cheeks, fingers tangled in your hair as he pulls you even closer, until you can feel every beat of his heart on your skin.

“i love you.” he whispers against your lips when he finally breaks the kiss for air.

“i love you, too,” you echo, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him again, hands clutching his arms for support. diluc feels his skin burn wherever your hands have been, and his love and tenderness suddenly becomes something more.

deepening the kiss, he backs you up until your legs hit the edge of the bed, before your entire person falls backwards into the plush mattress. you pull him down with you, until barely any space is left between his large frame and your own, smaller one.

he smooths out the stray baby hairs on your forehead before resting his against it, eyes searching yours for any signs of discomfort. you both know where this is leading, but diluc wants to be certain, absolutely certain that you're okay with this.

"are you sure?"

you nod before you have time to think. this is a step you're willing to take, and there's no one else you'd rather share it with. even so, small bubbles of anxiety rise from your stomach. will it hurt? will you be able to enjoy this? will he be satisfied, even with your lack of experience?

if diluc could hear your thoughts right now, he would be quick in dismissing them as the most preposterous ones he's ever heard. it would pain him to know that you’d ever fear of not satisfying him, even when he would put you and your pleasures before so much as thinking about himself.

you could never disappoint him, this he knows.

his lips find yours again and your doubts dissipate like the dark clouds after a storm. wandering hands begin unbuttoning and untying every piece of fabric in your way, desperate to reduce the layers keeping you from feeling his bare skin. your clothing clatter as they fall to the ground, diluc barely separating from you to discard his shirt before lowering back down to kiss you, not wanting to part from you for a second longer than necessary.

he's hungry for more, for you.

your hands find purchase on his toned arms, his skin almost too warm under your fingertips. he mumbles something that remotely resembles "off" into your mouth, and you comply almost too quickly, lifting your arms so he could take off your shirt and your bra.

diluc forces himself to hold back when your skin is fully exposed to him. lips glistening and chest heaving, you have never looked more beautiful to him, and he makes sure you know it. dipping his head to your neck, he trails a line of hot kisses down to your breasts, words of praise between every kiss permanently etched into your skin.

"you're breathtaking."

your face heats up as he slots himself in between your legs, hand lowering to your waist. your heart beats too loudly now, focus glued to his fingers hooking into your belt loops before quickly undoing the button on your pants. fiery eyes, hooded by lust and desire, search for confirmation, and you grant it. how could you not, when you burn for him so much?

diluc can’t help but groan out when your bottom half becomes exposed. his attention is quickly taken away by the thin material of your panties, damp and clinging to the wetness pooling between your legs, and he feels the sudden urge to bury his face there.

he runs a finger down your clothed folds and you jump, legs clamping together to relieve some of the pressure. with a hand on your knee, he holds your legs open to allow himself better access to where you need him the most. gently, he moves the soaked panties to the side, and the man fully has to sit back on his heels to drink in the sight before his eyes.

you’re so pretty, so sweet, so vulnerable for him, legs spread and pussy glistening with your arousal, all for him and him only.

he curses under his breath, heart swelling at how lucky he feels to be the one admiring your naked form. ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable bulge in his pants, he dives in like a man starved, flattening his tongue against your pussy to get his first real taste of you.

your back arches off the bed at the sudden contact, diluc’s moan of satisfaction sending delicious vibrations into the deepest parts of your body. his tongue works fast magic on your cunt, licking and sucking and kissing like you’re a five course meal, the slurping sounds in perfect harmony with your soft pants of pleasure.

“fuck, you taste so good, baby.”

the satin of his bedsheet is wrinkled and twisted in your palms as you grip onto it, diluc’s hands quickly reaching up to find yours, your fingers interlacing as he eats you out, the moment so intimate that for a moment you forget the vulgarity of it all and just enjoy being so close to him, physically and emotionally.

you’re growing close, and diluc knows it. despite his pussydrunk state, he forces himself to pull away, his chin now coated with your wetness, before shifting his body up to kiss you again. you moan into his mouth as you taste yourself, obediently granting access to his tongue when it swipes across your bottom lip. the room feels ten degrees hotter and it becomes harder and harder to breathe, until your need for oxygen finally overpowers your desire for him.

diluc’s eyes are alert when you gently push on his chest, his first thought being he’s done something you did not like. gently cradling his face in your hands, you say with a blissful smile the words he’s been longing to hear for so long.

“i need you, diluc.”

his last line of defense snaps and he lets his primal instincts take over, quickly ridding himself of his pants and undergarments before settling you against the plush pillows.

“are you absolutely sure-”

“yes.” you cut him off before he can finish, and diluc‘s ever-present confidence begins to waver. he needs this to be perfect for you.

swallowing thickly, he lines himself up at your entrance. you mirror his gulp as you notice for the first time how big he is, thick and girthy against your tiny hole.

“tell me if it hurts, please,” he asks, so much genuine guilt in his voice that you can’t refuse him an answer.

you yelp in pain when he starts to push in, his body immediately tensing up. only when you repeatedly reaffirm that you’re okay does he continue, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones and whispering apologies and affirmations into your skin as he slowly sinks into you, until he’s completely buried inside you.

“you’re doing so good baby, yeah? that’s it.”

he stills for a moment to let you adjust. but selfishly he wishes to revel in your tightness and warmth for a little longer, your walls so snug against his cock like they were made just for him. he already can’t get enough, and he hasn’t even started moving yet.

you’re the one to initiate the kiss this time, silently giving him permission to move. his thrusts are slow and steady, the tip of his cock dragging against every nerve ending inside you, sending electric sparks throughout your body.

“so tight for me,” he grunts as he picks up his pace, trying to control his movements as to not hurt you, even though a part of him wants to slam into you and fuck you until you’re reduce to a babbling mess begging for his cock. but one look at your face and he feels immediate guilt at his sinful thoughts. you’re so innocent beneath him, bottom lip caught between your teeth and your face scrunched up in pleasure.

he can’t ruin you yet.

soft moans tumble past your parted lips as he reaches down to rub fast circles on your clit. every last cell in your body feels like it’s on fire, the pleasure amplified tenfold from being in the presence of your lover, better than your own fingers could ever satisfy yourself.

you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him in even further, and diluc’s honour is reduced to barely hanging on by a thread.

“you’re taking me so good. so good for me.” he praises and you feel yourself gush around him, his words turning you on even further. it seems your earlier doubts were unnecessary, after all. you grow bolder, reaching up to dig your nails into his back, leaving red marks that claimed him as yours.

the stinging pain from your nails scratching against his skin sends diluc into another wave of euphoria, and he can’t hold himself back much longer. with a low grunt, he pins your wrists down above your head, dark eyes studying the microscopic changes in your expression as your hands are suddenly rendered useless, held down so submissively and at his mercy.

his eyes are fixated on the round of your breasts, bouncing so deliciously to the rhythm of his thrusts. a sudden clench of your cunt almost sends him collapsing on top of you, the tight grip he had maintained on your wrists now faltering from the feeling of your tight walls squeezing him. he curses, the profanity soon turning into praise again at how good you’re taking him, how pretty you looks, and how much he loves you, his words almost doing more to build the knot in your stomach than his steady, deep thrusts.

he leans back to sit on his heels as he lets go of your wrists, moving to hold your legs above his shoulders. you cry out when his cock hits your most sensitive spot from the new position, the sheets once again wrinkled under your tight grip now that your hands are free once again.

“fuck y/n, i’m so close.”

you lift your hips to meet his thrusts half way, all the thoughts in your head replaced by your blinding desire for your release. diluc shifts his weight to hold your thighs open instead, leaning down so he can be close to you before he reaches his impending high. he wants to hold you, to hear you, to see you chase after your high.

your moans and cries are growing more frequent, each more high pitched than the last. they are music to diluc’s ears, music reserved only for him to hear, his own low grunts a perfect harmony.

“i’m so close- gonna cum- please-” you babble, tears dotting your lashes, and diluc has never seen a more beautiful sight.

the sudden warmth of his hand on your neck makes you jump. he doesn’t close his fingers around your throat (though you secretly wished he would), instead his touch is fleeting before moving to cup your face. you lean into him almost immediately, his thumb wiping the tears that escaped, down the smooth skin of your cheeks, and across your bottom lip. he’s hovering so close to you that you can see every freckle on his skin, lips mere centimetres from yours that his every exhale becomes your next inhale, so intimate that you find it hard to believe that he’s kissing you so sweetly while maintaining a relentless pace.

he doesn’t want to hurt you, but he can’t hold back.

“cum for me,” he breathes into your parted lips, “i want to hear you.”

and you don’t need to be told twice. with a loud cry of his name you come undone around him, your slick quickly forming a ring of white at the base of his cock as he rides out your high, his pace becoming erratic and sloppy at the vice-like grip of your cunt.

“fuck,” he lets out a deep grunt as you repeatedly clench around him, the sound resonating from deep within his chest. his hands pat around the bed looking for yours, and soon after he locks your fingers together again he cums too, head buried in your shoulder and his cock shooting hot ropes into you, painting your walls white.

your legs are shaking as you come down from your high, your pussy so sensitive to any tiny movements that you almost cum again when he tries to pull out from you. the satin beneath you is soaked with a mix of both your essence, drops of white leaking from your sobbing hole when diluc finally pulls out.

he admires you in your post-orgasm glow, and not just at the sight of his cum leaking out of you and your pussy now moulded to the shape of him. it’s as if a soft silk has been draped over you, painting your features in glorious moonlight.

“you’re so beautiful.”

he breaks the silence that has enveloped you both while your breathing returned to normal.

you still find it foreign, the feeling of his compliments even as you’re spread out naked under him. as if sensing your disbelief, diluc repeats his words again, this time between wet kisses on your collarbone, etching his love for you into your body.

“so. beautiful,” he whispers into your skin, his heart swelling, “and all mine.”

note. me and who WHEN >:( also i hope you enjoy my subtle taylor swift reference at the beginning hehe m.list | diluc m.list | rules | inbox ♡

© vulturv0lans 2023, do not copy, repost, or translate without permission.

[derekhighwaytf]

The Golden Boy

Dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren, Rolex watch glistening on his wrist, Spencer Harrington was the spitting image of New England privilege.  He truly had it all: money, good looks, intelligence beyond even his most high-brow peers.  He was only twenty-one and had already published two best-selling poetry novels and was head of the most exclusive secret society at Yale.  Once he graduated, he planned to propose to his most perfect girlfriend and, just like his father, have the most perfect son to follow in his footsteps.

But then he saw the lamp.

It was a family heirloom that had sat at Harrington Mansion for centuries, the only piece of metal in the house that wasn't polished daily by the staff.  If his father had not been so adamant about keeping it untouched, then it probably would have been thrown out years ago, replaced with something shinier and newer, as had Spencer's last few stepmothers.

But his father was firm about the lamp.  It was to never be moved, never be touched.

Spencer, however, couldn’t help but smirk at the idea. The thrill of the unknown added an edge to his usual smug demeanour.  Despite all the whispered warnings and tales about the lamp, Spencer was eager to see what secrets it held. Without a moment of hesitation, his hands began to rub the lamp's worn surface. Suddenly, an otherworldly glow engulfed the room, and a cloud of dark, misty smoke spiraled out from the lamp.

The figure that emerged from the smoke was nothing short of breathtaking. He towered at an imposing height, muscles rippling beneath his bronzed skin. His jet-black hair fell carelessly onto his forehead, framing a face that was sharp and remarkably handsome. His emerald green eyes twinkled with a blend of mischief and malice. This being, whoever he was, was the essence of danger, awe, and power, and all Spencer could do was stare blankly at his form.

"Spencer Harrington," the figure addressed him, his voice booming through the room. Spencer recoiled, his smugness shaken by the figure's commanding presence. "I am Sakhir, born from this lamp and bound to its curse."

“Are…are you some sort of genie?” Spencer asked.

“A genie?!”  Sakhir laughed mercilessly at such an accusation, letting his ominous chuckles hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "I am no wish granter, Spencer Harrington. No, quite the contrary. I offer not boons, but curses, to the ones who dare summon me."

Sakhir’s announcement echoed through the silence as Spencer stood silent, agonizing over what fate this “Anti-Genie” was about to bring upon him.

"You, Spencer Harrington," the Anti-Genie began, "Are a child of privilege, born into a life of luxury, a life you've never earned." The words were cold and hard, piercing Spencer's usual indifference.

With a sweeping motion of his arm, the Anti-Genie continued, "Your first curse, dear Spencer, is to lose all your family's wealth. You shall understand the hardships of those you've long considered beneath you." 

Before Spencer could utter a protest, the room spun wildly. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in the lavish living room of his family's mansion. Instead, he found himself in a cramped, rundown apartment, its peeling wallpaper and old, worn-out furniture a stark contrast to the Harrington mansion. His preppy clothes had been replaced with a simple white wifebeater and jeans, a price tag still hanging off it – $4.99.

His Rolex? Gone. The comfort of his privileged life? Gone.  And his scrawny, delicate body?  Also gone. His pecs, his arms, his legs, they all grew massive and rugged, the result of a life filled with manual labor and hard work. A strange, cold sensation of shock washed over him as he realized he had become a stranger in his own life. The country club he’d gone to all his life was now replaced with a dingy bar, his regular hangout. The Harringtons, once the town's richest family, were now “low class white trash” as the town's elite would say.

