#imagine working all day at a company surrounded by people trying to garner power and you come home exhausted and asleep by 10pm

[stickyvoidpaper]

hc that Tim has a false sleep disorder diagnosis from when he was younger because he refused to tell his parents he was awake for most of the night.

[bjy-on-ao3]

Fic Friday: Needy, Part 1

(As usual, you can find the AO3 version of all my uploads [and some things I don’t post here to tumblr] via my Masterlist blog page.)

Another concept that has been sitting in my notes since I finished the first season of Durarara!!. Izaya has been coming up a decent amount in some recent conversations and I was convinced to continue watching DRRR!! with X2/etc, so my want to write this has been reinvigorated.

This lead-up can be skipped if desired. It’s mostly Reader being bored and getting more jealous as the day goes on, but I felt like writing it and was having a good time, so it exists (plus it’s a little help to practice for a longer project I may have in mind.). You won’t miss out on any smut skipping this chapter, so if you’re here for that, feel free to move onto the next one!

Part 2

Summary  Reader’s jealousy over the attention Izaya gives to everyone else finally comes to a head one evening. They discover it hasn't exactly been a secret to the information broker.

Needy (F! Reader/Izaya Orihara)

Chapter 1. Green-Eyed Monster

You came to slowly, unwilling to leave the peaceful land of slumber, tangled in the soft warmth of the sheets and pillows like so many other days. The surrounding room was dark, the sheets displaced by whatever tossing and turning had taken place through the night. You contemplated snuggling back into the blankets and snoozing the day away, but admonished yourself quickly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with your wrist. It wouldn’t do to spend all day in bed - at least not alone.

You had long since grown used to waking up in Izaya Orihara’s bed, often after long exhausting evenings preceding it. Many mornings you awoke in his arms, or with him in yours, surrounded by his faint scent of soap and spice and bitter tea. Those were the sweetest. Had someone told you when you first met him Izaya was the cuddling type - in or out of bed -  you would have laughed in their face at the absurdity. As much as he claimed to love humans, he didn’t come off as the type to be physically affectionate. You were glad to learn that your first impressions had been incorrect. 

Recently something had changed. Izaya’s workload new was far heavier than before, which left less of his time for you. You occupied yourself more often while he stared intently at various screens for hours or went on about plans only he fully knew and understood. You were used to that well enough, just not so much as had become the recent norm. Sure, Namie was often around as well, but she was little in the way of good company or entertainment. 

There were the times when Izaya left to gallivant around the city and make life a pain for the more powerful or notable denizens of the city or to meet clients to broker his work. When he was away you didn’t even have to chance to try to coax him into taking the occasional break. Those were the days you hated the most, but you knew it wasn’t his job to amuse you all the time- even if you would have been perfectly happy with that kind of arrangement.

Despite suggestive promises and invitations to join you, you had begun retiring to bed alone long before Izaya more and more commonly. Often you feel asleep before he ever came to bed - some nights you weren’t sure he did at all. Even on the mornings you knew he had, whether from the displacement of the bedsheets or a faded warmth beside you, he was up and back at work before you woke as if he had never stopped. That morning was another on which you awoke alone, frowning at the impressions in the sheets beside you and wishing you had woken earlier or he had stayed longer in bed.

You tried to convince yourself it was normal, reminding yourself that Izaya was a busy man. That he had so much business to attend to was no surprise, especially when Ikebukuro got rowdy, due to whatever new event involving the color gangs or a shift in Yakuza politics popped up. But reason did nothing to wash away the bitter taste in your mouth when you wandered out into the hall and looked down to see Izaya entertaining another early morning client. 

You frowned, glowering down at the seated client - you weren’t sure who they were, but they looked vaguely familiar, so likely some regular - sitting across from Izaya. The informant in question looked as cool and confident as ever. For a moment, the lilt of his voice overturned your bitterness, but the moment was brief and it returned obstinately. You waited, resting your elbows against the rail, sure to remain hidden among the shadows cast by the apartment’s angles. 

You knew better than to interrupt his business. Even if you were upset it seemed to consume every waking hour recently, interference was taboo. You had learned that a long time ago. You weren’t sure if Izaya being wholly unconcerned you might overhear a business conversation meant he just didn’t care or if he trusted you. Maybe it was a bit of both.

You grew bored quickly, hardly listening to the exchange at the desk below, despite neither bothering to keep their voice down. At last, there was a shuffling of something - funds, contracts, whatever, you couldn’t tell from your perch - and then the client rose with a farewell and turned to leave. You eased further into the shadow, fairly sure you weren’t in danger of being seen, but better safe than sorry. Passingly, you imagined how irate some of Izaya’s clients might have been if they were aware a second set of eyes and ears was butting in on their private conversations with the informant.

Izaya followed courteously, seeing them off to the door and bidding a professional, cheery goodbye. Only once you heard the door snap closed did you make your way down the stairs. But before you even descended the last step, you heard Izaya engaged in another conversation and your face sank. He wasn’t speaking to you, of course, but another client or contact on one of his many cellphones. Work, work, and more work again. Izaya cast you a small smile before tuning back into his call, plopping down on the couch as he talked.

You sat down on the cushion beside him, careful to stay quiet and not interrupt his call. Izaya lay an arm along the back of the sectional but didn’t touch you, and you gave it a  sidelong glance. A childish part of you fantasized about tearing the phone from his hand and tossing it away, undoubtedly garnering his attention one way or another. You quickly silenced the thought, waiting some more. You had hardly been awake for long, and already you had done so much waiting.

Just as you were considering moving off the couch to grab a book off the shelf or freshen up, you heard the call winding down from Izaya’s tone. A hopeful excitement sprang up in your chest and you inched closer to Izaya as he hung up.

“Izaya, since you’re done with those clients, how about we…” you began to propose, placing what you intended to be a seductive touch on his knee. Your words fell away, noting Izaya was paying no mind to you - his eyes and fingers focused on the message he was composing on his phone.

“Hm, what was that, darling?” He asked, hitting send and tucking the phone into a pocket.

