#i also love that wingback chair

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition)

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus (+ maybe the other MLs!) and an oblivious player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, maybe some suggestive language?? will add more tags as the story progresses A/N: This is gonna be a multi-chapter fic! I’m still not sure whether to do the boys in rotation, or just focus on one ML per series. Don’t take my word for it atp tho – I’m not even sure if I can actually finish a series lol.  Also, I’ve had the creative liberty of changing stuff from the actual gameplay here and there. (Except for the self-awareness. That’s most definitely real.) Hope you enjoy~!

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9

It’s a quarter past eight and you’re still on your desk working overtime on a Friday night. 

You let out a big sigh, leaning back on your office chair after an unhealthy duration of bad posture from hours of slouching down in front of your computer. There’s nothing ergonomic about the way this job is killing you, and the ache in your lower back can attest to that. 

An irate orange tabby plops himself in front of you, blocking your view of the glaring screen and you figure that it’s time for a break. 

“Me-oow.”

“I know, I know,” You answer tiredly, standing up to dodge a stray paw clawing your way and you hear cracks in three different places that are honestly unbecoming of a woman your age. You haven’t even reached thirty yet, for god’s sake. “I’m a bad mother. But mom also had to skip dinner to make it to the seven PM meeting, so cut me some slack, okay?” 

A high-pitched “meooowr!” is the only response you get; it seems like there’s no excusing late dinner time this time around. 

As much as you’d like to hem and haw and complain, the main reason why you’re still keeping this job is because you can work remotely. If it weren’t for the fact that you’re stuck most days at home working hours past your regular nine to five, having to be on-call around the clock at all times, and that you’ve consumed more sodium than a nitrite victim with the way you live off cup ramen, then, really, it beats working in an office where you’d physically have to clock in and out from exactly nine to five. 

Your right eye twitches. No, I have not fallen in love with the system that exploits me, thank you very much. 

“Here is your Fancy Feast, your highness,” you tell the hungry feline who’s already ignoring the hand that feeds for the bowl full of white fish paté. He eats healthier than you, sure, but you work like this for him to eat like this. The life of a single mom is an uphill battle, but extremely rewarding. 

You raise your hand to pat your son’s head lovingly, aborting the gesture halfway when you hear a warning growl. Alright, tough crowd. 

After nuking a half-eaten takeout box in the microwave and grabbing a cold Bundaberg from the fridge, you hunker down on the “chaise lounge” (see: an old wingback and a rattan ottoman you’ve refurbished as a makeshift seat a few weeks back when you had guests over) for a late meal. 

You barely register the taste of lukewarm rice on your tongue, mouth moving mechanically while your mind runs on autopilot about everything and nothing at the same time. 

Maybe it’s time to check Jobstreet again

Is there like a laundromat near the area that’s open twenty four seven

Eugh, I hate cold peas

What do we feel about Chromakopia? 

I will… die alone

I really need to stock on some fresh produce this weekend—

Ping! 

A notification from your phone pulls you out of your thoughts—and like a well-trained dog pavlov’d into responding, you visibly perk up at the sight of your lock screen lighting up and the familiar banner you’ve already memorized by heart. 

Your Galaxy Explorer rewards are here. Did you put my hotel’s address as the shipping address? 

Ah, just like clockwork. 

You press on it with a quiet, bubbling anticipation, chewing on the plastic spork as you wait impatiently for the silly mobile game that’s been your short respite at intervals—for more than you’d care to admit—to boot up. 

Offhandedly, you wish that the devs would add more variations to the game’s push notifications; more random, personalized stuff like maybe a reminder to drink water, or a fun update about their day. What you’d give–pay–for a: "Less on the overtime, kitten. I miss you,” dialogue from a certain character, but you digress. 

Oh, well. Probably better this way, lest you dig yourself deeper into delusion. 

The game greets you with the usual picturesque view of a silver-haired man sitting cross-legged on a chair, looking all the bit at ease in his signature crimson and white button up. The warm ambience of the Destiny Café at night draws you in, already pulling your attention away from the never-ending stream of thoughts in your brain. 

“Before seeing you, I thought today would be another dull day,“ Sylus comments airily. The way he drawls out the words in that deep timbre of his voice never fails to make your heart flutter – just a teeeensy bit.

“Ever the charmer,” you sigh happily in return, situating yourself more comfortably on the sofa, almost horizontal from how far you’re leaning back on the cushion. “You’re looking awfully normal tonight. What, no pineapple glasses for your favorite girl?” 

Having bypassed the initial cringe of talking to yourself after literal months of gameplay, it almost comes off natural, the banter. You’ve already accepted the fact that you’re crazy about a fictional, pixelated man—what’s pretending to have actual conversations with him gonna do? It’s not as if he actually hears you yap your nonsense; there are worse things in the world than a parasocial attachment to an otome game character. 

Your little jab at the sometimes random addition to his choice of attire earns you a laugh from the man itself—or at least it looks as though it does, making you blink momentarily in surprise. Happy coincidence, I guess.

You shake your head, cracking a smile, then proceed to do the routine of completing the daily agenda and then some. 

It’s tedious business, sure. You’ve dedicated hours upon hours on this game and you’re honestly starting to feel pretty bored with some of the gameplay elements, but you *do* like the ritualistic nature of ticking off the tasks one by one. It’s almost ironic— the way you dutifully do one thing after the other in this game, just to avoid the pile of work that’s waiting for you in real life. 

It’s not as if anything, or anyone’s relying on you to do your daily log-ins, so you suppose it’s due to that lack of pressure as well. 

Pulling yourself away from the five-star Xavier memory card you’ve grinded to level seventy, you stare despondently at the sad little 2 on your remaining energy. The embarrassing amount of materials you lack to ascend the card seem to mock you, even as you exit the Memories window. Another goal for another day, perhaps.

All tasks on the daily agenda are complete, except for one that you’ve always saved for last.

You’re met with a standing Sylus on the game’s home screen, arms crossed and wearing an expression you’d almost describe as impatient, if you didn’t know any better. The sight makes you grin. 

Cheekily, you poke his crotch.

You’re looking forward to getting a playful remark, or if you’re lucky, a blush along with an embarrassed retort about your shamelessness. 

 What you get, however, is a resounding scoff. Your eyes snap back to his face – from, ahem, your prolonged staring at the area below his waist – and you do see the familiar tinge of pink on his cheeks, but what he says in response catches you off-guard.

“You spend that much resource for a card that isn’t mine?” Sylus tsks, both his voice and expression coming across as… affronted? “Kitten, I’m actually hurt.” 

Huh?

You haven’t heard that line from him before. Was there a recent update you weren’t aware of? The man in question then appears to look amused, from the way you’ve been rendered speechless by the unexpected dialogue. 

All at once, you gasp when you realize what the new response means. 

“That’s so smart,” you say giddily. You see Sylus cock his head to the side, synchronously quirking an eyebrow—expectant. “They actually added a feature that lets them know which memory I’ve upgraded last, and make you react to it. Oh, that’s so cool!” 

If you weren’t too busy being excited over what you think is a new update from the game,  you’d see the chagrined look on Sylus’ face. But when you glance back at him, all trace of the emotion is gone before you could notice anything different. 

“Don’t worry, Crow Man. You’re still my favorite,” you assure him, making his mouth tick upwards in a semblance of a smile. He looks pleased all of the sudden, his demeanor shifting into something more relaxed.

Then a pout forms on your face. You crinkle your nose in frustration as you complain, “It’s just really hard to level your cards up at this point. It takes ages and a shit ton of energy just to level you up past seventy five.” Sighing, you add, kind of bitterly, “And I’m too broke to be spending money on growth packs.” 

Checking the time on your phone, you see that you’ve already spent more than an hour on your self-imposed break time and you know that you ought to get back to work soon. With a groan, you pull yourself to sit upright, savoring the last few minutes of free time before you slave off for the rest of the night. 

You’re about to clean up what’s left of dinner when you notice the oddly thoughtful look on Sylus’ face. 

There’s a deep furrow in his brows as he brings a hand up to cover his mouth. He closes his eyes shut for a few seconds. He's never done that gesture before... Ugh, he looks really hot–

Suddenly, you see a flicker— then a weird, sort of graphic distortion happening in the background. Uh, what??

A beat; then a glitch on the screen. “Ah, shit.” 

The game crashes.

You exhale loudly as the game’s interface goes back to the loading screen, tapping your thumb impatiently as the bar slowly loads to 15%... 50%..... 81%....... 

“Maybe make sure to patch up first before releasing an update next time, jeez— Huh?” 

For a quick second, nothing seems to be amiss. But then the first thing you see on the home screen is Sylus’ figure standing before you, wearing an expression one could only describe as a cat that ate the proverbial canary. 

He speaks— and it’s another intro you haven’t heard him say, ever. 

“You should’ve told me sooner, sweetie,” he almost coos the words out, making your eyes bug out in shock. 

“Now, why don’t you go check your–” he pauses, and his mouth moves as if he’s rolling the word out, testing it. “Inventory?” 

Sylus slides his gaze towards the upper left corner of the screen, a coy smirk still ever-present on his face. 

There, you see something you haven’t noticed earlier: two notification badges. One on your mailbox, and another on the Hunter’s Info tab. Bewildered, you press on the mail icon first, despite the insistence for you to start with the latter. 

You see a new message: [For You]

A small gift, to bridge our worlds closer. – S 

Nothing is attached to it. You read it twice, perplexed.  

“You’re quite the contradictorian, aren’t you?” Sylus tuts as soon as you return back to the home screen, his gaze boring into you even when he tilts his head sideways in mock exasperation. “Mmm, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” 

Helplessly, you open your inventory next. 

Your jaw drops. 

“What. The fuck,” You whisper to yourself, voice wavering in disbelief at what you’re seeing, and the sheer amount of what you’re seeing. “This– this can’t be real.” 

You see that all the materials you own, from the bottle of wishes to the ascension crystal boxes, have been multiplied a hundred times over.

And on top of that–

Ninety nine thousand red dias????

You cannot believe how this—this recent… update (or is it a bug? Infold sure isn’t this generous) didn't make the news. Even as someone as uninvolved as you are with the community and the game’s latest releases, something like this for sure would’ve made headlines on Twitter (X), at least. But you haven’t heard anything. Nada. 

Holy shit. 

You feel a little light-headed, both from incredulity and excitement. Needing a moment to calm yourself down, you exit the Inventory tab in a daze.

You stare at Sylus. He stares back at you with what looks to be mirth in his eyes. 

Skeptically, you mutter, “did–did I get hacked or something?” 

Anticipating another unexpected dialogue to prompt up, you wait for a full minute without saying anything else. And for a moment, the man in front of you looks indecisive, contemplative. 

There’s something very odd, very… human in the way he’s looking at you. He looks as if– as if he’s—

His face falls back into a neutral expression. Not unlike how his idle animation usually looks. 

..

…

….. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to initiate a conversation any time soon, so you hesitantly poke him on the nose. 

“Even in the worst-case scenario, there’s no need to panic.”

You’ve heard that one before.

So he’s back to normal now. You temper the small disappointment that blooms in your gut. 

Shaking your head slowly, you try to make sense of all the stuff that just happened, but a sharp bite on your ankle pulls you out of your reverie. 

“Ow–!” The sight of your cat flopping near your feet reminds you of the time. More importantly, the backlogs waiting for you at your desk. 

“Wait, shit– I gotta get back to work.” This… unbelievable stroke of good luck (?) is gonna have to take a backseat for now.

You grab the carton box and the half-empty bottle of sparkling peach as you stand up. Making quick work of throwing the container in the trash and gulping down the rest of your drink, you rush into your room and back in front of your PC. 

Cracking your knuckles, you gingerly set your phone against the monitor. Setting the timer to one hour in Quality Time, knowing fully-well that you’re going to have to keep extending it until the wee hours of the morning—or until your battery dies, whichever comes first—you give Sylus one last look, letting out a long exhale before locking in.

“Just keep me company for the night, alright? I’ll figure out what’s going on once my shift’s over.” 

-

It could just be your overactive imagination, but you swear you hear a quiet chuckle from the man polishing his gun in your peripheral.

[gullemec]

Red Underlined

Golden Cage - Chapter Six

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You confront the aftermath of your night with Butcher and your father hosts a rather interesting dinner party.

Warnings: angst, language, butcher being emotionally constipated and a dick about it, discussion of sex, discussion of grief, daddy issues galore, discussion of death/murder, reader has an emotional breakdown, discussion of suicide (not reader), sexual tension, Homelander is a creep, unwanted touching (from Homelander)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.8k

A/N: Lots of emotional constipation and angst and daddy issues here, proceed with caution! Also Homelander makes an appearance and is such a nasty creep so beware of that too.

This time when you wake, it's with a start. No warm embrace, no welcome weight tethering you, just the cold shock of reality rousing you from a fleeting dream. Your heart thuds as your half-awake brain searches the room.

Butcher sits across from you, perched in the room’s stiff wingback chair, his silhouette outlined by the pale dawn light. He’s fully dressed, boots planted firmly on the floor, arms crossed like he’s preparing for a battle.

“Butch?” Your voice comes out groggy, uncertain. He doesn’t look at you. “What are you doing?”

“Get dressed,” he says, flat and clipped.

You blink at him, confusion prickling under your skin. Yesterday’s clothes are scattered around the room, discarded in the heat of passion. Gathering them, you can’t help but notice how he averts his eyes, a rare show of decorum. But his body is stiff, his expression locked in that impenetrable mask.

Does he regret it?

The thought coils in your gut like a snake, equal parts hurt and fury. You’ve had enough of his hot-and-cold act, especially after the mind-blowing sex you'd shared just hours earlier. 

By the time you’ve dressed, the tension in the room feels suffocating. Without another word, he leads you out to the waiting van.

He may be older than most of the guys you usually sleep with, but his maturity level might actually rank below theirs. 

The silence on the highway is unbearable, the minutes dragging like hours. You stare at him, his profile rigid as he grips the wheel, his jaw tight. Finally, you snap.

“Look, I’m not doing this,” you begin. “I'm not subjecting myself to another awkward car ride, so you'd better come right out and tell me now if you regret last night.”

He exhales hard through his nose, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“I don't,” he says, after what feels like an eternity.

“You don't what?” you push, unwilling to let him off the hook.

His lips press into a thin line, the struggle playing out across his face as he tries and fails to find the right words. 

“I don't regret it. At all. Last night was one of the best nights of my fucking life, all right?”

Your heart skips, but the relief is short-lived.

“But it was a mistake,” he continues, voice low. “We shouldn’t have done it.”

The sting of rejection hits you like a slap. “Why not? Because you suddenly grew a conscience?”

“Listen, love, you're young. You got a future ahead of you. I'm too damn old for you. I’ve got more baggage than Heathrow, and none of it’s carry-on.”

“You think I care about that?” you fire back, your voice rising. “You think I don’t know who you are by now?”

“It’s not just that,” he says, cutting you off. “This job? This life? It’s dangerous. You don’t have room for emotional ties if you want to survive it.”

“Who said anything about emotional ties?” you retort, even as your chest tightens. You could play it cool. Maybe the two of you could be purely physical, using the kinetic energy you share for sexual release alone. Sure, you'd be betraying the growing sentiment you'd developed toward the abrasive man, settling for his physical affection alone if he truly couldn't find it in him to serve you emotionally, but at least you'd have some shred of him to keep for yourself. 

But the way he shakes his head tells you it’s not an option.

“You deserve more than that,” he says firmly, eyes fixed on the road.

You scoff, anger bubbling up. “That’s rich, coming from you. You certainly weren't saying that last night when your dick was—”

“You think I don't want to be able to give you that?” His voice is raw, startling in its honesty.

The fight leaves you for a moment, the truth of his words sinking in. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t let you see the cracks in his armor.

“You’re gonna meet someone,” he says, quieter now. “Someone who can give you the life you deserve. Someone who doesn’t drag you into this mess. Someone better.”

You scoff, hurt quickly turning to anger. “That’s bullshit,” you snap, your voice trembling. “Don’t pretend you know what I want, Butcher. You think I’ve got some perfect life waiting for me? Have I ever given you any reason to think I want anything more than being a part of the Boys? You think I don’t know exactly what I’m signing up for?”

He says your name, gently, like a prayer, finally turning to look at you. 

“Listen to me,” you tell him. “This is the most alive I've felt since my mom died. For the first time in my life I feel like I'm really making her proud. And I'll be damned if you get to decide what my future looks like.”

He finally turns to look at you, his hazel eyes softening. “Of course you get to decide what you want, if that means working with us. But you deserve to be happy, love. And I can’t give you that. I’m sorry.”

The apology hangs heavy between you, cutting deeper than you’d expected. You turn away, staring out the window as your eyes sting. You won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.. He cannot know the deadliness of the blow he has so casually dealt you. 

“Thanks for being honest, I guess,” you say quietly, your voice brittle.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Butcher clears his throat. “I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this. MM and Frenchie can take over—”

For an angry, petulant moment you want to agree, to let your hurt be known. But it's not what you want, not even close. As much as the sting of rejection smarts right now, complete separation from him would hurt even more.

“No,” you interrupt, the word sharper than you intended. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

A part of you does feel relief, knowing that you would have fallen into bed with him regardless of his true feelings for you. Your bones and atoms had screamed at you incessantly to crash your very being against his, and you had fulfilled that request. Maybe you could let go of this preoccupation now. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The road hums beneath the tires, the tension easing just enough for you to breathe.

“It was just a one time thing,” you offer, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. 

He nods, too quickly. “Purely physical,” he agrees. 

“Right. No one has to know,” you assert. 