Spencer stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. The man staring back at him was still a Harrington, yet, so different. The physical transformation was a shock, but the sudden shift from a life of privilege to an existence of struggles was what shook him to his core. Sakhir’s first curse had already altered his life beyond recognition.

Disoriented by the sudden shift in his world, Spencer attempted to regain his composure. His pride, inherited from generations of Harringtons, refused to be quieted. The room may have changed, his clothes and surroundings might be different, but he was still a Harrington, goddamit!

Looking up, Spencer met Sakhir's gaze. "You think this changes anything?" he spat, the usual smugness on his face replaced with a defiant glare. "I'm still Spencer Harrington! You can't change who I am inside!"

His proclamation was met with an amused smirk from the Anti-Genie. "Ah, the naïveté of youth," he said, his emerald eyes glinting with an insidious joy. "Let's see about that, shall we?"

With another sweeping motion of his arm, the Anti-Genie said, "Your second curse, Spencer, is to lose all your intelligence. Your fascination with poetry, literature, art and all the delicate intricacies of high society will be replaced with a fondness for...simpler pleasures."

A rush of wind filled the room, and Spencer felt a throbbing pain at his temples. Suddenly, words that once came so easily to him seemed to slip from his mind. His tongue felt heavy, sentences becoming jumbled in his head. The eloquent Spencer Harrington, once the star of literary society and university clubs, could now only grasp simple words and phrases no longer than five letters. His thoughts were no longer about poetry or literature, but football, beer, and other primal desires. His IQ, once a proud 135, plummeted to a mere 80.

Spencer, now struggling to put together even a simple sentence, looked around the room. The literature and art that once filled his life were replaced with sports magazines, porno mags, and the stench of weed. His life was simpler, focused more on the here and now rather than philosophical questions or artistic appreciation. The weight of the Anti-Genie's second curse made itself known, his life further straying from the privileged existence he once knew.

Struggling to form a cohesive thought, Spencer could only stare in bewildered silence at the Anti-Genie. The very essence of who he was had been altered. He could no longer comprehend the deep, intellectual discussions he once relished, nor could he express himself with the eloquent vocabulary that had once effortlessly flowed from his lips.

“You done man?”

Smirking, Sakhir raised an arm for the final time. "Your transformation isn't quite complete, Spencer. Your final curse shall be to lead a new life, one more suited to your newfound disposition."

Before Spencer could protest, his surroundings changed once more. The cramped apartment vanished, replaced by a gas station's dingy surroundings. Spencer felt his casual white wifebeater and jeans shift against his body. Looking down, he saw a soiled uniform and the name "Sam" embroidered onto the nametag. He instinctively ran a hand over the coarse fabric, the reality of his new life hitting him like a physical blow.

But before he could fully process his new attire, a strange tingling sensation started at the top of his head. It was as though an invisible barber had started their work, the once lush locks that Spencer took immense pride in seemed to release themselves, slowly falling away from his scalp. He reached up, a sense of dread filling him as his fingers grazed over sandpapery skin. The locks, a testament to his vanity, were disappearing rapidly.

The sensation intensified, until all he could focus on was the odd feeling of his hair vanishing. It was as though each follicle was surrendering its hair without any resistance. The transformation was painless yet terrifying. Spencer tried to grab onto his vanishing hair, but his hands met nothing but scalp.

In a matter of moments his once beautiful hair, the last remnant of Spencer’s old, privileged life, a feature that had drawn many admiring glances and compliments, was gone. His head now reflected the dim lights of the gas station.

And then, the final blow fell. "From this day forward, Spencer Harrington is no more," the Anti-Genie declared, his voice echoing through the small gas station. "Now you are nothing but Sam Harris, the local town...let’s say “professional”."

Stunned, Spencer—no, Sam now—looked around his new environment. He found a joint and a lighter in his pocket, the smell instantly recognisable and comforting. As he lit up, he got a sudden craving for something else in his mouth.  I mean, he was the town prostitute after all.

He opened up his phone and met up with the first person who’d give him ten dollars, which was chump change for Spencer, but more than enough for good ol’ Sam.

His old life was now a distant memory. He had no comprehension of his former intellect or wealth, nor the privilege he once wielded. The golden boy of the Harrington family was no more and all the locals looking for a new cumdump were all the happier for it.

[tameodesza]

꒰ modus operandi ₊　⠀᱖⠀⠀꒱

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Pornstar!Shawn x Director!Bret ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

♡ Summary: Bret had worked a lot of odd jobs throughout his career, but he never thought his film degree would lead him to the set of a porno.

♡ a/n: This ended up being way longer than I expected, as always. AO3 link.

NSFW 🗣️🗣️🗣️

Bret was a seasoned film director in Hollywood. He’d worked numerous gigs throughout his career – commercials, sitcoms, low-budget indie films, and a short stint as a cameraman for some obscure wrestling federation in his younger years.

He’d done it all – or so he thought.

When an industry friend called one day asking him to direct a project on short notice, he wished he hadn’t broken his rule of not answering his landline on his day off.

He’d barely gotten the phone off the hook when he heard the distressed voice over the line. “Bret! Buddy! Need a huge favor. My director backed out last minute. Can you fill in?”

 “What happened to your guy?”

“Fucked off to Aruba. Something about his ex trying to serve him with child support papers. Now I’m out a director! Please, Bret. I promise it’ll be worth your while.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Bret leaned a shoulder against his cheap wallpaper, pinching the bridge of his nose. He should’ve hung up right then. But work had been a little slow for him lately, and with his bills piling up, it was unwise to turn down any work.

Bret hid his sigh as he asked, “What’s it for?”

-

Bret almost backed out of the project himself once he learned the details. But he couldn’t turn down the money. It was almost three times the amount he made on his last project. So after a day of briefing and understanding his requirements, Bret pulled up to a discreet film lot second-guessing his life choices.

Now, Bret had worked a lot of odd jobs throughout his career, but he never thought his film degree would lead him to the set of a porno.

Red leather couches, neon lights, and a lingering smell of sex greeted him as soon as he walked through the doors. He looked like a deer in headlights as his eyes scanned the room. He was far from modest, but he wasn’t sure what to expect working in such a lewd environment.

Then his eyes landed on the star of this project – Shawn Michaels.

Shawn was one of the most popular adult film stars on the scene. Many dubbed him as porn’s ‘Golden Boy,’ a name he earned due to his beauty, charm, and onscreen performance that left his viewers lusting for more. He was a hot commodity, but his success hadn’t come without sacrifice.

Despite his profession, Shawn, in fact, did not bareback his way to the top. The rumor spread like wildfire early in his career when people speculated on his quick rise in the business. With the amount of people Shawn came across promising him roles for a quick fuck, the idea wasn’t farfetched. But Shawn liked to believe he still had a sprinkle of morals left and turned down every offer.

Instead, it took working on a handful of crappy deals, unsafe work environments, and sketchy underground projects that probably never saw the light of day for him to catch the eye of some important people. Through rounds of networking, he managed to get signed to one of the top agencies in adult entertainment, Heartbreak Talent.

With his agency behind him, Shawn rose from the underground and began working on high profile projects with some of the most popular porn stars in the business. No longer was he meeting up in some dude’s moldy basement, but rather an actual set with regulations. He began pumping out quality content and selling his own merch on the side to make more money. When he began getting invitations to attend events put together for the top stars in the business, he knew he’d reached the upper echelon of adult entertainment.

Shawn sat in his makeup chair dressed in nothing but a white robe. He never understood the need to powder his face when all he was going to do was sweat it off. But he’d long given up on trying to understand the things they did.

He trailed his fingers through his styled hair to fluff it up a bit but came to a stop when he spotted Bret’s unfamiliar face in the mirror. Fit, tan, pretty eyes, and curly brown hair? The man was gorgeous, Shawn mentally declared as his eyes tracked Bret’s movement across the room.

Shawn almost mistook him for an actor with those looks, but soon realized the attractive man was the director. Shawn was accustomed to working with the same few directors, so it was a rarity to see someone new. And luckily for him, the beautiful man was directing the final scene of his project – a three-part series centered on Shawn banging the pizza guy.

“Delivery!”

Shawn smiled as his eyes shifted to the deep voiced man walking up behind him wearing a cheap shirt with a pizza logo in the center. It was his favorite co-star, Big Dick Diesel. Favorite because working with him always felt easy and they made a lot of money together with their onscreen chemistry.

Shawn snickered, tilting his head back to peer at the man. “Glad to see you got your lines memorized.”

“It’s easy when it’s my only line along with ‘You ordered an extra large?’”

They laughed quietly between themselves. “Yeah, I’m not expecting to win any Oscars with these cheesy lines. No pun intended.”

-

The sound of skin slapping, leather squeaking, and exaggerated moans filled the air as Diesel jackhammered his dick into Shawn’s ass. Shawn rested against Diesel’s chest, allowing his body to be used like a toy while his eyes flirted with the camera. He gave another loud moan and threw his head back when Diesel wrapped a hand around his cock.

“Yes, big daddy. Fuck me, fuck me! Don’t stop. Fuck!”

Shawn was in his element, and though much of his onscreen performance was an act, Diesel was one of few co-stars able to squeeze a real moan out of him. But as seamlessly as the shoot was going, something had been bothering the blond. And the source was the man behind the camera.

Shawn was used to directors praising him throughout scenes, commenting on how hot he was, how great his ass looked, or how good he took dick. It was a huge boost to his ego and encouraged him to pull out more tricks for the camera. But between sucking off Diesel and riding the man’s dick into oblivion, Shawn couldn’t help but notice how quiet the new director was.

Instead of ogling over Shawn, Bret kept a straight face, only speaking when directing Shawn and Diesel to change angles. It was strictly professional, something that Shawn wasn’t used to. It had him second-guessing his performance, wondering if Bret was too nice to tell him if he was ruining the shot.

After a final hard thrust, Diesel abruptly stilled, filling his condom with cum as Shawn continued to ride him through his climax. The blond came soon after, and Bret never felt more like a perv as held the shot on the cum oozing down Shawn’s dick.

Shawn ended the scene with his last line, “How’s that for a tip,” a dopey smile plastered on his face as he gave Diesel a kiss.

Bret was gone as soon as he yelled ‘cut’, robbing Shawn of seeing his beautiful face once more. Shawn sank back into Diesel, letting out a slow breath as the man lazily wrapped his arms around him. He squinted when Diesel pulled out, never getting used to dismounting the larger man.  

An assistant brought over a pair of robes, and after getting dressed they made plans to meet up at the bar later that night. Diesel was one of few people Shawn could fuck and go out drinking like nothing happened, something he cherish about their friendship.

Shawn was late to leave, choosing to freshen up at the studio since it was closer to the bar. Upon leaving the building, he was pleasantly surprised to find Bret standing on the curb waiting for his ride. Something told him to keep walking, especially because Bret seemed to be of few words. But that only made the blond that much more curious.

“Hey.” Shawn approached with a dazzling smile.

Bret was barely able to make eye contact. It felt odd having a normal conversation with the blond after seeing so much of him exposed. “Hey.”

There was a long pause that Bret didn’t seem likely to fill. Shawn shifted his feet in the awkward silence, pulling out a cigarette as a distraction. Before he could light it, he noticed Bret eyeing the stick. “You smoke?”

Bret averted his eyes. “Trying to kick the habit.”

“Oh.” Shawn swiftly put the cigarette back in the cartridge.

The conversation was drier than the Sahara desert, but that didn’t stop Shawn from shooting his shot. He moved closer to Bret, examining him with inquisitive eyes. He was cute, even cuter up close. “Have you acted before?”

Bret crinkled a brow. “No…why?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering why a pretty face like yours stays hidden behind the camera.”

Bret’s cheeks heated up, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. Shawn smirked, knowing he had Bret right where he wanted him.

But just then, Bret spotted his ride cruising up the street. He found his words, answering curtly, “I’m not interested in the spotlight.” Then he grabbed his camera bag, entering his brother’s brown Cadillac before it could come to a complete stop.

Shawn watched longingly as the car pulled off with even more interest in the mysterious director.

Bret eyed Shawn’s image in the rearview mirror with conflicting thoughts of his own. But his thoughts were interrupted when Owen asked blatantly, “So how’s the porn gig?”

Bret shifted his eyes from the mirror to Owen with a look of annoyance. “I really wish you wouldn’t call it that.”

“Pardon me. How’s the ‘adult entertainment’ gig?” Owen said with a shit-eating grin.

Bret sighed into his palm, wishing he hadn’t told Owen. He wanted to keep it under wraps, but with his car being in the shop, he had no choice but to let his nosy brother know why he suddenly needed a ride to an obscure location across town. The only comfort he had was knowing Owen would keep it to himself. Bret didn’t want to give his family another reason to clown him on his career choice. Though his parents were supportive, his siblings never believed he’d make it in Hollywood despite the success he’d had.

He answered flatly. “It’s a job.”

“Oh, it’s more than just a job-”

“Owen. Please. I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“…You’re no fun.”

-

“Think he’s straight?” Shawn seriously asked after slamming his shot glass on the counter.

Diesel smiled into his drink, knowing the director had caught Shawn’s eye. He shrugged. “Don’t know. Makes it a whole lot more awkward he’s shooting gay porn if so.”