“Ah, it was nothing important,” you dismissed, sighing internally and pulling your hand back. You had a feeling you knew what the answer was going to be.

Izaya eyed you quietly for a second, and you wondered if he suspected the thoughts simmering beyond your dismissal. “I see. Well, I’ve got some things to take care of,” he announced, the previous scrutiny disappearing and replaced by his typical demeanor. When he rose from his seat, his fingers brushed fleetingly across your shoulder and you followed the oh-so-slight motion out of the corner of your eyes. “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

You almost rolled your eyes at his teasing words. You really should have been the one warning him. Izaya Orihara telling you not to get into trouble when he caused and attracted it himself in so many forms was an irony so thick you could taste it. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t do anything you would,” you shot back wryly.

He smirked, leaning in for a second and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek that left you wanting. You watched him straighten and turn on his heel, vanishing down the entryway and out the door briskly. 

You sighed, leaning on your elbow on the back of the sofa with your cheek resting on a fist. Silence enveloped you again, save for the dull chatter of the birds outside and even fainter sounds of people in the streets below. You searched the apartment lazily, trying to decide on something to entertain yourself with. Neither the TV nor the assortment of books on the shelf piqued your interest, nor did the idea of laying on the couch and browsing the internet or the forums. Certain ones were amusing now and then, chatrooms especially, but you weren’t in the mood for any of that.

In your search, you realized that you were left completely alone in the apartment. There was no sign of Namie, whom you knew by that time would have normally arrived. A day off for the woman then. Just your rotten luck that you didn’t even have her prickly company for the day. Perhaps you would take a stroll down to Ikebukuro and entertain yourself there instead.

A shower and a change of clothes later and you had left the spacious apartment, unsure exactly where in Ikebukuro you were planning to go. It was always important to monitor your surroundings in the city, even if you weren’t somewhere sketchy or isolated. You weren’t sure if your involvement with Izaya was a secret or not - or how widespread it was, even if it was a secret. All you knew was that not everyone liked the information broker and some of those people had enough balls - or few enough brain cells - to think screwing with someone more closely involved with Izaya was a good idea.

Even with that in mind, Ikebukuro, for all the trouble that took place so often, really wasn’t very intriguing most days. Sure, there was always something lurking beneath the surface, someone moving pawns on a chessboard, or some plan being brought to fruition. None of that mattered though unless you wanted to butt into someone else’s business. And unlike a certain someone you knew, sticking your nose into other peoples’ affairs wasn’t a hobby of yours for the most part.

You grabbed a quick bite to eat in one of the small shops on your way into the more bustling parts of the city. You weren’t sure if you had gotten a bad batch or if everything just tasted worse from your boredom and bitterness, but your breakfast left you thoroughly unsatisfied. A running trend for the morning it seemed. Well, there was plenty of time in the day left to fix that, right? 

For a while, you sat down on an empty bench on a busy street, watching the many perfectly ordinary people of the city going about their daily business, blissfully unaware of the games being played around them, save for when the usual players shook up things in particularly noisy ways. You mentally picked one out from the crowd, now and then, wondering if beneath the surface they had some awful or bizarre secret, as was the case for several of the notable names in Ikebukuro. When you had first come to the city, you would have never imagined such normal-looking people were capable of having such impressive secrets, but your time had taught you much.

Here and there, over an hour or so, you spotted several of the men or women you knew to be trouble of some degree. A high-schooled aged boy who couldn’t have looked more commonplace if he tried with some fantastical sounding name. A tall man in a headscarf who often rode around with a band of eccentrics in a van. A man with dreadlocks and glasses, flanked by a grouchy looking blonde smoking a cigarette. Your brow arched up and a jolt of jealousy swirled in your gut at the sight of the blonde.

You knew most of the others were involved in Izaya’s business in one form or another - generally not by choice - but you were acutely aware of how much attention he paid the blonde. He had spoken about him before, insisting how much he hated monsters like him, but you weren’t so sure sometimes. Whatever the case, he devoted a lot of his attention to making his life miserable, you knew that much. Time you pettily felt could have been better spent paying attention to you without the threat of being beaten into the concrete.

Shaking off the feeling, you daydreamt for a little while about what it would be like to be involved in all the dirty dealings and trickery that went into the politics controlling the city. Maybe it would be a better and more exciting use of your time than what you did for fun. You doubted you were cut out for how cut-throat you had heard the game could be though, so perhaps it was best it remained an idle imagining. Eventually, imagining what-ifs and singling people out in the ever-moving crowds grew dull and you stood up, taking your outing back on the move.

Turning a corner, you glanced through the immaculately polished glass windows of a quaint, cozy cafe. Your face stretched in surprise, eyes widening for an instant as they landed on a slender form and handsome, sly face there was no mistaking. Izaya looked so comfortable, settled on one of the window seats facing outward. He looked to be watching the crowds go by, sipping contently at the steaming mug in his grasp. People-watching? That was the business he had needed to attend to? 

Jealousy swelled in your chest again, acrid and burning, and you took a deep breath to quell it. Yes, you had been doing the same thing recently - out of necessity to amuse yourself since Izaya had ignored you, you reminded yourself crossly - but you hadn’t labeled it as something that needed tending to. You stepped back, glaring from your spot on the corner for a moment before making an about-face and striding angrily away from the cafe windows. Now you were bored and angry. So much for the idea that there time for the day to improve.

You tried your hardest to clear your head as strolled aimlessly, but the stubborn emotions refused to go. The image of him seated so relaxedly in the cafe as if he had nothing else in the world he could be doing compounded your frustration, making it grow hotter and more irrational. ‘You could have spoken up’ a small voice piped up. ‘Maybe you’re just not interesting enough to keep his attention,’ another far meaner voice sneered. You ground your teeth and shook your head, refusing to accept either suggestion.

When wandering alone with your antagonistic thoughts became too much, you gave up the idea of your pleasant excursion. Head cloudy with nagging voices and snippets of the day, chest burning angrily, you made your way back to Izaya’s apartment. At least there you could be moody in peace without worry of anyone seeing.