Probably for the best. It was bad enough that everyone at your internship thought you only got the position because of your father, you didn't need the others in the Boys thinking you were only there because you were fucking their boss. 

Still, he holds your gaze, shoulders tense, only tossing a glance toward the road when absolutely necessary. He's assessing you for truthfulness, picking up on the smallest tells in your voice that you're not as casual about this as you'd like him to think. 

You hesitate for a moment.

“It was really good, though,” you admit.

And, like a dam, his cool facade releases, posture softening. “It was really fucking good,” be agrees enthusiastically. 

“Like, so good,” you repeat. 

You both laugh. 

Fuck. 

~~~

For your entire life, family dinner has been a fortnightly tradition. 

There is a salient moment in your childhood memory; your parents, tucked away in some corner of the house they thought you wouldn't detect, voices raised in frustration. Your father, increasingly away from home, was missing out on your childhood. Your mother, desperate to keep your life as stable as possible, begging him to change. Despite his philandering ways, there was a love there between your parents, at least once upon a time. And thus a compromise was reached and the family dinner tradition was born. 

Of course, CytoGenix duty called from time to time and family dinner was deemed of lower priority, leaving you and your mother to dine alone, huddled at the end of the ten-seater dining table. Then there were the four years you spent studying abroad, missed dinners you had no idea would be your mother’s last. Still, family dinner had been an honored tradition for the most part.

And when you were bedridden, steeped in grief and disbelief, it was your father's suggestion that you restart the tradition. It was the only thing that roused you from that dark numbness. For a couple of months there it was good. Just you and dad, navigating the fog together, united in your heartbreak. 

That was, until he announced there would be a guest joining you at dinner one night. You had assumed an aunt or distant cousin, some estranged family member who’d made their way through the woodwork upon hearing the news of your mother’s untimely passing. That pretense fell away the moment Monica strolled into the dining room, dressed for Paris fashion week. You’d held a polite smile, asked polite questions, and offered polite answers to the rare, offhand question she threw your way. It was at one of these fortnightly dinners that Monica and your father, hands grasped together tightly, announced they were getting married. It was harder this time to offer a polite congratulations, forcing a pained smile until you could excuse yourself to sob in the privacy of the bathroom.

And no, you didn’t go to the wedding.

It’s in that enormous dining room that you sit now, pushing a charred brussel sprout around on your plate. 

“You know, sweetie, you have such a glow about you lately,” Monica coos from across the table. Her tone is all honey, but her eyes hold the sharpness of a blade. You resist the urge to roll your eyes anytime Monica uses terms of endearment toward you, as if her saccharine words could disguise the fact that she’s closer to your age than to her sexagenarian husband.

Still, you flush at implication. Is there a blinking sign floating over your head that reads I just got fucked so hard I saw stars, ask me about it?

“I’ve been getting out more lately,” you offer instead of the expletive laced response you really want to say. 

“I’ve noticed,” your father says, his tone carrying more irritation than interest. “I’ve also noticed you’ve been taking a lot of personal days at the office.”

He's not wrong. Ever since the day you’d woken up in the basement of the laundromat and had your entire world turned on its axis, something profound had shifted. Discovering that Vought—and by extension CytoGenix, too—likely bear responsibility for your mother’s death has a way of making intern projects feel laughably small. You figure that Adam and Emily have the menial lab experiments covered in your absence. 

Your father sets his knife down deliberately, licking his teeth before speaking. “I want you to take this seriously,” he says, his voice cool but weighty. “This isn’t just an internship—it’s the family name we’re talking about.”

Something about the scrape of Monica’s knife on the china grates on you, or maybe it’s the way you fucking hate brussel sprouts. Maybe it's your father's condescending tone and the fact that the family name has only ever brought you pain and misery. Perhaps it's the fact that all of you sitting here together now is a bastardization of a tradition your mother created in hopes that you'd have some semblance of a normal childhood.

“What about me, though?” The words spill out before you can stop them. “What about what I want?”

The room falls still. Monica freezes mid-cut, her fork hovering. Even you’re surprised at the sharpness in your own voice.

“Maybe you forgot, since you didn’t bother showing up to my graduation, but I majored in biology, not pharmacology or business. I never wanted to come back here, let alone do this internship. So excuse me if I miss a few days here and there, okay?”

The heat of your anger makes your face flush, sweat prickling at your spine. Across the table, Monica blinks, her expression unreadable. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she almost looked impressed.

But your father doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam his fists on the table like he did when you were younger. Instead, he does something that is perhaps even worse. He dismisses you, a loose hand wave and unaffected expression rendering your impassioned cry moot. The calm, detached response somehow cuts even deeper.

“Nonsense,” he says coolly. “Someone needs to take over the family business when I go, and if you ask my cardiologist he'll tell you that day isn't too far off.”

“Baby, don’t talk like that!” Monica gasps, her performative worry grating on your nerves. She turns to you. “Your dad’s been overseeing testing on a new heart medication in the labs—which you’d know if you bothered to show up.”

You zone out completely as the two of them bicker back and forth, about your father's health, about your insolence, and then eventually about frothy gossip they'd overheard during their recent outing to Le Bernardin. 

Your mind drifts.

What do you want? You’d chosen biology at Cambridge as a compromise, a way to avoid outright rebellion against your father’s wishes. Your mother used to tell you to go after what set your heart on fire, to never settle for anything that didn’t light you up inside. She always spoke as if your success was inevitable, like there was no version of reality where you wouldn’t do something extraordinary.

Only, maybe she'd never considered a reality in which her advice and listening ear no longer existed, where her very absence snuffed out that spark entirely.

What would she say about the Boys, about Butcher? She was a sensible lady, and classy, so it probably would have taken her some time to warm up to the idea of you cavorting around with a crew of vigilantes. Still, you want to believe that she would see the spirit with which you speak about them, the way you feel a million times more purpose scheming and spying in a dingy, dimly lit basement than you ever did sitting in a cubicle reading lab reports. You imagine her reaction to Butcher, her mother's instinct warning you to guard your feelings, and her inability to deny that you were glowing. 

You're pulled from your daydream when your ears perk up at something Monica says. “Sorry, what was that?” You ask. 

She examines you for a moment. “I said that production has been set back for a special product we've been making for Vought. There was an… unfortunate accident.” She spears her steak, her gaze dropping. “Ashley’s furious. They’re demanding a meeting.”

This time Monica is on the receiving end of your father's casual dismissal as he waves her off like a gnat. “I already spoke to her. Told her they can come to dinner at the Lakehouse. We’ll pour them some wine, ease the blow.”

Monica sets her jaw on edge. “It's going to take a lot of wine for this to go down smoothly, darling,” she says curtly. Her tone lowers. “The losses were huge, it's going to take years and billions to recoup—”

Your effort not to smile is Herculean.

Then your father’s voice cuts through. “I want you there,” he says.

You blink. “Me? Why?”

“You need to start familiarizing yourself with Vought if you’re going to take over. Think of it as a lesson in conflict resolution.” He chuckles, ignoring Monica’s pointed glare.

And, to everyone's surprise, you don't argue this. “Okay, I'll be there.” Your mind swirls with all the ways you can take advantage of this opportunity. 

You choke down the last brussel sprout before bouncing up, giving your dad a kiss on the cheek before you leave. 

“See? I told you she'd come around,” you hear him say before the door shuts behind you. 

~~~

You don’t bother going home after dinner. Instead, you head straight for the laundromat, the adrenaline from your dinner revelation buzzing in your veins.

The basement is alive with chatter as you burst through the door. MM, Hughie, Kimiko, and Frenchie greet you with a chorus of smiles and hellos, their faces lighting up at your excitement.

Butcher, on the other hand, freezes. He bolts upright from the couch as if you’d hit him with a stun gun, his wide eyes darting over your face. For a moment, it looks like he might say something, but his mouth clamps shut before finally settling on an awkward wave before returning to his usual seat on the couch. The others glance at him, puzzled by his bizarre reaction, but say nothing.

You don’t entirely blame him. It's the first time you've seen each other in the week since you slept together. The memory lingers sharper than you’d like to admit. The rest of the car ride home had passed in companionable conversation, punctuated by argument every time you wanted to pull over to take a picture of a cool looking tree or pretty sunset. By the time you pulled up in front of your apartment you were dead tired, asleep on your feet. But just as you turned to leave, Butcher squeezed your hand. “Be safe, alright?” he'd said, and you told him you would be. 

You thought about him that night when you touched yourself, something you've been making a bad habit of lately. You wondered if he might have been doing the same. 

None of that matters now. You’re here for a mission.

“I’ve got a lead,” you announce, diving into an explanation of the upcoming dinner and its potential as a goldmine for intel. Everyone is receptive, earning you a back pat from MM and a good job, ma poupette  from Frenchie. You can't deny the way their praise feels like sunlight on your face. 

Hughie chimes in. “You should wear a wire. We’ll be outside in the van, listening in. If anything goes sideways, we’ll be ready.”

You nod, reassured by the thought of their backup. Soon, they’re deep into planning—locations, entry and exit points, contingencies. You hang back, content to watch them work.

That’s when Butcher sidles up beside you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, voice low. “Privately.”

Your pulse quickens as you nod and follow him into a side room. He shuts the door behind you, and the air between you feels suddenly charged. You're embarrassed by how flustered you feel just by being so close to him again, like your body knows his and reacts involuntarily at the proximity. Your cheeks flush as you draw your eyes up to meet his, putting effort into controlling your breath. Did he want to discuss what happened again? Did he change his mind about this physical element of your relationship? Did he pull you into this room because he absolutely could not wait a second longer to tear your clothes off and have you again, right here, right now?

He interrupts your spiraling thoughts by pulling a manila envelope from his trench coat and shoving it into your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask, confused.

“Your mum’s autopsy report. The unredacted version,” he says, his voice unusually soft. “Had it smuggled out of Vought Tower.”

Your breath catches. You grip the envelope, your excitement from earlier replaced by a rising wave of guilt. How had you let yourself become so wrapped up in your feelings for him that you’d lost sight of why you were working together in the first place?

You start to pull the papers out, but his hand covers yours, stopping you.

“I’m warning you,” he says. “It’s not good.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

The words on the pages blur together at first, dense medical jargon making your head spin. Some of it is familiar, pulled from the sanitized version Vought had given you. But there are new phrases here, ones that jump out like knives.

Internal injuries consistent with a traumatic car accident or fall from a great height. 

No external injuries noted. 

Partial exsanguination. 

You shake your head. None of this makes sense. You were told that your mother was found in her apartment, like having fallen and slipped in the shower. You didn't have to be a medical examiner to know that a person wouldn't have such catastrophic injuries from a slip, couldn't bleed to death from a wound with no external injury. 

Your hands tremble as you flip to the final page, one you'd examined at length in the past. Your eyes fall to the Cause of Death header. As before, you see ‘accidental’ written beneath it. Except next to it, previously obscured by a thick, black redacting line, you find two letters. SR. 

“SR?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Butcher grimaces. “Supe-related. It means a Supe killed your mum.”

You suspected it, readied yourself for it, stayed up late at night agonizing about it. Yet, with the evidence in your hands now, finally real, you begin to tremble. There was no running from the fact that your mother had suffered, that she had been afraid in her last moments. What did she think when the Supe showed up at her apartment? Had she begged for her life? Had your father and Monica contracted with Vought to get your mother out of the picture?

Your legs give out beneath you, vision swimming. Before you meet the ground, strong arms catch you, wrapping around you. You're enveloped in Butcher's arms as he gently guides you both to the floor, pulling you in tighter as you rest against the wall. Your lungs heave in great, powerful bursts, awful croaking sobs escaping from deep inside you. You sob in the same way you did on the night you received the life-altering news, unabashed and involuntarily. Butcher says nothing as he rocks you back and forth, a large hand running up and down your back. He lets you get it all out, like he's been here, like he knows this pain all too well. When the sobs subside and your breathing steadies, he helps you to your feet, his hands lingering just long enough to ensure you’re steady. You wipe your eyes and manage a grateful glance, knowing that speaking would only unleash another torrent of tears.

Butcher steps back slightly, his hand lingering on your shoulder as if anchoring you to the moment. His face softens, guarded but undeniably tender. He clears his throat, glancing away before meeting your eyes again.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” he says, voice quieter than you’re used to. “To lose someone and not have the answers. To lie awake at night, over and over, trying to piece together the truth that everyone else seems happy to bury.”

You blink, surprised by his tone. “You’re talking about Becca?”

He shakes his head. “Not just Becca. My brother, Lenny.”

The name hangs in the air like a heavy weight. He exhales sharply, as though it physically pains him to say it.

“Lenny was... different from me,” he continues, the rough edge in his voice softening further. “He wasn’t like this.” He gestures vaguely at himself, the trench coat, the scowl, the hardened demeanor. “He was the better one. Gentle, kind. Always trying to keep me in line. He was... the only good thing left in my life, for a long time.”

You stay quiet, the gravity in his voice pulling you in.

“But I couldn’t protect him.” His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists. “He was dealing with his own demons, and I was too blind, too wrapped up in my own shit, to see what he needed. He...” Butcher’s voice falters, his words cracking. “He didn’t make it. Took his own life. And I’ve spent every day since wonderin’ if I could’ve stopped it, if I could’ve done somethin’ different.”

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his arm, offering the same silent comfort he’d given you earlier.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” he says, looking at you with a rare vulnerability, his eyes sharp and glassy. “Whatever it takes, we’re going to get the bastard who did this to your mum. You’ve got my word. I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. Not like I did.”

His words ignite something deep inside you, a mixture of gratitude, determination, and pain. You nod, your voice unsteady but resolute. “We’ll get them. Together.”

Butcher’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he nods, the unspoken understanding between you solidifying like steel.

“Just promise me,” he adds, his voice rough again, “you don’t lose yourself in this. Revenge is a funny thing. It takes more than it gives. Trust me, I know.”

You swallow hard, hearing the weight of his warning but knowing, in your heart, that this path is the only one you can take.

“I’ll try,” you say, though you’re not sure if it’s a promise you can keep.

Butcher seems to hear it in your voice but doesn’t push. Instead, he straightens, his usual stoicism returning. “Get some rest,” he says, pulling his trench coat tighter around himself. “Big day tomorrow.”

As he walks toward the door, you glance at the manila envelope still clutched in your hands. The truth you’ve been searching for is finally laid bare, but it feels heavier than you ever anticipated.

Before he steps out, Butcher pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. For a moment, there’s something in his gaze, something soft and almost protective.

“You’re tougher than you think,” he says gruffly. “Don’t forget that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the truth and the ache of everything it means.

~~~

You're darting around your apartment in a short cotton bathrobe when three raps fall against your door in quick succession, alerting you to the arrival of Hughie and Butcher.

Thrusting the front door open, you barely greet the men before scurrying back upstairs. Dinner at the Lakehouse starts in an hour and a half. You're running late and you know it. 

“Make yourselves comfortable,” you shout over your shoulder, already halfway up the stairs to your loft.

Butcher steps inside first, glancing around the expansive living room with its vaulted ceilings and tastefully expensive decor. Though he’s been here once before, briefly, you can feel the weight of his presence in the space. Hughie follows, lingering awkwardly by the door as if afraid to touch anything.

“You sure this is just yours?” Hughie asks, his voice filled with awe as he surveys the plush furniture and abstract art pieces that probably cost more than his yearly salary.

“Doesn’t look like the digs of someone in our line of work, does it?” Butcher mutters, one eyebrow cocked as he gestures toward the oversized painting above your couch.

You cringe upstairs, pausing mid-search for your shoes. Do they know the painting cost a cool twenty grand? Do they know your father didn’t even blink when you charged it to his credit card?

The size and opulence of your apartment feel like an accusation, another reminder of the gulf between your world and theirs.

Pushing the thought aside, you turn to your reflection in the mirror. The maroon dress you’ve chosen clings to you like a second skin, fabric cascading over your hips and down your thighs to lightly skim the floor. The neckline rises to your collarbones, giving the illusion of modesty. It's what happens when you turn around that's worthy of a commotion; your back is bare save for delicate straps that criss-cross your back, dipping dangerously low beneath your waist, leaving little to the imagination. You’d be lying if you said you weren't looking a little forward to seeing Butcher's reaction.

Taking a steadying breath, you smooth the silk down your sides and make your way downstairs. The clack of your heels on the wooden steps draws their attention immediately. Hughie’s head snaps up, his mouth slightly agape before he quickly averts his gaze, his cheeks flushing.

Butcher, on the other hand, doesn’t bother to look away. His eyes rake over you, unapologetic, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something darker, something you’re afraid to name. He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens, and for a moment, he seems rooted in place. His eyes burn a hole through you, jaw firmly remaining on the ground. It's as though he's never seen you naked, reduced to tears by his relentless—

Get a hold of yourself. 

“Wow,” Hughie stammers, standing abruptly. “Uh, you—wow, yeah, you look—”

“Thanks, Hughie,” you interrupt, sparing him further embarrassment.

He awkwardly holds up the wire and listening device, his hands trembling as he explains how it works, assuring you that you'll be safe and that they'll step in if anything goes sideways. You distantly wonder would cause this mission to go awry, and what exactly the Boys would do to help you. You nod along, your mind only half-focused on his words as he hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of threading the wire through your dress. You've grown quite comfortable around the guy, but it's hard to imagine how this couldn't be an awkward interaction. He frets, deeply uncomfortable manipulating your dress or touching your skin. 

“Uh, maybe you should—” Hughie stutters, gesturing vaguely toward you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Butcher growls, snatching the wire from Hughie’s hands. “I’ll do it.”

Before you can protest, Butcher steps closer, the heat of his presence washing over you. He hands you the mic, his voice low and rough. “Stick this under your sternum.”

You do as he says, tucking it into place with trembling fingers. He takes the wire and, with surprising gentleness, pulls the side of your dress open where the straps criss-cross. His fingers brush your skin as he threads the wire through, and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe.

His hands pause at your waist, his eyes lifting to meet yours. The smoldering intensity in his gaze steals the air from your lungs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he reaches up to place the earpiece in your ear, “is so you can hear us in the van.”

 His eyes read wistfulness. Yours return the favour. 

The proximity, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek, sends shivers racing down your spine. You force yourself to stay still, fighting the instinct to lean into him, to close the infinitesimal distance between you. Your flesh reacts to his touch, his breath fanning on your face sending flutters down your spine. You inhale deeply, committing his warm scent to memory. It takes all your self-control not to reach out and touch his neck. 

Butcher lingers a moment too long, his eyes flicking to your lips before he catches himself. He pulls back abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to hide their tremble.

Hughie clears his throat loudly, snapping you both back to reality. “Uh, so... ready to go?”

Your cheeks burn as you step back, smoothing your dress and avoiding Hughie’s curious gaze. “Yeah,” you mumble, grabbing your coat and clutch. “Let’s get this over with.”

Shit. You have no idea how to explain to Hughie what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. You have no idea how to explain to yourself what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. He said it was a one time thing, and you had agreed. So why did it feel like neither of you really meant that now?

You don't wait around to find out. Cheeks hot, you pull on a heavy wool coat and throw your keys in a clutch, mumbling to Hughie and Butcher that your car is waiting downstairs for you, the three of you hurrying out of the apartment. 

Your heart is racing, your cool utterly lost, and you haven't even started the mission yet. 