“He’s so cute,” Shawn blurted. Subtlety had never been his expertise. “It wouldn’t be fair if he’s straight.”

“Talk to him and find out then.”

“I tried. Getting a conversation out of him is like trying to squeeze water out of bread. It ain’t gonna happen.”

Diesel snorted. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing. You know the number one rule in the business. Never fall for y-”

“Your co-star, yes I know.” He’d learned that the hard way with Marty. “But no one ever said anything about the director, Dies.” Shawn gave a mischievous grin and Diesel could only shake his head as he ordered another drink.

-

Bret was asked (begged) to work on a few more projects, many of which starred Shawn. Apparently, the previous director was still on the run, and Bret’s impressive camerawork made him the top choice for a replacement.

When Shawn realized that Bret was directing more of his films, that began his mission to find any stupid excuse to talk to Bret. He likened the man to an old car’s engine. He just needed to be warmed up before running properly. They needed to get on speaking terms and he’d woo the man in no time.

He pulled out all the stops - asking Bret which angle he looked better in, asking Bret to roll the footage back after finishing a scene, and asking Bret of his opinion on outfits he should wear, even though there were stylists on set with more qualified opinions. 

The process was slow and steady. Bret remained standoffish for a while, finding Shawn’s chatty nature annoying at first. But with each attempt, it seemed that Shawn was able to get a bit more conversation out of the quiet director.

Shawn draped a robe around himself as he huddled closely to the monitor. He’d just finished up a scene with another top star, Hunter Helmsley, before making his way over to Bret. “Wow. My ass looks great.”

Bret glanced sideways at the blond, rolling his eyes with the shake of his head. He hadn’t known Shawn for long, but he was quick to learn of the blond’s self-obsession. Then he noticed Shawn’s sudden frown, his eyes laser focused on the screen. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you cut that in post?”

Bret scrunched his brows, looking back at the screen that showed Shawn on his knees blowing Hunter. “Why?”

“You don’t see that? The way my stomach folds there?” He pointed towards the bottom of the screen. “It’s unflattering.”

Bret looked closely, rewinding and pausing the video to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Honestly, Shawn looked fine. But the look in Shawn’s eyes told Bret the blond didn’t feel the same. It was an eye-opening moment for him as he realized the confident blond struggled with the image of himself.

“Shawn, I promise you it looks fine.”

Shawn gave a doe-eyed look. “Really?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Shawn looked back at the screen, finding it hard to believe. But he believed Bret was being honest. He was too blunt not to be. “Ok. I trust your opinion. Thanks, Bret.”

-

Shawn’s a genius. He was sure of it when he thought of a plan to get Bret alone. His agency had asked for him to submit some updated promotional photos to use on their website, and Shawn knew just who to ask for help.

Bret grew suspicious when he pulled up to the ‘set location,’ which was nothing more than Shawn’s high-rise condo. His mind raced on the elevator ride up, clashing against the slow classical music that played around him, as he speculated over the real reason Shawn invited him to his home.

Bret first toyed with the idea of it being a setup. Maybe he was going to get robbed of his expensive camera equipment. But, no. Shawn didn’t seem like the type of person to do that. Then he wondered if he had the wrong address. But that couldn’t be when the concierge had expected his arrival and pointed him to the direction of Shawn’s suite.

Once the elevator dinged, he settled on Shawn’s request being legit. He was due for new pictures, and Bret was great with cameras. Of course the blond would ask for his help. He was psyching himself out for nothing.

But when Shawn answered the door with his signature smile and messy hair, scantily clad in a see-through white silk robe with his lingerie slightly visible beneath, Bret was unsure of the blond’s intentions.

“Don’t be shy. Come in.” Shawn opened the door wider and Bret’s nose was hit with the inviting smell of his expensive cologne.

Bret entered hesitantly, but his nerves settled upon seeing the white backdrop in Shawn’s living room. When Shawn rounded him after closing the door, Bret pointed to his attire and asked, “Is this for the photoshoot?”

Shawn smirked as he walked backwards, opening his robe to reveal the white lace thong underneath. “Of course. What else would it be for?” Bret chose not to answer.

It started out innocently enough with Bret directing Shawn to flattering poses before taking a picture. But Shawn was a natural and didn’t need much direction. He knew just what his viewers would want to see.

Things took a turn when Shawn began flirting with Bret in his not-so-subtle manner. “Hey, can you pull this down a bit?”

Bret was busy looking through the photos when he glanced up to see Shawn on his knees with backside facing him. Shawn had rid himself of his robe, leaving ass cheeks exposed in his thong. He threw his head over his shoulder, waiting for Bret to take the bait.

Bret’s breath hitched before swallowing spit down his dry throat. It was funny, really. He’d seen the blond naked so many times, and in more compromising positions than the one he was currently in. But it was something about being alone in Shawn’s home that seemed so…intimate? Inappropriate? Yeah, that was it.

Or maybe Bret was thinking on it too much. The photoshoot was for porn promotional photos. It’s nothing out of the norm given the circumstances.

Bret cleared his throat. “Sure.” He set down his camera then walked over and kneeled behind the blond, unaware of Shawn’s growing smile. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the thin fabric. “How low?”

Shawn turned his head inches from Bret’s face. “Just below the crack. Gotta leave them wanting more, you know?”

Bret gulped audibly in their close proximity, his eyes flitting between Shawn’s eyes and his lips. He was toeing a dangerous line and needed to stop himself before crossing it. “Right.” He looked away and turned his attention back to Shawn’s thong, tugging it down to Shawn’s liking.

It was hard for Shawn to hide his disappointment when Bret walked back to his camera.

-

Diesel knew Shawn was down bad when the blond called him over to drink at his condo that night.

Shawn nursed a bottle of Hennessy as he moped, “I don’t think he’s gay!” You’d think someone cut off Shawn’s hair the way he was in hysterics.

Diesel chuckled, “Because he didn’t fuck you as soon as he walked in?”

“Exactly!”

“Maybe he’s a gentleman.”

“Or straight, like I said.” He took another swig.

Diesel should have been more compassionate, but he thought this was hilarious. Shawn always got whatever and whoever he wanted. Always. This was the first time Shawn was so verklempt over a man not fawning over him, and frankly, Diesel thought it was a humbling experience.

“Well, I don’t think you throwing yourself at him’s the answer. Look at how long it took for him to say more than a few words to you. You’ve gotta take it slow.”

“I’ll lose a race to a turtle if I go any slower.” He flopped on the side of his couch, whining in the cushion.

Diesel rolled his eyes at the dramatic blond.

-

Bret sat at his desk looking through the photos he’d taken. Shawn made it seem like he needed the photos urgently, so Bret wanted to make sure he had some good ones picked out of the batch. His finger hovered on the ‘next’ button when he came across a photo that brought a tender smile to his face. It was an off-guard photo he’d taken of Shawn as the blond pulled a piece of lint out of his hair. It was a softer image of Shawn, one that wasn’t full of the lust his company wanted, but one that spoke of an innocence behind those lustful eyes. Bret thought Shawn looked prettiest this way when he wasn’t trying to put on for the camera.

Though it wasn’t obvious to Shawn, Bret was dealing with his own conflicted feelings towards him. Bret met many beautiful people in his line of work, and none of them compared to Shawn. But he knew better than to dip his toe in the water when it came to talent. He’d seen many men and women get blackballed in Hollywood as a result of onset relationships that went wrong. Bret took his career too seriously to risk it.

But he’d be lying if he said his mood didn’t lift when Shawn spoke to him. Or that he didn’t miss Shawn’s presence when he worked on projects the blond wasn’t a part of. Even if Bret didn’t have much to say, he just liked listening to Shawn talk, the blond always having an interesting story to tell.

He’d smile whenever Shawn complimented him, even more so when Shawn would shout triumphantly at the fact that he was able to will away Bret’s signature frown. There were also the few times when Shawn brushed past him and sent a wave of butterflies in his stomach that he tried to ignore. But the butterflies would soon dissipate after yelling ‘action’ and filming Shawn fucking or getting fucked by other men.

Shawn was at the top of their business for a reason. He was a showman, putting on a performance that would leave anyone watching with envy. Bret knew himself well enough to know that a fling between them wouldn’t work. He was a jealous man, something he wasn’t proud of. And with Shawn’s line of work, it would be a tough pill to swallow watching the blond share his body with someone else.

Filming Shawn with his well-endowed screen partners, like Diesel and Hunter, didn’t make Bret feel any better when he wondered if he’d be able to please Shawn all the same.

Bret set down his camera, coming to the conclusion that he needed to keep the blond an arm’s length away for both of their sakes. But that was easier said than done.

-

As Bret predicted, working on set with Shawn became much more difficult once feelings got involved. No matter how much he told himself to ignore it, seeing Shawn being taken by a man, sometimes multiple men at once, was hard for Bret to stomach.

It became even tougher filming rough scenes where Bret couldn’t discern if Shawn’s pain was real or part of the act. It took a mental toll on Bret because he actually cared for the guy.

There came a point where it was too much and Bret had to intervene.

“Cut! Let’s reset, guys. The lighting’s off.” Truth was Bret needed an excuse to give Shawn a break from the abuse his body endured.

His skin raised in nasty welts across his chest from the whip his screen partner, Undertaker, had been using.

“You ok?” he asked Shawn who laid on a table, breathing heavily. He seemed out of it but gave a shaky smile.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the time Shawn struggled for air as his co-star, Razor Ramon, forced his mouth down on his cock as he came, ignoring Shawn’s frantic taps on his thigh.

Bret was close to stopping filming, but just as he moved, Razor pulled Shawn’s back head, causing the blond to cough up spit and cum that hadn’t made it down his throat. What was even more bizarre was the fact that those around him seemed unphased as if they were desensitized to the brutality of what happened to Shawn.

Bret called for someone to bring over a towel and he helped clean up Shawn’s face. “I’m fine, Bret.” His voice was rough with misuse.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sound like it. But before Bret could further question him, Shawn grabbed a robe and left the room without another word. Bret was concerned but gave Shawn the space he clearly needed.

Bret waited for the room to clear out to address Razor. The man had just zipped up his duffle bag when Bret approached. “You nearly killed him, you know that?”

Razor turned around with a lifted brow. His accent was thick, toothpick hanging out of his mouth as he said, “Listen here, chico. I don’t tell you how to direct. So don’t tell me how to fuck. If you got a problem with it, go back to directing insurance commercials.”

He flicked his toothpick in Bret’s face before stalking out of the room.

-

Bret realized there was something more between him and Shawn when they began hanging out outside of work. It started as Shawn asking Bret to spot him at the gym the one time Diesel couldn’t come. Bret should’ve said no, especially with how complicated things were with Shawn. And with how left the photoshoot went, there was no telling what Shawn would pull out from his hat of tricks. But how could he turn Shawn down when begged him with those baby blues.

Surprisingly, they’d done just as Shawn asked – spotted him. Nothing more. So when Shawn began asking Bret to join him on other outings, he didn’t see any problems with it. If anything, Bret looked forward to it. It gave him a reason to get out the house and experience new things he probably wouldn’t have had it not been for Shawn, such as wine tastings and apple picking. It was something so pure about seeing Shawn get excited about finding the juiciest apple in the orchard.

Through these outings, Bret got to see a different side of Shawn that only those closest to him saw. He got to know him not as the Heartbreak agency’s sex symbol, but as Shawn the person.

Having Bret’s company meant more to Shawn than Bret could ever know. As much of a socialite as Shawn was, he had very few real friends. It could get lonely sometimes when everyone was too busy to hang out with him. But Bret always seemed to make time.

It was during a morning hike that Bret learned the most about Shawn.

They sat down at a picnic table, needing a break from their hike. Shawn chuckled as Bret tried to hide his exhaustion. He handed over his water bottle since Bret hadn’t brought his own. “Here. Drink up.” Bret cautiously eyed the bottle and Shawn said, “I promise I don’t have cooties. Scouts honor.”

Bret snorted and grabbed the bottle. He took a few sips and handed it back. “Thanks. I should’ve brought my own. Wasn’t expecting it to be so hot today.”

“Oh, please. This is nothing compared to Texas.”

“Texas?”

“The accent didn’t give it away?” Shawn snickered and took a sip of water. “I’m from Texas. Born and raised.”

“How’d you end up out here?”

“The same as most of us – the age old tale of dreaming to make it as an actor in Hollywood.” He turned his head, looking at the Hollywood sign in the distance. “Except it didn’t work out for me. Or maybe it did, depending on how you look at it. It takes a bit of acting skills to do porn, right?”

Bret had never given much thought to what Shawn did before porn, but he hadn’t expected to hear he was a struggling actor. “How’d you get into adult entertainment?”

“I was desperate for money. I’d managed to score a few commercials, but the pay didn’t even cover half of my bills. One day, I saw this ad asking for a nude male performer. I wasn’t entirely sure what the gig was for. Something about taking candid photos, but I didn’t care. I needed the 300 bucks.”

Bret’s eyes widened. “Only $300?!”

“Hey, I told you I was desperate!” Shawn laughed loudly. “If it makes it any better, they upped the pay to $500 when I agreed to have sex on camera.”

It didn’t make it any better. “And showing up to a random location for sex didn’t scare you?”