[victoodles]

Fleur Sauvage

yeehaws but softly. back again, read it on AO3 and i hope you enjoy

Arthur is uncomfortable.

The sleeves of his stupid tuxedo are too tight and the cotton of his stupid bowtie is too itchy against his neck. But mostly, it’s because he’s surrounded on all sides by pompous displays of how the other half live.

Arthur has been encircled by wolves before, ravenous beasts of varying shapes and sizes. Unfortunately this time around he can’t shoot his way through the pack. If he had a say in the matter, he would take fangs and claws over coiffed hair and expensive suits any day of the week.

But he doesn’t. He rarely does, so here he stays.

The air is heavy with cigar smoke and foreign chatter. Arthur always presumed other languages would have an essence of beauty to them. Though as he overhears these gentlemen prattle on, cackling at their own self-proclaimed witticisms, he finds it to be extremely grating. Dutch insists though, as he is prone to do, that they continue to meet with the true master of Saint Denis.

Angelo Bronte.

A man with all the charm of a cottonmouth snake and twice as deadly. Every word that falls from his mouth is dripping with so much venom, Arthur is surprised listening to him hasn’t been fatal. Among those words is the promise of money; a key to freedom from the shackles of a modern word.

Now Arthur is the one to insist that Dutch reconsider his faith in this “parasite", as Arthur so fondly described. Dutch disregards it, telling him that home is just “one more score” out of reach. Arthur thinks that these grandiose fantasies are going to get them in over their heads more so then they already are. Hosea shares the sentiment but their unconditional loyalty has them tethered to this plan for the time being.

Angelo cackles from his perch on the manor’s balcony. He finds himself (both literally and figuratively) above the party-goers and that seems to fill him with malicious glee. They are merely bugs under his expensive shoes, and he’ll go well out of his way to stomp on them.

He sorts through the crowd one by one, expressing his contempt and expansive knowledge of Saint Denis’ denizens. Each one has a filthy secret that Angelo pours forth like fine wine. A jeer follows every name until his gaze falls upon a certain young lady, arm secured around Hosea’s.

“And who is this? I’ve never seen her before,” Angelo turns to his men with a smirk, “I’d certainly remember one so pretty.” Arthur tracks Angelo’s leering gaze to you, and his ire is sparked like flint. Taking a step forward to act, he aims to silence this lecherous cretin permanently.

Unfortunately, he is promptly stopped by Dutch’s hand, a silent plea to contain himself. It’s a small one and Dutch hopes Angelo doesn’t notice, they’re already on thin enough ice. Thankfully, he doesn’t.  

“Is she one of yours?” It’s posed as a question but Dutch knows he expects an answer - the right answer.

“Yes,” he answers immediately, “she’s like a daughter to me.” Dutch is careful not to give out too much information but still emphasizes you are no part of their meeting. “Just wanted to show her a good time away from the debauchery of our lifestyle. We think she deserved it, didn’t we Arthur?”

Every muscle in Arthur’s body is wound tight, ready to fight if you’re put in Angelo’s crosshairs. He clenches his jaw and manages to grit out an affirmation.

Another smirk spreads across Angelo’s lips. “Is that right?” He says something in Italian to his men, most likely a derogatory comment, before turning his attention back to the outlaws.

“It’s quite a crime to keep a flower like that out of reach. Such a beauty should,” he pauses to take another drag of his cigar, licking his lips lasciviously afterwords, “be enjoyed by all.”

Angelo seems to revel in the heat of Arthur’s rage; he’s garnered what you mean to him by reactions alone. Arthur’s trigger finger is suddenly restless; he wishes he had the sense to conceal a weapon. Dutch speaks again before Arthur sets this whole party ablaze.  

“We shall keep that in mind, Signore Bronte. Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Dutch begins to lead Arthur back inside.

“Yes, yes go! Enjoy, my friends!” He says with a dismissive wave before he returns to his own festivities. Angelo wears a mask of gracious host but Arthur can see the cracks in it, revealing the true monster underneath.

That doesn’t matter right now though. Arthur needs to get back to you.

As the two of them head back downstairs (Arthur a little more briskly in contrast) Arthur starts up with Dutch. “I told you bringing her along was a bad idea,” he growls. It’s clear Dutch doesn’t have the patience to placate Arthur right now.

“And I told you that we needed her! She still can speak their pretentious language. Discover leads that we couldn’t with our “barbaric” intellects.” Dutch says sardonically, paired with a roll of his eyes.

“Dutch,” Arthur warns but is once again interrupted.

“I will keep her safe, son. As I have done for all of us.” Dutch smiles fondly then. “You’ve got yourself quite a woman there, a true sheep in wolf’s clothing. I gather she won’t need much assistance from either of us.”

Arthur is momentarily rendered speechless. It was true, you were beyond capable of fending for yourself. But he still did not want to take any chances.

A man who held the world in the palm of his hand? What could someone with that type of power do to a woman closely associated with a (potential) enemy gang?

Arthur didn’t think himself overly imaginative but he could picture possible outcomes vividly. Too vividly.

One of many servants opened the main doors before those thoughts could evolve into more grotesque nightmares. Arthur is cruelly reminded of the events transpiring just beyond. However his racing mind is thankful for the distraction. He finds on the other side a dapper Hosea and Bill, looking even more miserable than himself.

But no you.

Arthur opens his mouth to inquire and Hosea has the answer before he can ask. It seems everyone’s in the habit of cutting Arthur off tonight.

Hosea tilts his head towards the courtyard. “Down there. She’s getting a head start on the mingling,” he informs his frantic son. Arthur’s feet carry him so fast he barely catches Dutch’s request to stay out of trouble. Wishful thinking but he’ll try his best regardless.

To Arthur, you stand out amongst the throng of people, clear as day. Your pink dress (you tell him it’s peach) compliments you completely. From the way it hugs your waist to the roses embroidered along the skirts. How fitting of a design, a wild rose with her own kind.  