~~~

The Lakehouse is hardly a house at all. Perched on eight sprawling acres of pristine waterfront property, the six-bedroom estate is more like a luxury resort. It boasts a private beach, a boathouse, a fully staffed kitchen, and amenities that wouldn’t be out of place in a five-star hotel. This was supposed to be your childhood home, a place where your family would gather to escape the chaos of the city. But, of course, your father’s relentless ambition had other plans. Weekdays in the city turned into every week in the city, and the Lakehouse became little more than a backdrop for corporate schmoozing and high-stakes dealmaking.

You’ve only been here once since moving back, and that visit had been for a similarly uncomfortable dinner with grumpy shareholders. That’s how it works with your father. When he invites someone to the Lakehouse, it means he’s either wooing them or trying to quell a crisis. Tonight, it’s the latter.

The heated marble floors feel too smooth under your heels as you drift through the dark wood-paneled corridors, a ghost in your father’s world. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the atrium, a cavernous space filled with old money charm and new money ambition. When you step inside, the low murmur of voices barely shifts.

Your father, however, notices immediately. His face lights up as he strides over, announcing your presence to the room with an enthusiasm that feels both practiced and performative. You’re greeted with nods and distracted glances from the scattered groups of investors, politicians, and Vought executives who occupy the space.

You paste on a polite smile and glide into the crowd, the maroon silk of your dress flowing like water around your frame. The fabric clings in all the right places, and you’re acutely aware of how much the dress is working in your favor tonight. You flit from one conversation to the next, exchanging hollow pleasantries with anyone willing to give you the time of day.

“Yes, I’m his daughter.”“No, I don’t work for CytoGenix yet, just shadowing.”“Of course, I’m honored to follow in his footsteps.”

You parrot the answers you know they want to hear, offering carefully crafted tidbits about your life in exchange for half-hearted words of encouragement or patronizing nods.

“So,” one executive asks, swirling his glass of whiskey, “you’ll be running CytoGenix one day, huh?”

You want to tell him you’d rather set the place on fire and dance on the ashes. Instead, you laugh, a soft, practiced sound, and offer some noncommittal response that earns an approving chuckle.

After thirty agonizing minutes, you can’t take it anymore. Your smile feels brittle, your cheeks sore from holding it in place. Excusing yourself with a vague promise to freshen up, you slip out of the atrium and into the cool night air.

The back terrace is wide and expansive, the kind of place meant for grand parties or quiet reflection. Tonight, it acts as your refuge. You pull your heavy coat tighter around your shoulders as you step to the edge, your heels clicking softly against the stone.

The view is breathtaking. The lake stretches out before you, the surface calm and glassy, reflecting the fiery reds and burnt oranges of the setting sun. The horizon blurs in the distance, where the vibrant sky meets the still water. The crisp fall air fills your lungs, sharp and invigorating, cutting through the lingering tension from the evening.

For a moment, you let yourself exhale fully, allowing the facade to fall away. Out here, there are no prying eyes, no hollow pleasantries, no suffocating expectations. Just the quiet lap of water against the shore and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You grip the stone railing and gaze out at the horizon, wondering if this is what your father feels when he’s here, if he ever lets himself feel anything at all. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you’re only here for one reason: to play your part. But the thought lingers like a shadow, just out of reach, as the sun dips below the horizon and the lake fades into twilight.

Your serenity is interrupted when the terrace door opens with a creak. You swear under your breath at the unwelcome intrusion. 

“Hey there sweetheart,” a voice beckons out behind you. Instead of the warmth you’d normally feel at this kind of greeting, you find the hair at the back of your neck standing on end, unsettled to your core. Your stomach tightens, and you hear Butcher’s muttered curse in your earpiece.

You turn, finding Homelander closing the door behind him, joining you on the balcony. 

“Homelander.” You turn, keeping your tone neutral, but your heart beats louder in your chest. "Enjoying the evening?"

He steps onto the balcony, closing the door behind him, his gaze tracing you with that predatory intensity that sends a ripple of discomfort through your veins. “Indeed I am.” He eyes you up and down, slow and deliberate, his words syrupy and laced with an unsettling warmth. “Enjoying the view even more.”

“Fuckin' prick,” Butcher growls under his breath through the earpiece.

You offer a strained smile, your pulse quickening despite yourself. “The lake’s amazing this time of year,” you say, grasping at the first thing that pops into your mind, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Homelander takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Not as incredible as you,” he says with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand rests on your waist, and you recoil instinctively, every nerve in your body screaming to move, to get away. “You’re something special, you know that?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping, “I’ve had my eye on you all night.”

A burst of anger flashes in Butcher’s voice. “I’m gonna kill him,” he hisses, but you can hear the strain in his words—he knows he can’t act just yet.

You swallow. Despite your knowledge of who he is, what he is capable of, you're not immune to his charisma. The quasi-genuine emotion in his voice is almost believable, bombarding your defenses. You stiffen against him, clutching onto the balcony railing like it might save you. 

Your stomach churns as Homelander's fingers curl possessively around your waist. Your muscles stiffen, but you stand your ground, ignoring the dread welling inside you. “I was just heading back inside,” you mutter, the tension radiating from your body palpable. You try to sidestep, but his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist in an iron hold, pulling you back toward him.

“No need for that, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice low, with a dangerous edge. “Don’t tell me those perky tits and round ass are gonna go to waste.”

“Enough, I'm going in,” Butcher's voice cracks through your earpiece, barely holding back the fury in his words. “No!” Hughie chirps, eliciting jumbled groans from Butcher. If he thinks he's disgusted listening to it, he should try hearing it spoken directly into his ear. 

You press your palm to the cool railing, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, the air thick with tension. You take stock of the situation, calculating your next move. The terrace is isolated, the fall air too cool for the partygoers inside. No one would hear you if you screamed right now. Still, your proximity to the party would prevent Homelander from doing anything too egregious. He may be sociopathic and narcissistic, but he's not stupid. He can't hurt you, at least not right now. 

Your mind races as you swallow the vile words bubbling up. It’s your turn now. You meet his gaze head-on, your voice barely shaking. “Back off, asshole,” you say, each word dragging itself from your throat with the kind of anger you’ve been keeping locked inside for months. “Step the fuck off.”

The world feels suspended for a heartbeat, and then another. You brace yourself for whatever comes next—the snap of your wrist, the rush of air as he lifts you into the sky—but all you hear is his shallow, ragged breath. He doesn’t move.

To your utter shock, he lets go of you. Only his hand remains, grasped around your wrist. You turn to face him. 

You feel the anger roll off of him in waves, concentrated and palpable. You fight to keep your breathing even as you contend with the electricity falling off of him, a live wire spinning out behind you. 

“You know who my father is,” you state, voice calm and even once again. “You don't want to do this.”

“That fuckin’ bastard is getting a bullet—”

His face falls, menacing energy leaking out of him. You feel the malicious energy exuding from his very being, every nerve in his body wanting to hurt you in this very moment, the barest thread tying him to reality.

Please, you think. Give Butcher a reason to run in here. Let him save me. 

He holds onto you, fist tightening around your wrist painfully. He gazes up at you, unnaturally blue eyes pleading. 

“I'm going in. I don't fucking care I’m going,” Butcher crackles into your ear. 

“Stop,” you say, simultaneously to Butcher and Homelander. “Just walk away.”

For a moment, the tension is unbearable. But then, to your shock, both men stand back. Butcher's voice fades from within your ear. Homelander takes a step backward, though it’s not out of mercy, but rather a calculation. A predator retreating from its cunning prey. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you again.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice almost too smooth. He turns away from you with a languid motion, desperately trying to coax his boner away. 

You swallow the bile rising in your throat and steel yourself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”  

You stare up at him, daring him to act up even a little bit. His eyes are lifeless, shark-like. He doesn't move. 

His smile is a razor. “Sure.”

You take a breath, then turn, letting the distance grow between you. “I really need to get back to my dad,” you mutter, your voice almost too casual as you slip past him and back inside.  