Shawn waved a flippant hand. “It was fine. The ladies were nice.”

“Ladies?”

Shawn curled a brow, entertained by Bret’s reaction. “Is that so shocking?”

“Kind of. I mean, I just thought you only did gay porn.”

“I did whatever paid the bills. It’s a shame, really.”

“There’s no shame in that.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No. You did what you needed to survive and have been fortunate enough to make a living out of it. You should be proud, Shawn.”

Bret expected that to put a smile on the blond’s face. But a somber mood came over Shawn as he looked away with a faraway look.

Shawn whispered, “If only my family thought the same.” The words left him quicker than he realized. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get personal. Forget I said anything.”

“No, no, it’s ok.” Bret reached out a hand, breaking his arms-length rule as he placed his hand on Shawn’s shoulder. “Your family. Do they…are they not supportive?” He could relate with that.

Shawn gave a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nope…They disowned me. Dad wasn’t particularly happy to learn we had a porn star in the family.” He looked down at his hands, not wanting to see Bret’s pity.

“Oh, Shawn.” Bret rubbed his hand gently on Shawn’s shoulder in comfort. “How did they find out?”

Shawn sighed. “It’s embarrassing really. My dad’s neighbor called him over after finding a gay porn magazine under his son’s bed. I was on the cover, wearing nothing but a Christmas-themed G-string.”

Shawn had fond memories of that photoshoot. It was the first time he’d met Hunter, kickstarting their decade-long friendship. It just sucked that the memory was overshadowed by the events that followed.

“Once the secret was out, he cut off all ties with me. Said I was a cancer and needed to repent for my sins. Everyone else in the family followed suit and I haven’t spoken to them in nearly ten years.”

That was a hit to Bret’s chest. He couldn’t imagine the hurt Shawn had gone through. He had his battles with his own family, and he knew they’d have a lot of questions if they ever found out he directed porn. But he also knew his parents would never even consider disowning him. It bothered him that someone as bright as Shawn went through something so dark.

Bret scooted closer and said, “I’m so sorry you went through that, Shawn. You didn’t deserve that.”

Shawn struggled to believe that. He’d spent many years wondering why he couldn’t have gone for a normal job like his siblings. Wondering why he gave up so easily on acting when the going got tough. He brought his family so much embarrassment and shame, it was hard not to believe he deserved to get thrown out of the family. But Bret’s words brought him some comfort.

“Thanks, Bret.” He let out a breath, contemplating what he’d say next. “Since I’m being so honest, can I tell you something I haven’t told anybody else?”

“Of course.”

Shawn stalled. “I’m…I’ve been thinking about leaving the industry.” Bret’s eyes bulged at the announcement. “I know it’s crazy. Porn has done me a lot of good. It’s gotten me out of a rough place in my life and I’ll always be grateful. But,” Shawn sighed heavily.

Bret could practically feel the stress radiating off Shawn. “It’s taken its toll on you,” Bret finished for him.

Shawn looked relieved. “Exactly. I feel a little guilty saying it because I’m so lucky to be as successful as I am. But time is finite. Looks fade. And I don’t know how much longer I can depend on my appearance for money.”

Bret nodded. “That’s valid. What’s stopping you from making the jump?”

“I’m scared, Bret. I tried going the traditional route, working an honest job, but this is where it landed me. This lifestyle is all I’ve ever known. What if it’s the only thing I’m good for?”

Shawn’s eyes began to water, and Bret quickly soothed, “Hey. Hey listen to me. You’re worth so much more than this, Shawn. So much more. You’re the only one holding yourself back from making that leap. No one else is, but you. If you decide to stay in the industry, that’s fine. It doesn’t lower your worth as a person. But if you really want to leave, I will be here to support you 100%. I mean it.”

Shawn was touched, his eyes watering again from Bret’s kind words. He’d never had anyone put so much faith in him. He’d been afraid to tell his industry friends about his thoughts on leaving, knowing they’d selfishly want him to stay. And part of him thought Bret would feel the same way.

But the sincerity behind Bret’s words moved Shawn so much that he couldn’t help but kiss him in gratitude. The kiss was short, and Shawn was quick to pull away realizing what he’d done. “Shit. I’m sor-”

Bret placed a hand on the back of Shawn’s neck, pulling him into another kiss before he could finish. Bret shouldn’t be doing this. He really shouldn’t. It went against every rule of caution he set for himself. But he didn’t care that he was breaking the rules of professionalism. He didn’t care if Shawn would never be his. All he cared about was sharing this moment with a guy he’d grown to care about.

They were both breathless, eyes half-lidded when he pulled away. “I’ve been wanting to do that for some time.”

Shawn gave a bright smile as he internally celebrated. He couldn’t wait to rub it in Diesel’s face. “Me too.”

-

They hooked up as soon as they made it back to Shawn’s condo. The door had barely closed when Bret pinned Shawn against the door, liplocking with him until they both couldn’t breathe.

A trail of clothes was left on the way to Shawn’s bedroom, and they fell onto Shawn’s California king bed in a naked heap. If Bret was nervous about his performance, it didn’t show that night.

Shawn allowed Bret to take control, the blond responding positively to every intimate touch. Bret was so tender with him, something Shawn rarely experienced in his sex life. Every part of him was sensitive and for the first time in a while, sex didn’t feel like a job. He didn’t feel the need to perform or be over the top. He wasn’t having sex for millions of people to see, but for him and Bret only.

Every kiss, every moan, every plea for Bret to fuck him harder were all genuine. It was an intense moment for both of them, and they felt even more connected to each other when they came.

“I want to be with you.”

They both uttered those words at different times in the night – Shawn when Bret pinned him against the door, and Bret when Shawn laid on his chest dozing off in post-nut clarity.

-

Bonus (because idk when to stop writing lol):

🥀 Shawn doesn’t leave adult entertainment 100%. After getting with Bret, he cut out pornos entirely, but still participated in some semi-nude risqué photoshoots. He’d even posed in Playgirl one time. The crew tried so hard to get him naked, but Shawn wasn’t showing his dick to anyone but Bret. It was a good compromise. He could still show off his body but wasn’t getting fucked by other men. The money wasn’t as quick as Shawn was used to, but he still made a decent living.

🥀 The adjustment was harder for his peers more than it was for Shawn. They threw a big going away party and his friend Goldust pleaded for Shawn not to rob the world of ever seeing his perfect ass.

🥀 Shawn still got asked to make random appearances in videos, mainly by Goldust. They’d filmed many threesomes together, and the payday was always worth it. But he shut down every request as he didn’t want to risk anything with Bret.

🥀 Bret still directed porn here and there whenever his industry friend asked. But he eventually stopped when he received a short call from the man: “Hey. Our guy’s back. Turns out the kid wasn’t his. So he’ll be taking over the next project. Thanks for your help, Bret!”

🥀 Bret entertains the idea of him and Shawn making their own sextape. Surprisingly, Shawn was the hesitant one as he was no longer interested in having his intimate moments caught on camera. They tried it once, and watching the tape back made Shawn realize how hot they looked together

🥀 Out of all of Shawn’s filming partners, Bret thought Hunter was the oddest by far. Their scenes usually consisted of a mix between dad jokes and comedic sketches before blowing each other.

[icy-bluez]

Picture Perfect

Warnings: slightly suggestive, crack fic, fluff.

Characters: Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier

Synopsis: Weird / endearing pictures you have of them.

A/N: Icy has nothing to say cuz Icy currently has a smooth bren.

Rafayel

Man's got cake.

Nah, he's got a fucking bakery.

And you were extremely slightly jealous.

(Unless your thang be thanging too.)

You have definitely clicked pictures of his ass on multiple occasions, especially when he's wearing those fancy clothes of his, tight with swaying buttcheeks as he walks. And then you probably proceeded to spank it.

"Rafayel, I have a question." You ask while he was spacing out, sitting in front of a giant canvas full of beautiful hues of colours.

"...Yes?"

"If you fall on your butt do you bounce back up from the sheer plushness of the muscle on your rear en-"

Rafayel almost snaps his neck when he turns his face towards you with a loud dramatic, "Say what-!?"

Let's just say he got really flustered and you got to see for yourself if he really did bounce back up when he fell from the stool.

Besides that you also have a shit ton of pictures of him pouting or sulking because you're pretty sure he does the picture perfect pout better than you when he's just...well....sulking.

Xavier

Some...incredibly weird sleeping positions.

You were on your way out of Akso hospital one day and saw fur, fluffy and golden hanging out from the tree. You assumed it was a cat.

You reached up to grab it. The cat-human entity grunted.

You jumped away like a startled cat yourself, only to see sleepy blue eyes peek from under a lowered tree branch. Lo and behold, it was a wild Xavier. Snap, went the camera.

You definitely have pictures of his chest, like, how are they so huge and squish-able. You've also wanted to lick the sweat off his abs once in a while because he's just so damn muscular and glows like a goddamn glowstic- (concerned personnel are requested to not try this at home unless they are also in possession of a wild Xavier or similar-)

"Xavier. Shirt off." You ordered with a slightly unhinged expression on your face.

"W-whuh? Y/N?"

"Now."

"W-wait why-"

"Shut up and let me worship your knead-ables."

Don't pretend you did not relish in his moans after you were done with worshipping his body. It did not stop at his chest though, you definitely went lower.

PS: He fell asleep on his knees once, while he was hugging your legs and his head was on your lap. You clicked a picture and never let that one go.

Zayne

Zayne, pinching his nose bridge, sighing, his eyes closed and head leaning back against the couch. Before he could even register what was happening, he heard around fifty snaps of pictures being taken, going off from the side.

Zayne is just a very sexy man in general but you, as his girlfriend, obviously have weird/endearing pictures of him. Like the time he started gleefully laughing like a child. A giant cat was finally, finally being overly affectionate with him, licking his hands, neck and all over his face.

(Are we jealous? Yes we are!)

Zayne barely ever lets his guard down therefore little moments when he would fall asleep on your lap or just anywhere random in general after being thoroughly exhausted, you would take a picture.

You have definitely forced him into couple photoshoots with you. Asking him to put on cat ears with you, carry plushies on his shoulders, making hearts with your hands, drawing one half of a heart with a red lipstick on your cheek then smushing it against a reluctant Zayne's cheek to form the other half of the heart. That picture was now your lockscreen wallpaper.

Besides that, he had really broad shoulders and an impeccable stature. Not that you wouldn't peck it.

"Mm, can I?" You ask, seductively pulling his shirt open as you reapply your lipstick.

"Isn't this a bit too..."

"Is it a yes or a no?"

"...You can continue."

Now you also had a picture of Zayne flushed red and littered with lipstick marks all over his neck, cheeks, chest, abs, maybe lower. Definitely not because you were jealous of a cat.

Oh and he probably got his revenge as well.

ANTHOLOGY LIST

[whump-since-2010]

Butterfly Whumpee - "My House My Rules"

Whumpee yelped in pain as she sprawled on the floor, the canvas sack torn away from her head. She scrambled across the floor, gagged and bound, eyes wide and darting around for any escape. She tried to scream, or beg to be let go, but her words only came out in a muffled sob.

She flopped across the stone floor, trying her hardest to distance herself from the three boys standing near the fireplace.

"Oh come on, Aeva." The tallest boy with frowzy fox bronze hair crossed his arms. "She's harmless."

"Harmless?" The one in the middle, with a golden cuff around his neck scoffed, taking the ornamental sword from the mantle of the fireplace and slicing Whumpee's bonds, allowing her a terrified shriek as she fumbled and scrambled to run from him.

"AEVA!"

"Look at those teeth! She's a Destroyer, Mal!"

The Red-haired boy scowled, visibly upset as Whumpee raked her claws against the wallpaper, trying to dig through it in a desperate attempt to escape. "Aeva. Put the sword down, and call the guards! She could break something!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you said she was harmless." Aeva smirked smugly, aiming the sword toward Whumpee's neck.

"I... Stop it. This is just cruel."

"Oh, stop being such a buzzkill!" The Third boy grinned sadistically, lunging at Whumpee and causing her to fall back and land hard on the carpet. shrieking and screeching in fear, unable to understand their language.

Both Aeva and the other laughed, the second huffing in annoyance. "I'm calling the guards."

But as Mal started for the door, Aeva grabbed his arm, pulling him uncomfortably close, hot breath a warning on Mal's cheek. "No, you're not. You're in my house, and you do as I say."

Mal wrenched his hand out of Aeva's grip. "Fine."

"You know what? Kaz, I don't think Mal really understands what following orders is, do you? Mal, why don't you go... retrieve her for me?" He motioned the sword toward Whumpee, who made a break for it, attempting to scramble her way beneath the couch. "Or I'll tell your mother you were the one who set her free."

Mal turned to look at her, eyes wide and afraid. If his mother found out about this, she'd die, and he'd be locked in the cell again. But he'd heard the stories of what even the weakest of Destroyers had done to armies. He took a breath, stalking over to the couch, and pulling a scarf from the back of it. Probably one of Aeva's Mother's. How bad could she be? She's only a child.

He backed up quickly to avoid being attacked, and began circling the couch, Kaz and Aeva having moved to a safe distance, snickering between the two of them. Mal took a shaky breath and charged the couch, shoving it just enough to startle Whumpee. But as his knee connected with the arm, her head darted out from beneath it, teeth sinking into his calf.