An array of golden hair pins - courtesy of Miss Grimshaw’s heydey - keep your complicated braid in place. They shine like stars in the lamplight, twinkling faintly with every turn of your head. Your decolletage is bare of any jewelry, save for some cream colored lace along the sleeves of your gown. Arthur is oddly more distracted, eyeing the exposed skin hungrily.

Your beauty doesn’t hold a candle to any of the satin clad or feathered fan socialites. You are elegance personified and he aims to immortalize that within the confines of his journal later.  

Arthur makes his way forward, drawn to you as he often finds is the case. Obstacles in the form of other guests stand in his way and he wades through them. He doesn’t mean to push and shove; he is quite colossal when next to these dainty women. An apology comes in the form of a flute of champagne as to not stir up any more trouble before he presses onward.

Your company is being enjoyed by the mayor himself and his entourage. The gentlemen are enraptured by whatever it is you’re regaling them with. Hanging onto every pretty word and starring at you like you hung the moon. Arthur finds himself in the same position more often than not.

Laughter, airy and delicate, tugs at Arthur’s heart as he approaches. It envelops him; it’s a warmth he still isn’t accustomed to, especially in his line of work. But you coax him into it, and he learns his hands are still capable of gentleness.

You notice Arthur, a grin playing on your lips, and you stop mid-sentence to acknowledge him.  

“Oh Tacitus, my darling,” You coo, waltzing up and wrapping your arms snugly around Arthur’s neck. He fights to contain his guffaw at your act: the high society primadonna. It’s your favorite role to play whenever Hosea needs you for a swindle. And you play it exceptionally well.

A kiss is placed on his cheek, tantalizingly close to the corner of his lips. It’s a promise of more to come.

The mayor and his colleagues chuckle at this impromptu display of affection. “It seems your new bride is quite taken with you. What a shame for us, eh gentlemen?” The mayor asks, feigning disappointment which earns him a wave of laughter. You titter yourself, finding a new place around Arthur’s arm this time.

Arthur looks at you bemused, but humored. You take that as your cue to subtly fill him in on your little game. You smile affectionately at Arthur before turning attention back to the mayor. “I’m terribly sorry my good men, but my heart utterly belongs to my Tacitus,” you keen, dramatically casting a hand over your chest. If he wasn’t an actor in this play, Arthur would quite enjoy watching the performance.

"Mon coeur, it is broken!” The mayor jests and you playfully swat at his hand.

“Ne sois pas bête!” You tease back.

This French tit for tat goes right over Arthur’s head but he does understand something. Dutch was absolutely right in bringing you along. Not even an hour later and you already have a major city official wrapped around your finger. Color Arthur impressed (and slightly jealous). But then he remembers he is your “husband” after all, and the petty emotions are assuaged.

“And,” the mayor finally turns his focus to Arthur, “whose pleasure is it to have this delight of a woman for a wife?” Arthur sheds his skin of an outlaw and adapts, following your lead.

“Good evening,” he says smoothly, extending a hand out. “Tacitus Gilgore.” The mayor seems pleased at the gesture and eagerly shakes Arthur’s hand. You’re beaming at Arthur’s side at the interaction.

“Well it certainly is a pleasure Mister Gilgore. Henri Lemieux, mayor of this fine city.” There’s a hint of disgust in his words; Arthur doesn’t blame him. Henri gestures to his surrounding accompaniment and begins to introduce them. Arthur tunes it out - they don’t matter. Finding the mayor was his goal, not these buffoons.

Though his attention does perk up at the mention of a familiar name. “And this is Monsieur Evelyn Miller.”

“Like the writer?” Arthur inquires, earning another giggle from you.

“Yes darling,” you chirp enthusiastically. “He wrote all those books your father positively adored.” Your conversation takes a turn. “Tacitus is the sole inheritor of his father’s oil company,” you inform with a coy smile. A few of the men raise their eyebrows, impressed. The mayor included.

“Ah an oil proprietor?” Henri inquires. “Well, congratulations are in order. A beautiful wife and a flourishing business? You sir, are a very lucky man.” He reaches out and takes Arthur’s hand firmly in his.

“I look forward to speaking more with you, Monsieur Gilgore. But for now,” he relinquishes his hold on Arthur, “why don’t you and your young bride enjoy yourselves?”

Arthur places his now free hand on the small of your back. The satin feels soft under his calloused palms but he yearns more for skin to skin contact. Time and place, unfortunately.

“I think we will. Thank you for your hospitality, good sir.” Arthur takes his leave with a tip of his head before he escorts you away from the crowds. He thinks he deserves some semblance of peace for now. While the excess of unwanted company isn’t ideal, as long as you’re there he feels calm.

An impressive gazebo at the apex of the courtyard is devoid of any guests. It seems the majority of them strive to be in the limelight of this affair for reasons Arthur can’t seem to care about. Regardless, he is grateful for the temporary isolation as he leads you there.

The crowd begins to progressively wane much to Arthur's delight. A few still linger and you placate them with your arsenal of bonjour's and merci's. Once again Arthur finds himself grateful for you. He's reached his "mingling" threshold for the night a long time ago. Your's on the other hand seems to have just begun as you keen and wave to every passing sir and madam. It's rather amusing and Arthur chuckles lightly.

"Another minute there and I think he woulda' handed you the key to the city," Arthur teases. It's a rare occurrence for his bark have no bite, just playful nips You welcome it eagerly.

"That would've been ideal. I could have given it to Dutch so he can sell all of Saint Denis for a few mangoes." You respond back coolly. Arthur snorts.

"Seems like a fair trade."

You nudge him for his cheekiness. "Mind your tongue, Gilgore," you jab. He concedes to your wishes (as always).

"My apologies to my lady." Arthur's inner gentleman (the one he vehemently refuses is there) is showing. You want to say something, acknowledge the sides he wants to reveal. 

But now isn't the place for him to sink into that place of vulnerability. The predators here are too hungry. So you continue on as if it were a game still, keeping things lighthearted.

Placing a finger to your chin, you pretend to mull his words over. "I suppose," you begin, twirling out of his arms and swiftly dashing up the gazebo's steps. "I can forgive you," you spin around a column, "if you come sit with me for a moment?" You plop down on one of the many benches facing the river, tapping the empty space next to you. 