You slip back inside, the warmth of the party pressing against you. Your footfalls echo against the wood panelled walls, softening the jagged edges of your inhaled breaths. You pause for a second, ensuring he isn't following you, before ducking back into the dinner party. 

~~~

Dinner is served: Filet mignon, perfectly seared, accompanied by a side of Catalonian salad. 

It takes all of your energy not to tear into the meal, desperately trying to recall your brief time spent at finishing school in your teens. An array of assorted cutlery borders your meal; you select what you hope to god is the correct fork.

The minutes stretch on in blessed silence, the clink of cutlery and soft murmurs as everyone devours the fresh seafood. Cloth napkins flutter delicately to dab at dribbles of butter staining chins.

“A toast,” Ashley says, cutting through the meal’s quiet indulgence. “I'd like to extend Vought's gratitude toward the Morgans tonight for this lovely get together,” she raises her wine glass, all of the partygoers offering theirs up in the toast. She raises her glass in a practiced gesture, and everyone follows suit, toasting dutifully before draining their drinks.

When she speaks again her expression is serious. “But,” she continues, her tone now sharp, “I'd like to discuss the status of V2. After the recent attack, our shareholders are understandably concerned.”

Monica stands from the table, patronizing smile plastered on her face. “Ashley,” she begins, flashing a disingenuous smile, “We so appreciate your condolences on CytoGenix’s recent loss of two beloved security guards. May they rest in peace.” Her hand presses to her chest in exaggerated grief, screwing her eyes shut in mock sincerity.

You scoff quietly, wondering how someone so transparent in their deceit made it this far in the industry. How did your father fall for her when your mother was right there?

She continues. “What happened was a freak accident. V2 remains a well-guarded secret. We can assure you that CytoGenix is fast at work replacing all of the destroyed product.”

The room erupts into hushed murmurs, sidelong glances communicating dissatisfaction with Monica's response. She's trying desperately to downplay what happened, what you did, and she's failing miserably. 

“Monica, as an executive at both Vought and CytoGenix, I'm a little concerned about your nonchalance. Are you not concerned about the loss of 13 billion dollars in profits here?” Ashley’s voice is measured but biting, her sharp gaze trained on Monica without faltering.

Monica's face falls ever so slightly. It's barely perceptible, but you notice the infinitesimal twitch in her smile, the twinkle dying in her eyes. The energy in the room shifts as the din of cutlery and small talk silence. The two women stare each other down. Electric tension crackles around the room. 

Then, the squeak of a chair as it’s pushed back snaps you from your thoughts. You’re caught off guard when your father rises from his seat, one hand raised in an almost theatrically calm gesture.

“Ladies, please,” he says, a placating smile on his face. “I am willing to put my name and reputation on the line here to tell all of you,” he makes a sweeping gesture to the room, “CytoGenix is committed to ensuring favorable outcomes for everyone sitting at this table. I have taken on the responsibility of guarding the remaining vials myself. The future of V2 rests under my watchful eye.” His chest erupts in a hearty chuckle, as though it was silly that anyone doubted his company's ability to make money. A laugh that threatened danger if it was not met with a positive response. 

As if on cue, everyone devolves into soft laughter, like the room itself has exhaled collectively. Stanley Morgan, ever the consummate politician. Ability to command a room unmatched, he basks in the light chatter of the relieved guests. 

Sometimes your father's power scares you. Times like right now. 

You find an excuse to leave once dinner is finished, feigning sleepiness to avoid being dragged into the inevitable dessert round with the insufferable business crowd. As you pull on your coat, your father crosses the room and gives you a quick, almost absent hug. He presses a kiss to your hairline, the gesture so fleeting, so routine, but for a moment, you feel a flicker of something you can’t quite place.

“Stay safe, kiddo. I love you,” he says, and for a moment you forget. So you pretend. 

You pretend that you just had a normal weekly dinner with him and your mom, just like old times. You pretend that she's just in the other room, finishing up the whipped toppings for her favorite dessert, key lime pie. You pretend that your father always tells you that he loves you, that he doesn't save it for occasions when he's drunk and you've finally done something that makes him proud. 

You hug him back. You tell him you love him too. 

[sky-kiss]

Hello my friend!! My stinky cheese!

Do you think Raphael would bond at all with a Tav who also hates their father (cough cough kinda like Durge cough cough)?

If so, could I request a prompt where Raph reacts to Tav (female) just getting really angry/upset about that familial void that he can so relate to.

I know this isn't gonna be easy, but I wish you luck wrangling the beast 🫡

A/N: I opted for mother vs. father. Since you vetoed me from using Durge, it’s a Tav. A Lolth-Sworn Drow. This….is not quite the prompt. I’m sorry, love.

______________

In nearly two thousand years of living, Raphael has welcomed all sorts of souls to his door. Spurned lovers, vengeful rulers, petulant children; he is all things to all people, as any devil worth their salt could attest. And for all those souls and all those years, he can say he has felt true camaraderie only a handful of times.

He counts the drow among them. 

Tav regards him with interest from the start. No fear, only a culturally conditioned lust. He is power and ambition made flesh; he is a steppingstone and tool, or so she imagines. Bless her little heart. She will use him and expects to be used in turn; it is a charmingly simplistic exchange. 

Tit for tat, love. Information for the Orthon. A hammer for a crown. He comes to her in the aftermath of the invasion, surprised to find her languishing in the Elfsong. She has talked of naught but her return to the Underdark. 

“You linger, little mouse. Have we grown fond of the surface-dwellers?”

She smiles, teeth too white in the elegant darkness of her face. A curtain of platinum hair falls over her shoulder. Tav is a stunning representation of the breed. She steps aside to grant him entry to her suite. “Don’t be foolish. My delay is purely practical.” Tav settles in one of the rich wingbacks, looking for all the world a queen. “I wanted to make certain you’d find me.” 

“Oh, always, sweetling. Wherever you go, rest assured I will find you.” He plucks her hand from the armrest, kissing the back of her knuckles. “That lovely little soul of yours bears my mark.”

“Lolth will not be pleased.” 

“The Spider Bitch was long since defanged. Her dissatisfaction means nothing to me. ” Tav’s expression softens. Her eyes remain the rest of those sworn to the mistress of the Demonweb pits, but her loyalties have shifted. “But your satisfaction, my little treat, means everything. Tell us what you need.” 

“I’ve been absent from Menzoberranzan too long. Before the,” she hesitates a moment, “incident. I had intended to wrest my House from the Matron Mother’s control.” 

“Matricide, is it? How delightful.” 

“You know how parents can be.” 

“Don’t I just.” Raphael chuckles. He seats himself beside her. The proximity of the chairs and his size leaves his knee fetching up against hers. Tav shifts, hooking her foot behind his ankle. Brave girl. “And you are lucky, pet. I have a soft spot for rebellious princes and princesses.” 

She rests her chin in the palm of her hand. Lovely and so willing to treat with him. He’s struck again by how odd it is to see yourself reflected in a mortal vessel. There are scars across the pretty things back, left by lash and more inventive forms of torture typical to the species. And he sees the same hate in her eyes. A burning desire for more, to take what she's owed. “Let us discuss terms, love of mine.” The endearment makes him laugh; there is no love, not even an echo of it, in her voice. Only hunger. “Passage to Menzoberranzan.” 

“Only passage? I might offer you power. And more.”

“And more?” She arches a brow, stroking his calf with her foot. “And the cost?” 

“Negotiable, pet. We might even defer it…a Matron Mother will not lack resources. Power today for payment tomorrow. A generous offer, no?” 

Tav chews at her lower lip. “And if I proposed an alliance? To swear myself to you for this power, to pledge my House to your service…what would you offer?” And it is odd, so odd, to feel a pang of lust after so many centuries. “I would see my mother consumed by her damned spiders. After that…” she shrugs. “I’ll admit to having a fondness for rebel princes, myself.” 

“How convenient.” 

And she enjoys his words from so many months prior. “Isn’t it just?” 

[evilfloralfoolery]

Love Bites: A Tale of Indulgent Preternatural Fuckery

I was going to wait until morning to post this, but fuck it. I make my own rules. Please enjoy some poncy ass fetish fuckery between 324 year old French vampire Lucian d'Alarie and his far more modern 82 year old, tattooed werewolf lover, Marrok Rafe.

Guess which one has "the thing."

*This story already has multiple parts that I may or not post. It depends on a few factors.

_____________________________

“Lucian?? Lucian!! Where are you hiding??”

Somewhere from the other side of the ridiculous estate, his beloved is bellowing in a manner that would wake the dead.  Or, in Lucian’s case, the undead. 

- I am not hiding.  You are simply blinded by whatever rage has a hold upon you. -

He bursts through the door.  The balcony door.  From outside of it.  Marrok never did appreciate the simplicity and ease a door offered.

“Get out of my head.”  Marrok’s voice is a flat growl, a rumble far too low to be human.  

Because he is not.  

“And how else would you hear me, hmm?  With all of your grandiose nonsense.  Mon dieu, Marrok.  I realize that we have no neighbors, but–” 

“What. Happened.”  Again, not a question.  A demand of sorts.  

Lucian does not grant him an answer at his impatient behest.  Instead, he takes a moment to appreciate the feral being before him.  Lean and well-muscled with shoulders even broader than his own, skin bronzed from the sun, and adorned with a myriad of tattoos, Marrok looks every bit the part of the apex predator that he truly is. The topmost portion of his rather absurd length of jagged jet black hair is pulled tight by some manner of elastic, revealing the tips of his pointed ears and the shaved sides of his head beneath.

There was a time when Lucian found such a thing appalling.  But it suited Marrok on many levels.

“I am not certain.”  Lucian sinks down into one of the wingback chairs near the now flung-open balcony doors, just beyond the reach of the sun’s rays.  “I feel . . . strange.  Like a mortal does when nursing the beginnings of an illness.”

Marrok folds his arms with a disgruntled frown, the permanent artwork that resides there flexing with the movement.  “That doesn’t happen to your kind or mine.”

“Not necessarily.  We do not know everything, you and I.  Perhaps–”

“No.” Marrok cuts him off.  “It’s not fucking possible.” 

Lucian pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers with a wince.  Not only is his head pounding like a drum, but an incessant prickle also resides there.  The nuisance saw fit to surge to a burn at times, causing a far greater inconvenience, one that he rarely dealt with, unless too much sunlight were involved.

Which was not currently the issue at the moment.  However, that knowledge did little to placate the persistent tingling itch.  After several attempts at fending it off, Lucian resigns himself to his fate, tugging a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and making good use of it.

“HhhehISSSSHHIIU!” 

“ExcusehhhISSCH! ISSCHHuh!---hhhuuh . . . !  Hhhh . . .!”

Ungodly, wretched misery of a—

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and exhales a slow, steadying breath.  “Très désolée.  I . . . have not the control to manage this.” 

“This is bullshit!”  Marrok looks as if he would rather cast himself in the confines of the fountain from the third story balcony than exist in this current shared space. “You can't be–” he gestures with an exasperated flurry of fingers “--that!”

Lucian arches an eyebrow. “Unwell?”

“Don’t.” Marrok tears away the band holding the layers of his thick hair with a snap of elastic.

Sprigs of haphazard darkness jut from his scalp in an almost comical defiance and Lucian morphs a laugh into a cough on purpose. 

“This isn't funny, Lucian.” The words are more of a growl, rumbling and full of an intent to intimidate. 

If anything actually served to intimidate Lucian. 

“And yet, here we are.” 

“No, there you are. We are not doing this.”

“You speak as if I had some choice in the matter.” 

Marrok is two centimeters from his person in half as many seconds. “You did this to yourself. I don't know how you did it, but you did.” 

Lucian rises to his feet with an almost bored aire. “Accusational hysteria does not suit you, mon cher.” 

Clawed fingers snatch at the lapels of his shirt. “Don't patronize me, you French fuck.” 

“Is that what you desire, then?” Lucian slides his hands to cup the snarling visage between his palms. “Some French fuck?”

He casts the other “man” a smirk that  promises seduction, but not without a staggering dosage of smug upper handedness.  And clearly, Marrok isn't entertaining anything of the sort. 

“Get off me.” He gives Lucian a rough, but far lighter shove than anticipated. 

The werewolf stalks over to the ornate bookcase, scans several titles, and swears when he realizes whatever he desires is near the topmost part of it.  Not that this hinders him in any way.  Marrok simply jumps, snatches his preferred literature from its resting place, and rebounds off of the wall to land effortlessly back onto his feet.

“Whatever are you doing?”

“Research,” Marrok grunts.  

He flops down into the chair formerly occupied by Lucian and begins leafing through the text while Lucian has a seat upon the bed.

“Marrok.” Lucian gestures with one hand. “Come to me.” 

The werewolf doesn't look up from his reading. “No.” 

“S’il vous plaît, mon cher.  I am so very cold.”

Marrok turns a page. “You're dead. Comes with the territory.” 

“Do you not think that I am incapable of feeling a draft simply because I am no longer mortal?” 

“That’s right,” Marrok says.  “And you know that shit.” 

Well. One had ways of changing that type of attitude, especially with the omnipresent twinge dwelling deep within his sinuses. The simple act of breathing would be enough. Not that one such as Lucian needed the trappings of this rather human inconvenience, but even the undead still functioned in a similar fashion, needed or not. 

He allows his breathing to slow, for his breath to hitch, and makes a show of fumbling for his handkerchief as his expression dissolves into abject helplessness.

“Hhh-hiiih. . .! HiihhISSSSHU–ISSSCH! . . . HhIKGSSCH-UUH!”

He buries his nose in the crumpled fabric, shoulders shuddering, unbound hair curtaining his face.

The book snaps closed. Footsteps that are more of a marching stomp approach. 

“You did that on purpose.” 

Judging by how much of that sentence is coated in the most inhuman of growls, Marrok is more than merely ruffled. He is infuriated beyond measure. 

“I assure you that I did n–”

Marrok is atop him, pinning him to the mattress. 

“You did.”  The werewolf snarls against his mouth and fangs graze his lips. “But I'm fresh out of fucks.” 

“Mmm, are you?” Lucian reaches between his legs with a most uncouth clenching of fingers around Marrok’s most sensitive attributes. “What a shame that would be.” He snatches handfuls of the thin, black cotton shirt Marrok is so fond of and jerks him against his chest hard enough to elicit a grunt from his lover. “Je veux te baiser.” 

“Hope you don't like these pants.” Marrok's nails slash the well-stitched fabric to indecent ribbons before Lucian can answer.

“Such violence in you.” Lucian flashes him a hint of his own fangs, different from that of a werewolf, but equally as lethal. “It is a quality I find most captivating.” 

The dark yellow of Marrok’s eyes is near amber. “Stop talking.”

__________________________________________________________

(TBC or no?)

[leiawritesstories]

rowaelin fic with aelin as a model? youre such an inspiration!!💞

AWWWWWWW THANK YOU SO MUCH 🥺🥰 also HOW did i never see this??? stupid inbox 😠

i love this!! let's see.......

word count: 2.1k (whoopsies)

warnings: none!

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The metro was late.

Aelin was already running a few minutes behind thanks to an unexpected Fleetfoot accident that had required her to change her clothes while soothing the golden retriever puppy, and she'd practically run the whole twelve blocks from her apartment to the metro stop. Of course the damn train would be late on today of all days, the one day in her calendar that she couldn't afford to miss except for death or grievous injury.

The characteristic screech of train brakes yanked her out of her thoughts, and she stepped to the edge of the platform and hurried onto the train as soon as the doors swished open. She clutched her small leather mini tote against her chest and grabbed onto a bar for stability, planting her heeled boots solidly against the floor and adjusting her stance as the train moved.

Twenty minutes later, she hurried off the train, half-sprinting through the station and barely registering her frantic pace until she was out on the street. She glanced at her smart watch and released a short breath when she saw that she still had adequate time to get to her agency before she would be considered late. Smoothly, she joined the people moving along the sidewalks, her long slender legs taking fluid, easy strides as she slid through the crowds. It was a little less than ten minutes until she reached a sleek modern high-rise, all black glass and unbroken lines, strode through the front doors, and waved at the security guard by the elevator.

"Morning, Phil!"

The middle-aged man's solid face creased into a tiny smile. "Morning, Miss Aelin." No matter how many times she told him she was just an ordinary woman, he refused to call her anything else.

To the world, after all, she was Aelin Galathynius, famed for her runway walk, magazine cover model, and face of the wildly popular brand Ennar.

"You're still early, Miss Aelin," Phil said quietly as Aelin stepped into the elevator. "Good luck."

"Thank you," she murmured, throwing the kind man a grateful smile. The elevator doors slid closed with a soft chime, and she closed her eyes and took deep, measured breaths as she traveled up to the twenty-first floor.

Ding! The sleek steel doors slid open, and she released her breath, opened her eyes, and strode out into the minimalist-modern offices of the Blackbeak Modeling Agency. The familiar ivory walls, marble, neutral-toned artwork, and black-and-white photographs blurred past as she headed for her agent's office.

She knocked twice and the door popped open. "Personal service? I thought you had interns for that, Blackbeak."

"Funny," deadpanned Manon Blackbeak, a former international supermodel and a hell of a terrifying woman. She'd been Aelin's agent since Aelin entered the professional modeling world at eighteen. "You made it just in time, Galathynius."

"What's with the call time?" Aelin inquired. She took her usual seat in the ivory wingback chair across from Manon's. "It seems like an odd time for a shoot, fitting, or casting. Is it something with Ennar?"

"It's a new opportunity." Manon reached into her desk and pulled out a portfolio, which she slid to Aelin. "They reached out to us yesterday hoping we'd be interested in setting up four contracts with their brand--short-term at first, but with the potential of extension."

Aelin opened the file and skimmed through the series of glossy photos of clothing--all on mannequins. Each piece was beautifully crafted, showcasing the designer's obvious attention to detail as well as their undeniable artistry. "These are incredible," she murmured.

Manon nodded. "The last few pages are the proposed contract."

"Hmm." Aelin flipped to the draft contract and skimmed through the now-familiar pages of legal and technical jargon. "This almost doesn't seem real. Set my own hours? My own compensation? There's a 'within our schedule parameters' stipulation, but my own pay rate?" Her perfectly shaped brows furrowed. "It seems too good to be true."

"What do you initially think?" Manon drummed her fingernails against her desk. The question seemed brusque, but that was how she operated. She didn't coddle. "Part of the reason you got called in at this time was because the designer is interested in meeting with you. He's here right now."

"What?"

"I'm not a parrot, Galathynius," Manon drawled. "You'd think you were a newbie model with that big-eyed stare on your face."

"Piss off," Aelin snorted. She rearranged her shocked expression and glanced down at the portfolio. "This Mr. --"

"Just Rowan."

"Another single-name designer, then," Aelin mused. "Bold, considering this would be the debut collection."

"Indeed. Are you interested?"

"Yes." Aelin closed the portfolio. "I am."

"Good, because you'd be meeting him anyway." Manon stood and opened her office door. "Let's go, Galathynius. We should get to the meeting room before Rowan and his people do."

"Good idea." Gracefully, Aelin collected the file and her bag, stood up, and followed her agent out of the office and down the hallways to the smaller, cozier conference room. Manon flicked on the lights as they entered, illuminating the warm-toned chestnut table and plush chairs facing the presentation screen. They were the first ones there, so Aelin dropped into a chair that faced the door and waited as Manon sent off a text to the agency head.

"They'll be here in five," the platinum-haired agent said, seating herself next to Aelin. "Sorry for the short notice."

"It's just part of the job, Blackbeak." Aelin waved off Manon's uncharacteristic apology. "And there's certainly no need to say things you don't mean."

"You're right." Manon flashed her a smirk. "In that case, bundle up, because I hear this designer is cold."

Aelin rolled her eyes. "If I can deal with Maeve Bitchface, I can deal with a single-name guy who doesn't have emotions."

"Bold of you to make that assumption before we've even met," interrupted a deep drawl. Filling the doorway stood a tall, fit man with a shock of colorless hair, piercing emerald eyes, and a thick manila file tucked under one muscular arm.

"With all due respect," Aelin deadpanned, fixing her unflinching stare on the man, "you don't work in this industry for years without developing the ability to categorize designers based on what's known about them."

"Fair enough." The man walked into the room, set the file on the conference table, and took the seat directly opposite Aelin. "I'm Rowan."

"Pleasure to meet you in the flesh. I'm Aelin Galathynius; I have a last name like all normal people." With a saccharine smile, she shook his offered hand.

Rowan cracked a tiny grin. "I'm well acquainted with your profile, Miss Galathynius."

"You sound like an FBI officer." She regarded him skeptically. "Am I sure he's a designer and not an undercover cop, Blackbeak?"

Manon snorted. "I'm pretty sure he'd have to kill you if he told you that, Galathynius."

"That's correct." Rowan leant back in his seat, humor lighting up his eyes. "So why don't we assume I'm just a designer who wants to work with you, at least for now?"

"I suppose that's safe enough, at least for now." Aelin steepled her fingers. "I've seen your sample file, Mr. Rowan, and I have to say, I'm impressed. Yours might just be one of the most aesthetically pleasing lines I've seen, and if would be a true honor to wear it."

"Just Rowan, please, and thank you." A soft hint of pink colored the edges of Rowan's cheeks. "My mother used to design clothing, and it's become my passion as much as it's her legacy."

Aelin smiled, softly. "I repeat, it's beautiful."

"Thank you." He cleared his throat and nodded at the dark-haired, stone-faced man next to him. "Since I've decided that you are the model I'd like to work with, my attorney here has brought a preliminary contract." The dark-haired man slid a handful of papers over to Aelin. "Please, have a look, and we can discuss terms."

"Thanks to my agent, I've already been able to look at a draft of the contract." She flipped it to the compensation page. "Set my own pay rate? Is this some kind of trick?"

Rowan exhaled a controlled breath. "No. It's my personal policy that every model I work with sets their own rate of pay."

"Why?" Aelin was genuinely confused--the modeling world didn't run on compassion.

"I've found that the benefits--retention, quality of work, satisfaction, and all of that--outweigh the cost, and not as many people as you may think actually set an outrageously high rate."

"Hmm." She tapped her chin. "That's a surprisingly shrewd decision, Rowan. I wouldn't have expected that in this cutthroat industry."

He shrugged. "I like to think that I'm one of the good guys."

"I'll take you up on that." She penciled a number in the open pay line--a fair bit higher than her usual rate, but not outrageous. "Could you elaborate on what, exactly, my contract includes? The actual details were vague."

"Of course." He opened the folder on the table and spread out a handful of images and sketches. "I'd like to hire you as a brand ambassador. The position would entail walking in my major shows as well as wearing and promoting my brand on your social media accounts and in public. Yes, I'm aware that you work as the brand ambassador for Ennar, and I've spoken with the legal team there. This job shouldn't conflict with your role with Ennar."

"Even though it's essentially the same position?"

"I'm not asking that you focus in my line as intensely as you do with Ennar. Also, my brand is currently only clothing, while that designer is clothing, accessories, and beauty products."

"Indeed." Aelin scribbled on her small notepad. "Well, my initial response to your offer is yes. However, I have a number of personal stipulations that I am unwilling to give up for any job."

"Go ahead." He pulled out a notepad of his own and waited for her to list her rules.

"First, I will not model undergarments."

"That won't be an issue; I have no intention of venturing into that business."

"Good. Second, I have both public and private social media profiles. My public ones are managed by my team, but I have the final say in what gets posted and when, and my brand deals are strictly limited to my public profiles. So, although I'll be wearing your line, it won't be mentioned anywhere on my private pages."

"That shouldn't be a concern, as long as you aren't using your private pages as some kind of undercover scheme where you claim credit for what you're wearing." His voice was carefully controlled, but she detected the tension beneath the control. Someone had done that to him, no doubt.

She fought the unprofessional urge to hold his hands in comfort. "Rowan, I can assure you that my job takes enough of a toll that I need to keep it off my private social media. Also, my private pages are only followed by people that I personally know, and people that know me personally know full well that I can dress, but I'm hopeless are design."

"Okay." Some of the stiffness in his posture melted. "Call me paranoid, but I have to make a living somehow."

"I understand." A reassuring smile flicked over her face. "Thirdly, I don't care what kind of emergency comes up, I don't work Sundays. Ever."

Rowan glanced to Manon. "Ever ever?"

"Never," Manon confirmed. "In the eight years that I've worked with Galathynius, she's never once strayed from that stipulation. I thought it would be a deal-breaker, and it has been at times, but she never works on Sundays. No content, no shows, nothing."

"It's a...personal day," Aelin explained. Unwilling to mention her dad's illness, therapy, or anything else so close to her heart, she left it at that.

"I can work with that." Rowan wrote something down on his notepad. "It shouldn't be frowned upon to try and maintain some normalcy in this hectic world."

"Thank you," Aelin murmured. "Finally, my last stipulation is that my assistant attends every shoot and brand event with me, as I rely on her advice in public situations."

"Of course." He nodded. "Far be it from me to push anyone I work with into a situation where they feel they've been denied the chance to consult someone they trust before making a decision."

"Wonderful. Those are all of my conditions."

He nodded thoughtfully. "All right, Miss Galathynius. Do we have an agreement?"

"Just Aelin, please, and I believe we do."

"Excellent." Standing, he reached across the table and shook her hand. "I look forward to working with you, Aelin."

"As do I."

~~~

TAGS:

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@silentquartz

[lsleofthelost]

in continuation of this post, here's a more detailed look at Maleficent's castle, including the commentary from the Descendants production designer, Mark Hofeling, and also my own thoughts and obsesrvations.