Mal screamed, attempting to dislodge her and failing. But through the pain, a moment of clarity overtook him, and he froze, slowly lowering himself to one knee, shaky breaths coming through gritted teeth. Whumpee sunk her teeth deeper into his flesh at his movement, eyes wide with terror, but hesitated as he stopped moving.

Very slowly and cautiously, silently cursing through the pain, he offered her the scarf. She sniffed it cautiously, before releasing his leg and snatching it from his hand, darting back toward the couch.

But as she went, he tackled her to the ground, pinning her hands behind her back, gasping. "There... Tie her up, and... don't tell my mother."

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, I would love getting any kind of comments!

It's Not too hard to guess, but Caretaker and Whumper are in this backstory

Masterpost

[soulmateszedits]

⌜ Jibeom × Golden Child ⌝ ᓚᘏᗢ

┊ ❀ Simple

[chernabogs]

Kismet

Char: Malleus | Silver [baby] | Lilia Warnings: Some indication of post-war guilt Summary: An observer encounters a small change in his guardians home; the result leads to the murky waters of absolution and what can be seen as 'right'.

WC: 1.8k

(s.o to @curekibouka-writing for letting me scream abt this in dms 😭)

“Have you been forgotten already?” 

The small wooden cottage is silent as death. Pots that hang down from a rack on the wall reflect the golden light of the dying sun on their metallic forms. Herbs and half-cut food lay discarded on a cutting board, the knife still resting beside them as though thrown down in haste. There’s a thin coat of dirt on the floor, and a broom leans against the wall like someone had intended to clean at one point but never got the opportunity to. Despite this, a fire burns in the hearth, its green flames crackling merrily, oblivious to the absence of an audience to watch its dance. 

At the end of a short, dark hallway—decorated with paintings and cracked wallpaper—a door sits slightly ajar, and a low, melodic voice speaks from within. The creak of wood rocking back and forth detracts from the heavy air as a slumbering infant is watched by a pair of curious green eyes. 

“You are an odd one, are you not?” A flash of white in the darkness—fangs being borne in a manner not hostile, for once—as a pale hand continues to rock the cradle. “Too young to know what is going on just yet.” 

The infant has soft strands of silver hair on his head. His body is swaddled lovingly, his crib devoid of toys or anything that may do him harm; the one who attended to this infant was someone who had experience in the realm of child-rearing. That, the curious observer could tell.  His head tilted in the shadows, as though listening to something, while he continued to rock the cradle slowly. 

“For what reason has he brought you here?” The observer asks, knowing full well that the answer would not come. The infant below continues his peaceful slumber. “He never told me you would be coming. He has always told me these things.” 

There’s a hint of bitterness in that voice, almost like a child rearing for a tantrum because their parents refused to give them something. The pale hand tightens momentarily, and the motion is enough to cause the infant to stir in his sleep. The rocking motion stops and the whole room falls into silence. A slow exhale comes from the shadows when the infant continues to slumber, and the rocking motion begins once more. 

“Then again, he is forgetful. If you manage to survive, you will learn that quickly.” A pause, and then, “if.” 

Those green eyes narrow a little as they continue to watch the infant. The baby’s small, pale hands open and close as though grasping for something. The observer reaches out and presses one finger against them, almost curiously, and the infant grabs onto that finger by reflex. A low chuckle escapes the observer as his gaze lights up with renewed interest. He leans close, holding his breath as he does so, and when he catches sight of the infant's ears he jerks back, eyes wide now in shock. 

“Oh.” The observer allows the infant to hold onto his finger as the baby begins to stir, the observer's motions rousing him from his sleep. When the baby looks at him with a half-awake, almost drowsy expression, auroral clashes harshly with green, and the observer looks away. 

"Goodness… what is he thinking?” the observer murmurs, rocking the cradle slower now as the infant awakens. He lets out a soft noise, drawing the observer’s attention again, and when they look at each other once more, the baby giggles a little in delight. 

The sound makes the observer’s stomach twist. 

“Is he trying to prove something?” A hint of suspicion carries over in those words as the slow rocking continues, and the infant watches the man with interest. “I thought he had moved on… he never told me about it. He said those days were gone. So, why…?” 

The sound of the cottage door opening draws the observer’s attention, and in one quick motion, the green fire burning in the hearth goes out. A heavy silence hangs in the room as the man stares at the slightly ajar door, his hand for some reason tightening its grip on the infant's cradle as though prepared to move the child to safety should something happen. Measured footsteps echo in that decaying hallway; slow, deliberate steps. Another breath joins the mix. The observer’s eyes narrow, until;

“Malleus. You know they are searching for you, right?” 

Malleus exhales slowly as the door is pushed open, revealing a familiar figure behind it. His long hair is tied back and he wears the uniform that Malleus has seen him in a thousand times before; the spindles rest on his hips, the belts wrap around his body, and the sword rests on his back in an intentionally intimidating manner. Red eyes flash with interest as they look between the prince and the infant who still holds his finger. 

“Becoming acquainted with Silver, are you?” Lilia asks, his words carrying a slightly teasing tone as he shrugs the sword off of his back and rests it against a nearby chair. Malleus watches him in silence as the green flames roar to life in the hearth once more. 

“... Silver,” the prince finally says, his voice sounding hollow and disinterested as he looks back at the infant. “How… creative.” 

“You know me—the most straightforward Fae one will find.” Lilia laughs softly to himself as he continues to remove the weapons and accessories he’s required to wear. Each one that’s taken off feels like a weight is being lifted from his shoulders; today was simply another reminder to him that his time in this role is coming closer to an end. 

He cannot be General Vanrouge forever, after all. 

“Pray tell,” Malleus speaks again, breaking the brief silence that fell between them as he continues to watch Silver. “Is it guilt, or is it genuine?” 

Lilia glances over his shoulder at the prince, pausing in his removal as he does so. He raises a single eyebrow as his gaze takes in the boy’s body language. Not hostility, not rage; just… hollow. He exhales in a curt sigh as he reaches up to pull his hair free of the pony tail. “Elaborate.”

“Where did the infant come from, Lilia?” 

“The forest,” Lilia replies calmly as he moves to stand beside the boy. When Silver sees the other man, his face lights up in the innocent delight that infants possess, another happy sound coming from him as his feet kick restlessly. Lilia’s own lips curl into a warm grin; Malleus’ do not. 

“Robbing cradles is something we Fae have long stopped doing,” Malleus counters, his thumb brushing against the back of Silver’s small hand. The infant continues to coo and babble up at the two, unaware of the weight of their conversation. “You told me so yourself.” 

“He was not taken from a cradle; I found him on the forest floor. In a basket, if you must know.” Lilia raised his eyebrow again as he glanced at the prince. 

“Do you intend to give him to a human family?” Malleus’ voice still held a hint of detachment to it. Lilia remained silent. This, alone, was enough of an answer for the boy. “Lilia, you cannot—”

“And why not?” Lilia asks, his voice not sharp, despite his choice of words. He reaches into the cradle to smooth his hand along Silver’s head, still smiling slightly as he does so. “Why should I not simply raise him as mine?” 

“Are you punishing yourself? It is a cruel act to raise a human child as a Fae—cruel to yourself, cruel to the child,” Malleus begins, before falling silent abruptly as Lilia gives him a sharp look. 

“I am not punishing myself. I am doing the right thing by ensuring that Silver has a home. I will do it right. I can raise him well.” 

“Then is it atonement you seek? An absolution for the past?” Accusation laces the prince’s tone. In the cradle, Silver squirms a bit, as though beginning to tune in to the emotions within the room. “You cannot achieve righteousness through a singular act of charity.” 

“Nonsense,” Lilia says, his voice finally stepping into the low tone of warning he so rarely uses with his prince. Malleus’ jaw shuts with a definite click as he looks down at his guardian, his gaze burning with a demand for answers. Lilia exhales slowly. “It is not an act of charity. I can… I will take care of him. And if the day comes where he wishes to find his own people, then I will do right, and I will let him go.” 

“Will you? You of all people know the pain of letting something go once it grows to matter so dearly to you. It is not an easy act.” There’s a story behind the words Malleus chooses, one that only he and Lilia know; one that spans centuries, long before Malleus hatched in a cold, empty room, with only his guardian there to cradle him close. Alone—just like Silver had been in those woods. 

“I will do it right,” Lilia repeats, still smoothing his hand over Silver’s head in a soothing motion. Malleus watches the two, watches the soft smile playing on his guardian’s lips, and sighs as he feels Silver’s hand squeeze his finger. 

“... how many are searching?” 

Lilia lets out a curious hm? at Malleus’ question, and so he clarifies. 

“How many are searching for me this time?” 

“A unit. I would advise you to become more creative in your exits if you intend to continue visiting.” Lilia smiles again before retracting his hand. Silver coos in response, earning a soft laugh from the man. “I would wager you have at least a few hours before they finally put two and two together and knock on my door.” 

Malleus’ lips curl into a pout as he wiggles his finger, causing Silver to laugh again. “How terrible.” 

“Dinner, then?” Lilia counters, smirking over at the prince. Their previous conversation has already been set aside, and Malleus can tell that his guardian has no intention of bringing it back up again—nor should he. The prince winces at his guardian’s words. 

“Even more terrible,” he grumbles. Lilia scoffs before turning and approaching the bedroom door. 

“Do bring Silver with you when you decide to come to the kitchen.” 

A brief look of panic crosses Malleus’ eyes as Lilia vanishes into the hall, leaving him with the happily babbling baby in the crib. He looks down at Silver, looks into that innocent face, and his expression smooths into one of sympathy as he sighs. 

“Goodness… what is he thinking?"

[besiriusiamwild]

Oh, Regulus remembers

Regulus vs the sea—a very angsty drabble.

Regulus still remembers the first time that he went to the beach.

It had been a stolen pocket of time in the dark realms of his childhood—when the arguments punctuated by slammed doors, and the sharp clap of a hand hitting a cheek finally stopped for one moment.

Before Sirius went to Hogwarts and everything changed. Before Andromeda was disowned. Hell, even before Alphard was nothing but a burnt and blackened curl of wallpaper on the tapestry.

The Black family had gone to France for two weeks of the summer to stay in one of the estate’s many mansions. This particular one sat atop of a hill that overlooked the dainty village just outside of Trouville-sur-Mer. Sunshine soaked every building, spanning from the masses of tall, white townhouses to the winding streets of sprawling cottages.

The sea had glittered. Blue, Regulus remembers. And then, shortly after, the exasperated yet gentle chiding of his older brother:

“The sea’s not blue, silly! It’s reflective so, whatever colour the sky is, that’s the same for the ocean.”

Regulus remembers being amazed by that information, his seven year old brain drinking in every word from Sirius, staring up at him in that mesmerised way that he perfected as a child. He had just adored everything about Sirius, worshipping the very ground he walked on, and hiding from the storms in his arms.

Because there was nowhere safer than a hug from Sirius Black.

The village that Walburga and Orion had taken them to hadn’t had a Muggle in sight (which was exactly why the Blacks owned a holiday home there, obviously).

Regulus remembers that their cousins had come along, making it a true family holiday. All of them smiling stiffly for the photographs on the promenade, postures perfect and upright, and trying to pretend that they weren’t the most dysfunctional family to ever walk the pier.

Oh, Regulus remembers.

“Father, may we please go to the beach?” Andromeda asked.

Her dark eyes were wide and pleading, which was a surprisingly childish expression for a thirteen year old—something that made Bellatrix laugh a little underneath her breath.

“I don’t know, Andromeda,” Cygnus responded, exchanging a look with his wife.

“Your dresses will get dirty,” Druella added.

She was already dabbing at Narcissa’s collar with a handkerchief even though, for the life of him, Regulus couldn’t see a single stain. The eleven year old stood completely still; the picture of good behaviour.

Sirius couldn’t relate.

At the other end of their group, Walburga was attempting a similar action but, in Sirius’ case, he did actually have an ice cream stain snaking its way down his waistcoat. But, oh, how he wriggled and squirmed away from his mother, trying to insist that the trickle of mint choc-chip simply “added to his outfit” and made him look “so much cooler.”

“Sirius, you look like a slob. You are embarrassing me,” Walburga snapped.

Regulus looked around at the other families swarming the promenade around them, hoping internally that they were all miraculously deaf. He didn’t want anyone to look at them, and see right through the cracks that were already there.

The cracks that had been there from the beginning, really, from the moment Sirius and Regulus became less like babies, and more like heirs.

“Well, let me go and wash it off in the sea then!” Sirius protested, eyes wide with hope. This comment made Regulus perk up.

He’d never been to the sea before, and it had looked so beautiful in the summer light, sparkling with every crash of the wave against the shore; white foam riding atop, and being left behind in the dark, damp, and golden parts of the sand.

“If Sirius can go in the sea, then why can’t we?” Andromeda whipped around to face her mother, accusation written all over her face.

Narcissa piped up too and, before Regulus could even blink, their cousins had embarked into a full-blown argument. This was just a common occurrence for Black family members, he knew this. But, still, he took a step back.

Away from them.

Towards Sirius.

“Look, I don’t see why not. Just behave yourselves,” Orion directed the last part of the sentence at Sirius, stern eyes boring into his older son.