Arthur finds your impishness endearing, but now isn't the time. There's work to be done, people to mislead, men to k-

You can practically hear the discordance in his head. "Just for a moment," you plead, hoping it will alleviate some of his tension. It does, and he wordlessly complies as he sits down with you.

While Arthur doesn't claim to be an expert on the finer things in life, he is awestruck at the view. The gazebo seems to be on its own wooden isle in the middle of the water, surrounded on all sides by flowers. Gentle waves lap at the platform and it creates a steady, lulling rhythm. Petals drift lazily along the river, continually cascading down from the gentle push of an evening breeze.

The swamp he detests is transformed into an ethereal landscape as the lanterns’ reflections sparkle on the water’s surface. It appears that the rich can even buy the better parts of nature as well. Who would’ve thought.

The two of you are settled in comfortable silence, admiring the picturesque scenery as the party’s twittering becomes mere background noise.

Arthur speaks first. “So,” he begins bashfully. In this suit, he looks as awkward as he feels. A familiar hand on his knee, while slightly flirtatious, is a kind reminder he can be himself. It’s a freedom he still has trouble getting accustomed to at times. He lets his shoulders relax, “You think yer folks are around ‘ere somewhere?” It’s a question made in jest and you answer with a dry laugh.

“My parents wish they could be invited to a mayoral affair,” you say with a scoff. “Would’ve tried to sell me off twice as young if it meant they could eat the leftovers.” Though you try to hide it, Arthur picks up on hurt in your voice.

You hear it too, and you turn your head away from him for a moment. On instinct, you look out to the shoreline and see the manor you once called home. It's the same despite the ten years that have gone by: imposing and grand. You wonder if mother and father are awake, scornfully starring over at what they have continually failed to achieve. A jovial party serving as a painful reminder. The irony makes you feel a little bit better.

Walking up to that house every day for sixteen years had instilled fear into your core. Now, it was just an ugly scar across Saint Denis. The pain wasn't permanent, but you would always remember it. You're regarding the house apathetically, not being able to bring yourself away.

Arthur notices and begins to worry. “Hey,” Arthur begins gently, tracing circles over your knuckles. His voice summons you back and you look at him expectantly, gaze tender. You render him speechless; he’s ensnared and the simple control you exude over him has his nerves singing.

Arthur manages to compose himself and finds a way to bring your smile back. “What will people think if they see my beautiful wife so upset?” Again you laugh, this time sincerely. He finds himself smiling back, "They'll say I'm a beast of a man."

Tears threaten to spill from his sincerity. You try to shoo them away. “Oh lovely Tacitus,” your accent is back full swing. “You are just the kindest husband. How in this cruel world did I find myself so blessed?” While the titles are just pretend, he’s finding himself addicted to their honied sweetness. He wants more and your lips have the power to temporarily quell his want.

Leaning closer, falling further in love.

His lips are a whisper away, practically feeling the heat of your blush radiating off you. There’s a crowd of people just beyond a few white pillars but he doubts anyone is paying them any mind. And if they do, well, Dutch didn’t specify his distaste for getting into an upper class brawl.    

“I ask myself that question every day,” Arthur says reverently, a hand coming up to rest on your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut as his places his lips against your own with a gentleness reserved for you. This is a song and dance he is pleasantly more accustomed to, moving against you effortlessly. Each pass of his lips draws a sigh from you satisfied than the last.

Inhibition rears its ugly head again once Arthur thinks he actually has the luxury to enjoy himself. He pulls back slightly, much to your dismay but you don’t pursue. Like a deer, you don’t want to startle him. Instead you wait, a patience that Arthur is grateful you provide.

Arthur almost forgot why they’re here, and loyalty has always come before his happiness. “I gotta,” he mumbles. “Gotta do something for Dutch. I-” his words fall short when you silence him with another kiss. It appears chaste, but there's a fire behind it that’s nipping at his lips as the tip of your tongue traces over them.

Your poor cowboy would deny himself everything, so long as Dutch said the word. So you took some of the weight off his already bad shoulders for him.

Arthur’s eyes go comically wide as you withdraw from him, hand sliding down between your breasts. Realization (and relief) sweeps over him when it returns with a small envelope in tow, labeled "Classified".  

“What? How did you-”

“I wasn’t just talking to those old men for the caliber of their conversation,” you simper, tucking the envelope securely back into your bosom. “Managed to pilfer these documents pertaining to Cornwall off poor Monsieur Lemiux,” you purse your lips in a faux pout. Arthur continues to stare at you in awe.

You may have been planted in a gilded garden, but you had uprooted yourself, new roots digging their way deep into the forest floor. Growing thorns and blooming within the wild: free and untamed.

Wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

“So,” Arthur’s musing is ceased by you. Let him enjoy himself, as many this night have told him do. Yes he was on a mission, but let him have a moment to breathe. With you.

“Worry about what you ‘gotta’ do for Dutch later. But for now-” you lean in and purr against the shell of his ear, “let’s just be.”

The softness of your words is paired with a clap of man-made thunder cutting through the sky followed by a brilliant array of colors. Fireworks begin to dance across the night and gasps of wonder fill the air. The stars are met with blooms of blues, greens, and yellow to rival them. It's quite the spectacle; Arthur had never seen fireworks before. He had only heard Hosea' numerous tellings about taking Bessie to see them. The concept fascinated him; gunpowder igniting but instead of death, it brings magic.

But as they continue to burst, casting vibrant shades of gold and red across your face, Arthur thinks he’s found a new kind of magic to believe in.  

[destinyapostasy]

The Wedding Party

Pairing: Post Solavellan, Zevran x Ashanna Rating: E for fail sex

I wanted to add a little note to this story; I’ve had it as a WIP for quite some time and I’ve struggled with the decision to post it publicly or not because a; it’s got a lot of elements that are very personal to me specifically, and b; I’m not really completely sure I wrote it in a way that really makes it clear what Ashanna is dealing with.