"We imagined the once-mighty Maleficent humiliated and furious in defeat. Even in her fallen state, she would still require the most befitting accommodation on the Isle of the Lost. The "Bargain Castle", while hokey and ramshackle, most resembles her former keep in the Forbidden Mountains. And its balcony gives her an unobstructed view across the bay to the hated Auradon. This is the exterior of the second floor, interior set. This was digitally added to a practical ground floor at the end of the main street of the Isle of the Lost. "

"A broad view of Maleficent's cavernous, leaky, drafty cold-water walk-up in the Bargain Castle on the Isle of the Lost."

i love the peeling paint on the walls, the mismatched furniture and lamps, how weathered and aged everything is. and how this is the height of luxury for the Isle.

"Maleficent's sunken living room with her unreliable Predicta TV. It is her only link to the outside world."

the Predicta TV is from the late 50s, the screen is tiny, and, according to the commentary, the connection is unreliable. but still, in Maleficent's home, it has a special niche, and a stand, it's treated as an indulgence. there's also a vinyl player, and some records, but most of them are without sleeves, so i imagine they're scratched and skip sometimes, but Maleficent still likes them. there's a newspaper, probably a few days old, but a way to keep up with the outside world when the TV is broken.

"The mismatched sofa in Maleficent's sunken living room."

since the barges only bring in trash, we can assume that no big objects, like a sofa arive in one piece. there is also a bowl of (probably stale) froot loops (?) on the table which i think is hilarious and sad.

"A view of Maleficent's dressing area and her elevated throne. Domesticity is not among her considerable powers."

it's actually such a tiny space... like her vanity is made out of an old trunk, the lamp on it is covered with fabric, most likely because the proper lampshade is ruined. this also implies that there is not enough space for it in her bedroom... there is a tiny furnace with wood, which is used both to warm the place and to dry the clothes. the drapes are thin and totally let the light in but i think it's not such a problem on the Isle, since it's permamently overcast.

"We wanted to give Maleficent one artifact from her former, magnificent life. The director suggested maybe her throne. Unfortunately, the throne from the original animation was a 12 foot wide, 6 ton stone bat. Not a practical thing to carry into exile. So I tried to evoke the idea of that throne with a ridiculous green and purple wingback chair she might have confiscated from the Isle's Bazaar."

first off, i love that he says that it's confiscated. Maleficent doesn't buy things, but she doesn't steal them either, she just takes them because she has the power to do so. other thing i love is that as far as i understand, this is the most elevated point in the house, so she can sit on her “throne” and feel powerful.

we also see a similar rug in front of her sofa, so i assume it was probably one rug that was cut up in pieces.

the fact that there's a telephone implies that they have some kind of internal landline system on the isle, my head canon is that one of the more engineering inclined minion/scientist/wtv hooked it up. there's just a few telephones between the houses of the most powerful. the dirty, stained windows supported by old newspapers and duct tape just show how weathered everything is.

"The job of the production designer is to conceive and execute the broad look of a show. But the big picture is built out of thousands of details. I spent my weekends in Vancouver having a ball cooking up little details like Maleficent's childlike "REVENGE", "FOOLS!", and spinning wheel magnets, and her shopping and to-do lists, all stuck to her "WICKEDAIRE" refrigerator."

the real-life equivalent is a Frigidaire refrigerator from the late fifties. which, from what i've seen, seems like most of the tech on the Isle is from that time period, despite the fact that Auradon living in seemingly contemporary times, with modern technology and all that. i think they purposely don't send modern tech there, only old, barely working things there, because they know that technology could, theoretically, break the barrier (which is what Carlos does in the first book). also, i like that he calls Maleficent child-like, because i think she's definitely become that way there, bored out of her mind, every avenue for revenge lost, nothing to really keep sharp. also, if we ignore the things on her to-do list that are cartoonishly evil, the rest of the list is kind of mundane and a little pathetic... like there's something wrong with the rain gutters, she needs to call Jafar over to fix her TV antenna, since it's her only connection to the outside world... she used to be the Mistress of all Evil.

"A detail of Maleficent's poorly tuned piano."

again, the paint is peeling on the walls and on the furniture, there is no front on the piano, there is no one to even tune it. i think she still likes the music... we see what are probably magic book strewn around, potions (and probably some alcohol) on the side table.

"A detail of one of Maleficent's many broken, drafty windows."

i can't quite figure out where it's supposed to be but still, the way some windows are painted, some covered by newspaper (help together by duct tape) makes me thing that either 1. Maleficent wanted to emulate the look of stained glass from her former glory days; 2. Mal did it to make the place look better (actually, she probably did a lot of work to make the house look better?); 3. they don't want outsiders looking in, while still letting light in. i doubt that the trash telescope works, but if it does, it's probably used to spy on people, though i think it's just a vanity item.

"Maleficent's scratchy Victrola. Notice the double helix of the custom wallpaper. It evokes both Maleficent's classic thorn vine's from Sleeping Beauty and the idea of the DNA of evil. Does it pass from one generation to the next, or can one change their destiny?"

again, more books and another record player. i think Maleficent tries to dissociate from the situation, get lost in music, re-listening to the same scratchy records, re-reading the same books, re-trying the same ineffective spells.

i didn't even notice the double helix wallpaper before!! i always thought it was just a thorn pattern, referencing her story. this is such an amazing representation of how evil is embedded in the kids blood, and how despite it all they choose change.

through what we've seen, i think there's probably just a few more rooms in the castle: Maleficent bedroom, Mal's bedroom, and their bathrooms, maaaybe a smal storage room. they call it a castle but really it's just a rickety, crooked, decaying apartment on top of some shop. and this is how the most powerful person on the Isle of the Lost lives.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Fresh Air and Exercise

01/28/2023

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x wife!reader (3rd person)

Word Count: 3,221

Warnings: gave the reader a specific maiden name for reasons and she has hair falling into her face (no other explicit descriptions though), domestic fluff, mild teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, more fluff

Summary: Sherlock may have refused to join his wife for an afternoon walk, but that doesn't mean he has to pass up on the much needed exercise altogether.

A/N: I started this some time ago and left it untouched for far too long, but you may have noticed that I am quite in the mood for finishing things up at the moment. Hope you like it.

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

The glow of the afternoon sun still fresh on her cheeks, she felt light as air as she danced down the hallway. Gentle fingers softly caressed a colourful bouquet of wild flowers she had picked on her stroll, secretly wishing it was her husband’s touch she could feel against her fingertips. Alas, he was busy with a case, as always, and his refusal to join her for her walk still stung a little. Not as much as it had the moment he had sent her off to explore the budding riches of spring on her own, but enough to remind her heart of the disappointment as she rounded the corner and her eyes found him in an instant.

It seemed he hadn’t moved one inch in her absence, his broad shoulders still filling the leather chair in front of the desk in his study. She hated seeing him so tense, although she probably should have gotten used to the sight by now, as it was always the same when things just didn’t seem to add up. He could bury himself in that study for days, shutting out the entire world to be alone with his thoughts.

Well, maybe not entirely alone. And although he had never formally invited her or told her that he enjoyed her company, he had also never objected to it, until one day she had found a beautiful wingback covered with the softest crimson velvet in the corner of the room, facing his desk, and that had been all the confirmation she needed. From that day on, she had made it her personal duty to ensure that he didn’t lose himself in his mind completely. After all, even if it was hard to believe sometimes, he was a human being and as such he needed nourishment, fresh air and exercise like ordinary people.

Usually, it didn’t take her too much effort to convince him of the benefits a short walk by her side would have, but today he had simply refused to acknowledge that the exercise would help him clear his mind. Stubborn git.

Without a sound, she slipped into his territory and drew closer, coming to a halt directly behind him, yet he didn’t even flinch when her hand entered his periphery to set the vase down next to a pile of papers. Maybe he had heard her despite his state of utter concentration, but even without seeing his face, she rather assumed that his dwindling reflexes were most likely the effect of his growing weariness.

“I’m back,” she whispered against his temple as her arms wrapped around his tightly wound shoulders before they drifted further down along his chest and her lips allowed themselves the silky touch of his warm skin.

“How was your afternoon stroll, my love?”

“Refreshing, as expected. Yet it was lacking a little…charm.”

An amused chuckle rose from the depth of his chest and she enjoyed the slight tremble underneath the palms of her hands. To her great relief, he finally seemed to desist from his task and allowed himself to sink against the back rest. And as if that hadn’t been enough to fill her heart with joy, tender fingers wrapped around her hand to bring it up against his lips for a gesture of unadulterated affection.

“Sherlock, you really shouldn’t hide yourself in this study all day. You too need fresh air and exercise.”

“So you keep telling me.” Another deep chuckle filled the room as to her surprise he stood and took the few steps to the window behind them. “But I think you are mistaken, my dear. I still can get plenty of fresh air without setting a single foot outside of this room.”

With a wry smile that was supposed to tell her he thought this topic of their conversation had been discussed at length, his fingers wrapped around the handle and yanked the window open. But the corners of his mouth soon fell, his forehead wrinkling in a frown as she decided to join him by the window. She simply knew him too well, and that had always been his greatest weakness. And she could see the realisation in his eyes the moment her body pressed into his and her hands snaked around his strong neck.

“But what about the exercise?”

He took his sweet time, seemingly pondering her question, but they both knew he had made up his mind long before his arms wrapped around her middle and his fingers squeezed her alluring backside.

“I’m sure we can think of something.”

It didn’t take much for him to hoist her up and walk them both back over to his desk where he gently sat her down. His chest firmly leaning against her own, he left her no choice but to yield and recline until she needed her elbows for support. All the while, a pair of gleaming eyes held her gaze, and it would have needed nothing more to keep her in place, his eyes and the promise of divine pleasure they silently made her.

His hand had already busied itself with her skirts, gliding along the bare skin of her calf in agonising hastelessness, when he suddenly halted and tore his eyes away from hers.

“Will you look at that.” There was nothing slow or gentle anymore about the way he pushed her skirts up the rest of the way. “Taking a stroll without a pair of knickers?” He tutted, his eyes a significant amount darker when they found her again. “How scandalous.”

“In my defence, I was hoping for your…stimulating company.”

“No need to defend yourself. It is rather convenient actually.”

Without a warning his fingers found her heat. Helpless upon the overwhelming sensation of his unexpected touch, all she could do was gasp. His mouth was so irritably close to hers, inhaling every sigh and every whimper that fell from her lips, and yet he denied her the kiss she so desperately longed for.

“Is this what you were hoping for when you asked me to join you on your stroll, my sweet? Being pressed up against a tree, my fingers buried inside you to the hilt? Or would you have preferred being laid down on a soft patch of clover to have me make tender love to you?”

Forming a verbal answer seemed impossible while he kept toying with her, his eyes looking all shiny blue, pupils blown wide with lust, but before she even had the chance to confirm either one of his suspicions, he stopped.

She was just about to protest when she realised he had good reason for this most unwelcome intermission. Both of his hands determined to free himself, they were tugging, yanking at his shirt and trousers and she was sure his impatience would come at the cost of a tear in the fine fabric when he finally succeeded.

Sherlock wouldn’t waste another second, he never did in the state he was in now. He wanted her, and he was more than ready as he lined himself up. She couldn’t wait to feel him, feel the delicious rush of the first stretch, of becoming one with her beloved. But Sherlock was always full of surprises, and she could hardly suppress a groan of protest as he chose to halt once again.

Yet his lips appeased her immediately, pressing to hers in the tenderest of kisses. He hummed in appreciation when her mouth fell open, welcoming him in. The faint taste of Black Shag tobacco still lingered on his tongue, a plain and simple flavour, the very opposite of the man who loved smoking it, but intoxicating her just as much.

She loathed breaking away from him, but the languid roll of his hips left her no choice. With a heady moan her fingers found his back, fisting his shirt as she pulled herself up against him. He wrapped his arms around her likewise, whether this was supposed to be a gesture of affection or a mere means to secure her in place while he had his way with her she couldn’t tell, and she didn’t care. His angle was immaculate, the tip of his manhood brushing past the very spot that made her see stars with every stroke. And yet, his pace was just a tad too slow to take her there.

“Sherlock, please,” she whimpered against his ear, but as soon as she could hear the smug smile resonate in his reply, she regretted having opened her mouth in the first place.

“I thought you wanted me to do some exercise. Where’s the point in this being over so soon then?”

A pointed thrust, slow but reaching deep. And then another. Solely designed to make it almost impossible for her to retort. And yet she did.

“Nobody said that it is you who has to finish yet,” she pressed out through gritted teeth.

“I fear it’s quite impossible to find a flaw in that line of argument.”

His grin held an almost irritable amount of pride despite his obvious defeat. And before she had even fathomed his words, he budged. Hips speeding up, he clutched her even tighter against his chest. He must have sensed it seconds before the tension took hold of her body, before her breaths became shallow, more rapid with every inhale, before she clung to his wide shoulders as if her life depended on it, before the quivering started and turned into violent clenches around him. Violent but oh so sweet, luring him closer to his own release.

Not yet, not yet, he thought, as his gaze fell upon the armchair right behind her. The very armchair she usually sat in and watched him work. He had been the one to put it there since, strangely enough, her presence seemed to help him think. Although sometimes it did a little more than that and he found his thoughts wandering, his mind drifting off to the image of her naked form, straddling him, moving on top of him in that exact chair.

Her mind was still clouded in a blissful haze when he picked her up, still buried deep inside of her as he made his way around the desk and carefully took a seat in the space that was on any other day strictly reserved for her. A deep sigh escaped her lips, burning the skin of his shoulder even through the light fabric of his shirt, as his length was neatly settled inside of her again.

Slowly the weight of her head lifted off his shoulder and he seized his chance to cup her face and pull it towards his. She tasted so sweet, fruity with a touch of vanilla, a flavour he had been addicted to since their very first kiss.

“My darling,” he whispered into her mouth, his lips refusing to part from hers, “do you think you can move for me?”

Oh, she would. And how she would, he realised as her lips curled against his. She never passed a chance to seek revenge for his darned teasing. And right now, he counted on that.

A deep, drawn out sound rose from his chest, a contented hum to praise the rhythmic rolls of her hips, rocking back and forth, taking him in and releasing him almost entirely, a delicious torture, repeated over and over again. He was glad she had once again refused to wear a corset today which in turn provided him with the privilege to feel the unparalleled softness of her bosom through the light fabric of her dress.

It seemed his eagerness to feel her was even exceeded by her own desire to touch his skin, judging from the way her fingers had begun to work on his clothes, clawing and ripping at his waistcoat, his tie, his shirt, not relenting for the world until they had succeeded and were free to dive into the fluffy hair that covered his chest.

“My turn,” he growled, his impatience taking hold of him more and more with every caress of her fingers, until it washed away the last bit of his restraint and made him pull the dress from her shoulders in one harsh movement. The power her bare breasts had over him was ridiculous, still he didn’t fight the state of hypnosis they held him in. They were magnificent, bouncing in tune with her rolling hips, begging him to cup them, knead them, wrap his lips around those pebbled buds and make her sing. But as soon as his hands finally made contact with their heavenly softness, he changed his mind.

“Didn’t you get enough exercise on your walk already?” She halted, looking down on him in confusion. “You know, I thought this was supposed to be my exercise. Or am I mistaken?”

Despite the wolfish grin on his lips, she still didn’t understand.

“But didn’t you just ask me to—”

“Forget what I said.”

And before she could protest once more, he lifted her hips, allowing himself enough space to drive into her from underneath at his leisure.

“Oh god,” she keened, desperate hands clutching the rim of the backrest tightly. It didn’t need a detective like Sherlock Holmes to tell that she was close again. As was he, teetering on the edge with every thrust, grunting and groaning in the fight against himself. Her grip on him grew tighter and tighter, making it almost impossible not to yield. Sweat was beading on his skin, his jaw clenching so hard he feared for the soundness of his teeth.

He wasn’t going to last, impossible, everything about her called to him, begged him to let go, making him certain he was only one more second away from either madness or salvation, when at last his name echoed through the study in a shameless moan, finally freeing him from his agony.

He pulled her close, resting his head amidst the two supple globes that had hypnotised him, celebrating every last moment of their shared delight. Hearts racing and then slowing in tune, he pressed his lips into the valley of her breasts to feel the strong pulsing as close to the source as he could get.

“Enough exercise for one day,” he mumbled against her skin.

“Well actually, dear husband, as you pointed out yourself, you really only did half of the work.”

The suggestive notion of her comment made him chuckle and he would have loved to satisfy her insatiable appetite for more, alas…

“You are right once again, dear wife, and I would genuinely like to go forth with the second half of the exercise right now, but I’m afraid my attention is needed elsewhere.”

Although he hadn’t meant to, his words had hurt her. Her pride forbade her from voicing the displeasure his rejection had caused, but there was no need to say it out loud. It was all there in her eyes.

“Oh, I know that face.”

“Sherlock…”

She had no idea how much it cost him to resist that honeyed plea, but he still had a case to solve.

“I’m sorry, my darling, I wish I could.”

He wanted to look away, escape the mixture of wound and concern in her eyes, but she didn’t let him, soft palms cupping his cheeks to ensure his gaze. Her voice was just as tender as her touch.

“But you can. It’s just that you don’t want to. If you chose to observe yourself with the same precision you reserve for your cases for once, you would clearly see that what you really need is rest.”

Sherlock stayed silent. What was he supposed to say to that? She was right, of course. So instead he just took her in, his fingers speaking of his affection as they gently brushed a couple of stray strands of hair from her face, loosened by their passionate lovemaking.

How could he even once think about his case or himself when he was blessed with this view? She looked breathtaking, the soft light of the late afternoon sun glowing around her form. If he had believed in the supernatural, he would have thought she was an angel and in some way, she probably was. His angel.