He clasped a heavy hand down onto Regulus’ shoulder, making him jump. “And look after Regulus,” he added.

Look after Regulus?

That was rich, considering the fact that that was all Sirius did. It was all he had ever done, ever since he was old enough to stumble over to Regulus’ crib when he was screaming his lungs out, face reddening, for a mother that never even tended to him, let alone nursed him back to sleep.

The brothers didn’t need telling twice, though.

For once, they were being allowed to do what they wanted and, yes, it might have been due to the fact that Orion had just gotten an important promotion at the Ministry. Yes, it might have been because Walburga was being slightly more lenient than usual.

But it was enough. It was a moment, snatched in a dash away from their parents as their cousins complained behind them.

Oh, Regulus remembers.

“C’mon Reggie, keep up!!” Sirius cried, shoulder-length hair flying out behind him in the wind that was whipping the heat into further humidity; stifling breeze hitting Regulus in the face.

“I can’t!” Regulus whined.

His legs were smaller than his brother’s. Sirius had had a growth spurt since turning eight, and he was now even taller than Regulus. He’d lost all of his baby fat as well now, whereas Regulus was still left with slightly chubby cheeks, and a deep envy for Sirius’ now rather elegant-looking cheekbones.

Sirius did, admittedly, slow down but, once Regulus had caught up, he simply grabbed his brother’s hand, and tugged him down the steps onto the beach, palpable excitement thrumming between the two of them.

If the sight of two children running alone on a beach, clearly far away from any parental supervision, was concerning to any of the locals or other tourists, it wasn’t mentioned. Everybody just left the Black brothers to their own little bubble of happiness, identical grins full of adrenaline spreading across their faces.

“This is where you put your swimming lessons to test, Reggie,” Sirius said.

They left their waistcoats, shoes and socks in a small cave that bordered the beach; a relieving shady escapade from the burning heat of the French day. Rolling their trousers up their legs as far as they could go, Sirius and Regulus walked hand-in-hand to the shore, slipping through the throngs of people that were dotted, here and there.

“I don’t know whether I remember how to swim,” Regulus said mournfully, suddenly feeling rather scared.

Their Uncle Alphard had taught the two of them how to swim back when Walburga used to pawn her children off on her brother, stating that they were too much for her mental health to ‘contend with.’

“Don’t be silly, Reggie,” Sirius admonished playfully.

There was a laugh in his voice; a spark in his blue eyes as clear-cut as the ocean stretching out in front of them and, in equal measure, the cloudless sky. “You don’t just forget how to swim. It’s muscle memory, right? S’long as you keep your head and don’t panic, you’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not like I’m gonna let you drown or anything.”

His gaze was warm and Regulus couldn’t help but feel so safe when Sirius wrapped him in such a blanket of reassurance.

“Okay.”

Regulus took a deep breath and, ever-so-slowly, dipped his toe in the water that was running thin at the edges, see-through and showcasing all the shells and seaweed twisted into the wet sand.

The sea was cold, dancing over his feet, and Regulus laughed in delight, wiggling his toes. And then Sirius was following suit, but he crashed into the ocean with no care for his perfectly tailored clothes, throwing himself forwards and sinking underneath the waves.

For a second, fear gripped ahold of Regulus’ chest and made it very hard to breathe. But the feeling was gone as soon as his brother resurfaced, grinning like a madman with his hair plastered all over his face.

“Sirius!” Regulus smacked him on his now-soaked chest, moving further into the water to do so. “You gave me a fright! Also, you’ve got all your clothes wet!”

“Oh no, whatever shall I do?” Sirius retorted mockingly, pulling a face at him.

He splashed him violently, so that Regulus got an entire mouthful of salty water, choking on it as it slipped unwelcomely into his lungs.

“Now you’re wet as well,” Sirius beamed and Regulus couldn’t even be mad at him because, again, he was at that stage where he absolutely adored everything that Sirius did and said.

“But our clothes…”

“...will dry,” Sirius cut him off gently, holding out a teasing hand to entice Regulus further into the water. “C’mon, Reg. Live a little. Let’s swim.”

Regulus hesitated, still only ankle-deep. “What if I don’t—”

“You’ll remember,” Sirius read his mind, like always.

Kindness seeped from him in waves, drowning Regulus in a flood of relief because, for all the times he took the piss, Sirius really knew the right thing to say at all times.

“Swim towards me.” Sirius kicked back so that he was submerged in the water, arms poised to ‘catch’ Regulus.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

And Regulus believed him. Of course he did. Sirius wasn’t going to let him drown.

Throwing himself forward into the deeper sections of the ocean, where Sirius was, Regulus swam towards his brother. Sirius was right, as always. Swimming was muscle memory, and Regulus suddenly remembered how much he loved it; how much joy he got from moving seamlessly through the water.

He surpassed Sirius, resulting in a yelp from the older boy who clearly felt like he’d been bested. And then they were swimming around, treading water to keep upright in the deeper parts.

Regulus remembers feeling so light; so weightless whilst swimming in the ocean with the sun burning down on them.

He remembers the bubble of happiness squeezing around him and Sirius as they laughed, splashing each other and shaking water from themselves like dogs, competing to see who could be the most dramatic (Sirius won).

He remembers feeling in his element; so at ease, and almost untouchable as the gentle waves were no barrier in racing Sirius from one rock to the other (Regulus won).

The day passed them by, morning bleeding into afternoon, and, if anyone noticed that the little boys from earlier still hadn’t been checked up upon by an adult, they didn’t mention it.

Honestly, even Regulus didn’t notice.

He was too caught up in the childish joy of actually being a child; of smiling until his cheeks hurt; of swimming and swimming and swimming until his fingers pruned, and Sirius was calling him a grandad.

He wished he could’ve stayed in that moment forever.

Just him and Sirius, alone and yet together.

Swimming around without a care in the world. Swimming around in the way that children were supposed to, without the weight of overbearing parents, and ridiculous expectations tugging them down into the icy depths. Bobbing above the water, breaths only slipping away in the form of delighted giggles, and not from the iron grip of a proverbial hand to the throat; oesophagus breaking from the strain that their parents choked them with.

Because Regulus remembers where it all went wrong.

He remembers returning from the beach, reluctantly dragging his feet because he really just wanted to stay in the sea forever, for the rest of eternity.

He remembers moments like that happening again, every summer, because Walburga worked out that, if she carted her children off to the beach, they would simply entertain themselves all day, and not bother her with their presence.

He remembers laughing with Sirius in the ocean as they got older, and taller, and wiser.

He remembers swimming with Sirius, even as the waters rose around them and tension twisted at their ankles like seaweed attempting to drag them underneath.

He remembers the last few summers before Sirius left him for good, when their previous laughter was nothing but an echo, and conversations were professionally awkward.

But they still swam. Sometimes in silence.

Sometimes with a hint of nostalgia riding on the waves around them; nostalgia that was instantly left in the groves of the damp sand, the foam withering into nothingness over time.

Sirius always went into the sea first, though.

And he’d always turn, a small smile twisting his features as Regulus followed.

Because he’d always follow his brother.

Except when he was asked to do exactly that—to walk out of the door with Sirius at the start of the summer before his fifth year, and he’d choked.

Shaken his head, tears trailing silently down his cheeks as Sirius had held out his hand and gone:

“C’mon Reg. I won’t let you drown. Swim towards me.”

Oh, Regulus remembers.

He remembers the first time Sirius didn’t come on the family holiday.

The wound of him running away had still been fresh, gushing blood out of Regulus and making him feel empty.

Lifeless.

Looking at the sea had been like pressing on a bruise, digging your finger in so harshly that the skin turns white. Even standing on the beach had made Regulus run to the cave, the very one that he and Sirius always dumped their stuff in, just to throw up.

He hadn’t gone in the sea that summer.

What was the point, when there was no Sirius to swim towards? To catch him if he slipped on a miscellaneous shell, or traitorous piece of seaweed lurking underneath the surface.

To splash him so hard that it actually became impossible to see…Regulus just constantly wiping water out of his eyes with laughter shaking his every bone.

To just be there, like he promised.

By the time the next summer came around, going to France wasn’t even an option. The war had swept everyone up, including Regulus’ parents.

Not to mention that Walburga, for all of her heartless and twisted ways, was still a mother.

And she could sense when her child was hurting; when Regulus missed Sirius.

Which meant she probably knew, all too well, that taking Regulus to the beach which reeked of Sirius, his very footprints carved permanently into the sand, would be a bad idea.

She’d managed to dredge up the tiniest scrap of sympathy still remaining in her rotted heart for that, at least.

Regulus made himself forget, clawing the memories out one by one. And he did.

Forget, that is.

He forgot the way that Sirius’ hair looked after he just rose from underneath the water.

He forgot how his brother’s hand felt in his when he pulled him in.

He forgot the sensation of floating; of feeling on top of the world because he was with his favourite person in his favourite place doing his favourite activity.

He forgot what it felt like to be truly, indescribably happy.

He forgot how the waves sounded, crashing against the shore with unwanted abandon.

He forgot how the normally soft particles of sand appeared after the sea rushed over it with no care, leaving nothing but torn pieces of seaweed or a broken shell.

He forgot what it felt like to sink under the waves, and feel at peace for however long he could hold his breath for; gasping for air in an exhilarated way whilst locking eyes with Sirius, who had usually surged for the surface earlier than Regulus.

Always leaving him behind.

Shouting at him, “C’mon, Reggie, keep up!!”

But not waiting this time, not holding out a hand for Regulus to grab.

Or, maybe he did.

Maybe Regulus was just too weak.

Maybe his legs were still too short. Maybe he was more inclined to dive for Sirius’ hand, but skin his knees on the harsh wood of the promenade instead, grazing them and oozing blood in a way that Sirius never seemed to do.

Because he was always one step ahead, one pawn move in front of the game.

Until he wasn’t.

Until Regulus was the one so ahead of the curve that it became a sphere, rolling him all the way back down to the bottom like a hamster wheel, winding him.

The irony twisted through the situation, like the seaweed necklaces that he and Sirius used to plait into practice for each other.

Because, of course.

Of course it was fucking Regulus who ended up on a beach again, when he swore he’d never go to one without Sirius again; when he tried so hard to forget that, when the memories come tumbling back, there’s a sharper ache than usual.

Oh, Regulus remembers.

He remembers thinking how different this beach was to the one he frequented with Sirius in the youthful capsules of their childhood—the only moments they were actually allowed to be children.

He remembers thinking that the sand was rocky, uncomfortable underfoot, and the jagged points forming an entrance to the cave weren’t very welcoming.

“Not exactly the best holiday destination,” Regulus muttered to Kreacher.

The house elf just looked up at him with wide eyes, flappy ears trembling from the flashbacks that were probably surging at him with unprecedented force.

He felt a stab of regret, but soothed it over. It would be okay—they’d be out of here soon, and then Regulus would finally be able to catch up to Sirius without him even having to slow down.

Kreacher had managed to apparate them directly to shore - he just couldn’t surpass the barriers to get into the actual cave. Regulus found himself being thankful that Kreacher saved him a boat ride over, though, as the January air was bitingly cold, and whipped the pale complexion of his face into a harsh red, making them feel raw.

Exposed.

The wind howled angrily, not exactly adhering with the sunshine-filled memories of his childhood.

In a way, that was better though.

The less memories, the better.

Unfortunately, that didn’t appear to be the case because, as Regulus stepped into the dim and narrow passage, all he could think about was that the fear probably wouldn’t be choking him as much if Sirius was here.

Closing his eyes, Regulus placed himself back on that beach in that one week, (sometimes two if their parents were feeling particularly sick of the sight of them) where everything was perfect.

Untouched, even.

Innocence running like the first trickle of the stream, weeping down in its cleanest form until, before you’re even aware, it’s transformed into a filth-ridden tsunami rearing its ugly head and roaring towards you.

“Master Regulus?”

Ah, yes.

The task at hand, though unnerving in the impenetrable darkness, didn’t seem too daunting at first. Regulus cut his palm, barely even wincing, to allow them access and he slipped in with a shivering Kreacher at his feet.

The wound seeped blood, open and unhealed. Regulus didn’t even care, nor did he really notice. He was numb to pain by now, to the point where it had almost become somewhat of a friend.

The sea glittered. Black, Regulus remembers. Like a massive canvas of the sky—oh.

“It’s reflective so, whatever colour the sky is, that’s the same for the ocean.”

“Looks like you were right once more, Sirius,” Regulus murmured. He tasted the bitterness on his tongue, mixed with the bittersweet nature of his statement; the foreign sensation of fondness mingling there.

The memories were sour, making his mouth convulse like he’d just swallowed a lemon, so he forced them out of his head, shoving himself back into the moment.

It took him a while to assess his surroundings, senses rather blunt due to the entire atmosphere being doused in a darkness that wrapped around Regulus like a suffocating blanket of discouragement.

Taunts echoing in the whistles of the wind that hissed past him like shrapnel whizzing through the air, aiming for intended victims.

A full-body shiver radiated through him, terror gripping his insides and squeezing.

Maybe he was next.

Pathetically, Regulus found himself looking for Sirius’ hand.

But it was nowhere to be found.