Ashanna is demisexual but has no concept of this or why her sexuality is the way it is, or why she gets aroused with some people versus others at this point in her life. Since it’s a part of her growth and recovery during the post trespasser events, I just decided to go ahead and post it so I can share that part of her story. I do hope that comes through in the words that I put down!

The Wedding Party

This was the first time Ashanna had seen Leliana truly happy, she thought. At the height of her power, with her newly wedded wife in her arms, and surrounded by friends, dignitaries and favor currying nobles alike. The Divine taking a wife was one thing, but that the wife in question was none other than the Hero of Ferelden ensured that this event was one that would be talked about for ages to come, and anyone who was anybody in Thedas had likely given an arm or leg to get an invitation to the event.

In Ashanna’s case, she’d already given the arm, she mused while sipping from a flute of sparkling chilled wine. Held in her one good hand, as the beautifully decorated and gilded prosthetic was not quite up to the task of gripping such a delicate object. It hung like a stiff weight on her side, propped up on the stone wall she leaned against. Every now and then she’d adjust and it would pinch the still sensitive nerve endings of what was left of her left arm while she bit back a curse.

Stupid thing. She would have preferred to attend without it, but Josephine had practically begged her to wear it. Creators forbid the humans be confronted with the reality of what she had sacrificed on their behalf.

She had counted on Sera to keep her company, which would have caused most of the nobles to steer clear of her, but the archer had run off with Dagna and a serving maid along with an entire wheel of cheese. So she watched, alone, on the sidelines and nodded politely to the couriers who attempted to make small talk with her before moving on. Scanning the crowds, noting the pointed ears of servants and visitors alike, wondering which were working for him.

Noting down every detail of the Inquisitor’s actions during the wedding no doubt; down to the people she talked to, the color of her dress, and how much wine she had drunk that day. Whatever purpose their master had for such information, she had no idea. Was it the former circle mage that was cramming plates of truffles in their mouth, or the elven serving girl with wide eyes that kept refilling her wine glass after one sip, or the shadowy elf grinning at her from across the room?

Her eyes kept drifting to that last one, when it became clear his attention was focused on her. He was of a handsome sort she supposed, with finery that sparkled in the bright lights of the grand dais, and leather boots so polished that they shone with each step. Not subtle, if he was taking notes on her. Really, he looked like a character straight out of one of the Orlesian literature she picked up; right down to the piercing gaze and roguish smile that was turned in her direction more than once even while conversing with some foreign noble. Clearly an elf of his own fortune.

Or Fen’harel’s fortune

When she glanced back up, he was striding purposefully towards her. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server without missing a beat, and settled next to her on the wall. He drank deeply, draining the glass before speaking.

“Imagine my surprise when I find none other than the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor of the faithful making eyes at me from across the room! Such a fierce gaze that made my blood pound and my very soul shiver in anticipation. How could I do anything other than respond to her whims?”

“And who says my whims involve you being here? ” Ashanna responded automatically between sips of wine. Josephine was likely to regret leaving her side by morning, she thought.

“You wound me, though merely say the word and I will be off in a flash. I am duty bound, however, to inform you that I saw the Duke Bachard heading your direction with a list of favors in hand. I am happy to offer my companionship to prevent such a boring tragedy,” the elf winked, and she found herself with the barest hint of a smile despite herself.

“If it pleases you,” Ashanna agreed, leaning back against the wall. Her prosthetic bumped against the marble, making a loud thunk that made her suck in a deep breath.

“I am Zevran fair lady, and I assure you it pleases me a great deal.” If he noticed the sound, he did not mention it and for that she was grateful.

“You are one of the heroes of the fifth blight,” Ashanna observed, setting her glass down. A sense of relief washed over her, along with a small flush from the compliment. “Leliana told me stories about you.”

“Oh? I do hope she did my person justice, as well as Leliana knows me I am afraid she is fond of some of my, shall we say….wild escapades.”

His eyes scanned her face. It was brief, and something that most people would not notice, but Ashanna felt his gaze sweep up her chin to her forehead as if it were a physical touch. The taste of wine was still strong on her tongue when she opened her mouth.

“Looking for something on my face, Serah?”

“Can I not admire the features of a beautiful woman? Ah, where are my manners, of course it is presumptuous of me. I was merely wondering as to why so many stories persist of your being Dalish.”

Ashanna bristled at the words, her spine stiffening as she pulled herself from the wall to lift herself up to her full height. Even reaching only to the top of his chin, the fire in her eyes made him take a step backwards.

“Ghilas banalhan. My brethren would agree with you; after all I am only the naughty First that invited the Dread Wolf into her bed, and got her vallaslin taken as punishment. It’s so utterly embarrassing for the rest of the Dalish, now that one of their own fucked the Great Betrayer and heralded Thedas into its destruction.”

She closed her mouth, head pounding as the anger faded as quickly as it had come.

Zevran paused, clearing his throat before continuing.

“I appear to have blundered this introduction quite magnificently, Inquisitor Ashanna. Might I beg your forgiveness, so we may begin this conversation again on the right foot?”

“Yes…I ah…” She let out a whoosh of breath as her face heated up as mortification began to set in. “I would blame the wine but-“

“Say no more; it is I who is to blame for my poorly chosen words, dear Inquisitor. Perhaps we could move this conversation somewhere more comfortable for you?” He indicated to one of the plush couches; unoccupied in the corner of the room. Ashanna paused, taking a moment to look the man up and down. His smile gleamed in the lights; probably practiced over years. But his eyes were soft and kind, and she nodded, accepting his offered hand.

Somehow by the time they made it to the seat, he had already wrangled a platter of fine cheeses to place between them. Their movement garnered a few curious looks, but there was so many people around to curry favor with that attention didn’t linger too long. At least, not obvious attention. She wondered if those reporting on her every move would now include her keeping company with a disarmingly flirty elf.

A smile came to her lips for the first time that night.

**

The cheese was devoured within no time at all, as were the mincemeat pastries, and then the stuffed snails. The food filled her belly and helped stave off the drunkenness that had threatened to spill over earlier, and now a mild and pleasing intoxication settled over her instead that made the stories her companion was telling her all the more entertaining, if not a tad over embellished.