Mycroft had only met her a few times, calling her “a pretty little thing”. He had never been more wrong. She was neither little nor a thing and describing her as pretty was such an understatement that it bordered on an insult. Then again, his brother had always judged women solely based on their appearance, their manners and education.

She had all that, being a perfectly decent lady if need be, but there was something else to her, something wild and untamed, like a force of nature. It had irritated him at first, infuriated even. It still did sometimes. But while he loved the many facets of her personality so very dearly, he knew that they would terrify and most likely disgust his brother alike, a fact that satisfied him more than it probably should.

“What are you smiling about, my love?”

He hadn’t even noticed the placid curl of his lips.

“Nothing.”

It had always fascinated him how a person could seem like one thing to a man and yet like a completely different one to another. It was almost as if she were a coin with two faces, or had a twin sister, swapping places with her from time to time.

“Of course!” The epiphany shot through his body like lightning, making her gasp as he suddenly sat up straight. “That’s it.” His hands reached out for her face and pulled her down for a passionate kiss. “You’re a genius.”

“Me? Whatever did I do?”

Wasn’t that obvious? “You solved the case.”

“By doing what?”

With a wicked grin he reached for her lovely bottom, his fingers squeezing her cheeks while his eyebrow shot up suggestively.

“Oh.” The grin on her lips began to match his own when she finally realised. “I told you some exercise would do you good.”

Slowly his hands glided up the length of her back, weaving into her hair and bringing her closer once more. “You did, didn’t you?” His lips were still lingering on hers from the softest of kisses when he went on, his voice not louder than a whisper, “Whatever would I do without you, my dear Watson?”

He hadn’t called her by her maiden name in quite a while. But every now and then, on special occasions, he loved to remind himself of the time they had first met, and the pure elation of the moment she had agreed to exchange that name for his.

“You’d be practically lost, Mr Holmes.”

“No doubt about it.”

Her lips found his again, soft at first, but he could feel the hunger for more, taste it on her tongue the second it met his. And he was more than willing to sate it, give her everything she desired and then some. Like she deserved, his one and only love.

His mind was already beginning to shut down and allow him the rest he so utterly needed when one final thought broke through the haze of rekindling desire. He had no idea why she had chosen him back then. And that was probably the only mystery he would never be able to solve.

***

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[papasmicstand]

Love you readers, I hope this makes your Monday better (2600 words).

Sex Surrogacy for Satan

Chapter 3: Lesson 2 - Terzo - Satisfaction

Summary:

Terzo is a cocky son-of-a-bitch sometimes (always). Can he convince you that he knows it all when it comes to satisfying a partner?

The next morning you decided to have breakfast in the cafeteria.  You yawned as you filled a plate and found a table near the window.  Only five hours of sleep, why do I do this to myself?   Your brain had decided to replay those last moments with Secondo instead of sleep, worrying that you had pushed him too far too soon.  Steam wafted up from the eggs and bacon, causing your stomach to rumble with hunger.  You took a bite and closed your eyes as you savored the flavors, it was surprisingly delicious.  I could get used to this life.  

A few Siblings came and sat with you, intrigued by the new stranger.  You told them that you were a therapist and that you would be around for a few weeks.  As part of the deal with Primo, you couldn’t disclose what type of therapy you were providing, and of course all session details were confidential.  You made small talk, but were also happy when they left so that you could write down key observations and thoughts in your notebook about last night’s exercises.  Secondo really had some walls up surrounding his emotions.  You wished he would have allowed you to stay longer to provide aftercare, since it was clear that he had a physical reaction to the lesson.

Speaking of the devil, you looked up to see Terzo and Secondo passing by with food.  Papa II startled and immediately changed course, disappearing into the morning rush.  Terzo looked confused until he saw the source of the tension, that source being you.  

He walked over with a spring in his step.  “I don’t think we’ve met yet, signorina.  I’m Papa Emeritus III, but you can call me Terzo.  Would you happen to be the 7:00 appointment on my calendar tonight?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

He was shorter than you had imagined, but brimming with confidence.  “That’s me,” you smiled.  “I look forward to becoming better acquainted.”  

“Indeed,” he leaned close enough that you could smell his fresh cologne and whispered in your ear, “I can’t wait for tonight, I’ll save room for dessert.”  Then winked and went on his way.

You nearly choked on your tea.  Ah, tonight will be fun.

Here we go , you knocked on the large wooden door of Terzo’s office.

He opened it with a smile, sauntering around the small space as he signaled for you to come in.

“Have a seat, signorina,” Papa offered.  You lowered into a tufted leather wingback chair and he casually leaned on the desk across from you.  “Though I’m not sure why you’re seeing me when my brothers clearly need all of the help?”  He flashed a wicked smile at you, charming for sure.

You stared up knowingly at your partner for the evening.  “I assure you, Primo gave me a full report.  It’s not about who needs help, more about each of you becoming the best partner that you can be.”

“Of course,” Papa nodded and began unbuttoning his shirt.  “Shall we get right into it?  You can give me feedback as we go.  I enjoy a vocal partner.”

“Is this how quickly you would normally initiate sex?  As an ice breaker?”  You countered, noticing a theme with the brothers.

“Are you saying I move too quickly?” Terzo asked, mischief in his tone.

You wondered what he would be like if he dropped the ‘sexy Papa’ front.  “Just an observation.  Pretend I am a new Sister, how would things normally go?”

“Well, it depends on the Sibling, some are bold and just make a move during Confession or after Mass, others are more reserved and drop hints… but as a leader of the church I’m very perceptive.”

Smooth .  “So walk me through it.”

“Like I said, every scenario is different, signorina,” he came closer until he was sitting on the arm of your chair.  “But let’s take you.  You do not seem overly shy.  I heard that you put my brother in his place.”

You were momentarily taken aback, “I assure you all sessions are confidential, I don’t know what you heard…”

He lowered his voice as if you were trading secrets, “The ghouls, well, I don’t know if you’ve met any yet.  But they discover many things and they are close with me.”  A knowing smile crossed his lips, “I hear that you like eye contact.  I’m not emotionally constipated like mio fratello.  This is no problem for me.”

He thinks he has it all figured out already.   “I can be different depending on what I’m trying to accomplish.  Don’t assume too much,” you cautioned.

“Ah, same.”  He gave you another naughty smile.  “Yes, I’m sure you are… versatile.  If you were one of the Sorellas here I would invite you to my quarters for some quality time.

“I see, ‘quality time,’”  you repeated.

“Exactly,” he said with a shrug.  “Two bodies will just know what to do if the environment is conducive to sins of the flesh.”  He flitted his fingers as if they were two moths dancing around a flame.

“Is that so?” you stilled his dancing hand with your own.

“Absolutely,” he stood, pulling you up where your hands were joined.  “Come, I’ll show you the rest.”

You allowed the devilish man to lead you to his rooms.  His words proving to be more of a promise than an invitation.  When you arrived, Terzo waved a hand and the lights went low, soft music playing from some hidden speakers.  He was relaxed, sex was not something he was insecure about.

You looked around to find dark, romantic furniture populating the living space, and vibrant plants near the windows that made it feel welcoming, but perhaps a little too staged.  It didn’t tell much of a story about the man behind the title.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, lighting some candles.  The jacket he’d been wearing now delicately hung over a chair.  “Would you like a drink or a snack?  You may need the energy.”

“Thanks, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you declined, ignoring his last comment.  “So, once a Sister like me finds her way this far into your lair ,” you teased, “what comes next?”

“Easy, I’d tell you how sexy you are,” he looked at you as if he fully meant it, “made in Lillith’s image, and then,” he leaned in, fingertips lightly tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “once I knew you felt it-” he broke his sentence with a kiss.  

You expected a more delicate, exploratory kiss; but instead it was hungry and passionate.  All of his movements were like a well-choreographed dance.  While his lips distracted you a hand slid neatly around your back, and the other caressed the side of your face.  It was hard not to just melt into him.  You did return the kiss and place your hands at his waist.  You barely noticed that he was walking you to the bedroom, and when you arrived you found that your dress had been unzipped in the back somewhere along the way.

“Nice moves,” you admitted.

“May I continue?” he asked, poised for the kill.  

You had planned to stop here and try out some non-sexual exercises, but there really was no harm in seeing how closely his skill matched his bravado.  If anything it would give you more context to help him.  You nodded.  “Yes, I think I need the full Terzo experience.”

The smile that spread across his face was that of genuine joy.   His fingertips glided your dress down until it pooled at your feet.  A red lacey set was all that remained as he pushed you onto the bed and leapt on top.  

You giggled as he kissed down your throat and released your breasts from the lace.  Your hands undid his shirt and he shrugged it off.  You took some time exploring each other’s bodies.  You were sure to touch and kiss, looking for any hangups, but the man was an open book.  Hickeys in various stages of fading could be found on his thighs and near his clavicle. He made a cute noise when you played with his nipples, and showed no reluctance at removing the rest of his clothing.  

His dick was smaller than Secondo’s, but still impressive considering his petite frame.  He did not seem to be self-conscious about it in the least, striking a pose for you before diving back in.  This time he headed south.  You threaded your hands through his hair as he put his mouth to work.

Terzo’s POV-

Terzo’s blood was pumping.  Hell yes, I knew I could win therapy.  If Terzo had a wheelhouse, this was it.  In truth he had been the tiniest bit nervous… but he should have known it would be fine.  You were a fun partner, vibrant and responsive, and you tasted divine.  He easily read your cues, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.  When he added his fingers to the mix your legs began to shake.  

“That’s it,” he growled into your cunt, “Let go for me.”

He wasn’t sure if you would try to hold back or not, but it didn’t take long for you to convulse, thighs tightening against his head.  Papa worked you through it, until you were boneless under him.

“Hey, what happened to eye contact?” he teased, climbing up and kissing you.  His hard cock pressed to your hip.

You pinched his nipple and he yelped.  “I told you every session is different,” you wheezed.

He liked that you were playful with him.  “OK, but this one is better,” he shifted his hips so that the head of his cock was nudging your entrance.

“Condom first,” you held him from advancing.

“I swear I’m clean, I just saw the doctor last week,” he rubbed his cock along your slit.  “And I’m a pro at pulling out.”  Maybe not a pro, but it’s not like I’ve ever gotten anyone pregnant .

“Not optional,” you said firmly, and scooted away.

Damn, it was worth a try.   He couldn’t help a disappointed sigh that snuck out of him, but he was quick to retrieve the condom jar.  “Pick one,” he offered.

The jar had a wide variety- flavored, glow-in-the-dark, ribbed, even magnums- you quirked an eyebrow at the gold-wrapped XL’s as you selected a more average one.  

“Eh, those ones are for the ghouls,” he smiled.  “I’ll tell you about it later.”

You helped him with the condom, he was still rock hard and ready to go.  You were a slick mess and he rubbed your juices over the latex before sliding back on top.  

He was more turned on than usual.  He needed to get inside.  “Ready?” he asked. 

You nodded, and he entered carefully.   You moaned and clutched his biceps as he bottomed out.

“Merda,” his eyebrows knitted, from that first thrust it was magical.  Don’t think about how good it feels, you need to last.  Secondo and Copia don’t stand a chance, you have to be the best.  

And Satan almighty your pussy felt amazing, one of the best he’d experienced.  You were tight and wet and so warm.  He kissed you as he filled you again and again.  He turned his mind over to instinct and his body worked as if he were trying to breed you, deep powerful strokes rocking your hips and making the bed creak along with his exertions.

If all therapy was like this he would have started sooner.  You arched your back into him, the two of you fitting together so well.  You grabbed his ass when he reached that sweet spot inside and let out a whorish sound.  “That’s right, sing for me,” he smiled into your hair.  He knew he could do even better and pulled your right leg over his shoulder.  You hissed as it allowed him deeper access, toes curling.  He stayed on rhythm, and it had you right on edge.

As he continued he could feel himself getting closer and turned more attention to your nipples and clit.  “What’s your favorite position?” he whispered, lips leaving small kisses to the shell of your ear.

“Um,” you struggled to find words.  “I- I do like to be on top.”

He gave out a relieved huff.  Thank the dark lord you didn’t say doggy or it’d be over in about two more thrusts.  He spun you both so that he was on his back and you were now on top.  

He watched in awe as your thighs flexed, and he realized he was still in trouble.  You were a diabolically good rider, taking him in controlled movements, hips and cunt flexing in waves that had him fisting the sheets trying to hold on.  A long moan came out of him and you shot him a ‘gotcha’ look.  

You began tracing your clit with your middle finger and Papa’s eyes locked on how beautiful you were.  Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck .  Papa was running out of time.  You were breathing faster now and your head fell back in pleasure.

It was a race to the finish that Terzo was desperately trying to lose.  At last you came, and he followed you over, definitely not pulling out.  He came so hard he worried that the condom had exploded, but when he was finally able to withdraw all was well and he tossed it in the bedside bin.

After a moment, Terzo stood and made his way to the shower.  He hadn’t said anything to you, though it was clear that you both had a pleasurable romp.  It was nearly twenty minutes before he emerged and redressed.  You had also found your clothes and were sitting at the edge of the bed.  “Same time next week?” he winked.

“Just because the sex is over doesn’t mean the session is,” you crossed your legs and spun to face him.

“Well, I have to leave, I have another meeting,” he shrugged.  “I told Sister Gina that I’d meet her before confession.”

You started to talk, but disbelief delayed your words until you could manage, “Wait, how many dick appointments do you have per day on average?”

He paused, running a hand through his hair.  “Giving dick or receiving dick?” he smirked.

“Total,” your voice hinted at your annoyance.

“Probably six, but it can be more on a Mass day or if there’s something going on?”

“Six!” you repeated.  “I think I know what we need to work on first.”

Six isn’t that many?   “What?” he asked.

“And do you ever meet with Siblings, individually, without having sex?”

“Well,” he flustered.  “I mean, I can be alone with someone without having sex.  Confession doesn’t always end in sex.”

You rolled your eyes.  “Fine, you are free to go to your appointment.  BUT- no sex until the next time I see you.  Comfort the Siblings another way.”

He stopped at the doorway, in shock at your words.  Another way?!   “They won’t understand.  Plus, isn’t the whole point of this to be good in bed?”

You closed in on him, “The point of this is leaving the person you're with feeling satisfied.  There is more than one type of satisfaction.”

With that he lost his cool for the first time that evening.  “I don’t think you understand, I have a reputation!”

His huffing and puffing didn’t bother you in the least.  “Very sorry, that’s the homework,” you stood to also leave, not actually sounding remorseful.  “No giving, receiving, or self-pleasuring.  I want you focused.  And thanks for telling me about the ghouls, I’ll make sure they tell me if you cheat.”

[aquadestinyswriting]

I was tagged by the ever-lovely @druidx to complete a writing exercise from this post; specifically the Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom exercise.

Tagging in @davycoquette as requested and also @ashirisu, @lexiklecksi and @sparrow-orion-writes as I think you guys will be interested in seeing this.

Situated in a pocket dimension leading off from the office space at the very top of the Wizard's tower, the bedroom of Selene Frigidwake paints a far more personable picture of the Grand Magus of Toreguarde than her office might suggest. As soon as the door is opened, you are hit with a wash of ozone with a faint whiff of sulphur and petrichor. You might even see some down and shed pinion feathers drift towards your feet, depending on if the maid has been by to clean yet. The space inside the door seems noticeably larger than it ought to be, given the dimensions of the tower from the outside, and incredibly well-lit. There is a constant low-level hum at the threshold, which ceases the moment it is crossed and the air within is charged with magical static. The whole room, much like the office it is attached to thrums with arcane power. Those who have the ability to see into the magical weave may be able to discern the various arcane locks and traps inlaid into the door and floor, and only those with the keenest senses can detect the other, more mundane traps which have been hidden in amongst the lock and hinges.

Directly ahead of the door sits a large, polished mahogany four-poster bed with curtain rails, upon which are alighted heavy, velvet curtains in a deep blue colour, tied back with purple, silk rope. Despite the clutter that litters the rest of the room, the bedsheets are neatly arranged and the comforter folded to sit along the bottom of the mattress. The goose feather pillows are plumped and set accordingly and the cushions that were 'donated' by the tower's staff are artfully arranged atop them.

The bedside cabinets have a drawer and a small cupboard each, all of which have locks. The top of the left hand table is stacked high with a handful of books, alongside a pitcher and glass; the glass contains water that has been halfway drunk and left to sit. The right hand table is littered with various, small objects; pieces of copper wire, feathers from various species of bird, a pouch of silver powder. Basically, a bunch of spell components that have been dumped and half-forgotten.

Two small, gothic style windows are set into the back wall on either side of the bed, while a larger, circular window is set into the wall on the right, allowing sunlight to flood into the room during the day and affording a stunning view of the city at all times. A smaller, latched window is inset into this, and is usually kept open to allow for airflow and for Selene's familiar, Chrackle, to come and go as he pleases. Underneath the window is a small desk, covered in feathers and parchment with a large inkpot and a quill made from the tail feather of a magpie. The parchment is covered in notes and diagrams, mainly outlining various magical circles and equations, though some pieces of crumpled parchment appear to be letters; half-written and tossed carelessly aside.

On the left hand wall is a large, marble fireplace, with an ornate fireguard, all of which have been crafted by dwarven hands. Three brass, elven-crafted candle-holders sit atop the lintel of the fireplace, but the candles have never been lit. A large wingback chair upholstered in the same blue velvet as the curtains sits to one side of the fireplace, atop which lies a large, leather-bound book. On the other side of the fireplace is a floor to ceiling bookcase, filled with books on various arcane subject matters.