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Triptolemus (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- God of Crops by the people of Olympius

Honey by his wife

Dad by his son

Trip by his brother & friends

Age- 37 (immortal)

Location- Achaea, Olympius

Personality- He's a dedicated hardworker with a general laidback temperament. He holds family, community, and wellness of the land to the utmost of importance. Despite being a grudge holder, he doesn't see the need for unnecessary drama in his life, opting for simplicity. He's married.

He has the standard abilities of a god except shapeshifting. As the god of farming his other powers/abilities include transfiguration (can turn beings into a plant, tree, or crop), being able to use ancient/modern farming and gardening tools proficiently as weapons, soil manipulation (edafoskinesis), as well as chlorokinesis (to a much lesser extent than Demeter).

A notable physical feature is his golden brown tan skin, due to him always being outdoors.

His natural scent is a mixture of fresh damp soil and sweet corn.

Triptolemus is a native of Eleusis. Mostly bad feelings and memories come up whenever he thinks about his homeland; never mind the constant death he was surrounded by in his early godhood.

He's married to Eunostos (goddess of the flour mill). They have a child- a son Deipneus (god of cooking & breadmaking). Other members of Triptolemus' extended family includes his younger brother Trochilus (god of the mill wheel), his father-in-law Cyamites (god of beans), his sister-in-law Promylaia, as well as his nephews Matton (god of meals) and Keraon (god of baking & wine mixing).

He lives on a thirty acre farm property with his wife in a french country style home. The house has natural wood flooring, a wraparound porch, antique furniture (like armoirs), wood beamed ceilings, simple yet elegant chandeliers, & nude and cream colored toile patterned wallpaper. On the same farm just a few minutes away, there's the house his brother and wife live in.

Triptolemus is a HUGE animal lover. On the farm there's cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, ducks, chickens, & horses. There are a few employees on the farm (like a leimonide named Maris), but he and his brother don't mind actively participating in the responsibilities of the farm like trimming the horses' hooves, bringing in/tagging the many crops, administering vaccines to the animals, or operating farming equipment.

He usually starts his day at the crack of dawn. Following a session of meditation, Triptolemus will ride through the farm on his horse- a quarter horse named Moxie then take a swim in the private pond. He'll then tend to his garden before breakfast.

Displayed in the living room is a farming pitchfork forged from adamantine by Hephaestus (god of the forge). It's taken the place of Triptolemus' former divine symbol.

He loves eating a steaming plate of gyeran bap for breakfast. He also really likes when his wife makes buttermilk biscuits alongside her cajun breakfast casserole (made with scrambled eggs, sliced andouille sausages, shredded hash browns, hot sauce, heavy cream, red peppers, various spices, & shredded cheddar cheese. He'll also enjoy a big bowl of Earthly Harvest cinnamon oat hearty nut medley cereal (which is cinnamon coated flakes, almonds, pumpkin seeds, pecans, and walnuts).

A go-to drink for him is bori-cha (barley tea) which he brews himself. He also likes his brother's homemade banana milk & sujeonggwa, mineral water, orange juice, his wife's homemade iced tea, beer, white wine, sparkling lemon cocktails, ginger ale, lemonade, mint juleps, good farmer cocktails, celery tonics, as well as hard cider cocktails. His usuals from The Roasted Bean include a cafe au lait and an olympian sized green tea.

There's a couple of secrets Triptolemus has kept close to him, only divulging in it with trusted beings in his social circle. In his early days of godhood, he was under the brief mentorship of Demeter (goddess of the harvest & agriculture). It's not a known fact in the pantheon or the public. His brother Trochilus was establishing his godhood in Corinth.

In the early days of the Titanomachy, Eleusis was the most fertile place in the entire country. Triptolemus and Demeter would be responsible for feeding many beings that were displaced due to the war. Every time the tax was raised, he would hand deliver a basket of crops to the needy and hungry families.

Triptolemus' earliest accomplishment in his godly career was when Demeter gifted him an Imperial Gold wheeled chariot, which was pulled by two majestic looking winged serpents. He traveled all throughout the country, feeding the hungry. Triptolemus was seen as a folk hero- first in Eleusis, then in Athens.

He had a quiet adversion to overseeing the Eleusinian Mysteries, being that he was never comfortable around suffering & death. He then spoke out against Demeter regarding her treatment of Celeus, the lord of Eleusis at the time as well as his family- particularly his son Demophon. Seemingly without warning, his chariot was revoked and Triptolemus has his mentorship transferred to Eubouleus (god of the swine & ploughing).

Even though he wasn't active in the war on the battlefield, Triptolemus supported Zeus (god of the sky, thunder, & lightning) and the rest of the Olympians.

After the war, he spent some time in Athens & reunited with his brother before settling in Achaea.

Triptolemus had no say in the matter when Demeter came back into his life by way of her newfound friendship with Eunostos and Promylaia. The family even relocated back to Eleusis while their sons were still little. At this point, he didn't tell anyone about his early godhood. Triptolemus always maintained a friendly disposition whenever Demeter came around and was surprised when his son & nephews developed a friendship with her daughter Persephone. When his wife and sister-in-law eventually had a falling out with Demeter, Triptolemus wasn't terribly surprised. When the family relocated back to Achaea, he finally revealed his past with the harvest goddess.

Despite his status as a minor deity, Triptolemus has two temples built in his honor- one in his native Eleusis and one in Athens.

He leads an active lifestyle through tai chi, riding horseback, jogging, working out, & even bullriding!

Triptolemus loves his younger brother and appreciates how protective they are for one another. Though their experiences in godhood was drastically different, they understand each other in a way that most can't, aside from their wives. They have a good working relationship as well, being that they're business partners.

He has a sandwhich inspired by him at his son's nationwide business The Bread Box. The farmer sandwhich is a toasted baguette with roasted chicken, sweet corn, melted brie cheese, tapenade, a thyme mayo spread, and romaine lettuce.

Triptolemus adores Eunostos. He finds his wife's supple soft skin & natural scent of flour and powdered sugar to be addictive. He also admires how she held her head high after the fallout Demeter. They enjoy spending time outside of their shared business- like taking a weekend trip to Athens to visit her father, traveling to New Olympus to see their son, or going on double dates with Trochilus and Promylaia.

He's heard whispers that the chariot (claimed by Demeter) was thrown into Tartarus following the end of the war, but he can't be too sure.

Triptolemus has a good relationship with his son and is proud of all of his accomplishments as a deity. He wishes that Deipneus would call him more often, but is understanding of his busy schedule. When he and his wife travel to New Olympus, Triptolemus (along with his brother) will play basketball at Eaglepoint Park with Deipneus, Keraon, and Matton.

Whenever he and Eunostos travels to New Olympus they'll either stay over at their son's brownstone in a guest room or they'll rent a room at The Hearthwood Inn.

His primary source of income comes from the business he co-owns alongside his brother, sister-in-law, & wife. The Achaean Flour Company is one of the largest manufacturers and distributors of flour & flour products. On his own Triptolemus is the head of the Farming Union of Olympius, an organization that works to improve the quality of life and economic well-being of family farmers, ranchers, and rural communities. He also owns a small farmer's market in the town's square, known to give away products for free sometimes!

In the pantheon Triptolemus is known for his finger licking yangnyeom chicken, fried chicken covered in a sweet & spicy sauce and garnished with sesame seeds.

His favorite sweet treats includes his wife's beignets, his brother's bingsu (sweet shaved ice), and his own baesuk and yaksik (sweet rice cakes added with nuts, dried fruit, & honey).

In the pantheon Triptolemus is good friends with Ktesios (god of the household), Karmanor (demi-god of the harvest), Priapus (god of fertility, vegetable gardens, livestock, sexuality, & masculinity), Apólafsi (god of enjoyment), Kópros (god of manure & excrement), Corymbus (Cory) (god of the ivy), Záchari (god of confectionery), Pan (god of the wild, satyrs, shepherds, & rustic music), and Hestia (goddess of the hearth).

Aside from Demeter, he also dislikes Limos (goddess of starvation & famine).

Triptolemus thinks that his son's girlfriend Pandaisia (goddess of banquets) is a sweetheart.

His favorite frozen treat is pear ice cream.

When he and Trochilus travels back to New Olympus soon, they plan on finally tackling the culinary behemoth known as the Mt. Olympus burger at Poté Tróei, the restaurant owned by Adephagia (goddess of gluttony).

For fun, Triptolemus hosts a gardening club every week, open to anyone. The members generally "meet" online on Fatestagram by use of video group chat, with an in-person meeting at his greenhouse. Maris is one of the members.

He likes the jars of sweet onion salsa Priapus brings for him.

His favorite thing to get at Hollyhock's Bakery is the jumbo pancake cookie (topped with a buttermilk syrup glaze & a dollop of vanilla buttercream).

Triptolemus, Eunostos, Trochilus, and Promylaia always participates in the annual Achaean Beignet Festival.

Another trip he's planning is to Crete to see Karmanor compete in a bullriding competition.

His favorite meal is his wife's spicy sausage penne along with yangnyeom chicken, topping it off with a cold glass of hard apple cider.

In his free time Triptolemus enjoys gardening, cooking, baking, bike riding, swimming, basketball, sunbathing, golf, football (soccer), and sailing.

"The farmer has to be an optimist or he wouldn't still be a farmer."

[kittsu-and-company]

[ attached is a video file titled “1/2”. take a look? ]

(tw for.. horror im sorry im so tired i can’t think and wanna post ill fix TWs tomorrow </3)

The first thing that’s noticeable as the video clicks on is the sound of howling wind, the camera focusing from a view pressed up against a back wall. Kittsu’s breath is clearly shaky, and the camera shudders as it focuses on the dilapidated surroundings, once lavish halls and securely locked rooms lay scattered about, charred and blackened and damp after years of being untouched.

The mustard yellow wallpaper with gorgeous golden rhombuses peeled, baring their cotton candy colored insulation like a gaping wound, spilling the building’s breathing lifeblood over every surface it could reach.

The sourceless wind sounded like a terrible, shuddering breath, reverberating throughout the building that looks as if it could topple any minute. It sounded like a death rattle, a death rattle that could easily take Kittsu- and that poor lost Patrat down along with it.

What a stupid child.

Kittsu’s breath is audibly shaky as she begins to slowly place one foot in front of the other, going left from her current position, from the numbers on the remaining doors, she’s probably going deeper in. Every shuddering inhale the broken stone takes makes Kittsu freeze, as if pausing would save her from being crushed under rubble if it chose to give out now.

Her steps slowly, ever so slowly, become quicker, a bit more confident as she tries to call out to the Patrat, whose name is apparently Daisy; though muttering of “they’re just messing with you it’s fine they won’t hurt you” are regularly sprinkled within. The camera regularly turns back to make sure nothing is following the teen on her lonesome. Each step is a terrifying gamble if what may appear before, Kittsu stops at each door and calls for Daisy, before moving on. How long had she been doing this..?

This limbo of “what’s next” continues for 30 minutes, before a shuddering sound comes from within one of the closed off rooms. Kittsu stops dead in her tracks, holding her breath as her previous shaking becomes that much clearer in the face of real, possible danger. She stands there for minutes, listening desperately for the ever so quiet sounds within, and ever so carefully, she approaches and fearfully knocks on the door. The sound stops dead, and a minute passes before the door is flung open, and a humanoid shape flees further into the room.

Kittsu whimpers in obvious terror, fighting off the panic that’s so clear from watching the video. “C-can I come in..?”

Another minute passes.

She takes one tentative step forward, entering the room.

…

A feminine figure stands in the center, on a small, charred coffee table in the center of the room. The figure is wearing a blackened nightgown, a clear victim of the same fire that took its building tomb. There is no light except for Kittsu’s unimpressive flashlight, the light seems to be eaten by the darkness as she shone it on the figure. Utter silence is steadily broken by a dramatic crescendo of the wind’s howls, the building itself wailing in a melody not unlike a sorrowful symphony. The silhouette turns around, only its charred nightgown illuminated as Kittsu’s shaking, near purple hands caused the light to dance in a way one might have called playful in any other scenario.

With much effort the light stills for just a moment upon the specter’s face, for just a split second so short that the video needs to pause to get a good look at what caused Kittsu to flee in a dead sprint.

Manic happiness painted the ghost’s face, manic joy not without touches of vicious malice.

Kittsu did not turn around to see if it gave chase; and she ran far faster than most may have expected for someone of her stature and… lack of regular exercise. Her breakneck pace suddenly slowed as the camera gets launched forward, Kittsu’s shout of alarm fading slightly as it skids further away from her, having tripped on something chittering.

“My Arceus- Daisy! You- you need to come with please we need to leave we need to get out-“

Kittsu’s words are drenched in terror and desperation, pleading with the small rodent that from the sounds of it made in response, was quick to join her in her plan to leave the screaming world around. Her sobs of relief at finally being able to go home are audible, the terrified chitters of the dehydrated, starving Patrat being the only form of company she’s had in a long while since entering this hellhole of a hotel. It takes a few minutes for the camera to be picked up again, but it is turned to show Kittsu’s still wet face with a skinny Patrat in her arms. The mask she wears to protect against asbestos in this place is cracked, but still functional as the camera turns to show she had tripped on a pile of rubble.

By now the wind has died down to a low, tortured moan that never seems to quiet, even for a second; calm enough to not send the pair fleeing in terror, but not quiet enough to let go of the persistent tension that seeped from every crack in the arcforsaken place.