Though, she wondered how many people would believe that she came across a forgotten elven goddess, or that she met a spirit of compassion turned teenage boy, or that a man bluffed his way through the Inquisition for a year pretending to be a Grey Warden.

Her head was buzzing pleasantly and laughter bubbled out of her with every quip and jest they traded, making her feel alive for the first time in...a very long time. She wasn’t sure who started it first. It might have been her knee brushing against his thigh, or his fingers lingering on her lips as he insisted she taste the small finger cakes that Val Royeaux was famous for. Her tongue flicked between his fingers to lap up the bits of frosting.

“My dear Inquisitor, are you trying to seduce me?” his voice was light, but she could see the heaviness in his gaze as he watched her. She paused, then bent her head to slowly pull his finger into her mouth and suck the remaining pieces of frosting. She released it with a pop and flashed a toothy smile.

“Yes. Are you seduced yet?”  

He laughed, rich and throaty, reaching out to swipe some frosting from her chin.

“How could I not be in such charming company?”

“Then why don’t you take me to bed?”

He actually choked on his wine, but managed to recover quickly.

“You surprise me, fair lady. I have been accused of being many things, but I assure you my flirtatious nature was not meant to influence you into doing anything you may not wish to do.”

Ashanna leaned in close, lips brushing against the side of Zevran’s neck while the fingers on her good hand fiddled with the collar of his cloak.

“What I want is for you to take me away from this herd of pompous shem and fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.”

He let out a string of Antivan she couldn’t understand, chuckling under his breath.

“I do very much enjoy being in the company of a woman who knows what she wants. Very well Inquisitor, shall we find a more suitable location?”

**

It did not take them long to find an empty room, as such occassions meant there were plenty of spaces for the many drunk party goers to indulge their private activities. It was Orlais, after all.

She filled the empty space between them as soon as they were in private rooms; acting before her mind could convince her otherwise. Her lips found his easily, warm and tasting of wine and sugar. He met her demands gently at first, but the press of her hand cupping his cock through his pants got the message through to him. They stumbled inelegantly to the large bed, both trying to shed layers of clothing without disengaging from each other as much as possible.

Her back hit the bed with her pants half off at the knees, and she pulled Zevran down with her. Her heart pounded and she was sweating, though surely from the heat of the moment. She distracted herself from such thoughts by pulling a pointed ear into her mouth, enjoying the breathy sigh it earned her. Zevran’s head dipped to suck the soft skin on her throat, leaving a trail of red welts down to her collarbone.

“Fuck me,” she gasped.

“All in good time, mi dulceza,” he tutted, his hands hooking into the waistband of her leggings and smallclothes to draw them all the way off her legs. There was a momentary flash of embarrassment when she realized how exposed she was, that she quickly clamped down on when he bid her legs to part.

“I would taste you, if you will allow it,” he asked, his warm hands pressing against her thighs. She trembled, then nodded.

Not that she had doubted it, but the man had technique.  She exhaled sharply when his lips made contact with her, willing herself not to flinch and to just relax. But he was careful, and when his hot breath hit her inner thighs, they merely trembled in what she hoped was anticipation. It had been a while. That was it, the nervous flutter inside her could just stop already.

Experienced fingers spread her open to his touch, his upper lip just barely grazing her clit as his tongue explored the flesh beneath him. She let out a soft sound of surprise at the sensation and let her head fall back onto a plush pillow while he worked. It felt…nice and she arched into his licks, waiting for “nice” to meld into that pulsing throb that precluded her sexual arousal.

Ten minutes later, and it had yet to come. And neither would she, at this rate. She gasped, not out of pleasure but pure frustration as her hand curled into a fist against the bedding. Why couldn’t she just relax and enjoy this? She deserved to feel good after everything that happened.

She tried to think of arousing thoughts, but it was no use. Nothing about her situation was erotic enough to stimulate her despite Zevran’s best efforts.

When his licks slowed and fingers slipped out of her, she looked down to find Zevran peering at her from between her thighs.

“You seem distracted this evening. Would you like to stop?”

“No….I….” Ashanna covered her face, feeling it heat up immediately. She forced herself to sit up, pushing her hair out of her face to crawl over to Zevran. “How about I suck you instead?” She moved her hand to brush over the front of his pants.  

“Inquisitor Ashanna, I…” he sucked in a deep breath and gently pulled her hand aside. “I must decline such a generous offer. I can see that your mind is now in a different place, and I have no desire to push you into something outside your comfort.”

“I’m sorry,” she choked, mortified. How many times could she possibly humiliate herself in front of one person? “I wanted us to...you know…”

“Fuck until you couldn’t remember your own name?” he suggested, lightening the mood enough for her to let out an embarrassed chuckle.

“I wanted to,” Ashanna admitted, reaching for her leggings. “I don’t know what changed.”

She sighed deeply, feeling his weight shift and hands pressing onto her back to rub soothing motions through the fabric.

“It matters not,” Zevran said gently, bidding her to lay on her stomach after she’d pulled her leggings back on. “Sometimes our best laid plans do not always go according to how we think in our head. You seem to think that I have assumptions about how this night should go, but I assure you that keeping company with such a lovely woman is more than enough for I. Now, I happen to be very good at giving massages, and I have determined that you are in great need of one. Will you permit it?”

She made a small sound of agreement and didn’t protest when his hands lifted her shirt from her upper body, carefully moving it around the heavy prosthetic to bare her back.

His hands got to work immediately and he was certainly not wrong about being good about massages; she had no idea how wound up she was until he was prodding knots and muscles that were so tense she nearly wept in relief as he dug his fingers in.

He talked to fill the space between them; telling a story of his escapades with the Crows while her body relaxed under his practiced hands. It had the intended effect; she could almost forget she was topless with what amounted to a stranger who was rubbing her back in pity because her body was too uncooperative to let her relax and enjoy herself.

At least he was as talented at it as he said, and this felt good. Her eyelids drooped as the rush of emotion drained out of her along with her tension, and the heaviness of the wine seeped into her bones.