A large hat stand sits just behind the door as it swings inward, atop which is a messy cluster of sticks and various pieces of metal interwoven with one another. The nest is filled in with moss and down and various pieces of cutlery, coins of various denominations and other shiny objects are carefully placed within. Another door to the side of the hat stand leads to a small water closet, containing a toilet and sink, with a set of washcloths and towels set into a cabinet just behind the door. There is also enough room for a small, freestanding bathtub, that looks as though it has never been used.

[jessicanjpa]

Twilight Advent Calendar 2023 Event

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

Dec. 11 - Besides painting, what art forms does Esme enjoy? How do you imagine her art room/setup looks? (Fan artists, want to show us?)

A few she's tried and kept in her repertoire:

-knitting

-pottery

-sketching, mostly charcoal (more about this on Day 21)

-stained glass/little suncatchery, wind-chimey crafts

-anything to do with restoring antique furniture

-candle making

-photography

-artisan soap

-interior design/staging

A few she's tried and discarded:

-papier mache

-anything with sewing/fabric/thread. She's happy to mend things and she sometimes enjoys making curtains, but the rest is up to Alice. She made Rosalie a few dresses back in the day, a labor of love.

-quilling

-scrapbooking

-wood burning (passed her tools on to Jasper, whittler extraordinaire)

Her setup:

I assume Esme has as least one "studio" room full of projects and supplies, her drafting table, her larger easel, etc., but she also likes to scatter half-finished projects throughout the house. It makes the house more cozy and it's nice to work in different spots, use different light, sit with someone.etc.

Her comfy old wingback chair Carlisle gave her (I, II) always has a half-knitted scarf or something like that draped across it. The dining room table is perfect for spreading out blueprints when the morning sun cooperates. Her travel easel has visited several corners of each property by the time they pack up and move, and God help the undead teenager who decides to be uncharacteristically helpful one day and accidentally throws out the stack of project sketches that was sitting a little too close to the recycle bin. One time Carlisle saw Esme relaxing in bed and thought he would playfully pounce on her, only to send about 4,000 glass beads slittering into the floor, down the hall, down the stairs... the "kids" will never let him live that one down.

Her studio/craft room tends to be pretty well organized. She doesn't do well with creative chaos. Everything has its place and she's always reorganizing the stuff in there. Changing the feel of the room is an art form in and of itself. She also likes to have one or two easy projects sitting out that the others can "help with" whenever they feel like wandering in to spend time with her.

You can find all of the #twilightadvent23 prompts here!

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

[charmtion]

Oooooh what a kind offer! What about this gorgeous bit:

They turned the project in and won a prize. They split it 50/50 and went to the Hob to celebrate. She watched him drink unlabelled liquor out of a clouded glass and imagined a flute of champagne between his fingers.

Halfway through a quart they started to talk. About things outside of the lecture hall, university, work. He could’ve told her about his dad then, but he didn’t. Maybe she should’ve taken the first step, spoken about her parents, their grave-shaped absence in her life growing up. But she didn’t, either.

It was later—all that. Later. After the project was turned in and they won their prize and they got drunk off cheap whiskey and stumbled back to his house. After he sat in the wingback chair in front of the fire and she sang him a song, her voice tobacco-stained and a little tired, and he looked at her like she’d pulled the sun out of her throat. Handed it to him on an open palm.

It was later, right, when they’d gone to bed and he’d lied about how many houses his father owned (but not how many sons he had, never that, never that) and woke up with his face against her chest. It was then, his lips ghosting the scalloped lines of her ribcage, that he told her. That she told him.

Dead, both of them dead, and they little babes left in the burial dirt.

from my first snowbaird fic, chokecherry—a modern au where Lucy & Coriolanus meet at college/university & sort of glide, descend, fall semi-elegantly into a darkly-edged, toxically co-dependent kind of dynamic after being paired for a rhetoric project. I had a v specific setting & mood in mind for this story: a big, echoey house in the middle of a dark city, & early on an entrenched sense of separation between the two worlds the two characters inhabit; it’s almost a quest to get to the brownstone, it’s almost a castle set above the city she’s just been driven through, & we don’t even get a glimmer of the place she’s been fetched from, it’s just “other,” it’s just far enough away that we forget about it by the next sentence.

this idea of separation is threaded into this section; the Hob (refashioned in this au as a dive bar) isn’t Coryo’s natural territory, but he has followed Lucy here nonetheless—an inversion to how it begins, the fetcher & the fetched, with the roles continually intermixed—& this is him kind of “dressing up” as what he thinks he should be in this space, what he thinks she might want him to be here, buzzcut, cheap beer, bruised knuckles, whatever the fuck; despite the effort, however, it’s clear to both of them where he really belongs, who he really is: embodied by the swapping of his whiskey glass to a champagne flute in Lucy’s mind.

on that note, I love playing with beverages in fic (something @thistle-and-thorn can well attest to from past feverish comment exchanges & conversations, ly 🫶🏼) & I liked placing a juxtaposition here between the undrunk beer bottle he plays with during their first “meeting” in his house v. now necking homemade whiskey from a dirty glass at this celebratory jaunt till they’re both drunk & back at the brownstone where it began, where it’ll always go back to—there’s a sense here between them of being on the right side of sloppy drunk where you’re cut a little looser & able to chisel away at a few hard-won layers but you’re sloppy drunk, right, so you’re also distracted, you’re singing, you’re sitting, you’re forgetting why/how you even got drunk in the first place, what layers are being unpicked—so it’s not till things are in the post-sex quiet that you start spilling secrets, the secret, & it’s hazy in this fic as to when exactly this night is taking place contextually, all that’s clear are the bare bones of the setting, the telling: his bed, his mouth, her ribcage—breathing his heart into the little bird-beat of her chest, if you will, & then the final line of this section is a neat epitome of a tenet of what bonds them in this fic, & perhaps in the larger sprawl of canon verse: dead, both of them dead, and they little babes left in the burial dirt.

& it’s sharp, it’s almost sobering: it’s the sort of thought that cuts across your mind when sloppy drunk ebbs to scathingly conscious for that minute you’re looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror, or the millisecond you’re aware you are in bed just before you crash—this awareness they’re both orphaned, unattached in the most basic sense, spiralling alone except for each other, & it’s that idea of being known, isn’t it, that terrifying sensation of showing, being shown, knowing, being known: the inescapable inevitability of it all—just like the brownstone, & what happens between them inside it.

DVD COMMENTARY ASK GAME  

[meat-wentz]

Drop the Wes Anderson thoughts

cracking my knuckles cause i finally have time to sit down and write this after tumblr obliterated it from existence last time. note this may be a ramble more than an essay bc i have a lot of thoughts. so the thing about wes is that i have such a complicated relationship with him specifically because of the way his gaze affects literally everything around him. like his vision is something that is so singular that as a young person it was so influential to the way i thought about and gathered information about the world simply because i loved the way he looked at it and i wanted to somehow acquire that way of looking. it’s interesting because more than wes is a filmmaker he’s more of a curator and he always has been, and what’s hilarious about that is that in the “esteemed” sense of the word “curation,” he’s really bad at it. like he curated this exhibit in vienna and it was just an absolute mess, like he was pulling items and pieces from their archives in a way that felt like he was pulling for a curio shop opening more than he was an actual exhibit that had a theme and a running narrative or common ground to cover (era, region, subject matter, all that jazz). he was putting displays three inches off the ground in vertical displays, which, speaking in exhibition terms is a horrible idea because it completely halts the flow of the guests by forcing them onto their hands and knees in order to view a piece while also presenting it in a way that offers the least advantageous look at said piece (angles are everything), idk i have a whole thing about this bc one of my bffs has worked in museums in various different countries their whole adult life and another one of my bffs has a degree in art history and i myself was three credits shy of an art history minor before i said fuck it i just wanna graduate, like all in all there’s just a whole reason exhibits tend to have the layouts they have and the pieces that have been chosen for display. so when it comes to that “esteemed” sense of curation in a professional sense, wes isn’t very good at it. but what wes has excelled in has always been curation in the medium of film in a way that film tends not to think about curation. his interest in the world is so carefully crafted and he’s found a way that is so specific and unique to his vision that he can present it to his audience in a way that is so specifically him. he has an interest in the object, the mundane, the beauty of a world where binoculars can be elevated to art, to a realm of the fantastic, where binoculars can be used to evoke a sense of nostalgia and sweetness, can be important to the point of dictating the way a narrative is told. given the medium of film, wes does beautiful beautiful things to the world around him, every object in a frame is carefully selected and curated to have purpose in creating a sense of the world that very much can exist, we just don’t have the means to make it exist (does that make sense?), he will show you beautiful compositions of the ordinary and make them extraordinary: a fur coat, a tracksuit, pink wallpaper, a kid’s painting, a fan, a cigarette, a radio, a pastry, a bike, a wingback chair, everything in a frame is meant to say “have you seen this? now can i show you how i see it?” and he doesn’t stop with the visual, his soundtracks are handcrafted mixtapes, love letters to the things he’s showing us, even his dialogue tends to be minimalistic displays of distinct word choices and compacted one liners delivered very often in a monotonous manner in order to punch through to the audience that the words are what matter the most.

with wes, every bit of his films is displayed with a sense of objectivity. it is curation in a way that is purely wes anderson, it’s an interior museum of putting things on display and saying this means something to me please see it, but asking the audience not to touch, not to engage, only to look and contemplate and give meaning. it’s the same kind of desperate plea i see in myself, of constantly trying to show people the things that have meaning to me in *my way* to show people things and have them internalize it the same way i have, to experience the world in the same way *i* experience it, but to also lend the meaning they find *back to me* (idk if i’m articulating this correctly). it’s basically like saying hi yes here is my favorite shirt, it is my shirt and i love it and i want you to see it and i will tell you all the stories about wearing this shirt that have brought me immense joy in this life, have you thought about everything i told you about this shirt? have you placed yourself in this shirt while i was telling you about it and did you imagine what it was like to be wearing this shirt while you imagined yourself being me? okay good good, now you know it is a very special shirt and i want it to be your favorite shirt too, but also please realize it is in fact *my* shirt and *my* experience of the shirt, it is mine and it makes me special and now it is yours by proxy but it is not *yours*. i think it’s a very human endeavor he’s showing us, that speaks to him and about him, no matter how removed and distanced a lot of his audiences may see his films as (“style over substance,” “aesthetics only”).

given all of that too, there’s the problem of wes anderson. he makes objects of everything on screen, and that means making objects of cultures and people and then not realizing how harmful his vision of these things tends to be. the way he presents specifically people of color as objects meant for beauty or exotic flair has always been hella weird and hella upsetting. i carried a lot of wes anderson movies with me as a teenager and continue to still hold a select few in my stable as films i find immense pleasure in, but i have not watched a new wes anderson film since grand budapest because i just can’t find it in me to see idk a movie that takes place in japan and has english speaking main characters while all the japanese characters speak japanese without any subtitles or translation, effectively turning them into foreign objects for contemplation rather than idk actual characters. it’s the whole problem with wes at the end of the day. he’s soooo white that his view of the world immediately gets tainted once you realize what you’re looking at. it’s a complicated relationship to have as i’ve held a lot of his films close to my heart and they really did shape how i looked at the world in some very formative years in my life but also looking back it’s like oh…cool that’s what i am to you…i’m not real, i’m not a person, i’m an object, i’m a display case, i’m the exotic accent piece, while a pair of binoculars is the centerpiece.

[bookwormscififan]

I Would Destroy Our World, Chapter 3

An Embrace to Cling to Memory

Read on AO3!

Chapter 1

A/N: Hinting at some angst here, but also some sweet cuddles.

Warnings: There is some spicy discussion, so I'm going to warn for implied smut just to be safe.

--

Closing the front door behind him, Phantom paused at the soft rumbling sounds coming from the living room, heart swelling at the faint memory surfacing from the sounds.

--

“I think your purrs are adorable,” Phantom said with a chuckle as he scratched behind Jackie’s ears, listening to the soft sounds coming from the back of his throat. “Maybe you’re more cat than you think.”

“Shut up,” Jackie mumbled with a blush, hiding his face as the purrs got louder.

--

“I haven’t heard that sound in years,” he whispered, coming into the living room to see Mad and Jackie curled up on the couch together, purring softly to each other. “I never thought I’d hear it again.”

With a quick glance at Mad, Jackie climbed out of the couch, moving slowly to press into Phantom’s space, tucking his head into the arch of his neck. His ears twitched as Phantom’s tears splashed on them, and he started to purr again when the human slowly wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

Mad watched, ears tilting, as Phantom quietly cried, burying his face into Jackie’s hair, holding the hybrid against him as if afraid to lose him again. He tilted his head when he noticed the tears spilling from Jackie’s closed eyes, deciding now was the best time to leave the room.

Held close in Phantom’s arms, Jackie tilted his head slightly to look at the human, sniffling before lifting a hand to tap the dimples visible in his tearstained cheeks. His purring turned to questioning squeaks, wrapping his free hand around Phantom’s waist.

“Secret dimples,” he whispered, smiling through his tears when Phantom choked on a chuckle, opening his eyes to look into Jackie’s ice blue ones, smiling in return. “I’ve missed them,” he added, rising onto his toes to kiss the dimple.

“Only for you,” Phantom answered, entwining his fingers with Jackie’s and holding them against his chest. “Always for you.” His gaze darted to Jackie’s lips, and without needing to ask, Jackie was kissing him, purrs vibrating against his lips as he pressed close.

----

Phantom hummed as he tidied his desk, being extra careful when putting his notebook away, ensuring it was hidden away from the rest of his business-centric things. He looked up when he heard the door open, smiling when he saw Jackie standing in the doorway.

“Hey, darling,” he greeted, loving the flush that bloomed on Jackie’s cheeks at the nickname. “I’m almost finished tidying up, then I’ll come down and have dinner. What’s wrong?” He asked, noting the poorly hidden trembling of Jackie’s hands as the hybrid moved closer.

“I-I…” Jackie bit the inside of his cheek as he turned his face away, stepping into Phantom’s space and pressing his face into his chest. “The words keep getting stuck.” His voice was muffled by the soft cotton of Phantom’s shirt, and he tangled his fingers into the hem of it to ground himself.

“What words? Let me try to help you, love.”

“T-The words-the…” Jackie let out a huff, frustration evident in his tone and the sharp way his tail flicked back and forth. “I-I’m trying to tell you—I love how you have secret dimples that only appear when you smile. I love the way you look at me.”

“That doesn’t sound like the words are getting stuck,” Phantom stated, guiding Jackie to sit with him in the wingback chair in the corner of the office, waiting until Jackie was curled in his lap before gently running his fingers through his hair.

“It’s not those words that get stuck,” Jackie started picking at Phantom’s shirt, avoiding his gaze. “I—it’s hard for me to talk about feelings. You’re just so perfect, and you make me forget that I’m different at all, and I just—I can’t seem to string together the words to tell you I love you!”

Phantom blinked once, twice, then cupped Jackie’s cheek in one hand, turning his head to face him before leaning down to kiss him. He could taste the salt of Jackie’s frustrated tears on his lips, feel the slight tremble from Jackie’s nervous shaking, and he pressed harder against the hybrid’s mouth to deepen the kiss.

It took a few moments before Jackie returned the kiss, wrapping his arms around Phantom’s neck as quiet purrs rumbled from the back of his throat. Smiling against Phantom’s lips, Jackie adjusted so he was straddling Phantom’s hips, not breaking the kiss in the process.

“I think you managed to unstick the words,” Phantom teased with a smirk, pressing his forehead against Jackie’s. “And I hope you know I love you, too.” Before Jackie could respond, Phantom caught his lips in a kiss again, adoring the way his purrs changed when he deepened the kiss.

----

“Dear heart, I can’t write if you’re going to—” Mare cut himself off as Mad crawled across the bed to lay over his lap, tucking his hands against his thigh and resting his cheek on them. “Something on your mind?” He asked instead, setting his papers down and trailing his fingers down Mad’s spine, smiling when that made the hybrid shiver.

“Did you know that Jackie likes bees?” Mad started, shifting slightly so he was nuzzling into the point where Mare’s leg meets his hip. “He can sit for hours and just watch them. When he purrs, it sometimes sounds like walking by a flower field in the middle of spring, with this soft humming.”

“Bees could be cool,” Mare answered, moving his hand up to card through Mad’s hair. “Where are you going with this?”

“Talking to Jackie is like talking to a brother,” Mad replied, crawling to sit in Mare’s lap, hands tracing patterns into the human’s chest. “I think he would be a great member of a pack, and I like having him around.”

“That sounds good,” Mare hummed, one hand splayed over the dip in Mad’s back while the other stayed in his hair. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Phantom’s back, and I feel like he and Jackie are going to be busy for a while.” Mad’s eyes gleamed as he smiled slyly at Mare, wriggling slightly in his lap. “I wanted to give them some space, sit with you.” With a not-so-subtle glance at Mare’s lips, Mad finished his thought by leaning down to catch the human in a kiss, squeezing his hands on Mare’s chest and purring softly when Mare returned the kiss with equal intensity.

Parting the kiss with a soft breath, Mad slowly reached up to remove Mare’s glasses, setting them on the side table before looking into his amethyst eyes, cheeks flushed as he lifted a hand to cradle Mare’s cheek.

“The-the thing you did this morning,” Mad started, voice trembling slightly, “Do you… do you enjoy it? Like, does it make you—does it taste funny?” His face was bright red as he looked at Mare, ducking his head slightly as his ears drooped in embarrassment.

“You’re asking if I like sucking you off?” Mare clarified, because the blood pumping in his head was very quickly moving down and he needed proper words. “I need words, sweetheart,” he prodded, sliding his hands down and squeezing at Mad’s hips to regain his attention.