…

The video cuts off here. It doesn’t seem like it was quite meant to, but it had already happened…

Was Kittsu even online to post this..?

[cleromancy]

HI I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SNIPPETS OF THE EX CHILD STAR AU

thank you anon 🥰 sry it took me a few days to post this lol

cws: references to mental health problems and a previous suicide attempt, and lasting trauma from exploitation. uh, and past drug use.

*

If you had asked Dick twenty-four hours ago about his apartment, he would have said it was fine. Not too modest, not too ostentatious, not so public he has to worry about creeps but not as isolated as the villa. He's so glad they sold the villa. Nicest place he's ever lived, and if he'd stayed there one more day he'd have been peeling off the wallpaper muttering about ex-child stars trapped inside, creeping. Where he lives now is within walking distance from a friendly little corner store where he picks up cereal and almond milk and anything else he doesn't want to wait to get delivered, which is convenient, and a somewhat-longer-but-still-doable hike away from Dick's favorite store in L.A, a tiny little candy shop that only stays afloat out of sheer spite. The owner, a cantankerous old man that Dick loved immediately upon meeting, roasts Dick mercilessly every time Dick comes in, but he also keeps Dick's standing order of the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads in stock just for him, so Dick wouldn't buy them anywhere else even if he could.

And as long as you have that and a laundry room, you're golden. If Dick had to leave his apartment to wash his socks he'd just lie down and die, or else wear a lot of dirty clothes.

So normally if asked, Dick would conclude that the apartment is, actually, better than fine, maybe even pretty good, and then he would change the subject.

It's just hitting Dick now that he's lived here for seven years now and he doesn't think he's ever actually looked around. They hired somebody to move his stuff into storage while Dick was still in inpatient and somebody else to decorate the apartment so it would be livable right when he got out, before he got around to picking up his stuff (he keeps meaning to do that). Moving in, all Dick cared about was getting a burrito the size of his face and sleeping on sheets that didn't smell faintly of industrial bleach masked poorly by something artificial, vaguely floral, and marketed as *Mountain Breeze.* In the grey haze it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if maybe the decor was itself a little too grey.

"Or whatever color they call this," Dick says to himself, staring down an oversized decorative vase with a few sticks poking out that you'd think would be silk flowers or something, but instead have these fuzzy little puffballs attached for some reason. "Gray-beige? Taupe? Greige? Why do I even have you." He tilts it to one side. It's shockingly heavy. "Why do I have *six of you.*"

Looking down the hallway it's obvious that the interior design team had a vision, and that vision was "innoffensive, featureless neutrality." There are just enough wall hangings to qualify as "minimalist" over "austere," black and white photographs of bland still lifes in featureless frames. Some kind of hanging tapestry except it's solid white with hanging tassels. Grey-toned floor, lighter grey-toned floor runner. The end result sails right past "boring" into "escaped psych ward patient" territory. Which Dick resents. He did his time, thank you very much, and waited until his official discharge like a good boy. That's probably why he didn't notice until now, psych ward home away from psych ward home.

Yeah. Let's blame that. The fact that he spent his first year out of the hospital doing nothing but trying to beat his Tetris high score in his underwear and scouring the internet trying to find the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads had nothing to do with it.

"He's going to think I'm a serial killer," Dick realizes.

He's most of the way through Tetrising the unwieldy, surpringly heavy vases into the tiny cubicle the guest bathroom calls a shower—and he'd like to know whose idea *that* was when anyone with a lick of sense would have just made it a half-bath—when the buzzer for the lobby goes off.

"Crap," Dick mutters, taking half a step away from the tower, which wobbles ominously. He lunges to steady it. "Crap!"

He casts around for a surface and sets the last two vases on the toilet lid and the sink respectively, the stupid little Q-tip stick things rattling mockingly inside, then dashes out to tell the doorman that no, Roy's not a stalker, yes really, yes Dick wants you to let him up please, yes he is serious, yes he is sure. He has enough time to sprint back to the bathroom and make sure his hair is okay and confirm that at least he doesn't *look* as sweaty and disheveled as he *feels,* but thankfully not enough time to start worrying if he might be due early for another round of fillers or if his hairline might be receding or if the skin under his jaw might be sagging. He looks fine. Everything's fine.

When the doorbell rings, Dick has to pretend he doesn't know who's on the other side to get himself to finally open the door. His breath still catches when he sees him.

Roy, casual as ever, pushing a pair of Ray-Bans he told Dick he shoplifted as a teenager up his forehead. His crow's feet, because he stopped getting fillers at twenty-five, except *his* are laugh lines, not stress wrinkles, less those *Where Are They Now?* specials they used to do on VH1, more Paul Newman aging like fine wine. His crooked smile, and he doesn't whiten his teeth anymore either, teased Dick when he drove him for his root canal that he was destroying his enamel and then held his hand when they put him under. His scuffed bomber jacket, older than either of them, which sparked half a dozen anecdotes about an Uncle Hal when Dick brushed his fingers against a faded patch on the sleeve. His henley with three buttons undone, straining over the curve of his chest. His jeans tight around the thighs, a little threadbare in places after over a decade of wear. The whole of him, broad and easy in the doorway, unapologetically imperfect, smiling.

Dick just wants this to go well so *badly.* "Hi."

"Hi yourself," Roy says, shifting a little. "Can I come in?"

"Please."

Roy closes the door behind him, bending to unlace his boots. Dick's eyes catch for a second on the strain of his thighs against denim, and the nervous inane smalltalk on its way out of Dick's mouth dies on his lips.

Roy kicks the second boot off and straightens up, dusting his palms off on his thighs, which probably shouldn't make Dick's mouth fill with saliva the way it does. He's looking around the entryway, curious. "Nice place."

*Don't mention the vases.* "You think so? I keep meaning to update a little."

"Yeah, man, it's nice," Roy says easily, and he's lying but Dick can barely tell, which is kind of him. "You want to show me around?"

No, Dick does not want to show him around. No, he does not want to discover alongside Roy what other modern minimalist nightmares the interior design team saw fit to install in case Dick got too overstimulated by non-neutral colors and tried to kill himself again.

"I want to show you the media room," Dick says, which at least has the benefit of actually being true.

*

The "whoa" Roy lets out when they enter the media room is gratifying. It's most people's reaction when they see it. It's always gratifying.

"Is that a pinball machine?" Roy asks.

Dick grins. "You wanna play?"

"Hell yeah, just. Later. You have so much cool shit here, show me all of it—"

Maybe the other reason Dick barely knows what the rest of his apartment looks like is because this is where he spends most of his time. Freshly discharged from the hospital, Dick had scarfed down his face-sized burrito, faceplanted on the bed, slept like a log for about two days straight and woken up not entirely sure what year it was or why. He looked around the room, remembered it was his, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table and didn't like it any better in the light. It was the smooth plasticine decor that Dick's belatedly come to realize populated the entire apartment, featureless, meaningless, trying desperately to be mature by being entirely devoid of interest. *My bedroom pays taxes,* Dick remembers thinking. *My bedroom has a 401k.* He grabbed his meds from his bedside table and stuffed them in his sweatpants pocket before wrapping himself in the big gray down comforter and dragging it to what he supposed was the den, flopping on the couch and sleeping for another six hours, eventually waking with the cap of PRAZOSIN - 10MG - GRAYSON, RICHARD J digging into his hip.

Time was sort of soupy a lot of the time back before he got his ADHD diagnosis, because of the brain fog. For the longest time his psychiatrists kept adjusting his Wellbutrin dose pretending they thought that had a chance in hell of working while Dick sat listlessly in their offices, missing meth. It wasn't until later when Jason Todd of all people dragged him to a specialist (because "if I have it, you definitely have it" successfully nettled Dick into going just to prove him wrong, except of course it turned out the bastard was right) and Dick found a new psychiatrist who was halfway competent and put him on Adderall that he really felt at all present again. The psychiatrist he has now, who is from hell and who doesn't let him get away with lying and who is incredibly good at her job, was the one who told him how much meth and ADHD stimulants have in common chemically.

Dick sat very still. Then he pointed to the throw cushion on the couch. "Can I borrow that for just a sec?"

"Take as long as you need."

Dick grabbed the pillow, buried his face in it, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

But for a while, yeah. Time was soup Dick was mostly afloat in. He spent it floating here.

Now that Dick is looking for it, he notices the gray in the floor and the walls, the aggressive featurelessness of even the window frames, but he likes the rest of the room enough not to mind. At one point he'd been irrationally angry at the pile of mail he'd put off opening for over a month, and he'd been going through a minor fixation with auction websites at the time, and there was an old, probably busted Ms Pac Man arcade machine up for sale and for some reason Dick latched onto it. For some reason winning the auction of the stupid Ms Pac Man machine was very briefly the most important thing in the world. And he did win the auction, because nobody else wanted the janky old thing, and to Dick's shock and delight it actually *worked*, and suddenly he had a project.

At first he bought and fixed up old arcade fixtures, classic games and pinball machines mostly but he dabbled in anything; he'd even gotten his hands on an air hockey table once. Then he'd get bored or run out of space, sell a bunch of things or even give them away if he was too sick of looking at them, and before terribly long he drifted away from arcades specifically. That part he credits to a film projector he ran into at a flea market and fell in love with, which prompted him to spend possibly obscene amounts of money on the sound system and improving the acoustics. He fell in love with a lot of objects, those days, maybe because he wasn't talking to *people* much. Not people who knew him well, anyway. He was on first name terms with his favorite antique dealers, one of whom inexplicably set aside an old Gibson electric guitar he found, a gorgeous machine in a charmingly 60s shade of Robin's egg blue, because he said it reminded him of Dick. Either because he somehow knew Dick would love it, or else because he knew Dick was a sucker with way too much money.

It didn't matter. Dick *did* love it, and he *is* a sucker with way too much money, and he *did* go straight home to almost give himself tinnitus playing every three-chord classic he knew at a truly unwise volume.

(Dick even replaced the original couch in this room because he kept falling asleep on it and his physical therapist threatened to quit over the havoc he was wreaking on his back. He's still not thrilled that he doesn't really sleep in bed ever, but the new couch isn't threatening to do permanent damage to his spine. Win/win in Dick's book.)

So. Not a home arcade, not a home theater, not a home studio. Scavenged bits and salvaged pieces, nostalgia probably in excess, anchors in time. Whatever magic they put in the air at antique stores and estate sales and really good museum exhibits, Dick managed to bottle a breath of it and take it home with him. When he finally started letting people into his life again, the unabashed delight often on their faces, walking into this room full of outdated obsolete frivolous things, sharing it with them… it's good. It feels good.

"Does that ancient popcorn machine actually work?" Roy asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Dick matches it. "Yeah, and it's gonna knock your socks off."

*

So Dick gets the popcorn going and shows Roy around and silently laments that there was no way he could get his hands on film reels of The Muppet Show. Roy was almost as much of a geek about some of these machines as Dick was, and Dick had made it his whole personality for a while.

"It's just that there are some antique collectors that really don't mess around," Dick explained to Donna the week before, twisting and untwisting his napkin in his hands. "And I'm a competitive guy but some of the markets are totally cutthroat, and film people and puppet people are both intense. So this was better."

"Yeah, *and* it'd be insane to drop that kind of money on a first date," said Jason through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, Mister *we're not brothers we just played them on TV.* Dick had invited Donna to lunch, Jason had loudly said he was too busy to come, Dick said he wasn't invited, and Jason's schedule suddenly cleared up, *viola,* miracles do happen.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick told him.

"Die," Jason suggested pleasantly.

'Just played it on TV.' Sure.

"And it's not a date," Dick added belatedly, stomach swooping.

Jason had opened his mouth to probably say something horrible, as is his way, and instead let out a hilarious squeak, turning to Donna next to him in the booth with massive betrayed Bambi eyes.

She ignored him, continuing to pour Sweet-N-Low packets into her half-empty coffee as if she didn't just stomp on his foot under the table. She didn't really like coffee until it got to the consistency of artificially sweetened sludge. When they were young Donna was always on top of what was *in*, considering it part of her full-time job to appear effortlessly sophisticated; she skipped the teen-preteen fashion beat and shot straight to the big leagues by fifteen. They were putting the equivalent of a *sophomore in high school* on best dressed lists alongside grown-ass women. It should never have happened. No one should have *let* it happen. One time even before all that, Dick and Jason stole a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from catering and absconded to her trailer to share and she had a panic attack. Years later she described her youth as being in a room full of invisible mirrors at all times. Those days she wouldn't be caught dead with anything less chic than an espresso from whatever new *it* cafe just opened. And there she was, two decades later, blithely desecrating two-dollar-fifty diner coffee with enough aspartame to kill a cart horse in front of god and everyone. She was probably Dick's favorite person in the entire world, and he went into a little trance for a moment, watching her graceful hands with horrified fascination.

Finally satisfied, she took a sip of her monstrosity and hummed, satisfied with that which she hath wrought. "Wait and see," she suggested. "If it goes well, it can be a date."

"And everyone says *I'm* the crazy one," Jason griped, rubbing the prison stick-n-poke tattoo on one thumb with the other.

"Well, if everyone says it, it must be true," Donna said warmly, knocking her shoulder against Jason's.