She was dimly aware of a coverlet being pulled up on her before her mind drifted entirely into the fade

credit to @vir-ghilani for helping me work out the issues I was having with this piece, and for all the helpful feedback <3

[jessicakehoe]

Oprah, Tim Cook & Original Content: Behind the Scenes at Apple’s Star-Studded TV Announcement

On event day, you enter Apple Park, the company’s 2.8 million square foot campus in Cupertino, California, and you’re surrounded by fruit trees and the swelling sounds of a sci-fi film’s score. Every five feet, there’s a uniformed Apple employee greeting you with a wide smile and frighteningly genuine “good morning!” On the walk from the gate to the Steve Jobs Theatre, you’ll likely overhear multiple attendees liken the ambiance to Disneyland. Other comparisons that could be made: Jurassic Park, the Pentagon and that bad Emma Watson movie The Circle.

On March 25, hundreds of journalists from around the world gathered for Apple’s first event of 2019, where Tim Cook took to the stage and announced four new Apple services: Apple TV+, Apple Arcade, Apple News+ and Apple Card. Five minutes into the two-hour presentation, I realized I should have been keeping a clap count. Tim Cook says the words “Apple News”? Applause. He says the company’s services are designed to keep your personal information private and secure? Even louder applause. The stage goes black, the audience goes silent, and Steven Spielberg magically appears under a spotlight? Get on your feet, cup your hands around your mouth and start whooping. The energy in the room, as you might imagine, is infectious — and the enduring enthusiasm is unlike anything I’ve experienced outside of a sports stadium or Beyonce concert.

Almost an hour in, Cook welcomed a host of Hollywood elite to the stage to introduce the 1000 or so of us in the theatre—and the millions tuning in at home—to Apple TV+, the company’s foray into Netflix-esque original entertainment. The on-demand subscription streaming service, however, promises to be a little different: your Amazon Prime Video, iTunes purchases, Crave content and cable television channels will all be available through one seamless application on iPhone, iPad, Apple TV, Mac, smart TVs and streaming devices. Essentially, everything you watch other than Netflix will be available through Apple TV. You can swipe through your catalogue of series, films and live sports without bouncing from app to app—it’s like channel surfing, but every channel is playing something you want to watch. And, on top of that, you’ll have access to exclusive shows, movies and documentaries from the world’s greatest storytellers. Here’s a preview:

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The list of artists involved in Apple TV+, photographed by Art Streiber in the Avengers-esque class portrait featured at the top of this article, is long: Oprah Winfrey, Steven Spielberg, Jennifer Aniston, Reese Witherspoon, Octavia Spencer, JJ Abrams, Jason Momoa, M. Night Shyamalan, Chris Evans and Brie Larson to name just a few. For every famous face that spoke on stage, there were another three in the crowd, silent supporters. There also seems to have been a champagne-toast post event, as seen in this Emmy-worthy Instagram video of Witherspoon, Winfrey, Jennifer Garner and Rashida Jones gabbing about being “Apple Girls” and flashing their Apple watches for the camera. I didn’t score an invite to that part of the event, but I did rewatch clips of it multiple times on my Apple device.

  Here’s a quick roundup of Apple TV+ moments that got us most excited:

Photography courtesy of Apple

The Morning Show

“In The Morning Show we pull back the curtain on the power dynamics between men and women in the high-stakes world of morning news shows,” Witherspoon explained on stage. “It’s a real insider view into the lives of the people who help America wake up everyday.” A few post-presentation attendees thought this meant Apple was producing an actual Today Show-style morning segment. They were quickly corrected: the Kerry Ehrin-directed series is a scripted drama that I hope will compare to Parks and Rec and The Office.

Photography courtesy of Apple

See

When Jason Momoa takes the stage, he asks everyone to close their eyes. “Try to think about the world this way,” he instructs, ambient forest noises being projected around us, “heard, touched, smelled, sensed—but without sight.” It’s an appropriate exercise: See is a post-apocalyptic drama that imagines a world where every survivor is permanently blind. It’s written by Peaky Blinders creator Steven Knight, directed by The Hunger Games’ Francis Lawrence and stars Luke Cage‘s Alfre Woodard and Momoa, who seems to have this whole fearless wilderness warrior thing locked in.

Photography courtesy of Apple

Little America

Kumail Nanjiani stood solo on stage to announce the details of his anthology series, Little America. Fans of his stand up will recognize the immigration story he tells: he talks about growing up in Pakistan, immigrating to Iowa at 18, moving to Chicago and trying to figure out normal, everday life stuff. This is what the series will focus on: American immigrants doing everyday life stuff. “It’s not about telling immigrant stories. These are human stories that feature immigrants,” Nanjiani said. “When you get to know someone and start to see your struggles in their struggles, your passion in theirs, your problems in theirs, they stop being the ‘other.’”

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Oprah

Oprah, unlike every other celebrity-backed series, got her own trailer. Because Oprah isn’t content: Oprah is a category unto itself. The video wasn’t actually for anything Oprah is working on with Apple, and instead featured words like “inclusion” and “amplified” splashed across the scene as The Cinematic Orchestra’s “To Build a Home”—the song has that seemingly soundtracked every emotional TV scenes of this decade—played.

By the time the lights came on and Oprah was illuminated on stage, my eyes had already welled up with tears. ‘There has never been a moment quite like this one,” she said to a captivated audience. “We have this unique opportunity to rise to our best selves in how we use and choose to use both our technology and our humanity.”

Along with two documentary projects, one about mental health and one about workplace harassment, Oprah announced the launch of “the most stimulating book club on the planet.” It’s unclear exactly what this will be, but it sounds like the media mogul will be interviewing authors and facilitating conversations that can be streamed on Apple devices. “I want to reach that sweet spot where insight and perspective, truth and tolerance actually intersect,” she said. “I’ve joined in order to serve this moment, because the Apple platform allows me to do what I do in a whole new way.”

  Pricing and availability for the Apple TV+ video subscription service will be announced later this fall.

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