“Were there other things you wanted to do?” Mad asked instead, avoiding Mare’s eyes. “N-Not to say I didn’t like what you did, but… are there other things? I-Is there more?” Picking at his tail, Mad hazarded a glance at Mare, eyes widening when he saw the kindness in his face.

“There’s so much more,” Mare breathed, tracing the line of Mad’s waist with his fingers. “So many different ways to feel so good, and I’d be so happy to show them all to you in your own time.” Leaning forward, he kissed Mad again, humming against his lips when Mad tried to deepen the kiss, holding him close and rolling his hips up against Mad.

--

“I worry about how my mind will twist the time I have with you,” Jackie whispered, tucked into Phantom’s side and tracing lines in Phantom’s hand. “I’m scared to be hurt again, I don’t know what the facility did to me exactly.”

“The facility poisoned your memories,” Phantom began slowly, voice low, “But I doubt they managed to destroy your emotions. You came back to me, didn’t you?” With his free hand, he gently stroked the fur on Jackie’s tail, entranced by the seamless transition between the stripes.

“You’re always going to be home to me,” Jackie turned slightly so he could look at Phantom, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I’m just… afraid to get hurt again. What if they find me, take me away? What if I never get to see you again?”

“That won’t happen,” Phantom’s voice was lower, jaw set as he looked at Jackie with determination. “I’d kill them before they lay a hand on you ever again.”

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

@iamvegorott @brokentimewatch @rattyboyisemo @dungeon-dragons-dragons

[behindthesemasks]

5

Back in New Orleans, something is going on....

There was a knock on the heavy wooden door to Etienne Gautier’s office in the Meir Enterprises office in the Central Business District of New Orleans.  He had just returned from a meeting in Baton Rouge, so it was no surprise when shortly afterwards Ambrose Meir opened the door and entered. Not only his boss and the CEO of the company, but his best friend’s grandfather, there were few days that he did not see Ambrose at one point or the other.

“And what do I owe the pleasure of today’s visit Ambrose?” Etienne asked as he slid off his suit jacket to drape it across the back of his leather desk chair.

“I assume your meeting with the trustees in Baton Rouge went well?  Financing for Melania’s affairs are all in order?” One of Ambrose’s brows rose as he shut the door behind him and walked to one of the two black leather wingback chairs opposite Etienne’s large mahogany desk.

“Of course, did you doubt me?  Nic left very explicit instructions before they left to make sure that there were no hiccups regarding this trip.  What is it over there they are looking for?” Etienne had been curious, but his friend had been evasive. Often when it came to Melania he was.  Of course he was, there was history there and Nic had to walk a fine line.  Ambrose walked fine lines like a frat boy during Mardi Gras. 

“There is an artifact there, a very powerful one.  Maybe more than one.  Beau Davenport is also after it, and Nic doesn’t want him to get to it first.  Of course if my granddaughter knew Beau was involved, she’d work with the bastard.  So, we may have used a little subterfuge to make her think it’s someone who would use it against her mother.” A devious smirk started to form on Ambrose’s debonair features.  “This could be just what I need to finally eliminate Davenport and his family from meddling in our affairs and from competition in the business arena for good.”

“Beau is certainly not the man his father is.” While this was true, it was not quite the statement that Ambrose might think it to be.  In some ways, Beau was more ruthless than his father, who did not have the loyalty to Ambrose that his father had due to a former friendship.  Beau would not do anything to harm Melania, who he considered a friend, but to Ambrose he had no such loyalty. It was one of the few things that Etienne could respect the other man for.  

“I doubt, dear Melania would be as fond of him as she is, if he were.” Ambrose scoffed. Truly he did not know that to be true.  Often times he wondered if his granddaughter did things just to spite him.  Why couldn’t she be more like Nic?

Etienne bit his tongue.  It was not for him to say what his ex would or would not like.  He had managed to fuck that up situation long ago on his own, or had it been all on his own?  The ghosts of that experience oft haunted him, taunting him that there was more than met the eye.  It had only been since her divorce from Preston in the last year that they had started to even develop a friendship again, the woman she was now was not the girl he had dated, but he loved her no less.

Ambrose sensed Etienne’s reticence to say more and understood it on some level.  The man was still like a lovelorn lost puppy around Melania, even if he was one of the best corporate attorney’s on the Gulf Coast, a man he was glad was in his pocket and not someone else’s.  “Enough on that.  Have you started the contracts I asked about?” Ambrose inquired, a brow raising.

“Of course.  I don’t understand what you’re wanting to do with these though, you know what will happen if you put these in place?” There was a touch of trepidation in Etienne’s voice as he looked up at the man he’d looked at like a father since he’d first become best friends with Nic as a small child.  There could be no way that Ambrose didn’t know what would happen if these contracts were executed.  War might be a nice way of putting it, there was no way around it.

“These are contingency, son.  Nothing more.  Hopefully they won’t be needed.  However, there was Peru…” Ambrose allowed the last word to draw out there, then the statement to hang in the air, swirling around like cigarette smoke without the dissipation.  He saw the stutter inhalation from Etienne and knew that his point had been made. “If war is what is required to maintain an empire, never has an emperor flinched in the face of it.  Nor will I.” There was something in Ambrose’s voice and countenance that sent a dagger of ice through Etienne’s heart.  These contracts were not contingencies; they were plans, just waiting for the perfect moment for execution.  He could only hope that the woman he had been in love with for over two and half decades was not in the crossfire when the war started.  If she was, he’d have to remind all of them that he was no less lethal than the rest of them.

[universitypenguin]

Hey Alice :) this is prob a weird question but what kind of car do you think Lloyd drives? We know he’s luxurious so I can see him in something sleek and sporty like an Audi or another European make car

Also how do you envision Lloyd’s house? Is he particular about his decor? Is he the type to be in to antiques or more modern pieces of furniture

I think Lloyd would drive something expensive, but also nondescript. I’m picturing a Mercedes-Benz sedan. It would probably be gray or black. I can see him in a few different models. If he was being conservative, he’d have bought a mid-priced model like a C 300. If he was in a spending mood when he bought the car, he’d have gone for the pricier S 580 4MATIC.

He likes the performance of German engineering and the powerful throttle of the motor. It’s an added bonus that in the D.C. metro, the car blends into the sea of other luxury vehicles. The reason he’d never consider a smaller, sporty model, like an Audi R8 or a BMW M4, is simple. You can’t fit a dead body in the trunk. He’s not planning to commit a crime, but proper preparation prevents poor performance. And when you need to move a dead body there’s no room for error.

Lloyd sticks with a roomy sedan that has plenty of space in the trunk. He keeps it stocked with a shovel and a large box of kitty litter. In the Virginia climate, those items don’t attract much notice. They’re snow storm essentials and he keeps them next to the emergency kit with blankets, water, jumper cables, and a tow chain. But a shovel and kitty litter is good for more than just getting traction in an ice storm, you know? 🫣

For his house, Lloyd lives across the Potomac from D.C. in Old Town Alexandria. He chose the house because it’s less than 30 minutes from the office and the charm of the cobblestone streets appeals to him.

The neighborhood he picks has a brick wall and wrought iron gate facing the street. To get to his house, you have to park in a lot down the street, and then walk down the block to the courtyard gate. The gate isn’t locked but it’s another layer of security - something that would slow down an attacker. Inside the gate is a cobblestone courtyard with Beech trees in the middle. There are five townhouses in the courtyard neighborhood, two on the right and two on the left, with another at the back.

Lloyd owns the inner property on the left side. He likes the location because he’s insulated from every possible angle. The gate protects the front and the courtyard access gives him a view of anyone approaching. Both sides are covered by the other row houses and the brick wall hiding the common area means no one can see much beyond the small gate. The large trees prevents overhead photos and the lack of a garage door further secures the location.

For decor, he paid a decorator to fix the place up. She went for a mix of antiques with modern touches, with a subtle nod towards costal styles in the color palette. The walls are a neutral white, to better showcase the eclectic artwork she chose for his home. She went with the traditional set of wingback chairs, a structured sectional sofa to anchor the room, and a jute rug in the living area. His coffee table is a simple design made of reclaimed elm wood and the end tables are mismatched. One table is made out of distressed gray wood and the other is polished brass.

The decorator gave him plants to tie it all together. He has a fig tree, a Japanese maple, and a ficus. There are potted plants in every room, and he loves how they liven up the place. Looking at them makes him feel like he’s at home. That’s in addition to the herb garden with mint, basil, chives, and tarragon, that she installed in his kitchen window. He has to admit, the herb garden is one of his favorite touches. He uses it almost every day.

The kitchen is thoroughly modern. It has a wide island down the middle and cabinets on both walls. The quartz countertops are durable and crafted to look like marble. Having lived in flats with marble counters in the past, Lloyd has no interest in getting the real thing. They’re too easily scarred. He has a farmhouse sink, with plenty of elbow room to peel potatoes and stack up dishes. On the end of the kitchen is his formal dining room with a table that, when extended, seats fifteen.

His bedroom has one of the best antique pieces in the house. The Italian Renaissance walnut headboard has hand carved Foliate Scrolls and a matching footboard. He has it restored and styles it with a green jacquard bedspread. The decorator finishes the look with antique tea tables for the nightstands, and places an overstuffed chair and a reading lamp in the corner. She installs a wall of floor-to-ceiling black out curtains to prevent the east facing windows from waking him up at dawn. On the windows themselves she adds bamboo shades to bring another texture to the space.

And despite his protests, the decorator puts more plants in the bedroom. Lloyd can’t help but leave them there even after she’s gone. They just… work. He’d never have put them there on his own but the morning sunshine makes the Christmas cactus bloom every three months and turns the climbing vine thing into the picture of health within days.

A year later, when it’s time to decorate the guest room and the sun porch, he re-hires the same woman. This time, he hands over his credit card and tells her to follow the same process she did the first time.

[sapphireginger]

Title: Igniting Love Lost

Pairings: Stinny [Stiles Stilinski + Ginny Weasley]

Fandom: Harry Potter/Teen Wolf

Word Count: 1,703

Warnings: None

Summary:

Mieczyslaw Genim Iskra, also known as Stiles Stilinski, had been alive for centuries. Nothing had any meaning to him anymore. He was just about to give up and seek out his eldest cousin Elijah for help in ending his existence when he received a letter from some place called Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall had heard of the esteemed Spark and had an offer for him.

Created For: @badbitchesbingo / Square Filled: Thinking of You - Katy Perry

Mieczyslaw Genim Iskra, also known as Stiles Stilinski, had been alive for centuries. Nothing had any meaning to him anymore. He was just about to give up and seek out his eldest cousin Elijah for help in ending his existence when he received a letter from some place called Hogwarts. Minerva McGonagall had heard of the esteemed Spark and had an offer for him.

Dear Mister Iskra,

I have heard a great deal about you. All of us here at Hogwarts have heard quite a lot. However, we did not know as much as we thought we did. We would not know what we know now without the knowledge given to us by one of our teachers. She speaks very highly of you. 

So, after speaking with the majority of our staff and making the final decision myself, I extend this formal invitation to you. It is our wish that you may accept our invitation to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at our school. 

Please let us know at your earliest convenience of your level of interest. I’m sure you’re a busy man. I hope to see you in September for our first term. 

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Stiles was inclined to dispose of it. Then again…

“You should accept, Mieczyslaw,” Elijah said. 

“Why? What purpose would it serve me?” he snapped but it was half hearted. He chose not to reprimand his cousin for using his full name either. It wouldn’t stop him from doing so.

Elijah adjusted the cuffs of his suit. “Well, if nothing else will persuade you from erasing yourself from existence I won’t stop you. However, did you notice she referenced a woman having dropped your name to her?” His tone held amusement as if he knew something his cousin did not. 

Stiles swallowed. “You don’t suppose…” he trailed off, hope quickly building in his chest. Aqua sparks began to dance across his pale skin. “It can’t be, can it?”

“Do tell me how dear Ginevieve is, won't you?” Elijah inquired nonchalantly. He moved to leave the room, pausing at the doorway. “Oh. I do believe you called her Ginny. Yes?” 

“Yes,” Stiles whispered. “Ginny Love, could it really truly be you? After all this time?”

✦❇ 📜 ❇ ✦

Stiles sent his reply post haste. Even if it would not be his Ginny, perhaps a couple semesters at the school would do him some good. He packed up and left the following weekend. He needed to get a feel for his new home before everyone else arrived. 

The first week he saw no sign of the woman he had hoped to find. The first month passed much the same. He was summoned to the office of the headmistress for further instructions and an autograph. It was a bit awkward for him, but the woman was giving him a job. He consciously ignored how she placed it on the wall right behind her wingback chair where everyone who entered her office would be able to see it. 

The students arrived at the end of August, all of the students, years two through seven. The year one students would not arrive until the first week of September. 

His first two months of teaching were nerve wracking, but he firmly took control of his classroom and did not take any lip. They grew to respect him and in turn he offered the same. 

It was hard when the first term ended as he chose to stay in the castle while the students (most of them) went home for Christmas break.

He used the time to search for Ginny, but his efforts proved fruitless once more. He debated asking the headmistress but quickly decided that wasn’t appropriate. Stiles didn’t want anyone knowing of their connection anyway.

When the second term started up, two red headed children, a girl and a boy, were placed in his class. He had no idea who they were, and they mischievously refused to tell him. He sighed and his eyes flashed a bright aqua color. What he saw crushed him. His eyes then flickered back to normal, and he turned away. “No practical demonstration today. Open your books and turn to page 394.” 

The students obeyed, even the twins who looked like they knew something was wrong. If Stiles thought that they looked concerned, he waved it off. Most likely the twins were simply worried that they were in trouble. 

Still, the two students approached him after class. “Professor Iskra?” they said in sync. 

“Yes,” he replied, tension filling him, making his muscles go taut. 

“We’re so glad to meet you, sir. Mother has told us so much about you.”

Stiles cleared his throat debating how to approach the conversation. He settled for grabbing his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder and turning toward them. “I don’t believe you know me. I don’t know you. You are my students. You are nothing more, and you are nothing less. Good day.” 

“But—” they tried. 

“Good. Day.”

He left no room for interpretation, and they left after a final backward glance when they reached the door. 

Stiles inhaled sharply and exhaled on a sob. He rushed to his office and spelled the door shut. No one would be able to enter. His magic was unlike any currently in existence or to ever exist before. He was powerful but something so simple and yet so complex all at once, had made him lose his composure. He collapsed against the closed door and slid to the floor, burying his face in his arms as he hugged his knees to his chest. 

There was no stopping the memories. There hadn’t been a way to keep them at bay since he received the letter. However, the memories invading his mind at that moment, were of what he saw when he learned the names of the twins. Ryder Genim Potter & Ryana Ginnifer Potter. Their father was a man named Harry James Potter and their mother…their mother was a woman named Ginevieve “Ginny” Marie Potter. 

✦❇ 📜 ❇ ✦

Stiles withdrew more after that. He did not change how he interacted with his students, but he kept his distance from the twins despite their repeated attempts to communicate with him. He was close to asking the headmistress to assist him when a letter appeared on his nightstand one night toward the end of the second term. He had penned his resignation prior to getting into bed. 

The letter was magic in origin, and he would recognize the handwriting anywhere. It was a Whisperer (the complete opposite of a Howler). He settled beneath his covers and carefully opened the letter. A soft tune began to play and then a voice he knew and could never forget began to echo softly from the pages. “Ginny,” he whispered as the voice began to read after finishing its tune. 

Dearest Iskra Mojego Serca,

How I’ve missed you. I know you will doubt it as by now you’ve met Ryder and Ryana. Please do not be angry with the children. It is I who broke the promise we made. I was young and foolish. Harry showed interest and I was so lonely. It is not an excuse and I love my children too much to regret having them. I only regret that they aren’t your children as well as mine. 

They know you as their godfather. Harry has left us for another woman who cares about his status as an auror. I’ve never cared for it myself. When I found out I took the children who were only five at the time and moved. We live in London now and when they received their letters for Hogwarts, I knew they would meet you. 

You’re probably wondering how everything came to pass. I used a gift from a friend to play with time a little. I left a note for the headmistress to find. She knows I’m a teacher, but she does not know that I do not teach at Hogwarts. I never wanted to deceive her, but I needed to find you and I was afraid when you learned of my broken promise you would disappear again. I couldn’t bear it. So, I hope meeting the twins goes better without me there. 

However, if you should so wish it, I shall meet you. Ask for me. Write to me. I will come. 

Will all my heart, the heart that has always, is and will always belong to you and you alone…

Your Ginny

Stiles was stunned, feeling so many things at once that he had to push the small switch his cousin Elijah had taught him in order to not be overwhelmed. It was a stupid thing to do, as humanity shouldn't be played with like that, but he needed to focus now on the most important thing. The thing that mattered most right now was his godchildren and he planned to find them first thing.

The next morning, he found them as they were just about to board the train. He hugged them tightly and asked them to stay with him at his home for the first month of summer. They grinned at him with hope lighting up their faces. Meanwhile, the letter of resignation was turning to ash in the fireplace of his office. 

✦❇ 📜 ❇ ✦

Ryder and Ryana stayed with him all summer and made sure to keep their mother updated. They wanted to ask their godfather so many questions, but they refrained. They were too afraid he would send them home. 

Surprisingly, during the final week of summer, their godfather asked them to join him for a walk. During their meandering, he told them a love story. He did not tell them who the lovers were, but they knew as their mother had told them the same story from the time they were born. 

They saw the love and wistfulness in their godfather’s eyes. It was the same as the look in their mother’s eyes whenever she thought about the man she had always loved and had never stopped loving. They used that last week of summer break to make a plan. They were going to figure out how to reunite the lovers for good.